Ein Feste Burg, Episode Five
Written by Rainer Prem
Chapter 5: One Night in Grantville
On the Road from Eisenach, Near Grantville April 3, 1634
Ingrid Wasasdottir took sidelong looks at the weird woman, Maximiliane von Pasqualini, as they approached Grantville. They'd been on the move since dawn. The road was manageable; after last week's heavy snowfall, the weather had improved over the weekend and the sun now sometimes managed to break through the clouds. It was still cold enough that the packed snow couldn't thaw, and gave their horses an acceptable grip.
Ingrid had tried to argue Max into making more and longer stops. It was not necessary to force themselves to cover the whole way in one day.
Inte en chans.No chance.
"Ingrid, I don't want to spend the night in one of these literally lousy inns on the way, when I have my own flat waiting in Grantville with a hot shower and a real bed," Max had said.
"Okej, you're the boss!" Ingrid had answered, and Max had burst into laughter.
"Ingrid, don't call me that. I'd rather be your friend."
Ingrid ferociously shook her head. "No, that's not good. You're my client, and I'm your bodyguard. Coming too close together yields nothing good."
"But at least, you can fill our time on the road by telling something about you. How come you are working for Hans and not for Gustavus Adolphus?"
That was something Ingrid wondered herself about. Living on the street in Stockholm, after her mother, a prostitute, had died, she didn't have a very good perspective for her life.
"Cornelia Andersdotter has saved me from a street urchin's life and took me to her parents' stud farm near Stockholm. I worked as stable hand and was riding as often as I could, especially the young and untrained horses. She showed me all tricks of a professional horse trainer.
"Then one day, when I was about eighteen, a captain of the king's cavalry showed up to buy horses. When he saw Cornelia and me faking a cavalry fight with newly trained horses, he apparently came to a decision."
"Can I assume," Max interjected, "that I have come to know this cavalry captain in the meantime?"
Ingrid laughed. "Oh yes. When Hans Hansson was about to leave Sweden with his company in 1630, he talked us both into joining his troop as horse trainers. Then he presented us to his men."
Ingrid remembered the day as if it were yesterday. He had told his men that it was a known fact: women could better handle young and inexperienced horses.
And then his voice thundered over the eighty cavalrymen. "Kamrater, you have a choice. You can either rape these two women or ride the best horses in the Swedish army. Guess which of the two actions will keep you alive longer."
"And they welcomed us with open arms and closed breeches." Both women burst into laughter, and their horses bucked a bit. "We got complete cavalry training, while we were training the horses the company bought or captured on its way through Germany.
"First it was a rough life. Our Västgöta cavalry had tiny horses, and so was a constant target of ferocious mockery from the other cavalry units in the army. But then we got larger German horses, and the company's results improved drastically."
Ingrid steered her horse back to the middle of the road after having passed an ox cart coming their way.
"After Breitenfeld the company was detached to support Duke Johann Ernst von Sachsen -Eisenach. The king said the danger that straying remnants of Tilly's army might maraud the duchies of his allies was too great to leave them unguarded."
So Hans had become more acquainted with the duke, and rumor said they both had saved each other's lives multiple times. And after some time the duke had a suggestion for Hans.
"The duke had read some up-timer books on management and outsourcing, and he said he wanted to shrink his entourage substantially. So they had some meetings and afterwards Hans spoke to the company.
"Since the situation here has drastically changed now that Grantville has shown up with its modern weapons, the king wants most of you back into his army. I have decided to quit his service and settle down here in Eisenach with my wife Cornelia,' he told them."
Max smiled. "I think I somehow anticipated this outcome."
"Ja. Hindsight is always easier than foresight. Hans kept a handful of his cavalrymen for the duke's personal guards. The duke had negotiated with the Grantville police department to lend us to them to help guard the town, in exchange for training in up-timer police techniques.
"While Hans and Cornelia founded their ' Eisenacher Hausmeisterdienst ' and reorganized the duke's household, we went to Grantville and spent part of our time riding patrols around the town and most of the rest with Dan Frost on the shooting range."
Ingrid had never understood why she should use the Americans' tiny pistols in battle. She could get the same results with her longbow and her crossbow as with a 9mm or a .40. And without the dependence on ammunition supply.
