# Chapter 5: The Hohenstaufen Keep

  Herold slipped into the kitchens swallowed by heat, smoke, and noise. Steam rose from iron pots big enough to bathe a man in. Meat hissed and dripped over open flames. Fat popped on hot stone. The air smelled of garlic, blood, and burnt grease.

  Servants rushed everywhere. Boys hauled buckets. Old men scrubbed pans until their knuckles cracked. At the center of it all stood Marsh the Cook, wide as a barrel, red-faced, apron soaked through, ruling the room like a tyrant.

  Marsh:

  You! New boy! Why are you standing there like a priest lost in a brothel? Grab those onions and start peeling before I decide you’re useless.

  Herold nodded once. Hood low, fake beard itching, he moved to the long table and picked up a knife. His hands worked fast and clean. He kept his head down and listened.

  Marsh prowled behind them, slapping backs, kicking buckets, shouting without pause.

  Marsh:

  Move, you useless sacks! This isn’t a monastery! It’s a feast!

  A lad dropped a ladle. Marsh struck him across the head.

  Marsh:

  Pick it up. Cry later.

  Herold didn’t look up.

  An hour passed like that. Then another. Marsh drank ale, shouted more, shoved a scullion into a wall for scrubbing too slow.

  Marsh pointed at Herold.

  Marsh:

  You there. Beard. You peel like you’re afraid of the onion. Faster.

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  Sir Herold:

  Yes, sir.

  Marsh:

  Louder.

  Sir Herold:

  YES SIR.

  Marsh snorted and moved on.

  The doors from the great hall opened. The noise dipped. Two men entered.

  Conrad I Wettin moved first, tall and stiff, dressed in black velvet edged with silver. His son Quintin followed, blond, loose-limbed, already smelling of wine.

  Marsh straightened fast.

  Marsh:

  My lords. You honor the kitchens. What can I—

  Conrad I Wettin:

  Wine. The hall is running dry.

  Quintin Wettin glanced around, eyes slow and hungry.

  Quintin Wettin:

  And you. Girl. Dark hair.

  The girl froze.

  Quintin Wettin:

  Bring the wine to my chamber. Alone.

  The girl’s face drained of color. She looked to Marsh.

  Marsh swallowed.

  Marsh:

  Do as you’re told.

  The girl nodded, hands shaking.

  Herold’s grip tightened on the knife. He kept cutting.

  Quintin smirked and turned away. Conrad followed without a word.

  The girl left moments later.

  The kitchens breathed again.

  Herold’s jaw locked.

  Marsh noticed.

  Marsh:

  What’s wrong, Beard? You look like someone pissed in your pot.

  Sir Herold:

  Nothing.

  Marsh laughed.

  Marsh:

  Good. Because nothing is all it ever is. Lords take what they want. You learn that, you live longer.

  Herold said nothing.

  He finished the lamb stew and lifted the heavy tureen. He carried it out toward the great hall.

  The feast was chaos. Music. Laughter. Drunken shouting. Grease-stained tables bowed under meat and bread. Whores leaned into knights. Wine spilled like water.

  At the high table sat Frederick II of Swabia, scarred and broad, one eye sharp as a drawn blade. Beside him sat Conrad III, straight-backed, watching everything.

  Herold approached and bowed.

  Sir Herold:

  Lamb stew, my lords.

  Frederick’s eye followed him.

  Frederick II:

  You don’t move like a servant.

  Herold stayed still.

  Sir Herold:

  Worked iron once. Old habits linger.

  Conrad III smiled thinly.

  Conrad III:

  A blacksmith with a soldier’s posture. Curious.

  Frederick II:

  We have enough soldiers.

  Frederick waved him off.

  Herold bowed again and backed away. His heart didn’t slow until he was out of the hall.

  He moved into the servants’ passages. Low ceilings. Narrow stone. The smell of damp and old grease. He searched quietly, counting turns, watching shadows. He muttered.

  Sir Herold:

  That One Eyed bastard was too good at noticing.

  Then he heard it.

  A slap. A stifled cry. A man’s laugh.

  He stopped at a cracked door.

  Inside, Quintin had the girl pinned to the wall. One hand at her throat. Her dress torn. Her eyes wild.

  Herold’s hand curled into a fist.

  One step. One strike. It would be easy.

  He didn’t move.

  He turned away and kept walking.

  A moment later, he found the door Rose described. Two deep slashes cut across the iron handle.

  He checked the corridor. Empty.

  The key slid into the lock. A pause. A click.

  Inside, the study was dim. One candle burned low on the desk. Ledgers lay stacked. Maps marked with ink and pins.

  Herold worked fast. He copied weapon numbers. Names of mercenary Groups like condottieri and Wolfritz. Payments. Letters stamped with seals.

  His hands never shook.

  Outside, the feast thundered on.

  :To Be Continued