The clean up process was never a glorious one, or a heartening one. The sacking of Hamburg had left much of the castle's lower quarters in shambles as the men trashed the place searching for loot. The bodies of the enemy lie everywhere, stamped and mangled beneath the thunder of half a thousand hooves, cheap armaments broken and portruding from their planted position in the ground, horrified faces twisted in agony staring up into the beating sun, into the faces of their killers. He had always thought of the battlefield as a graveyard, but at the same time far from such a sacred place. Battlefields were the place where murderers and grave robbers were allowed to enact their trade with impunity.

And then there was the case of fallen friends, comrades in arms now shut out of life. Dietrich sighed as he stood beside one of the men in his own retinue that had fallen in the battle. He was from southern Frankfurt. He was not particularly any sort of spectacular man, but he was honest, good intentioned. He remembered seeing him fall, struck by the final release of an archer's arrow right before they ran the regiment down in the street.

As Dietrich stood amongst the bodies, he noted the approach of the young knight he'd been briefed by before the battle. He could see a slight look of disdain on the man's face, and hesitated for a moment before he spoke.

"There's going to be many more days like this ahead, have no regrets if you are certain you did all you could. All that can be done afterwards is to see off lost friends to the heavens with respect." He said, reaching into a small pouch at his side and dismounting his horse. From the pouch he pulled two Imperial coins, then, bending down, placed them over the eyes of the man he recognised from his retinue. "And, sometimes, to pay their way there from your own pocket." Dietrich stared up into the sun and sighed. "Come, help me, there's much work to be done."

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Cardinal Peter Scherer walked around tiny church frowning. The parish priest looked aghast and ashamed. He skittered about trying to straighten a candle here and wipe away some dust there, unable to keep up with the wandering gaze of the Cardinal.

"Fret not, good Father. This is a small parish and I know the tithes are not great in size or number," said Cardinal Peter. He thought to himself, "How will we ever stand up to the Italian's arrogance when there houses of worship are works of divinely inspired art, yet ours are seem but stables with pews..."

"Thank you your Eminence, but I again apologize for the meager comforts and state of unpreparedness of this House of God. I beg your forgiveness most wholeheartedly..." groaned Father Mueller.

"Nonsense, a good and pious House of our Lord this is! It preaches to the simple folk and as such has simple charm," replied the Cardinal. He continued, "Regardless, I have recieved word from the Imperial Diet that funds have been set aside to subsidize the erecting of many new Churchs. Our Kaiser and his men are filled with such faith! If only the other peoples of our world were led by such holy men...<sigh>.. but I digress into matters that are not for you to fret good Father."

"Our Emperor and his noble lords are righteous men indeed, your Eminence," agreed the priest.

"As are you good Father. And I am sure that the Kaiser and the Prince and all our noble born lords will be happy to know the common men feel that way," said Peter. He continued, "Considering the state of affairs here, I may recommend that this parish receive a church in which you may preach."

"That is MOST gracious, your Eminence!" said Father Mueller, grinning widely and bowing deeply.

The two clerics said there farewells and Peter climbed into his coach. Willem of Bruges, the cardinal's secretary, looked him over and, in his Flemish accent, queried "All is well, your Eminence?"

"Yes, yes... fine. Advise the electors that this will be a good parish to build a new church in. The current one is no better than a swine yard, and smells as such. When I visited here just half a dozen years ago, this church thrived. It was never a glorious place but it had a pastoral charm," said the Cardinal. "I dare say that I mistook the cobwebs for silk curtains," he continued, chuckling.

As his chuckling died out he grew cold and a stern look washed over his face. "As for this simpleton, Mueller, I don't want him near our new Church. If he doesn't lead it to ruin, he will only serve to remind the folk of this miserable ruin of a shack," said Peter. "Send him on a pilgrimage somewhere far away, Spain or the Holy Land, I care not. Somewhere with brigands and lepers and the like. I don't want to see him again."