She could understand the advantages of a shotgun on closer distances, but she knew very well how to close the distance in a fight completely, use the round shield to divert her opponents' sabers, and hack their head away with her heavy sword. Occasional bullets got caught in her chainmail, a heritage from Cornelia’s ancestors. They left bruises, but Ingrid had never been seriously wounded.
"But Chief Frost was right. We had to change our fighting style completely, to be prepared when the enemy once had the same modern weapons."
Max was still thinking about an earlier sentence. "But why a 'facility management service'?" she asked.
"Hans and Cornelia said, 'Why not?' " Ingrid laughed again. "Since the duke and the duchess didn't leave home often, being a bodyguard was far away from being a full-time job. They had enough time and both like to organize craftsmen, gardeners, and the personnel. And when they hired them, they had a good reason to check their background before letting them into the household."
Because Ingrid was fluent in different languages including German and English, she had been the first choice as bodyguard for the duke's new architect. Architect, ha! Bed bunny. But that was not exactly correct. Ingrid had to admit that something intangible had changed in the duke's castle during the last two weeks.
An air of satisfaction had developed, involving not only the duke and his new mistress, but—oddly enough —his wife. And Hans, Cornelia and the Jewess Ruth were smiling whenever Ingrid saw them watch the duke's newly extended family.
And Ingrid had to admit that this Pasqualini woman, who had lived as a man for ten years —I couldn't have done that, but this woman has no bröst, ha! —showed an outstanding air of competence when they were at the Wartburg construction site on Ingrid's first day as her bodyguard.
The duke and his stubborn master mason had listened to Pasqualini —no, call her Max; she wants to be called Max —and nodded more often than shook their heads.
Ingrid also had to admit that when it came to riding, Max did rather well. Yes, she now showed signs of fatigue and pain. Ha, pain in the ass, nice term! But they had been on horseback for over eight hours and had taken only one longer rest at noon, when they changed horses in the duke's relay station.
Hård mö. Tough girl.
Grantville
When they reached the outskirts of Grantville, the church towers were ringing the bells indicating six o'clock. Max directed them to an inn, where a stable hand joined them on their way to a wooden house in a residential district. They took their baggage from the packhorse they had brought with them, and the boy disappeared with the horses.
Then they entered the house. They put their winter clothes onto a coat stand in the anteroom and then proceeded to the living room.
"Baronin von Blankenstein!" Max shouted. "I'm back!"
An elderly, well -dressed woman came from the back of the house. The apron she wore did not really fit with her dress, which looked like something the lower nobility might wear.
Ingrid could hear her shouting before she came in sight. "Maximilian, willkommen daheim!" But when the woman caught a glimpse of the way Max was dressed, she nearly fainted.
"Maximilian," she gasped, while Max and Ingrid dropped their baggage and helped her to an armchair in the living room. "Maximilian, is that really you?"
"Yes, Frau Baronin, it's me. It was necessary to undergo a slight change," Max replied.
"You didn't have one of these horrible operations they talk about, did you?" A little disgust could be heard in her voice.
Max laughed. "Oh no, Baronin. I've been female all my life. My real name is Maximiliane, but nothing else has changed."
Nothing has changed. Ha! Becoming the mistress of a duke is "nothing?"
"You must tell me. Everything. At once." The baroness had obviously regained composure and now tried to gain command.
"Not now, Baronin, please! We both come directly from Eisenach and have to have a shower first. Then we must find a place to have dinner. And I think we'll be too tired afterwards. But we will stay here until the day after tomorrow, so we can perhaps talk tomorrow evening."
Turning to Ingrid, she continued. "And please let me introduce Ingrid Wasasdottir, Baronessa Götetal from Sweden. She is my Aufpasser. "
Ingrid grinned, partly from the sudden honor of being raised into lower nobility, partly from the shrewdness of Max using a word which either meant bodyguard or chaperone. The baroness would certainly assume the latter.
"And Ingrid, my dear friend, this is Anna Margaretha Elisabetha, Baronin von Blankenstein, my landlady."
Ingrid extended a hand and said in very broken German, "Erfreut, Euch sehen, Baronin."
Max suddenly coughed several times, obviously suppressing laughter. Then she smiled approvingly at Ingrid.
The baroness rose and took Ingrid's hand. "Nice to meet you too, Baronessa."
"Now we have to hurry," Max said, "or we won't be in time to get a table for dinner at the Amerikanische Eiche."
"Max, do you want me to make a reservation for you?" the baroness asked.
