Stories thread - King of the Romans PBM

[econ21]

Somewhere in North Italy, 1154

Henry rode through the darkened city streets with a single escort, a young Bavarian knight. It had been arranged - it was better like this, less likely to attract attention. All through the long journey, Duke Otto’s question at the Crusader Council had rang unanswered in his mind: would he, Henry, stand for Chancellor? The Bavarian knight wanted an answer for his Duke, but Henry still needed time to think. Why me? Why should I be the one to stand?

The main business of the next Diet would be shepherding the crusade to the Holy Land - for that reason, a crusading Chancellor was the best bet. With settlements governed by Counts and Household armies governed by Dukes, the Reich could almost run itself. All it would take, if Henry were elected Chancellor, were a few signatures on troop requisition forms and reliance on the Imperial secretariat to facilitate communication among the Houses.

What was the alternative? Entrusting the logistics and direction of the crusade to the trust of a man who opposed the crusade? Or worse, one of his father’s lackeys who might find a way to subvert the Edict against further territorial expansion. Who might use the opportunity to hunt down and kill future Popes and foreign Cardinals. Henry shuddered. Yes, a crusading Chancellor would be the best bet.

And yet there were no candidates. Henry had looked to Dietrich, whose accomplishments in the field Henry had always admired and envied. But the old warhorse had stubbornly ruled it out, thinking it inappropriate. Likewise, Maximillan, a shrewd and severe Chancellor, had barred himself from what would no doubt have been a most proficiently executed second term. Otto - well, Otto was wise enough to see the logic of a crusading Chancellor but was too unsure of his current standing in the Diet to risk defeat in an election. And so that left Henry.

What held him back? Was it the weakness his father had saw in him? The fear of making enemies? The lack of drive or direction that had characterised his career so far? In truth, Henry did not know. Henry lived in the shadow of his father and of the crown that would be his, God willing, when his father passed on. Until that shadow was lifted, until the crown was secure, Henry felt as if he were waiting for his real life to begin. Why expose himself to criticism and condemnation now? Why exhaust his political capital, make enemies, just for the privilege of planning a route march? The next Diet would probably be uneventful; certainly uneventful if Henry had his way. Why bother? Why me? Let Leopold or someone else do the donkey’s work. Stay under that shadow, wait for that crown.

He had arrived. His Bavarian escort dismounted and helped Henry off his horse. The knight knocked on the heavy wooden door. A shutter on the door opened and frightened eyes looked out. Whispered words in Italian and the door was unlocked. Henry entered, was ushered down to the basement by a worried looking man with a shaved head.

In the basement, Henry saw a second man waiting - dressed in plain white and black clothes, with a large black hat. An inquisitor! Henry’s hand moved to his dagger and he checked behind him to look at his Bavarian escort. The Bavarian was looking around the dark basement curiously, the blank open look on his face testimony to his innocence. Henry relaxed - it was not a trap, the inquisitor was alone and apparently not on official business.

“He is here”, the shaven man said, pointing to a wrapped form on the table.

Henry approached cautiously. Why was he, Henry, here? Why was he doing this again? But morbid fascination propelled him forward. Fascination not with the form on the table, but with the bloodline that had put it there.

“It is very bad, your Highness, very bad.” the man lamented. “We found him and brought him here. We did not want the Germans… we did not want anything more to happen to him.”

Henry pulled back the rough blanket covering the figure on the table. The smell was overpowering - a stench of waste and putrefaction. The corpse’s eyes were bulging, its face had a bluish tinge under the dirt. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the young Bavarian knight hold his nose and look away in revulsion. The inquisitor was staring at Henry, eyes burning with hatred.

Henry focussed again on the corpse. The dirt was so ingrained it was hard to make out. What was he wearing? Henry noticed the hair shirt and gasped - so it was true, there could be no doubt who was responsible for this. He looked at the expression of helpless terror on the dead man’s face. Henry’s lips curled in disdain - not at the pitiful spectacle in front of him, but at the thought of the events that had led to it. War with Papacy, sacking Rome, besieging Genoa - these were bad enough. These things he had endured. But this, this was something else.

What had he said in the Diet? …the prospect of the Holy Father lying dead at the feet of my unholy father… Even in his wildest condemnation of Heinrich, he had not imagined this prospect would come true - not like this. Death in combat was one thing; no man in an army could object to such an end. But callous and cruel murder was quite another matter. Poor Sigismund’s end had been kind compared to this. Henry gently closed the dead man’s eyes and placed the blanket back over him.

He turned angrily to the shaven headed monk:

“Clean him up. Anoint him. Dress him in the finest garments you can procure. I will send men to collect the body for burial, far from prying eyes. You must organise Mass for him in as many churches as you can. For me to do so would be seen as treason.”

The monk bowed, while the inquisitor watched Henry coolly and then quietly left the basement. Henry ignored his departure and instead stared harshly at Bavarian knight. It was as if he seeing his own father standing there, instead of the young warrior. Heinrich had to be stopped. Why me? Because there was no one else.

“And you… you tell Duke Otto the answer is yes.”