- Shopping Bag ( 0 items )
Ships from: Amherst, NY
Usually ships in 1-2 business days
Ships from: Troy, NY
Usually ships in 1-2 business days
Ships from: LIVERPOOL, United Kingdom
Usually ships in 1-2 business days
Chapter One: May
Arthur, good king of Brittany,
Whose knighthood teaches us
To be courteous, to be true knights,
Held court as a king should
On that holy day always
Known as the Pentecost.
--Yvain, The Knight of the Lion
Chrétien de Troyes, c. 1177
The tower of Trifels Castle beckoned, dark red against the pale spring sky and the new green of the tree-covered mountainside below. Princes, dukes, barons, and bishops came riding from all parts of Germany, summoned by their suzerain, the thrice-crowned Henry VI, King of Germany, King of Italy, and Holy Roman Emperor, to attend high court on the feast of Pentecost, which in 1194 fell on the ninth of May.
Each came with a party of knights riding behind him, and a mule train laden with arms and armor, for once the court session had ended, they would move south, following their liege lord, Henry, and his wife, the Empress Constance, crossing over the Alps and down into the Lombard plain like the waters of the spring thaw. An army bent on conquest, their goal was southern Italy and the fabulously wealthy Norman Kingdom of Sicily, claimed by Henry through ancient imperial right, and by Constance as the only legitimate heir of the Norman dynasty. Whose claim was stronger depended on one's point of view.
Trifels beckoned to me as well. Although I had never seen it, not even in a photograph, I knew that it stood among the wooded hills of the Pfälzerwald, the Palace Forest that forms the northern border of the Palatine Rhineland, the ancestral possessions of the Hohenstaufen family, into which Constance had married. It was from here that she began her last journey south, and I sensed that in every way -- culturally and emotionally as well as geographically -- it represented the farthest point of her travels, her greatest distance from home. I would not be able to arrive at any understanding of Constance if I had not seen Trifels.
My own arrival in Germany in 1996 was easier, quicker, and considerably less dazzling than Constance's had been: I brought no mules, carried no treasure, made no perilous mountain crossings. My major challenges were to succeed in driving the car on and off the overnight ferry from Palermo to Naples, and thence find my way north to an apartment in Rome, that of Marcella Serangeli, the friend who was to accompany me.
Marcella was packed and waiting: a cup of coffee, and we were off. She had been unable to travel for several years and was delighted to explore a recently reacquired freedom by accompanying me on this trip. Marcella is a retired social worker, almost the first person I had met when I came to Sicily in 1962 to work in a community development project. We were co-workers and neighbors for two years, and then she left Sicily to work in Spain and then in Central America. Never a true expatriate, she knows nonetheless about living in a foreign country. Our children are contemporaries, and many vacations spent together had long since proved that we make good traveling companions.
We had agreed by phone that while the itinerary of our return journey southward, determined by that of Constance, would follow the secondary roads, on the northward portion we would take the superhighways, driving as fast as we could in order to get where we were headed as soon as possible. Travel as motion, not as experience.
It was May, the days were long, and we left Rome at noon. Except for the usual traffic jam crossing the pass over the Apennines between Florence and Bologna, and heavy traffic around Milan, there were no problems, and we arrived at Como in time for dinner. By eleven the next morning, we had zipped under the Alps and were in Zurich. It felt as if we had robbed ourselves of time and space.
We crossed the German border near Schaffhausen and, going slowly now, drove west along the northern bank of the Rhine. The river itself is fairly wide in this part, but the fluvial plain is narrower: to the north a strip of rich fields tightly farmed with what appeared to be forage crops, and then a dark line of fir trees -- the southernmost hem of the Black Forest. Across the river and to the south, the Swiss side of the plain rose rapidly into foothills, beyond which the snow-covered peaks of the Alps closed the horizon like a freshly painted picket fence.