"Oh, that would be very nice. We are really in a hurry," Max responded, then took her baggage and waved Ingrid to follow.
****
When they had closed the door of Max's flat behind them, Max dropped her baggage, then threw herself onto her bed and let out a big "Phew! That was close!"
"Max," Ingrid said. "I'm wondering. We handed our horses to that boy from the stable at the American Ash Inn. But you just told her to make a reservation for the American Oak."
"Ingrid . . ." Max rose again and started to undress. "I'm really sorry that I forgot to prepare you for this meeting. The so-called Baronin von Blankenstein is the biggest source of gossip within a hundred miles, and although nobody has caught her in the act of lying, she is at least suspected to be an impostor."
Struggling with the still unfamiliar fasteners of her dress, she continued. "She arrived here shortly after the Ring of Fire, and insisted that she was the widow of a Baron von Blankenstein from Swabia. She claimed that they were just visiting their newly bought land with her whole family, when the Ring of Fire fell and all of her family disappeared before her eyes. She had a bag of gold, so she could buy this empty house —"
Max, completely bare, took a towel from a wardrobe and went to the attached bathroom.
"—and hire a lawyer. They filed a suit against the town of Grantville to claim indemnification for the loss of her husband, her parents, her four children, her horses, and the forty thousand acres of best farmland, which the Ring had all destroyed."
Max turned on the shower and uttered a loud, "Aaah, that's what I need now!"
Ingrid tried to push her questions through the sound of whooshing water. "But as far as I know, the area of the Ring doesn't have forty thousand acres."
"Yes, that was her first mistake. The court rejected the lawsuit by formal errors, and she blamed it on the bad handwriting of her lawyer and fired him. Then she found a second lawyer, reduced the claim of land to four thousand acres, and filed the suit again.
"Then the Grantvillers found out that the land in the area before the ring was mostly woodland and no farms. They rejected the second lawsuit, and she fired her second lawyer."
Max left the shower and started to towel herself. She took another towel from the wardrobe and handed it to Ingrid. Ingrid was a little startled by Max's behavior, but shrugged and started to strip off her clothing. I need that, too, and it should be safe in here. But she would at least take her 9mm into the bathroom with her.
"She found a third lawyer," Max continued, while she took fresh clothes out of the baggage, and started to dress again. "Rumor says she offered him half of the expected compensation. She said her family must have been betrayed by the landowner, and they filed a third lawsuit. In the meantime, the Grantville judge had developed doubts about her allegations, so he ordered her to prove the existence of her husband, her parents, et cetera, et cetera. He told her either to show up with notarized copies from the church register entries for the people and the title for the property, or to bring enough reputable witnesses to substantiate her claims."
Then she shook her head. "Ingrid, how many weapons are you wearing exactly?"
****
When Ingrid had been selected as bodyguard for Max, some things had to change. Cornelia had talked insistently to her about modifying her arsenal and fashion. They had worked out a compromise.
While she was in the line of duty with the duke, officially armed, Ingrid was allowed to dress and arm herself as she found useful, as long as she had a modern firearm and enough ammunition at hand. When she worked undercover, a term she liked quite well, she had to wear appropriate female fashion and only hidden weapons. No sword, only knives and firearms.
Okej, she decided. A blade length of two feet still counted as knife, and she could hide two of them easily on her back. She had practiced drawing them, and now managed to get them into her hands very quickly—without dissecting her dress or blouse more than necessary.
A dozen throwing knives fitted nicely about her person, and left room enough for a 9mm automatic pistol and a "historical ".45 Colt Single Action Army. Ha! Peacemaker! You're my boy! Her dress got a little puffed out with all this hardware, but she and Cornelia worked out a selection of combinations with special loops sewed into them and extra slits at appropriate places.
Cornelia had even admitted that nothing spoke against having an appropriate selection of weapons at hand when push came to shove.
****
"Oh," Ingrid answered frowning. "Not as many as I would like. My sword, shield, longbow and crossbow are still in my baggage, together with my chainmail and helmet."
"And I was wondering why the poor packhorse looked so tired." Max shook her head again. "Do you really think all that is necessary?"
Ingrid looked firmly into Max's eyes. "Ja," was the only word she said, before she —now naked herself, but with her gun in her hand —started to the shower.
While Ingrid enjoyed the hot water, she asked, "And how does that story connect to our dinner?"