Willem raised an eyebrow, "I hear the Reconquista of Iberia is particularly violent these days. There are captains, Christian and heathen, who serve one master one day and his sworn enemies the next... desperate men they are," said the secratary, as if musing over a random thought. He continued, "has your Eminence ever been to the Shrine of Santa Maria Dolores de Cordoba? I have heard that every holy man should be given an oppurtunity to drink from the spring there. It is said to give new insight into spreading the word of Our Lord...."

The Cardinal simply nodded.

Cardinal Peter Scherer listened with pride as the Flemish priest stated that Bavaria would be the first to build these new Churches. He gazed out among the pine trees and watched as the sun slowly sank behind them. It seemed as though the pointed pines were fangs in the maw of some great beast that was devouring the sun and the cardinal was lost in this pagan image from some long forgotten myth.

Ashamed of such heretical thoughts, he quickly tried to think of something more pious. Without consciously chosing the image, he thought of a time in his boyhood. He was 12 and he was crying and laughing at the same time. he was on his knees in the street. His chaperone was aghast and telling him to get out of the filth and that when his father saw his hose torn and muddy, he would have him horse whipped. However, Peter stayed where he was, kneeling in front of the Cath&#233;drale Notre-Dame de Chartres. He had never seen anything so magnificent or so beautiful in his life. He was overcome with a sense of faith and knelt paralyzed and in a state of rapture. One of the priests, seeing this young boy, dressed in noble finery, kneeling in the mud before the Cathedral, asked him to come inside. After speaking to Preist for some time, he was taken to see the Sancta Camisia, the gown of Saint Mary, Blessed Mother. His fathers dreams of Peter taking over the family's lucridive silver trade died that very instant. Peter knew his calling and all the horse-whipping in the world would not change his mind.

Suddenly he he straightened and looked to Willem.

"Willem, these new Houses of Our Lord are but a first step. Greater works must follow. A Cathedral, in Bavaria ... a Cathedral that will bring glory to our Church, glory to our People, glory to our Empire. A Cathedral that will make all other princes and kings grow green with jealousy... that will make hardened Catalans weep and Saracens throw down their turbans. I swear upon my Holy Oath that we will have such a Cathedral, although I may never see it completed, I will see it started...."

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Maximillian Mandorf rolled over and wiped the sweat from his face. After a momentary pause, he reached out and grasped a half-empty goblet of wine. Propping himself up on his elbow, he took a deep draught, then wiped a red rivulet from the corner of his mouth. Behind him on the bed, a peasant girl lay bare-breasted, breathing heavily.

Mandorf distained mistresses. They were expensive and expected rank and privilege. Far too much trouble in comparison to the simple service they performed. Servants and townsfolk were free and never said a word. As he rose, a butler stepped forward from the far corner and proffered a heavy robe. Mandorf shrugged on the garment and walked into his private study.

Another servant was waiting there. He immediately stepped forward and held up a parchment. “Sir, the latest report from Italy.” The letter was sealed with the insignia of a minor Bavarian noble in Kaiser Heinrich’s retinue. Mandorf broke it with his thumb and scanned the text.

Progress. At last, some progress. There was no official word of Florence’s fall, but the siege had been nearing its end when the letter had been written. By now the city had surely rejoined the Empire. Hamburg, Metz, and Florence. It was a start. The Steward of Bavaria walked over to the eastern wall behind a massive oak desk. A large embroidered tapestry hung there, depicting the extent of Imperial power under Konrad the Second, only 60 years before.

The Holy Roman Empire had stretched from Antwerp and Marseille in the west to Prague in the east. Bruges, Rheims, Dijon, and Zagreb had been within a day’s ride of the border. On the other axis, Imperial power had held sway from Hamburg and Magdeburg in the north, to Rome in the south. Rome.

So much had been lost in the last decade and it was all because of Rome. The arrogance of the Pope knew no bounds. In 1075, against all laws of man and God, he had declared himself the sole authority in the appointment of clergymen, effectively severing the Kaiser’s power over Christianity. The Pope claimed authority from God, but he had no precedence for the matter. The Divine Mandate came from God himself and transcended the politics of man. Kaiser Heinrich had inherited the role handed down from the time of the Constantine the Great himself. The Pope’s actions were illegal and without support in history.

