The Iron Fisted Knight
(Of Hohenloh and Heilbronn along the Neckar River)
The Spirit of Goetz
Goetz von Berlichingen was not any run of the mill German knight—by far, but neither was he one of chivalry. Yet on the one hand, he became known as Germany’s red-bearded medieval Robin Hood, sort of, and by reputation, ‘The iron-fisted knight.’ Born AD 1480, died 1562, at the age of 82-years old, who fought in the Bavarian war of 1504, and lost his hand to a cannonball that smashed into his sword and drove it through the armor of his hand an arm, but with some creativity, and a skilled armoire, who designed him an artificial hand our of armor, he was back in business, robbing and stilling and battling with whomever he could along the Neckar River, where he purchased Hornberg Castle in 1517, and used it as a base for his raids. If he should lay claim to any fame, let it be as it should be written with an inscription that reads, at Hornberg, where he died in 1562: ‘Here lies Germany’s most notorious, infamous warmongering knight!’ But in actuality and in a Latin inscription it reads in part: “Goetz, the magnanimous hero, rests here in the depths of the grave. Among the honorable ones, his name was always mentioned. For with great valor, he found bloody battles….” The Battles and the Mob Of his victorious mob, the raiders Goetz led, along the Neckar and, within the valley, unchallenged, and considerable more earthly than spiritual, most of his followers like him, had been convinced that the popes and cardinals on his day, and before them were no more than thieves, that the wealth of the Roman church, be it in Germany or Rome, or elsewhere was no more than a theft from the nations and a scandal to the world at large, they seized all movably valuables, to include works of art, relics, and so forth. If there was any proclaimed religious icon, it was Luther, by the Lutherans, whom were also among the mob and invaders, and whom had very little use for Luther per se. From village to village, this mob rushed on through the streets killing indiscriminately any man, woman or child that crossed their paths. Their blood thirst nearly aroused the whole valley. They pillaged every church, monastery they could find. Mothers and fathers, saw their sons slain, daughters raped, houses burned, there was no safety, helpless prey. But it must be said; he appealed to the rich men of the countryside, and was hired more than once, to battle their enemies. This robber baron made his area of assaults his personal Sodom and Gomorra. Those who defied him, priest alike were buried alive, nuns and respectable woman were violated, and some carried off to promiscuous brutality in the various shelters of the mob. Women assaulted before the eyes of their husbands or fathers; young women after being rapped drowned themselves in the Neckar River. The Fight(Landshut, fifty-miles east of Munich) Goetz was making his fight—at the age of twenty-three, in the Barbarian War of 1504, during the siege of Landshut (an ancient castle and palace), there he was among the castle’s enemy, and he saw it, thought it would be an easy victory, and at that very moment he had no choice except this battle be one, and he picked it as a testing ground for glory to see how he’d fare in the middle of battle, how his mind would adjust, in fight or flight. He galloped as close as he could to the castle, avoiding the battering ram ferocity of the ongoing siege which now had left their marks on the ragged stones of the lofty castle, and on the frescoed walls of the palace. The battering ram was of course, on his side of the battle ground, his comrade’s artillery. The sword heavy in his hand, the horse laboring, his armor banging against the other, and the horse halting as Goetz watched the firing of the cannonballs from the castle down onto his comrades below those lofty walls of granite and stone. It all gave him time to get his position, his place. And then, just as quick as a clap of an eye, a cannonball smashed into his sword, and drove it though the armor of his hand and arm, he had breathed with difficulty as he fell off his horse, in a slow, jerking, staggering manner onto the battlefield, splattering the inside of his fist, and arm from the pulsing projectile, Goetz had let go of the horses bridle, the reins over his shoulder, he pulled himself up—one handed, as hard as he could, with crossbows shooting arrows everywhichway from the castle’s walls. The zing of the crossbow was not to be silent for a long spell yet. And then, holding his horse by the mane, the horse got shot quickly by an arrow, expertly and un-kindheartedly just where he needed to be, to fall and die by Goetz’s side. There he fell, head forward down to fill an empty space between Goetz and the walls of Landshut. Still the battering ram clattering, and all this time there was a chill in the back of Goetz’s spine, from not knowing what was coming next—over his shoulder, his head, his other arm, perhaps in the belly, or knees. Goetz von Berlichingen was thinking: battle, war, the fight, this high and chill he was feeling throughout his body, it was all shaped like the breast of a young girl, just like a cone of fury—to be felt, loved and then to be put aside and another one sought after. He looked very carefully around the dead horse, and he did not feel weak as he thought he might, and there was quick hammering of firing all about him, and he did not feel the shrivel or fear of battle, only the excitement, he could not be killed this way, it would be by old age, he told himself. He was one of the very few who could kill with a rush, and never thaw out from its excitement. There were bodies all about, shadows of bodies he could not clearly see, there was no live ground around him, he stood alone. He looked at the battle before him, the dead, then said within his thought, ‘They were all brave, even the enemy, but they were all stupid people, they died,’ so he thought more on the subject, ‘…in time to come, they will have sense enough never to fight us again.’ (But deep in his soul he really meant ‘In future times they will fear me.’) Death was the normal thing in war, in battle, in a fight, he knew this, that people would die, but he lived, as open in battle as anyone could be, his arm and fist smashed like grapes made into wine, and he feared death no more.