"Oh, sorry. I got sidetracked," Max answered. "Since the baroness sits here like a spider in a web, trying to find or more likely fake evidences and find or perhaps bribe witnesses, she has no other amusement apart from gossiping over the telephone. Just since we got here, half of Grantville, or at least her half of Grantville certainly knows that I am a woman and I arrived with a Swedish Baronessa as chaperone. And they'll also know that I will have dinner at the Amerikanische Eiche.
"And some of these people will certainly accidentally come around to chat with me, and we won't have a minute of peace. Which I really, really need this evening. So I can innocently say 'Sorry for this misunderstanding. Did I say Eiche? I meant Esche! I was already wondering why they had no reservation for us.'" Max laughed.
Inga bröst, nej —but a sharp wit!
Ingrid laughed too. "Tell me, Max. How could you pull off being disguised as a man for so long? I would certainly have unmasked you. No man has such a shrewd mind. But now we must hurry to get a table."
"No need." Max waved with her hand. "We have in fact a reservation for the Ash. Ruben has organized it together with the stables for our horses." Now they burst into laughter. I ought not to get too familiar with clients, but I could get to like that woman!
American Ash Inn and Stable, Grantville
There was indeed a large white ash standing in front of the Gasthaus und Mietstall zur Amerikanischen Esche, as a big wooden display told them. The massive tree extended its bare branches over the snow covered wooden tables and benches of the Biergarten.
They entered the main room, which was already rather full, and Max asked for the table reserved for "M.P. and friends." They were pointed to an eight -person table in one of the corners farthest away from the entrance. The big Franklin stove shielded the corner from one side, so they would have a rather protected alcove.
Ingrid quickly scanned the interior, and especially the people who had a direct line of fire to the table. She had to admit that Ruben had eased her task very well. It was by far the best defendable place in the room.
While they approached it, Max pointed with her chin to a group of three men who were talking very loudly and unintelligibly, and smiled. Ingrid nodded. She kept them in sight and saw that the men had noticed their appearance and were ogling them now. Burly men they were, in their mid-fifties, strong men with bulging muscles. No motions like mercenaries. No visible weapons. No sign of hidden weapons. Craftsmen. Minor threat.
Max sat down on the bench, her back to the wall as Ingrid had told her —Anobedient client is a surviving client! —and Ingrid sat next to her on the same bench. So she shielded the fourth side, and Max was as safe as possible with only a single bodyguard. Ingrid detested the situation. With so many unknown threats around, there should have been at least four different security people on duty.
But Max had insisted on this. "You will see. These are really nice guys in the Ash. Don't worry more than necessary."
The waitress came to take their orders, but Max asked her to let them settle for five minutes.
Shortly after that, Ingrid noticed the three men approaching their table. Two of them had an additional mug of beer in their hands. Men! They are so easily to see through! Max had anticipated that situation exactly.
"Aamd Määdscher, wollt ehr ä Bier mit uns drinke?"
What? Ingrid had had believed that her German was very good, but apart from the word "beer" and the obvious intention to meet them, she hadn't understood anything.
Later Max would tell her that "Aamd" was short for "Guten Abend," and "Määdscher" should be "Mädchen." "Good evening, girls. Would you like to have a beer with us?" was the correct translation —rather polite in hindsight.
Max smiled and nodded.
"Ei isch binn de Ande, dess iss de Xaver und de anner iss de Jörg. Mehr sinn alles eerlische Handwerker unn Eheloit."
O my God! Three first names, the word craftsmen, but what else?
Later she learned the translation: "I am Ande, his name is Xaver, and the other is Jörg. We are honest craftsmen and husbands."
The mention of the marital status was meant to reassure the women that the invitation was intended as a social event and not as an introduction to courtship. Honest they are!
But she unwrapped her best German. "Good evening, I am Ingrid Wasasdottir, the Aufpasser of Freifrau von Pasqualini over here. Thank you for your invitation. You may sit down."
Max smiled and nodded.
The three men sat down, scrutinizing the large blond Swede and the small dark -haired German, whose hair was still very short.
The men shoved their two surplus mugs to the women. Then Ande lifted his mug and said: "Proscht erschtmol." They pushed their mugs together over the center of the table. Xaver said "Gsuffa, " Jörg said "Martje Flor, " and Ingrid said "Skål. " Then all took large gulps.
