WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Ceaseless

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◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 80: The Paper Revolution (4)

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Sternberg Royal Printing House.

"Yes, this is it! This is exactly what I've been looking for!"

Gutenberg held up a freshly printed sheet and cheered like a child.

It was perfect. The print quality, that was.

Ink bleeding? None.

Torn paper? None.

Blurred letters from uneven thickness? Nowhere to be seen.

Every corner of the movable type, every tiny flourish of every stroke.

Everything had been impressed with the sharpness of a blade.

If it had been parchment, Gutenberg would have simply nodded as though it were only natural. That was the quality one expected from the finest material, made by stripping and tanning sheepskin.

But this had just come from the Royal Paper Mill, made from nothing more than boiled pieces of wood.

"This is the paper His Majesty made?"

The fingertips clutching the paper trembled.

Parchment was expensive. Even with movable type reducing labor costs, the material itself was so rare that a single Czech Bible carried the steep price of thirty silver coins.

Rag paper, on the other hand, was cheap but poor in quality. When they printed affordable Bibles for distribution throughout Germany, half the sheets were thrown away because the ink bled or the paper tore.

The paper His Majesty had sent was different.

It was as smooth and sturdy as parchment, yet cheaper than rag paper.

Now they could not only print affordable Bibles for Germany, but drastically lower the price of the Czech Bibles that had been too expensive to consider until now.

And why stop at Bibles?

Philosophical works, technical books, even picture books.

All the knowledge they had once been unable to print because of the cost of paper could now be poured into the world without restraint.

Machines, movable type, and finally paper.

The trinity of a revolution in knowledge was complete.

Gutenberg spread the paper across the worktable and lovingly ran his hand over it as though it were his beloved.

"With this, there won't be any trouble printing flyers for Germany. No, should I put pictures in them too? Paper this good would make stunning copperplate prints..."

Flyers packed with illustrations mocking nobles and priests.

Imagining the sharply different reactions of the German peasants and lords who would hold them, he cackled to himself.

* * *

At the same time, in a stone building in Prague's Old Town.

Once a small Catholic church, it had been claimed as royal property and now bore a new sign.

[Royal Primary School]

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows.

Before the pulpit, where a priest's sermon would once have echoed, sat around thirty children gathered close together.

Most were the children of market merchants and independent farmers.

In the past, they would have been picking stones from fields or running errands at their parents' shops.

Maria, the beginner class teacher, lightly tapped her desk.

"All right, everyone. Pay attention. Today, we'll be studying letters."

"Yeees."

Until now, the children's writing material had been sand kept in wooden boxes.

They pressed letters into the sand with their fingers, then wiped them away with the palms of their hands. Nothing remained, and their knowledge vanished with it.

Only on important test days were they occasionally allowed to touch the rag paper granted by the royal court, but its poor quality made writing on it feel more like tearing it apart.

What Maria had brought today was different.

Rustle, rustle.

As she walked around the classroom and handed each child a sheet, their eyes widened.

What settled on their desks was not a yellowed, musty scrap of rag paper, but smooth cream-colored paper as pale as milk.

"Teacher, is this really paper?"

"Wow, it's so white it hurts my eyes!"

The children did not even dare touch it. They only looked at one another.

One child hurriedly rubbed their palms against their clothes, afraid they would be scolded if their dirty hands touched paper cleaner than their own outfit.

Then the butcher's son timidly raised his hand.

"Teacher... can we really write on this? Isn't it really expensive?"

It was far too different from the coarse rag paper his father used when selling meat. Fear filled the child's voice, as though tearing it by mistake would bring punishment.

Maria gently stroked the child's messy hair.

"Don't worry. This is a gift from His Majesty."

"From His Majesty the King?"

"Yes. He gave it to you so your thoughts and dreams would not disappear like grains of sand, but be written here forever."

She placed charcoal pencils into the children's tiny hands.

"Don't hold back. Write as much as you like. It's all right to make mistakes, and it's fine to doodle. There is more paper."

Encouraged by her words, the children carefully brought their pencil tips to the sheets.

Before long, the cheerful scratching of writing filled the classroom.

"Wow! Teacher, it writes so well!"

"My name doesn't disappear! And the paper doesn't tear!"

"Me too! I want to write too!"

Excited, the children began writing their names and drawing clumsy pictures across the paper.

Maria watched the heartwarming sight and felt a sharp ache in her chest.

'A country where commoners' children write on white paper...'

She, too, had been the daughter of a ruined merchant, learning to read over people's shoulders while swallowing her sorrow.

Knowledge had been expensive, and records had been the privilege of those who possessed wealth.

