Cathedral

by Ben Hopkins

  I am sorry I could not be at your wedding, Yudl. I hope it will be an auspicious match.

  Goodbye, Yudl. I thank God for these last five years, in which I have been able to be close to you.

  Emmerich Schäffer

  ANNO

  1254

  A PILGRIMAGE

  (ANNO 1254. RETTICH SCHÄFFER X)

  Sometimes a ship comes in with a cargo of Rhenish wine, and then a barrel is placed at the centre of the German House and boys are sent running through the narrow streets, calling out in their guttural Greek voices, “Rhine Wine, reinwein! Rinevine!” . . . and, as if it were the Sirens’ call, all the Germans of the city come crawling out of their lairs and hiding places and pile their pennies on top of the barrel. And when there is enough coin, the barrel is breached and stoppered, and the shop stays open until the last drop is drunk and the dawn rises over the Asian hills across the water.

  It is a Sunday, and Rettich is at Mass in the small German chapel when the door flies open and the boy runs in. “Rinevine! Rinevine!” he shouts, just as the Priest is presenting the Host in its ivory box, and the dozen kneeling worshippers unravel with laughter. Father Ekbert shoos the boy out of the door. “I’ll start again, shall I?”

  The service over, the Priest says a few half-hearted words about not drinking on the Lord’s Day, but then, without too much reluctance, is persuaded to cross the lane and drink just one glass for the Love of Christ. The Honourable Merchant Emmerich Schäffer is already there, leaning back in a rocking chair, his soft leather boots propped up on top of the barrel, his silver pennies glinting on the rusty iron rim.

  Rettich sits down beside him, gives him a Sunday kiss. “Peace be with you, brother.”

  “And with you too.” Emmerich leans closer as the chapel congregation files up to place their coins on the barrel top. “Rumour’s out that there’s some folk in from the Rhine. Came in on the same boat as the wine. I’ve sent my Boy to scout them out.”

  Emmerich stands, flicks through the pile of coins, silver and bronze. “Come on, we need one more shilling nine pence! Dig deep, you skinflints! I’m thirsty!”

  † † †

  Two years, before, in Hagenburg, a pane of glass the size of Rettich’s palm, wrapped in cloth. The glass is blue as sapphire, blue as the Ocean that breathes in Rettich’s mind.

  “Come outside, we must hold it to the light.” The young Factor steps outside the Lodge with Rettich, stands patiently as the Master Stone-cutter holds the glass to the sun, and then to the darker part of the sky. “Beautiful, not even a single flaw. Nary a bubble. And what a colour! This was given to you, you say?”

  “In Venice, Master.”

  “Venice? I know no-one in Venice.”

  “And maybe there’s no one as knows you in Venice, sir. The man that gave it to me is a Factor like me. He travels the Adriatic and Ionian seas.”

  “This means nothing to me.”

  “He sails to and from Venice in commission for Greek merchants. He was looking for a factor who trades the Rhine. He found me, and bade me deliver this package to you in Hagenburg. It’s all I know, Master.”

  “So who has sent this to me?”

  “There was a piece of paper, Master.”

  Rettich looks up, surprised. The young Factor is holding out a scrap of parchment. “It fell from the package when you took out the glass, sir.”

  Rettich takes the paper. Only a few words, a cursive hand.

  via dei fondachi, Konstantinopolis

  † † †

  Dombaumeister Werlinus von Nordhausen holds the glass in his whiskery fingers, turns it against the light that falls from the lodge window. A lump rises in Rettich’s throat; the memory of Master Achim, twenty years ago in the very same place, holding up the weak, lemony yellow glass, frowning with sweet dissatisfaction, searching for Sunlight.

  “Beautiful, beautiful . . . ” mutters the Dombaumeister. “From Constantinople, you say?”

  Rettich nods. He knows what will be coming next.

  “Do we have a price?”

  “No, Master, no price was quoted. Merely an address. The Road of Storehouses, Constantinople.”

  “A shame. It would be good to know its price. Forgive me for saying it, but we could do good business with this glass. A Royal Blue like this. When I hold it to the light I see a Virgin surrounded by dark blue sky and stars. I see a John the Baptist by a deep blue river, I see a Knight reposing in glory on a bed of bluest silk and velvet. And you, Master Rettich?”

  “I see the Ocean, Dombaumeister.”

  “But you have never seen the Ocean, Master Schäffer. I saw it once, in Normandy. It was grey.”

  † † †

  The Rhine Harbour tavern, zum thrunkenen Cahne, a late autumn afternoon. Grete has given him an introduction to a Haulier who transports goods from the Rhine through the Black Forest, then down the Danube towards the Orient. A squat Bavarian, stinking of beer and mules.

  Rettich looks round the harbour tavern, the calloused hands of boatmen gripping worn tankards, the even more calloused and worn-out whores, the perilous allure of travel. He tries not to sound too green. “They tell me Constantinopolis is at the end of the Danube river?”