Max smiled, nodded and took a very ladylike sip of her beer.
Ande was obviously very chatty. "Pasgalini? Saach mool, Määdsche, bischt du vielleischt mit deem Max Pasgalini verwandt? " "Tell me girl, do you happen to be related to Max Pasqualini?"
Max smiled, nodded and again took a very ladylike sip from her beer.
Ande frowned. "Weil, deen hott jetzt seit zwää Woche kääner meer uff ääner Bauschtell gsee. Unn aach nett in seim Birroh. Weescht du, was mitt deem iss?" "Because nobody has seen him at any construction site for two weeks. And not in his office. Do you know, what happened to him?"
Max smiled, nodded, and then gave an answer.
"Ooch, deem geets guud. Wie geets eischentlisch de Gertruud?" "Oh, he's fine. How is Gertrude?"
Oh no, now Max uses this secret language, too!
"Ei, deer geets aach guud." "She is fine, too."
"Dee Hannes —" Before he could elaborate about the situation of this Johannes, he interrupted himself. Ingrid could see his mind at work. Where did this woman know his wife's name from?
"Jo mei, i hoob diirs gsogt," the man called Xaver now interjected snootily and slapped Ande on his shoulder. "I told you."
But that sounds completely different? How many secret languages do they use here?
"Aach nee, unser Herr Südtiroler maakt op dicke Hose!" "Really, our Mister Southern Tyrolean again knows everything better."
Pooh! At least Jörg speaks a rather intelligible German, obviously a Northerner.
"I hoob diir schoo hunnertmool gsogt. I bin vunn Minge unn nett aus dena Alpe. Du Saupreiss." "I have told you a hundred times. I am from Munich, not from the Alps. (Typical Bavarian invective for all non -Bavarians )"
Gode gud!
"Xaver, Jörg, don't you know how to behave in front of noble women?"
Tack gode Gud! Ande finally used the standard Amideutsch of Grantville, thickly accented, but at least intelligible.
"Max, is that really you?"
The obvious question. Twice up to now. Let's count on.
Max burst into laughter. "Oh yes," she giggled. "Have I changed that much?" She rose and turned right and left, looking onto her own backside. "Have I got fat?"
"No, no!" the three men were now laughing, too.
Xaver was apparently very satisfied with himself. "I told them that you looked exactly like Max, the moment you entered the room. And asked them if he ever mentioned a twin sister. And they didn't believe me. Saupreissn."
Max had told Ingrid that she expected to meet three friends in the Ash. But she had not mentioned who they were. So she had to catch up now.
"Ingrid, Ande is a master mason from the Palatinate. The county of Leiningen to be exact, in the middle of the Electorate. He was born in a little town called Grünstadt.
"Xaver is a master carpenter. From Bavaria, in case you didn't understand." Another laugh. The three men were obviously fully aware, that their broad dialects bore an enormous challenge to foreigners. "He comes from Munich.
"And Jörg has come here from Northern Frisia. He was a master smith and has re-trained as an electrician. He was born in Tönning in the duchy of Schleswig-Holstein-Gottorp. So you have nearly the whole spread of Germany before you."
Then she turned to the men and frowned, then lowered her voice and said, "Boys, Ingrid is not my chaperone, but my bodyguard. I'm now working for Duke Johann Ernst to direct the reconstruction of the Wartburg, and he decided that I needed protection. So seriously, stay away from me, at least as long as we are here in public. She is a little nervous, anyway, and takes her job dead serious."
The men eyed Ingrid suspiciously, so she decided to show them her 9mm. She drew it, rotated it once around her forefinger and hid it again within two seconds. Hmmm. I'll have to practice more. Still a little slow.
They flinched and moved away a little from her.
Ja.
Max's flat, Grantville
For Max it had been obviously too long a day. She barely managed to get out of her clothes before she fell into her bed and was immediately asleep.
Max had convinced the three craftsmen to bring their families and move to the Wartburg as soon as their employers would agree to let them go. Not that Max had to use too much persuasion.
They would get wagons for the move and the complete equipment and tools for the enterprise for each of them from the duke's account in Grantville.
That was, of course, not a gift. They would have to pay back the loans, but they had low interest and needed no guaranties other than their good names and reputation. Having safe contracts for at least the next three years and free lodging on site in the summer and in one of the surplus buildings of the Jagdschloss in the winter, there would be no problem to repay most of the loans before the Wartburg was completed.