The Spirit of Goetz
Goetz von Berlichingen was not any run of the mill German knight—by far, but neither was he one of chivalry. Yet on the one hand, he became known as Germany’s red-bearded medieval Robin Hood, sort of, and by reputation, ‘The iron-fisted knight.’ Born AD 1480, died 1562, at the age of 82-years old, who fought in the Bavarian war of 1504, and lost his hand to a cannonball that smashed into his sword and drove it through the armor of his hand an arm, but with some creativity, and a skilled armoire, who designed him an artificial hand our of armor, he was back in business, robbing and stilling and battling with whomever he could along the Neckar River, where he purchased Hornberg Castle in 1517, and used it as a base for his raids. If he should lay claim to any fame, let it be as it should be written with an inscription that reads, at Hornberg, where he died in 1562: ‘Here lies Germany’s most notorious, infamous warmongering knight!’ But in actuality and in a Latin inscription it reads in part: “Goetz, the magnanimous hero, rests here in the depths of the grave. Among the honorable ones, his name was always mentioned. For with great valor, he found bloody battles….” The Battles and the Mob Of his victorious mob, the raiders Goetz led, along the Neckar and, within the valley, unchallenged, and considerable more earthly than spiritual, most of his followers like him, had been convinced that the popes and cardinals on his day, and before them were no more than thieves, that the wealth of the Roman church, be it in Germany or Rome, or elsewhere was no more than a theft from the nations and a scandal to the world at large, they seized all movably valuables, to include works of art, relics, and so forth. If there was any proclaimed religious icon, it was Luther, by the Lutherans, whom were also among the mob and invaders, and whom had very little use for Luther per se. From village to village, this mob rushed on through the streets killing indiscriminately any man, woman or child that crossed their paths. Their blood thirst nearly aroused the whole valley. They pillaged every church, monastery they could find. Mothers and fathers, saw their sons slain, daughters raped, houses burned, there was no safety, helpless prey. But it must be said; he appealed to the rich men of the countryside, and was hired more than once, to battle their enemies. This robber baron made his area of assaults his personal Sodom and Gomorra. Those who defied him, priest alike were buried alive, nuns and respectable woman were violated, and some carried off to promiscuous brutality in the various shelters of the mob. Women assaulted before the eyes of their husbands or fathers; young women after being rapped drowned themselves in the Neckar River. The Fight(Landshut, fifty-miles east of Munich) Goetz was making his fight—at the age of twenty-three, in the Barbarian War of 1504, during the siege of Landshut (an ancient castle and palace), there he was among the castle’s enemy, and he saw it, thought it would be an easy victory, and at that very moment he had no choice except this battle be one, and he picked it as a testing ground for glory to see how he’d fare in the middle of battle, how his mind would adjust, in fight or flight. He galloped as close as he could to the castle, avoiding the battering ram ferocity of the ongoing siege which now had left their marks on the ragged stones of the lofty castle, and on the frescoed walls of the palace. The battering ram was of course, on his side of the battle ground, his comrade’s artillery. The sword heavy in his hand, the horse laboring, his armor banging against the other, and the horse halting as Goetz watched the firing of the cannonballs from the castle down onto his comrades below those lofty walls of granite and stone. It all gave him time to get his position, his place. And then, just as quick as a clap of an eye, a cannonball smashed into his sword, and drove it though the armor of his hand and arm, he had breathed with difficulty as he fell off his horse, in a slow, jerking, staggering manner onto the battlefield, splattering the inside of his fist, and arm from the pulsing projectile, Goetz had let go of the horses bridle, the reins over his shoulder, he pulled himself up—one handed, as hard as he could, with crossbows shooting arrows everywhichway from the castle’s walls. The zing of the crossbow was not to be silent for a long spell yet. And then, holding his horse by the mane, the horse got shot quickly by an arrow, expertly and un-kindheartedly just where he needed to be, to fall and die by Goetz’s side. There he fell, head forward down to fill an empty space between Goetz and the walls of Landshut. Still the battering ram clattering, and all this time there was a chill in the back of Goetz’s spine, from not knowing what was coming next—over his shoulder, his head, his other arm, perhaps in the belly, or knees. Goetz von Berlichingen was thinking: battle, war, the fight, this high and chill he was feeling throughout his body, it was all shaped like the breast of a young girl, just like a cone of fury—to be felt, loved and then to be put aside and another one sought after. He looked very carefully around the dead horse, and he did not feel weak as he thought he might, and there was quick hammering of firing all about him, and he did not feel the shrivel or fear of battle, only the excitement, he could not be killed this way, it would be by old age, he told himself. He was one of the very few who could kill with a rush, and never thaw out from its excitement. There were bodies all about, shadows of bodies he could not clearly see, there was no live ground around him, he stood alone. He looked at the battle before him, the dead, then said within his thought, ‘They were all brave, even the enemy, but they were all stupid people, they died,’ so he thought more on the subject, ‘…in time to come, they will have sense enough never to fight us again.’ (But deep in his soul he really meant ‘In future times they will fear me.’) Death was the normal thing in war, in battle, in a fight, he knew this, that people would die, but he lived, as open in battle as anyone could be, his arm and fist smashed like grapes made into wine, and he feared death no more.
No: 463 (9-10-2009)
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 2:43 PM
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