  “And further still, Master, further still.”

  “And so, it is far?”

  The Haulier laughs, moves closer to Rettich. “Well, where’s the furthest you’ve been from here?”

  “The Lothringen borders.”

  The Bavarian laughs. “And that’s far? A pigeon can fly there and back in a day.”

  “Well, so how far is far?”

  “You cross the Rhine. And then through the Black Forest to the Danube, that’s one week of hard travel. And that’s just the beginning, Master. Follow the river. It’s another week to Ratisbon, a fine city. And then on through Bavaria. At least you’re moving with the current, and if you can get a good vessel, you can make fair distance in a day. But even then it will take a week to cross Bavaria. In one month you will reach the end of the German Lands, but even then your journey has only just begun. After the Germans come the Bohemians, the Magyars, the Slavs. Towards Constantinopolis there are forests so great that in ancient times whole Roman armies were lost in them and died of hunger. Beyond the forests there is a Great Plain that stretches to the Edge of the World . . . ”

  Rettich’s heart is racing. He closes his eyes and sees visions; pulsing, flickering, like the light through a swaying canopy of leaves. Landscapes are awoken by the Haulier’s words, whole worlds are brought into being from where they lay sleeping in his imagination. Rippling hills, cliffs and gorges of limestone glide past his drifting river barque, temples with strange, twisted spires rise in hazy, unknown distance.

  The Haulier’s voice lowers, softens. “And at the end of the river there is a wide, black sea, whose ends cannot be seen. And across that sea is Constantinople, a city of a thousand chapels, the capital of the Latins and the Greeks.”

  † † †

  The last errant Germans have been found in the hive of Constantinople streets, and the pile of coins is large enough for the Factor’s price. Rhinelanders, Saxons, Franks and Swabians line up with their glasses, leather cups, pewter mugs. Rettich is given the hammer and spigot; hands that once fashioned the Hagenburg Cathedral’s stone, hands now for hire in the thousand chapels and churches of Constantinople, breach the oakwood cask, let flow the wine.

  Rettich leans back beside his brother, holds the glass to the light, a weak lemony radiance, borrowed sunlight. Emmerich snorts. “Are you just going to look at it all day?” Rettich swirls the wine, runs the liquid over his tongue. Honey, apples, the yellow flowers that gild the April hills. “Remember, brother? Lenzenbach in spring?” Emmle nods, drinks deep, whistles a lonesome shepherd’s song.

  Rettich closes his eyes, purses his lips, whistles along. The refrain recalls a co
ol breeze in the Lenzenbach hills, the mauve and aquamarine of the Western sky, the cold, rising stars. It is two years since he left his homeland, two years since he has seen fresh, rich Rhineland green. On his journey he has seen the parched, bone-coloured hills of the Holy Lands, sheltered in the meagre, blue-black shade of cypress trees, sought parched atonement on the baking slopes of Golgotha.

  “Rhinelanders! I was told there were Rhinelanders here?” A booming voice from the Middle Rhine. A tall, shiny-headed merchant stands sweating in the German House doorway, waving his cap like a fan against the afternoon heat.

  “We’re here!” calls Emmerich, proffering the stool where his feet were resting. “And where are you from?”

  “Worms.”

  With a flourish, Emmerich wipes the seat with his sleeve. “Worms! And when did you leave?”

  “This March.”

  “A newcomer! And so, what news?”

  The stranger sits as Emmerich pours him out a draught of wine. His eyes squint, assessing. “Your accents sound more Alsace, Upper Rhine. Colmar?”

  “Lenzenbach. Hagenburg.”

  “Hagenburg?!” His eyes shine bright. “And what was the last news you heard?”

  The two brothers look at each other. “Last season. A boat came in from Venice in the autumn squalls. September. A factor from Cologne, he passed through Hagenburg in June.”

  “Then you’ll not know!”

  “What’ll we not know?”

  † † †

  “Father? Papa?”

  His daughter’s voice recalls him to the Real World. Once again he has been travelling in his mind, gliding down a deep blue river, the colour of the Glass. “Yes? Mechthild?”

  “Will you hold him a minute?”

  A full moon face, rouge-cheeked, dribbling, his tongue feeling the sore coming of his first tooth. His grandson, Reichart, known as Rettl, like him. Rettich holds him up to the pale winter sky. “Fly, Rettl, fly!” Above them, high in the flawless air, a “V” of four score pilgrims, journeying to the promising South. Rettich smiles to himself. Does he now even envy the Geese?

  He stands with his grandson, holds him gently over his shoulder, pats his back . . . pat pat, pat pat. Looks to his family gathered round a winter bonfire in the backyard of Grete’s house on the Müllergass, roasting chestnuts, drinking hot spiced wine. Himself now a Grandfather. Grete’s Manfredle to marry in spring. The Cycle of Life.