Max had further told them to buy some material for renovation works in the Jagdschloss, which Max would pay from her private account. From Max's smile, Ingrid could deduce that the latter was to be a pleasant surprise for the duke and his wife.
Ingrid checked the small basement windows that were just below the ceiling. Fortunately, they all had iron railings and that peculiar kind of glass nobody could look through. She decided not to sleep on the couch Max had offered her. She wouldn't need a blanket here; the room was nearly too warm. So she pulled off her dress, dropped it with most of her weapons on a chair and lay down across the entrance on the carpeted floor. With her Friedensstifter already in her hand, she was sure to be faster than any potential intruder.
Dr. Shipley's office, Grantville
The next morning
It had been a nice evening, particularly when compared to the next morning. After having breakfast in the Ash, Max had an appointment with that female doctor.
When they both entered Dr. Shipley's examination room, the first thing Ingrid noticed was a large kind of armchair in the middle. Gode Gud! What is this?
The chair looked more like an invention of the Holy Office than a doctor's equipment. So Ingrid had to ask: "Max, are you sure, that she doesn't intend to torture you?"
Dr. Shipley laughed and replied: "Ms. Wasasdottir, how about taking an examination first? So you'll see that everything is all right." On that chair? Never! They have certainly handcuffs hidden somewhere.
After Ingrid had scanned the room—it had no second exit and no other visible threats—she decided that she had to trust the doctor. So she kept both eyes on the door and only her ears on the scene.
When Max rose half an hour later, Dr. Shipley shook her hand and said: "So if everything goes well, Max, we'll meet again in two months. Good luck!" A strange kind of doctor. Normally it is completely the other way around. If it does not go well, you'll have to return. These up-timers are crazy!
Chapter 6: Sliding time
On the Road from Grantville to Eisenach, near Arnstadt
The next day
Max and Ingrid left Grantville early. The weather was dry and cold, and Max wanted—of course—to make their way back to Marksuhl in one day. By mid-morning, the weather got warmer and it started to rain. That converted the snow-covered dirt road into a slushy mess. The horses were constantly slipping and could only walk slowly.
****
They were crossing a large deforested slope—Ingrid in front, the packhorse fixed to her saddle, and Max last—when the world collapsed. A length of about a hundred paces of road split. The right half, with all three horses on it, started to slide along the slope.
Ingrid tried to free herself from her horse, but the animal had already toppled over onto its left side, and something was holding her left leg against the horse. The packhorse was sliding faster than her own steed and pulled through the line connecting the two animals.
Fortunately, the three animals held their relative positions on top of the mudslide, so at least no stones came from above. But enough mud, slush and water fell all over them. Ingrid struggled to loosen the line, but had no chance with all that dirt around.
Then she tried to get one of her knives, but—Skit! Scheiße! Shit! Crap!—she could not get her hand through one of the slits in her cape, then through one of the slits in her skort. I must talk to Cornelia. We must improve this when we get back—if we get back!
Her horse lurched to a standstill. It was now held by the thin rope from the packhorse, lying on its left side on a steep part of the slope.
Ingrid looked up. The other animal had somersaulted and then somehow gotten entangled with some vegetation which still protruded from the mud. Ingrid had no idea if the line could hold her and her horse, but that thin rope was now her only lifeline.
She looked down. Oops! The slope got even steeper and she could see some big boulders below. Tack gode Gud! That cape has saved my life! But her left leg was still trapped by the weight of her horse. And that creature now tried to get free. O nej! But at least she could stop this behavior. Her shotgun was strapped on the right flank of her horse. She produced it, held it against the horse's back neck— Förlåt mig! Forgive me! —Boom!— and the buckshot accomplished its task.
Her horse was quiet now. The packhorse, too, perhaps it had broken its neck. Very carefully and very slowly, Ingrid turned her whole upper body and scanned for Max. The other woman had obviously been luckier getting off her horse. Ingrid could see the animal lying more than fifty feet below, but Max lay, completely covered in mud, some fifteen feet above Ingrid, upside down on a less inclined part of the slope.
Max wasn't moving— Min Gud!— but Ingrid could not see any obvious sign of a wound. If she had broken her neck, surely at least some blood would be visible. At the moment Ingrid didn't really know what to do.
