Old aquitances
The ancient monastery of Melk was sleeping, not even the faintest of sounds interrupting the tranquil silence of the holy sanctuary, now housing the greatest lords of the Empire and whole Christendom, dreaming about their plots, intrigues and conquests side by side with pious monks. It was the darkest hour of the night, still well before Matins, not without good reason feared by the locals. The Hour of Witches. And conspirators…
Yet deep within the bowels of the hallowed walls one mind remained awake, one window remained illuminated and one bed remained empty. If any poor and unfortunate soul had to approach the monastery from the Eastern passage, he could have seen a faint, dim light of flickering flame in one of the towers. Alas, this night saw no fool willing to risk his life in this darkest hour, and thus the events that transpired the abbey will forever remain a secret to all, but its participants…
Save for the light among the sea of darkness, the cell it came from was anything but unique. A large, stone statue of some saint or martyr stood near the Southern wall, overshadowing the corner from the flickering flame of a single torch. The rough surface of a large oaken table, unadorned and simple, was empty but for one worn map of the Holy Roman Empire, stretching across it.
Besides, there was nothing but a simple bed and a stool with a bowl of water left to wash hands before the night sleep.
If a casual observer entered the cell, he would have been certain it was empty… But certainty is so often accompanied by falsehood…
A fat hand, gloved in crimson, emerged from the dark corner, a pair of rings glimmering in the torch light. One of them was simple and unadorned, a plain sigil-ring made of crude silver, two knights galloping on one horse on its seal. As if by contrast, the other was golden and extravagant, its double crest betraying the owner as both a Prince of the Holy Mother Church and a powerful lord of the Holy Roman Empire.
The man to whom the hand belonged remained invisible, hidden in the shadow of a large statue. A somewhat heavy breathing indicated that he was well beyond his prime years and probably quite obese. Yet constant staccato of his gloved fingers on the table’s surface showed him to be much more energetic and anxious than one would expect of an average elderly man. It also told a lot about his state of mind. There was anxiety and a slight irritation.
He has been looking forward to this moment for quite a long time. Secretly cherishing the look on faces of the Princes of Church when he would appear at the Council of Melk, reasserting his position in Christendom. Yet now, when the moment was drawing near, he was starting to feel nervous more than anytime in his life. Neither his tribulations in Constantinople, when he was hiding in the cellar of the Episcopal palace, having previously left the limp body of the local bishop to die among the raging flames, nor his imprisonment and subsequent flight from the dungeons of Vatican, following the failed assassination attempt against the life of Jean-Luke has ever made him nervous and afraid that much.
The veiled hand clenched into fist, when he recalled a name from his unforgettable past. He has won, that’s for sure. His opponent was alive, true, but rendered powerless and forced to flee to some island at the end of the world, while his candidate sat upon the papal throne. So why that made him so nervous?
Suddenly his eyes fell on the map in front of him and an immediate understanding entered his mind like an epiphany. The Empire… the world… has changed. Sure, it still bore marks, not easily perishable marks, he smiled to himself, of his hand. The division line running through the middle of Swiss heartland. The once-proud Duchy of Lorraine bastardized and turned into yet one more domain of the rapacious Dukes of Burgundy. The whole Western border of the Empire enflamed with fights, once-subjugated vassals rebelling against their overlords. More even, the schism of proportions unheard of since Frederick Barbarossa marched against Rome, placing the papal tiara on the head of his candidate… He recalled a time when his advices brokered peace and brought war to the courts of Europe, flouting freely the will of Popes, Emperors and Kings, to their powerless rage. Creating the power of Burgundy… and placing the fundaments for its ultimate downfall…
Yet everything else has changed… new Kings ruled France and England, repeating the hateful spiral of their forefathers. In the East the star of Venice, no longer facing any challenge, was rising to its zenith, while the one of Byzantium was never closer to its nadir.
In the Empire new Princes emerged, both secular and ecclesiastical, vying for control of already crowded world. Repeating the route of Burgundy would not lead one to power, but to destruction.
“All fleshe is but grasse” a smile appeared on his lips, as he recalled words of a poet spoken by some friend in another place and another time. Still, so true… All the treaties, provinces and gold coins waned or waxed within days, leaving nothing but the taste of ashes in the mouth.
Everything was plain and ultimately hollow. Everything but one…
Power.
He has lived and seen enough never to be oblivious to its lure. The lure that has swayed both small and great alike. The most elusive and whimsical of temptresses, choosing and discarding its lovers without apparent rank or file. Unless of course one knew the key to its favors…
Too many fools have tried to woo her with gold or armies, trying to impress the one who has seen all with trinkets and hordes of peasants. Yet she, like the finest of seers, always found her way to those who could command respect and obedience without even resorting to such mundane backings, through the power of faith and prestige alone.
Prestige.
That was another key word. Now, his self-imposed exile ending finally, he could almost feel the anxiety to have his name once again known throughout the Christendom. He almost felt a pang of his pride that he was so quickly forgotten. Almost… Starting with a clean slate had its advantages. Especially for a person with his reputation, he inadvertently chuckled at the thought.
A sudden knock on the door woke him up from a moment of reflection.
“Come in, my boy. I have been awaiting you” his voice was sweet and pleasant, yet the stranger, a young monk of no more than 15 winters approached him with uneasily silence, his head bowed down, as if trying not to look directly into the man’s eyes.
“What brings you here, this time, my boy?” the man inquired.
“Your Eminence” the monk stuttered, as he kneeled on the floor, handing a scroll to the man. “I bring a letter… for your eyes only.”
“Give it to me… and leave, fool!” the man’s voice changed all of sudden, his interest shifting completely towards the epistle, the secret seal of Pope Martin V claiming his total attention.
As his eyes ran through the parchment, a broad smile appeared on his lips and, a loud laughter erupting from his throat.
When he threw the letter open on the table in front of him, a casual observer could have noticed at least the first words:
“To our beloved son and servant, Cardinal of the Holy Mother Church, Archbishop of Cologne, Prince-Elector of the Holy Roman Empire, Archchancellor of Italy, Odo de Bauffremont, Christian benedictions…”
Alas, again there was noone to read them...