The vision of the distant mountaintops glowing in the sunset was tamed by the well-fed placidity of the Rhine in the foreground, the prosperous fields, and the highway running straight. Had it been the twelfth century, however, we would have found ourselves surrounded by bogs and marshes, rotting bushes and fallen trees obstructing our progress, our path blocked each spring by the floodwaters of the great river obese with roaring masses of melted snows, the rafts at the fords drawn ashore for the season, the wooden bridges torn from their moorings.
We would have felt menaced by that ribbon of black trees to the north. The Black Forest hid bandits, beasts both real and mythical, and even wild men, long-haired and naked, who lived on roots and berries and ran amok. We would be thanking God that at least the mountains were behind us and that we had been brought this far in safety, and praying that we would arrive at some sure lodging before darkness fell.
After an hour or so, Marcella and I picked a turnoff at whim and headed up into the twilight of the Schwarzwald, where we sank gratefully into the first pine-paneled, feather-bedded Gasthaus we could find, happily forgetful of our first exercise in historical imagination.
My idea of the Black Forest had always been strictly out of Grimm -- virgin, dark, and impenetrable, populated by Gauls who moved silently through the underbrush, as at ease as deer. Caesar claimed to have marched through it for months without seeing sunlight. So be it, but that wasn't the forest of today. It wasn't black, and it wasn't composed of Norway spruce. I hadn't realized that a forest of conifers cannot reproduce itself, since the saplings die for lack of the sunlight that their parent trees deny them. Without human maintenance, careful foresting, and clearance, the beech tree, the only tree that can reproduce itself in its own shade, will take over.
What we found as we drove northwest through gentle hills were stands of Norway spruce, dark indeed but with little or no underbrush, alternating with bright green meadows and threaded with carefully tended walking paths, quite crowded with young families, babies and backpacks bobbing on their shoulders, and older couples striding along with the help of stout wooden walking sticks.
The meadow grass grew paler as the mist crept over it, laying big banks of fog over the lower valleys. We had decided to take the Schwarzwald-Hochstrasse, the upper road that would carry us up through the highest and densest part, which supposedly offered the most spectacular views. Here, however, the forest became white, ceding its black to the rain clouds closing over us; the long needles of the spruces taught thick strands of mist as if they were combing wool. We followed the red taillights in front of us while great glowing eyes glared up out of the fog and slithered past us to the left.
It was a relief to come down out of the fog and to cross the valley of the Rhine. The late afternoon sky was overcast and prematurely dark when we arrived at Annweiler, the small village that lies in the valley below Trifels. The clouds hung low over the hills, releasing intermittent and desultory rain, but the village streets were full of people, and it required two hours of increasingly desperate research to find a room on the outskirts of town.
We were lucky to find a bed, for it was the Friday of the Pentecost weekend, something we had not taken into our calculations. Pentecost has lost status in Italy, but in Germany it is still a major holiday weekend, and for many contemporary Germans, it signifies the opening of the hiking season. The paths of the Pfälzerwald, which more or less begins at Annweiler, compete with those of the Black Forest across the river for vacationers from the southwestern German cities.
That night my sleep was agitated by dreams involving Constance and the castle that we would be seeing the next day. I woke early, and while Marcella slept on, I lay in bed musing about Constance in the irregular thought patterns that belong to dawn, and gazing at the walls around me. The owner of the bed-and-breakfast was a big, sunny bear of a man who spoke only Greek, and the decor of his establishment had immigrated to Germany with him: souvenir amphoras and wall hangings embroidered with pictures of the Parthenon, Mediterranean kitsch rather than German Gemütlichkei. I felt at home here, as Constance would have: she had grown up in a polyglot society in which the Greek language and culture played a prominent role, and the sound of someone speaking Greek would surely have aroused her nostalgia.
*Endnotes were omitted
Copyright © 2001 Mary Taylor Simeti
|I||The Dubbing at Pentecost|
|Suggestions for Further Reading||293|
Posted May 20, 2003
Ms. Simeti has brought Constance to life. If able to forgive a bit of fictionalizing, this book is enjoyable for those who wish to dig in and understand an era of history. I felt emersed in the age, empanthizing with Constance and what her tough life may have been like. Highly recommended.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.