"Max! Max, can you hear me?" Ingrid shouted as loud as possible.
"Don't blow my ears. I can hear very well!"
Tack gode Gud! Tack, tack, tack!
The clever woman had apparently decided not to move until she was certain that the slide was over. Now she turned her head—Slowly! But I don't have to tell her, she didn't panic. Hård mö!—and looked in Ingrid's direction.
"Can you move?" Max demanded to know.
"No, my left leg is somehow entangled."
"Okay, I'll work out something. Don't move!"
Mycket rolig! Very funny! I just told you . . .
Then Max started to crawl, trying to reach the packhorse. Ingrid felt bad, helpless, frantic. She was not accustomed to quietly watching somebody else accomplish something. And she could do nothing. Skit, skit, skit!
So she decided to try to free her left leg. She forced her left hand between the horse and the mud. Laying herself flat on the horse's back, she could reach her foot. She could feel straps, then the stirrup. It had somehow wound around her foot. But that she could change.
While she—Långsamt!Slowly!—disentangled her cape and skort with her right hand, and managed to seize her small knife from the sheath strapped to her leg, she could hear Max creep above. Then suddenly the line jerked. "Be careful! I'm hanging on that line!"
"All right! No problem! Don't move!"
Ja! Jovisst! Of course I won't move!
Ingrid got her knife into her left hand, and reached toward her left foot. Keep your eyes closed, Ingrid! You can't see anything good. Concentrate on the knife. Now she reached the stirrup. A little left, a little up! Don't cut your foot! Långsamt! Slowly she started to saw at the straps that held the stirrup.
Suddenly something hit her head. She nearly lost her knife. When she opened her eyes, she could see the end of a rope dangling near her face. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to lasso me?" Ingrid's words were half hysterically. Tyst! Quiet! don't panic!
"Oh, sorry!" Max shouted. "You're right! I wasn't sure I would hit you with the first try! Can you tie yourself to the rope?"
Ingrid looked up. Max had gotten the rope out of the baggage on the packhorse's back. Bra gjort! Well done! But Max would have to climb all the way up over the rest of the dirt road and find a stump on the other side.
Ingrid had to tie the rope to herself first. "Yes, I can! Don't move!" Skit, now I’m becoming funny myself! She needed both hands. She slowly shoved the knife between the straps and her foot, and then pulled her left hand out. "Can I have some more feet of the rope?"
"Okay, no problem!" The rope didn't move, but now Ingrid could pull it slowly around her torso under her arms and tie it to itself.
Again, the line jerked; this time she slid down some inches. "Max!" Tyst! Quiet! Don't panic! Don’t. Panic.
"Sorry!"
"I'm strapped now."
"Okay!"
At least she didn't say it again.
"Don't move!"
Ugh!
Ingrid tried to reach her left foot again. She touched the knife too early. The last small slide had moved it up. When she pushed her hand deeper she felt something warm and wet. Blood! Skit, skit, skit! The knife had obviously cut into her leg above the boot. But at least the straps were cut, too. She could now move—Don't move!—Better to try only with the fingers! Yes, the stirrup was loose. Her foot was free. Pooh! But how much blood?
Slowly she pulled her hand and the knife back. Both were covered with blood. Skit! But she could not change anything now. She looked up again. Max had managed to climb, crawl, and slide all the way up, pulling the rope with her. And all Ingrid had managed in the meantime was to cut her leg. Ingrid, you're getting old! Clumsy and old! Hård mö Max! Ingrid put the knife back into the sheath.
"Max, I'm free now. When you manage to secure me, I can try to climb."
"Wait, I'm not ready yet. And don't forget the shotgun!" What? Oops!
Ingrid took the shotgun and the ammunition bag from her saddle holster and hung it on her back.
But Max was much lighter than Ingrid; she could not pull the heavier woman up. Ingrid had to make her way herself and Max had to secure her. How could that work? Ingrid looked up. She could only see Max's head and a part of her upper body. She was now attaching something to a big stump, which had luckily survived the deforestation.
Max moved away from the stump. Suddenly the rope moved. Slowly it straightened. But it was not right. It still went to the packhorse before it reached Ingrid. "Max! The rope is blocked by the packhorse. It doesn't run straight!"
She could see Max ogling over the brink, while she still did something with the rope. "From my side, it looks okay. Wait a little!"