Yet in this classroom, that sturdy wall of privilege was collapsing.

People outside called His Majesty the King a heretic and the son of Satan, but none of that mattered to Maria.

What devil taught children their letters and placed white paper in their hands?

'My king... thank you.'

When the day was over, Maria decided she would offer a sincere prayer of thanks for him, even if he was an excommunicated king.

* * *

The borderlands between Bohemia and Austria.

Rain had fallen for days, and beneath the dreary sky, a man staggered along a road turned to mud.

His name was Oswald von Wolkenstein.

A Tyrolean knight, an Imperial diplomat, and a poet and musician renowned throughout the Empire.

Yet no one could have read that glorious past from his wretched appearance now.

His tangled white hair was clumped with grease and dirt. The coat that had once been fine velvet had become a ragged ruin and gave off a foul stench.

Worst of all, his grotesquely twisted fingers bore witness to the brutal torture he had endured.

Limp, limp.

Oswald gripped his staff tightly in his twisted fingers and ground his teeth.

What tormented him more than physical pain was the sense of betrayal boiling deep within his heart.

'Frederick of Saxony, you bastard. And Sigismund... you ungrateful old fox!'

Hatred glittered in Oswald's eyes.

He had enjoyed Emperor Sigismund's favor, and at the Council of Constance, he had used his silver tongue on the Emperor's behalf to help elect the Pope.

The problem was that his lord, Frederick of Saxony, supported Antipope John XXIII rather than Pope Martin V, whom the Emperor intended to elevate.

Was this all he received in exchange for betraying his lord, the Duke of Austria, and taking the Emperor's side?

When he had been lured to Hauenstein Castle by his former lover Anna and caught in an inheritance dispute, Oswald had never imagined he would be kidnapped and tortured.

Even now, he could feel the cold pressure of the torture device that had crushed his thumbs, gnawing at his bones.

Crying out in agony, he had written to the Emperor.

Save me. Had I not even betrayed my lord for you?

There had been no reply.

He later learned that the Emperor had been too busy fleeing after losing the entire crusader force in the Bohemian campaign.

Duke Frederick of Austria, who should have settled disputes among his vassals, had instead savored the cries of a traitor as though they were a fine snack.

Only after surrendering his entire fortune as ransom and becoming destitute had Oswald escaped that hellish castle.

The day he was thrown outside its gates, Oswald made a vow.

He would take revenge on the two rulers who had abandoned him.

To do that, he needed to find the person those two feared and hated most.

The Heretic King, Ulrich von Sternberg.

The monster who had mocked the Pope and slaughtered the Emperor's army.

That king might redress the wrongs done to him.

No, even if he had to sell his talents, Oswald would make it happen.

Driven by that single thought, he had crossed the Alps and crawled this far while clutching his starving belly.

Then it happened.

"Stop! Halt right there!"

Soldiers carrying spears blocked his path.

Breastplates reinforced their chain mail, and their eyes carried an unusual discipline.

They looked entirely different from the Austrian soldiers, who had been little better than bandits.

Oswald straightened his bent back, trying to project dignity.

His clothes were rags and he reeked, but a nobleman's dignity was carved into his bones.

"I am Oswald von Wolkenstein, knight of Tyrol. I have come to seek an audience with your king, so take me to him at once."

The only response was a contemptuous laugh.

"What is this old man babbling about?"

The captain wrinkled his nose and waved a hand.

"Hey, grandfather. You're a refugee who fled from Germany, right? Tsk, tsk. Looking at you, those lords must have treated you pretty badly. Just look at those fingers."

Oswald's face flushed with humiliation.

"H-How dare you! I am no refugee. I am an Imperial noble..."

"Yes, yes. A nobleman. A nobleman who's a little touched in the head."

The captain ignored Oswald's words and shouted behind him.

"Hey, another refugee here! He doesn't look well, so call the medical unit first!"

"Y-You scoundrels! How dare you lay hands on me! I received personal letters from the Emperor himself!"

Oswald flailed his arms through the air, but he was as helpless as a branch before the sturdy soldiers.

The captain said, "Go get yourself a bowl of warm soup. His Majesty is full of mercy these days, taking in every person who crosses the border."

Drag, drag.

As Oswald was pulled away like a bundle of baggage, he made himself a promise.

'Just wait! Once I meet the king, I'll have your heads cut off first!'

The place where he was tossed as though discarded was a refugee camp near the border.

Yet its appearance was enough to shatter everything Oswald believed he knew.

Normally, a refugee camp would be a living hell filled with filth, the stench of rotting corpses, and rampant disease.

This place was strangely orderly.

