4

So many worry lines crossed the father’s face. Gisela wanted to follow them with her finger to see where they went. The father often wasn’t there. Yet he was everywhere: on the walls, woven into tapestries, stamped on coins, and engraved on the armored chests of his men. Even when he was absent, his tall figure seemed to tower invisibly above her personal guards, the Swabian knights Hont and Paznan. These were always quarreling: who was faster, braver, bolder, the better fencer, who snored louder, laughed longer, sang worse. Hont was large, with a face lit from the inside like an invulnerable Jesus, two swords by his side, a cross tattooed on his forehead like a pagan. His wiry blond beard almost glowed. Paznan was small, dark and stout, a lover of Bavarian beer and bosom, who knew just enough magic to delight the little princess: he could bend keys and disappear without leaving a trace – only his yellow smell would hang around for a while. She loved them both for their feverish loyalty to the absent king and for their giddiness and their games. Each carried a mighty shield, which Gisela rode down the stairs squeaking, while the knights ran after her swaying their swords, cursing as if they hadn’t put her up to it all. Each time her father returned, he was more downtrodden and there were more wrinkles, as if some pain that Gisela couldn’t fathom was ploughing his soul. Each time, Hont and Paznan tried to make up for it by creating some mischief. They managed to make him smile, even gurgle happily. When the king smiled, when the king threw his head back, everybody relaxed: blackbirds turned white, pigeons purred rhymes, picking up on the sudden silliness that wafted through the castle. But eventually, king Henry would return to the brooding that was his true calling and Gisela would see him walk upright with difficulty, the furrows of his face trembling, would see him become smaller and smaller until she could see him no more.