A crossbow bolt glinted as the sun broke the early morning mist, then with a flick of a finger was gone. Carrying two brace of pheasants, two hunting dogs by his side and crossbow over his shoulder, ferryman Hagan Bauer returned to his home on the banks of the Weser at Gross Hutbergen, a tiny hamlet downstream of Hamelin, where his rowing boat was his main source of income.

The sun was high by the time three big treidlers, sweating in the heat with a rope over their shoulders, came around the bend hauling a barge upstream against the fast flowing current. Feeling a jolt they stopped, something was caught under the bow. Taking a boat hook from the barge, Olaf pulled the obstruction free. A corpse rose face down, its dark blue tunic bearing a yellow shield with black double-headed eagle was topped by tangled bloody hair. Swirling around, it swiftly drifted off with the current.

Life was not easy, Hagan Bauer eked out a living anyway he could, so seeing three treidlers approaching, as usual he brought out three glass steins of beer with silver lids on a silver tray. For their part the treidlers had been looking forward to Gross Hutbergen for the past two miles and Olaf gratefully paid as he’d often done before.

“A body’s going downstream back there,” said Olaf, pointing back the way they’d come.

“A Staufenman,” said Jans.

”Collected more than he expected,” said Dag with a laugh.

“Hmm… Alright I’ll report it,” said Hagan Bauer.

“Prost!” The steins clinked and, feeling refreshed, the treidlers went on their way, hauling barrels of salted herring from Bremen to Fischbeck, the fish market village three days hauling away, four miles from Hamelin.

Günter Klinger, was not only mint master of the Hamelin Mint, left to him by his father, but mayor of Hamelin, a position he had coveted from childhood and his crowning achievement. Unfortunately domestic bliss was not so easily attained as domestic bliss rarely is.

To tell the truth his lovely daughters, fourteen-year-old Frida and ten-year-old Agnetha were both not sure what they wanted do in life but one thing that they were sure of is they did not get on with their stepmother Malinka or her daughter, their fifteen-year-old stepsister Greta. Still this was the least of Günter’s troubles and one he avoided as best he could, going to work as early as possible and coming home in the same manner, often the worse for drink.

Treidling was a regular trade and many did it, all big men, often with a history. Everyone knew better than to mess with a treidler. After selling their cargo at the Fischbeck dockside, they would simply let the current take them back to Bremen, to start all over again. Apart from the Weser itself, their livelihood depended on four things.

First their long, narrow, low-draft barge, a common sight on the Weser. Second the invention of the barrel, not only stable when on end, but capable of being rolled on its side. Third, the plentifully supply of cod and herring in the seas north of Bremen and fourth, salt from the Lüneburg salt mine, the essential ingredient that made it all possible.

White crystals on a hide drying out in a tannery had lead to the discovery of a salt dome in the sodden meadow where the boar had been shot. Although called a mine, the process involved boiling salty water in large pans over fires, leaving crystals of salt. Often referred to as white gold, salt was so valuable that the walled town of Lüneburg had grown up around the mine, supplying all of Saxony with this preserve, so essential, especially when preparing for winter.

Judge Dieter Staufen was feeling his age and showing it, dining much too well and far too often. Descended from the powerful Hohenstaufens, being important was very important. He loved wearing his judge’s wig to cover his baldness and fur trimmed black judges gown, which hung from his shoulders either side of his dark blue tunic. This was embroidered with the black double-headed eagle picked out in gold thread, which covered his bulging belly.

However he felt most important when pressing his large signet ring into a drop of red hot wax, sealing a document, leaving his mark. He had clawed his way up the legal system to not only become a judge but the chief finance minister of the duchy of Brunswick-Lüneburg, making sure the empire’s taxes were collected by his hated Staufenmen.

In the duchy, as in much of the Holy Roman Empire, small private mints struck guilders using silver ore from the Lautenthal and Seesen mines in the Harz Mountains. Separated from rock in a fiery smelter, a smith first poured molten silver, then flattened the glowing glob with a hammer, before cutting it into small coin shaped flans using shears. These were then struck into coins by craftsmen called moneyers.

The Brunswick Mint, was the biggest and most important mint in the duchy owned by Wolfgang Draxfort, the mint master, and on the day the duchy’s new tally man called, Wolfgang’s fifteen-year-old son Blodwyn was being taught how to engrave a die by old Stefan Metzlinger.

“This is my son, Blodwyn meet Bruno Schröder.”

“You’ve got a fine looking boy,“ said Bruno as they shook hands.”

“Although we charge brassage for our work,” said Wolfgang to Blodwyn, “we pay a royalty called seigniorage to the duke’s tallyman here for every coin bearing the duke’s head.”

“I visit all the duchy’s mints,” said Bruno, “not only to collect seigniorage but to check all the ledgers.”

“Bruno then gives the report to the Prince Bishop of Verden, who reports to the Holy Roman Emperor,” said Wolfgang, “recording everything in ledgers is the most important thing a mint master does, the empire depends on it.”

“So what if you mint a coin and don’t pay seigniorage?” said Blodwyn.

“That would be fraud,” said Bruno.

“Fraud?”

“Yes clipping the edge of the coin to steal the silver, falsifying accounts, forgery, like minting coins and not declaring them, it’s all fraud.”

“Sounds serious,” said Blodwyn.

“It is, the penalty for clipping is losing a hand but the penalty for forgery is death by hanging.”

“If you’re lucky,” said Wolfgang.

“What if you’re not?” said Blodwyn.

“You’re boiled alive.”