White lime had been scattered across the ground, and the tents stood in neat rows like an army camp. Drainage ditches had been dug throughout the camp, so no muddy ground even formed beneath their feet.

The most shocking part was the meal.

"It's mealtime! Everyone, line up!"

When the lid of the huge pot was lifted, Oswald instinctively sniffed the air.

'Meat... that's the smell of meat?'

He had thought himself lucky to receive thin oat porridge, but large chunks of meat and white root vegetables bobbed in the ration officer's ladle.

The refugees around him cheered and held out their trays.

"Dear God! It's real meat!"

"Long live Bohemia! Long live King Ulrich!"

Oswald stared at the scene in a daze.

'This is refugee food? Are they mad? They're feeding meat to refugees from an enemy country? Do they have money rotting away?'

Or was this the heretical magic he had only heard rumors about?

Were they fattening people up to offer them as sacrifices?

Oswald wrestled fiercely between fear and hunger. But his stomach, starved for days, churned as though pride meant nothing at all.

In the end, he surrendered to instinct and poured the rich soup into his mouth.

Slurp, smack.

As the hot, greasy broth slid down his throat, his stomach, stiff from tension, seemed to melt.

"Sir, does the food suit your taste?"

As he finished eating, an official in a clerk's robe approached. A quill and carefully bound ledger were in their hands.

"You seem able to read. Is that right?"

"Y-Yes, I can."

Oswald hurriedly wiped his mouth and tried to look dignified. The official opened the ledger with an indifferent expression.

"Good. His Majesty considers it a sin to leave talent idle. If you wish, I can find you work."

They ran a finger down the entries in the ledger.

"There are clerk positions at the Silesian mines, and assistant supervisor posts at road construction sites. Lodging and meals are provided, and the wages are quite good. Of course, if you'd rather farm, you can be granted cleared land as well."

For a moment, Oswald wondered if he had heard correctly.

"You want... me to work?"

I am a noble.

I have ties to the House of Habsburg, and I am the second son of House Wolkenstein, who once met privately with the Emperor.

And they dared offer me a position as some construction supervisor covered in dust?

A furious rebuke was about to burst from Oswald's lips.

"Look there! Isn't that fellow an errand boy for some baron in Thuringia?"

"What? A nobleman's lackey?"

A scuffle erupted in the neighboring tent. Curses rang out, followed by the vicious sounds of fists flying.

"All nobles should be beaten to death!"

"Those bastards took my daughter!"

The moment Oswald saw the hatred in the refugees' eyes, a chill ran down his spine.

This was a den of people who had fled for their lives after enduring noble exploitation.

If he announced his status here, an enraged crowd would trample him to death before he ever saw the king.

Oswald swallowed dryly, along with the pride rising in his throat.

"N-No... I am simply... too old for hard labor. I have relatives in Prague, so I was thinking of going there."

"Relatives? Hmm, all right. Then I'll issue you a travel pass."

Without much suspicion, the official stamped the document.

That was how Oswald barely escaped the refugee camp and headed for Prague.

A few days later.

He finally arrived in Prague, the capital of Bohemia.

The moment he entered the city, Oswald's mouth fell open and would not close.

"Is this... hell, or heaven?"

In his experience, every great city was a place that reeked of filth, where mud swallowed one's ankles.

Yet the Prague before him was wonderfully pleasant.

Instead of uneven cobblestones, the ground was paved with smooth gray stone, allowing carriages to glide along the streets. Well-maintained drainage ditches ran down both sides of the roads.

People dressed modestly, but they were free of grime, and an unusual vigor shone in their eyes.

'This is a nest of heretics? It's cleaner than Rome and more prosperous than Vienna!'

Oswald was swept along by the crowd in a daze before suddenly coming to his senses.

This was no time to stand around in awe. He had to meet the king.

As a poet and diplomat fluent in five languages, who knew every one of the Emperor's shameful secrets, he was certain this innovative king would value him.

He tried to straighten his ragged clothes and climbed the hill toward Prague Castle.

The guards at the gates wore shining steel plate armor from head to toe.

Oswald hesitated at their imposing appearance, but gathered his courage and approached.

"Ho there! I am Oswald von Wolkenstein! A Tyrolean nobleman and former Imperial diplomat, here to seek an audience with His Majesty the King of Bohemia!"

The guards looked him over from head to toe.

One eye was blind, his unwashed hair was clumped together, his coat was stained with filth, and his shoes were covered in mud.

His hands also shook from the aftereffects of torture.

To anyone's eyes, he looked like a typical mad vagrant.

"Ha, all kinds of lunatics are showing up these days. Hey, throw him out."