The tension in the rope grew. Then suddenly something above moved. "Max! The baggage!" But no answer. Yes, the couple of heavy pieces which had been tied to the packhorse now were tied to the rope. The weird woman really tried to not only pull Ingrid, but also all of their baggage! Who does Max think she is? The daughter of Thor, or what?
But somehow it seemed to work. The baggage was moving straight above Ingrid at the steep slope. Because of the bulky packages, she could no longer see what Max was doing.
Even if Max had bought a pulley on their visit to Grantville's hardware store yesterday, that would not be enough to lift Ingrid along with the heavy baggage. And the package which had been delivered in the afternoon had not been big and heavy enough to contain one of the multi-wheel pulleys they used on sailing ships, along with the hundreds of feet of rope, which would be needed to span the fifty or so feet above Ingrid's head.
Still it seemed to work. The pull under her arms increased. Her left foot was still under the horse, but now Ingrid had enough support to pull it slowly out. Aj! The cut was rather long. It went from just above her boot to over her knee. But the blood was only dripping. Not lethal! In fact not even bad, only bloody.
Suddenly she heard something above her head. The line to the packhorse loosened. Quickly Ingrid rolled to the side and managed to get out of the way of the falling animal. Both horses were now sliding faster and faster to the bottom of the slope. When they hit the boulder with a thump, Ingrid could only think: That could have been me! Min Gud! Min Gud! That was close!
Slowly but sure she made her way up. Now the brink came closer. And Ingrid could hear Max breathing heavily. Okej, no goddess! Only a tough girl! The baggage was now over the edge and Max stopped whatever she had been doing. Ingrid could just reach to the rest of the dirt road and pull herself up.
Yes, it was something like a pulley. But the rope went there in a loop and back. It had no ends. Max had fixed the movable part to the baggage and another rope. The weird fixed part she had attached to the big stump with another rope.
Seeing Max half collapsed over the baggage. Ingrid wanted to say something. Tusen tack might be appropriate, but she also had no breath. She just managed to reach Max and then collapsed herself.
Some minutes later, she got her mind back. "Max! Tusen tack!Vielen, vielen Dank! Thank you so much! Gode Gud! Why, for Heaven's sake, didn't you leave that baggage on the packhorse? You are completely worn out."
"But that's your sword, and your shield, and your armor! I know how much you love that!"
Max had obviously a completely different set of priorities. Ingrid could only shake her head.
Then she did something she had not done since her youth. She reached to Max and hugged her, and nearly started to weep.
****
Shortly afterward, the duke's daily courier from Eisenach to Grantville reached the scene of the near-catastrophe. After he made sure that the two women were alive and kicking—or at least alive—he turned around to get help from the next village ahead. An hour later, he reappeared, leading three heavy plow horses.
"I've sent one of the villagers to the relay station in Arnstadt," he said. "We'll get riding horses and saddles from there. A group of them will make their way to the bottom of the slope and see what they can salvage from the horses, but that might take days."
And so it happened that Max had in fact to stay for a night in one of these "lousy" inns. But, of course, she managed that too. Hård mö!
****
Author's Notes:
The Book 1632 doesn’t mention that detachments of Swedish cavalry other than Alex Mackay’s Scots were left in Thuringia after Breitenfeld, but that’s a historical fact. Not that they were always as welcome as the Scots in Grantville . . .
I don't know how common it is in America to name inns after a big tree growing in front of them. But in Germany the number of classic Gastwirtschaften who have names like zum Lindenbaum (at the linden tree) are legion. In summer most of the business was transferred (and still is) to the Biergarten under the tree.
I cannot remember that ever before in the books or the Gazette somebody mentioned the different German dialects. If Mike Stearns had not fortunately met Rebecca first, for whom German was also a foreign language, Grantville might have died because of misunderstandings. The different Thuringian dialects in the center of Germany area are considered among the better understandable languages, since they have developed from a mixture of all the people who immigrated in the Middle Ages, but the others . . .
Here are examples of the sentence "You are not old enough to drink a bottle of wine alone. You have to grow up and get older." in Saxon, Palatinate, Bavarian, Northern Frisian Plattdütsch, and, of course, Southern Tyrolean . . .
Here is the Munich classic with American interpretation (contains the German text).
And last but not least here is the poor man's chain hoist.
****
To be continued . . .
Art Director's Note: Thanks to Rainer for providing the interior art for this story.