At first, Kaiser Heinrich had responded as an Emperor should, he had thrown down the gauntlet and sent a scathing letter to Rome in which he exercised his rightful power to depose the Pope and call for a new election. The Pope had responded by excommunicating Heinrich.

Mandorf laughed just remembering the matter. The sheer audacity of the Pope’s action had to be respected, even if it made him the enemy of the entire Empire. The man had balls. Yet, instead of crushing the impudent lout, as an Emperor should, Heinrich had humiliated himself! It was pathetic. A rebellion by some of the nobility had threatened Heinrich’s power, and he had surrendered his God given rights to that petulant monk without a struggle. The man had stood barefoot in the snow, wearing a hairshirt, until the priest had forgiven him! It made Mandorf sick just thinking about it.

The Emperor should have marched on the Pope, torn down his fortress stone by stone, and disemboweled him alive. Instead he had gutted his own authority. In the time since, it seemed as if half the Empire had ceased to obey Imperial power. Bern, Metz, Hamburg, Antwerp, Magdeburg, Prague, and Florence had declared themselves Free Cities. Marseilles had joined the Franks, and the Milanese and Venetians had declared themselves powers in their own right. It was an unmitigated disaster.

Recently, Heinrich seemed to have finally regrown some of his backbone. Asserting Imperial authority over Hamburg, Metz, and Florence was a good start, but it remained just that, a start. The Empire would never be restored to its rightful order until the Pope bent knee and groveled before the Kaiser. Mandorf doubted that Heinrich would ever have the authority or the courage to confront the Empire’s greatest enemy.

There was no prospect of Prinz Henry rising to the challenge either. That ‘royal’ had actually proposed to give regular tribute to the Roman usurper! It was outrageous. Not only had the Kaiser seconded the motion, but the entire damned Diet had gone along with it. Only Mandorf himself had retained enough dignity to oppose the insult to the Empire.

Mandorf would never bow to a false Pope. Any man who did was a heretic and would surely be separated from God in the next life. Yet, if the Kaiser and the Prinz threw themselves at the heathen’s feet, was it sacrilege to swear fealty to them as well?

The Steward of Bavaria gazed longingly at the tapestry. The Empire could regain its rightful place as God’s authority on Earth, but only if men had the will to make it so. Only if they had the strength to do what had to be done. All enemies of the Reich had to be purged. The only question was who these enemies were. Those who had thrown off Imperial authority to be sure, but what of those who remained? Was a man who allowed treason also a traitor?

A shuffling sound behind him caused Mandorf to turn. The peasant girl was gathering up her clothes in the bedroom. All thoughts of Popes and treason vanished. Mandorf grinned. “Where do you think you’re going?”

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A letter from Otto von Kassel to Wilhelm von Kassel shortly after the capture of Metz:

Father,

I am sure you have heard the news that Metz has been returned to the Reich. The Prinz and his new "brother" stormed the rebels' fort in a bold action. I had not heard of this Der Stoltze fellow before, but I am glad he has proven the Kaiser correct in his choice.

Yes, I am still in Innsbruck, to some regret. I was stupid and misinterpreted a passing remark from the Kaiser to mean that I was to go on campaign. My eagerness clouded my judgement once again. I find solace by walking the walls of the keep. The view is astounding. The Alps tower to the north and south, almost ringing the castle. The Inn river flows from the west to the east down the broad valley dividing the two ranges and eventually feeds into the Danube. From the south the Sill river winds down from the mountains, and where it flows into the Inn lies the castle. I am told a settlement, by one name or another, has been on this spot since Roman times.