"Wait! Listen to me! I truly am a nobleman! You'll know if you hear my poems! Even His Imperial Majesty shed tears when he heard my poetry..."

"Poetry, my ass. Get lost!"

Thump!

The butt of a spear struck Oswald hard in the solar plexus.

"Guhk!"

He rolled disgracefully across the ground.

The smooth paving kept his clothes from getting dirtier, but the shock from that hard surface rattled his bones.

Chased from the palace, Oswald wandered the market without direction. His whole body throbbed, but the pain of his shattered pride was far worse.

'Will I die in the streets like this... without even taking revenge on that damned Emperor?'

His stomach growled. All he had left were bread crumbs from the refugee camp and a few coins.

Despair came crashing over him like a wave.

"Paper for sale! Paper! The finest white paper from Sternberg!"

The cry from one corner of the market made Oswald turn his head.

'White paper? How white could paper possibly be?'

Drawn by curiosity, he approached the stall, and his single good eye widened in shock.

"Th-This is really paper?"

Smooth, white paper like parchment was stacked in heaps.

Oswald picked up a sheet with trembling hands.

It was soft.

There were no rough rag fibers, nor the greasy shine unique to parchment. It felt like silk beneath his fingertips.

"How much is this?"

The merchant casually held up one finger.

"One groschen per sheet? Or one pfennig?"

"What are you talking about? One groschen buys you the whole bundle."

"...?!"

Oswald wondered if his ears had deceived him.

'Impossible. Has the Heretic King used magic to make paper fall from the sky?'

At that moment, inspiration struck Oswald like lightning.

He rummaged through his pockets and threw down every coin he had left.

"Give me one bundle! No, two!"

He hugged the bundles of paper to his chest and settled into a corner of a nearby tavern. Then he took out a short piece of charcoal, no longer than a pencil stub, from his clothes.

'If I want to meet the king, I need to make enough noise to reach his ears.'

He was a man who had lived his whole life with the sword, the lute, and the pen.

When he had served as the Emperor's dog, he had wasted his talent on flattery. But now, things were different.

A pen struck deeper than a sword, and a song flew farther than a spear.

Scratch, scratch.

His anger, his mockery, and his wit poured across the white paper.

A short while later.

An odd song rang out in the middle of the market.

"♪ The Emperor's a debtor, Hungary's land is pawned away,

He tucked his tail in Bohemia and ran away.

He kneels before the Pope and fawns all day,

Then wets himself when cannons sound in battle's fray. ♪"

People who had taken it for the ravings of a mad old man began stopping one by one.

The song lodged itself neatly in their ears.

Lyrics openly mocking the Emperor.

Elegant rhythm and a comical melody impossible to forget after hearing it once.

"♪ Duke Frederick of Austria's pockets are empty as can be,

He cheats his knights and hides behind the ladies, see.

He licks Sigismund's backside as faithfully as can be,

Then ignores his people while he picks his nose with glee. ♪"

People burst into laughter, clutching their stomachs.

"Wahahaha!"

"That old man has quite a way with words!"

"That was refreshing! Sing us another one!"

Whenever he finished a song, Oswald sold sheets with the lyrics and musical notation he had written himself.

What snack could be sweeter to the Bohemians than insulting the Emperor? Coins quickly piled up in his hat.

'Yes, once word spreads like this, the king won't be able to help but summon me!'

Admiring his own brilliant strategy, Oswald gathered his silver coins and headed for the next alley.

Then he sensed a chilling presence around him.

Men dressed like ordinary farmers, yet their eyes gleamed like those of beasts of prey.

They silently surrounded Oswald.

"Hold it."

"...What?"

The one who stopped Oswald was a black-haired youth who had not fully lost the look of a boy, though his eyes were chillingly sharp.

He slowly examined the music sheets Oswald had distributed.

"Your Czech meter is quite good. But the melody is typical of the Viennese court style. And your phrasing... those aren't words some commoner could use."

His cold gaze seemed to pierce straight through Oswald's soul.

"You're not just a beggar, are you?"

Oswald swallowed hard.

"I-I am only a passing minstrel! One who loves art..."

"A minstrel dressed like a beggar who writes court music. And you know the Emperor's shameful secrets in such detail."

The youth carelessly crooked a finger.

"You smell like a spy. Take him."

"W-Wait! This is a misunderstanding... mmph! Mmph!"

In an instant, sturdy men twisted Oswald's arms behind his back and pulled a sack over his head.

'This isn't it! This isn't how I expected to meet him!'

Even as he was dragged away, Oswald screamed inwardly at the injustice of it all.

Footnotes:

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