The Storehouse
“I can’t tell you how overjoyed we were when the watchmen reported seeing your party emerge from the Fichtenwald,” the burgermeister said over his shoulder as he led the graf up the last dusty, winding flight of stairs. He took a fat ring of keys from his belt, and they jingled like bells as he fumbled with the lock on the storehouse door. “It gets more nerve-wracking for us here with each of these Hussite rebellions.”
“I don’t think they see it as rebelling,” Leopold said. “I think they believe they’re trying to worship God as they see fit.”
“Well, I believe God sees it differently,” Burgermeister Neubeuern said with a grunt as he pushed the door open. “Begging your pardon, your Grace. And I know the Pope and the king do.”
Leopold said nothing, followed the man into the storehouse. For a moment there was nothing but a musty darkness. Leopold sneezed.
“Gesundheit!” A flint struck, and the wick of a candle flared to life, making the graf blink. Neubeuern played the flame about over the sacks of flour, beans, and oats heaped about, the strings of sausages hanging from the rafters. The apples, sauerkraut, and potatoes were all stored in the basement of this building, but the dried goods were kept aloft, safe from winter floods and rats.
There wasn’t much. Leopold fought back the hopelessness that had threatened to swamp him like an icy fog off and on since he had ridden back into Kiefersheim. The cheerful bonfires of the burg, the hearty shouts of greeting, his tender reunion with Mathilde—all this had been so vivid at first; now, just a few days later, those memories taunted him like the echoes of a dream he had wakened from and could never return to.
“Aye,” Neubeuern said with a rueful shake of his head, as if Leopold had said all that aloud. It was why the burgermeister had been elected, Leopold thought; the man could read a room. “Sadly I don’t think there’s enough to hold the traditional St. Stephen’s Day feast, your Grace.”
The day after Christmas, the castle opened its forecourt to the town and fed anyone in need; Leopold’s cooks usually worked up to Christmas Eve baking off the stews and bread; townspeople, including the burgermeister’s own family, came up to the castle to warm and serve the food on St. Stephen’s, as the graf’s household had the day off.
Leopold saw a sort of purple aura around the candle flame as his battle-blood rose at the man’s words. He took a deep breath in, let it out. Another one. The burgermeister was just speaking the truth. The true target of Leopold’s rage lay leagues behind its reach, over the Alps in a palazzo on the Piazza San Marco.
“The feast will go on,” Leopold said flatly. “I will make up the difference, even if we have to send men to Regensburg to buy the meal.”
“Your Grace….”
Leopold waved a hand impatiently and turned toward the door. “My mother collected too many Dresden candlesticks. If I lit them all, my castle would burn down. May as well sell them for the silver and build up our stores.”
He heard Neubeuern scrambling to catch him up on the stairs down from the storehouse. “Very generous of you, my Lord. Speaking of candlesticks…my good wife made me swear an oath by the Virgin to invite you to the homecoming feast she’s organized in your honor the next Sunday after evening mass. My daughter Sidonie has been practicing her lute most diligently and cannot wait to play some carols to cheer your heart.”
Leopold realized he’d paused a bit too long before replying when Neubeuern intoned anxiously, “My Lord?…”
“Yes, of course, thank you,” Leopold said. “Please thank Frau von Neubeuern and your daughter in my name. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to back at the castle.”
“Of course, my Lord. Very good!” The man was literally rubbing his hands together—but then again it was very cold out. Leopold strode over to Gletscher, stamping and blowing billows of steam from his nostrils at the hitching rail by the church. Neubeuern, hurrying home to share the good news, missed the sight of Leopold riding not at all toward the castle but rather toward the west town gate, and a good bit faster than was strictly legal within the walls.
The Rookery 