Chapter 66: Baggage Trains
"Your books are clouded by heretic lies, Saxony!" Cardinal Morone shrieked, his fat face turning purple. "The Holy Father gave no writ for the Teutonic border wars! The monks rule their own lands. They ride where they will. To lay their bloody deeds at the Pope’s feet is an outrage against holy law!"
The Cardinal’s shouting was a poor shield against the Elector’s truth... Morone tried to use loud words to hide a lack of proof.
The gathered Swabian counts, Bavarian lords, and lesser knights at once saw the Cardinal’s bluster as the fear of a guilty man.
The Elector of Saxony did not quail before the priest’s wrath. He stepped to the center of the hall, drawing forth a leather-bound tally book.
"If the Pope gave no leave for the Grand Master’s wars, Cardinal," the Elector asked, "how do you answer for the endless rivers of silver flowing from Rome to the Teutonic armories?
I hold the deciphered ledgers of the trade wagons. The Church has sent sixty thousand florins to the Teutonic knights in the last half-year alone. The Baltic has bowed to the Pope for a hundred years. Why send a king’s ransom to their heavy horse if not to burn the eastern trade roads?"
In the old days, the Church kept its power by hiding its silver behind a veil of holy mystery. Faced with the hard tallies of a merchant, the Cardinal’s old ways failed him.
He could not say before the Diet that the Pope used the Teutonic knights as paid butchers to crush true lords and steal the trade of amber and timber.
The silence stretched.
The Elector of Saxony merely watched him, waiting for the tally to be answered.
"Without the Pope’s silver, how could the Grand Master gather his host to crush the foul heresy burning in the Swabian valley? The silver is a holy gift to cast down Konrad von Frundsberg!" Morone finally stammered.
The Elector of Saxony let out a joyless laugh. It was the sound of a master catching a thieving clerk in a lie.
"The Fugger silver began flowing to the Teutonic knights fourteen months ago. Konrad von Frundsberg did not slay his priests, forge his new fire-dags, or print his heretic books until this very season. Do you ask this hall to believe the Pope paid for a holy war a year before the heresy even began?" the Elector lectured.
The worldly lords watching the clash came to a silent reckoning. The Pope’s men were not guided by God. They were greedy, foolish lords who cared more for their own pride than the safety of the realm.
If the Church could not even keep its own lies straight, it had no strength to lead the Empire against the terrifying rule growing in the south.
Fear of the Pope’s curse kept the lords from openly casting off the Church, but the bonds of the Diet were forever broken.
The gathering fell apart into endless, petty bickering over grain taxes and the borders of small lands.
The holy war to crush Konrad von Frundsberg was cast aside for the greedy squabbles of the old lords.
The gathering at Regensburg ended without a single writ of war being sealed...
Two hundred miles to the south, the deciphered tidings of the Diet’s ruin lay upon the table in the master’s room.
Konrad von Frundsberg read the spy’s report.
Lady Isolde, the master of the spies, stood rigidly across the table.
"The worldly lords have sworn they will not pay for the Pope’s war." Isolde reported.
"Sigh... The Empire’s bickering buys us only a fleeting moment of time." Konrad sighed. "We have crippled Duke Wilhelm’s eastern flank with our great guns, but Friedrich and the Teutonic heavy horse still ride from the north."
"We shall stop waiting for my brother’s blow and strike to tear out his supply veins." Konrad lectured.
"You mean to strike the Teutonic supply lines beyond our northern borders?" Isolde frowned.
"I mean to ensure our gunners have bread, and Friedrich has none..." Konrad corrected. "The new host of Reiters must be tested. Lord Ulrich and his eight hundred horsemen bearing twin wheellock dags cost a king’s ransom in silver... It is time they paid for their keep."
"Send these marks to Lord Ulrich at once," Konrad commanded. "The Reiters shall ride swiftly up the northern roads. Their only task is to hunt down the baggage trains and break the soft underbelly of Friedrich’s march. They shall take all the cattle, seize the Baltic saltpeter wagons, and shoot dead any Teutonic master of stores they find."
Isolde understood, rubbing her forehead. "By stealing their supply wagons, you will starve Frederick’s army and reclaim the gunpowder he intended to deny us."
"You’re only just realizing this?" Konrad remarked. "We shall hollow out Friedrich’s supply lines, bring the powder back to our own silos, and leave my brother to starve."
Konrad handed the sealed writs to the master of spies. "See that the Reiters ride before the sun sets. I want those Teutonic supply wagons tallied in our stores before the week is out."
...
Days passed, and the twenty-first day arrived after the surrender of the old lords.
The most valuable men drawn to Konrad’s lands were not peasants, but educated outlaws fleeing the clutches of the Catholic Church.
A small band of men approached the southern border. They were led by Master Heinrich of Tübingen, a former master alchemist and powder-maker for the Bishop of Augsburg.
Heinrich possessed a true understanding of metals and saltpeter that defied the old dogmas of the Dominican Inquisitors.
When the Church discovered his secret work on the quick burning of brimstone, they named it witchcraft. Heinrich and his apprentices narrowly escaped the stake, fleeing with nothing but their ciphered books of formulas.
As the outlaws reached the ridge overlooking Konrad’s keep, they were shocked.
The land had been shaped into low, sloped earthworks, leaving no hiding places.
Beyond the trenches, great hammers pounded, and the air smelled extremely foul.
Their watch was cut short by a threat.
A squad of musketmen stepped from a hidden trench. They were clad alike in black iron armor.
With drilled discipline, the guards leveled their new muskets. Steel daggers were fixed in the barrels, turning the firearms into spears.
"Hold your ground," the captain commanded, "These lands are forbidden. State your business or be shot."
Heinrich, terrified by the weapons aimed at his chest, raised his hands.
"We are not enemies!" Heinrich shouted. "I am Master Heinrich of Tübingen, once the chief powder-maker for the Church.... these are my apprentices. We flee the Inquisition. We beg an audience with Lord Konrad. We bring valuable secrets!"
The captain did not lower his weapon.
The Viscount’s standing orders required the capture of any man claiming a useful craft. He signaled two men to guard the prisoners.
"Your claims will be judged by the Viscount," the captain said. "If your secrets are found wanting, you will be named spies and killed."