If you follow the Sill south into the mountains to it's source, you come to the Brenner Pass. This is the only pass, Father, between us and the Venetians that can accommodate an army. A small force could hold back an entire army in such a confined space! Woods, cliffs, and switchbacks provide several excellent spots for ambushes. That is why there is a castle here, and the castle is why I am here. The garrison has grown and needs training and quarters. Even though we have sworn a treaty of goodwill and trade with those merchants, the border needs to be watched and tariffs need to be collected. Even now, a Venetian trade caravan eats at my table and sleeps in my hall because the pass has been snowed in. I offer them hospitality, as is my duty, and they return the favor with sidelong glances and snide remarks about the food. I do not trust them!

Between merchants, freeholders fighting over livestock, and endless drilling of conscripts I sometimes regret defying you and not going into the priesthood. "A soldier or a priest, that is the choice for the younger son, and I didn't have you taught to read so you could be arrow fodder!", you often told me. Very often. Still, I would have made a poor priest, I can barely recite the Lord's Prayer, and my Latin is atrocious. I am a soldier, a Ritter of Bavaria, and I serve the Reich in whatever task I am given.

Yet, there are times when my service weighs more heavily than others. I hear of the victories to the north, to the west, and to the south, and I am envious. The Mountains close in and seem more of a prison than a spectacle. I want to strike at our enemies, I want to be in the field, I want to feel flesh and bone break beneath my sword arm! I can hear you now, "Patience, you impetuous pup!". Aye, I know. But if you always had your way I would be mouthing Te Deums and wedding swine herders to their cousins in some hole of a hamlet. Which reminds me, did you hear that rumour about the Austrian electors? It was the talk of Frankfurt before I left.

I hope you are in good health Father and the old wound does not trouble you as much as in the past. Send along my greetings to my brother, read him the letter if you wish. I will write again when I have the time.

Your son,

Otto

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The voices down the hall were muddled, and the thunder's cacophanous symphony shattered Hamburg's new peace in a crescendo reminiscent of Dietrich's charge through the gates. The organ playing in the main hall could still be heard at the top of the stairs as well. In a lower layer of hell, this musical orgy could have tantalised darker spirits into ecstasy, but it scared Godfrey half to death. If he had not personally seen the Duke occassionally in the castle's small chapel, praying for his sins, he might, at that moment, have been inclined to believe he were a man of the devil.
He shook, half from the atmosphere, half in an attempt to shove such thoughts from his mind. "Stop it, just go. Go, tell him the news." He said to himself, willing himself down the hallway one step at a time. The dark corridor's shadows seemed to scurry away with every crack of the lightning, then instantly lunge back out, kept at bay only by the light of a few small torches. As he grew nearer the door, some of the muffled conversation began to sound more clear.

"So she's well then?"

"Yes."

"Good, and what of -" The voice was cut off by the ravenous growl of thunder, but it was distinguishable, familiar. The second voice though was new, and deeply accented in its speech.

"It's fine, hardly changed at all, even since you've left. The family's kept its eminence through your father's trade, and the town itself is coming into a considerable amount of wealth because of it. I know I shouldn't mention it, but they miss you."

"It's ok Cibor, hopefully -" Again, the the sky's vengeful roar interrupted the conversation, to which Godfrey was now listening intently. "secure the deal. Do me a favor though, when you get home, have my father urge the rest of the local noble council to push for compliance. Our current situation places us in a position to make this a reality. But, by all means Cibor, speak only to my father. That twisted wretch of a 'prince' must not get wind of this. If he takes the throne -" The next crack of thunder made Godfrey jump, his ear pressed close to the door he couldn't help but bang his head in his fright. As he stepped backwards, suddenly fearing for his life with the realisation of what just happened, their was startled bantering from inside and the door swung open with a heavy slam against the wall. Dietrich stood in the doorway, sword drawn, the man behind him staring, startled, over his shoulder.

"Godfrey..." Dietrich seemed appalled.

"Who is it? Gut him! It's a spy!" The man behind him yelled.

"No." Dietrich replied, lowering his sword. "I've fought with this man, he helped in this castle's fall, he's a good man. He's just in the wrong place at the wrong time." He looked down the hall, towards the sound of the organ's music and the stairs, and reached out to grab Godfrey by the tunic. "I'll assume you've already heard much, so come inside Godfrey, and let me tell you a story."

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