  Grete is at his side, pulling her sable stole closer against the evening cold. “So, you’ve decided to go? Tell me why again?”

  “To repent my sins where Our Lord was Crucified.”

  “And the real reason?”

  “To source blue glass for the Cathedral.”

  “And the real reason?”

  “I want to see him.”

  “Why be so sure it’s him?”

  “Who else would send me a sample of glass from Constantinopolis?”

  “I’m sure he’s dead. Why else would he send us nothing in four years? Not even a letter?”

  “He never liked his family much.”

  “Except you.”

  “I left him alone, that’s why.”

  “So leave him alone now.”

  “Grete, I’m going. And I want you to make sure that Ällin and the children are all right in case I don’t come back. I’m leaving money and a bequest . . . ”

  “Rettich, you understand less about money than a hermit.”

  “You forget that I once bought your Freedom with a complex financial transaction.”

  “You borrowed twenty-seven marks at ten per centum, how complex is that?”

  “So help me.”

  “I will. We’ll go to the notary and you will sign a paper that confers your estate to me until your return. I’ll manage everything, don’t you worry. Little sister will manage everything.”

  The bonfire’s sparks spiral into the gloaming, the hired minstrels play, his grown-up children dance. Carved pumpkins glow in the gathering darkness, hollowed and filled with candlelight. Around the autumnal city, the new wine is being breached, pigs are being slaughtered, drunken revellers stumble into Saint Martin’s crisp, frosty night.

  What holds him here?

  † † †

  Rettich’s last day in Hagenburg, Maundy Thursday. The snows have thawed, the rivers have returned to their banks, discharging their melting waters into unseen oceans. Outside the Lodge, the Easter crowds flood the Cathedral Square, forming knots around the stages of the penitents and players. Inside the Lodge, indolent holiday dust gathers on the tables, awaiting Christ’s Resurrection before Work resumes once more.

  On a scrap of parchment Rettich writes;

  blu glas for the outer panes

  of master Achims rose

  via dei fondachi konstantinopolis

  He takes the soft cloth that he has used for twenty years to wipe and polish his tools. With the cloth he wraps the note and the glass, binds them with twine.

  What did Master Achim call it? The escritoire, for which there is no German word, the small drawing desk where he used to work and dream. No longer used, it leans in a dark corner, one leg crooked, a stand for glasses and bowls, a prop for tools.

  Rettich still has the Key.

  Inside, dust and disorder, months of disuse. Spiders have lived, constructed cathedrals of silk, reigned over their worlds, and died. Gently Rettich lays the cloth-wrapped glass beside his copies of Achim’s drawings: the statues of the Western Façade, the Great Portal. And, drawn from murky memory, uncertain and incomplete, his copy of his Master’s vision of the Universe, the great Western Rose, a window where all the Colours of the World unite and fuse, where Creation’s manifold forms meld in purest white, fired by the Love of God, the Sun’s life-giving Light.

  He shuts the lid, closing the Rose in darkness. He locks the lock. Hangs the key on a nail on the wall.

  And leaves.

  † † †

  The Merchant of Worms spreads his hands. “You’ll not have heard. Hagenburg is in turmoil.”

  Emmerich leans forward. “Go on.”

  “The Bishop and his City are nearly at war with each other.”

  “It’s been that way since Bishop Heinrich was enthroned.”

  “But now it has got worse. A War is coming, it’s what they all say.”

  The two brothers sit, leaned forward, on the edge of their stools.

  “One day this last Winter, a boy was just playing in the street and one of the Bishop’s Vassal Knights charged past as if it were a tilting ground. The horse’s hooves struck the boy in the head, in his chest, his leg. And he’s left dead.

  “The boy’s Mother, screaming, walks through the streets, carrying her son’s twisted corpse in her arms. From the Mayenz Gate, through Barfüsser Platz . . . and a crowd forms behind her, wailing, shouting. She makes her way to the Bishop’s Palace, and kneels on the steps, demanding Justice.”

  The Merchant leans forward, lowers his voice. “And she is just beaten away by the Bishop’s police.”

  Silence. Outside, the city is sunken in evening heat. A dark violet dusk sinks down from the Anatolian hills. The Merchant of Worms drinks, clears his throat. “The people are enraged. The crowd that followed the woman goes now to the Cathedral Square. And, walking home through the Square is a young noble from one of the Bishop’s families. A priest. The crowd set upon him. They club him to death, throw his corpse on the Cathedral steps.”

  Rettich flicks his eyes to his brother, pale in the evening gloom, now sitting forward, transfixed.

  “The mob gathers, swells, arms itself with clubs, staves, knives. Workers, tradesmen, merchants, even some Zorns and Müllenheims.”

  “What?” whispers Emmerich. “The Ministerials too?”

  “Yes. Believe this. Even some of the City Officials
have changed sides, turned against the Bishop. So the Bishop’s men retreat to the Palace, to the Towers in the City Walls, to the armouries and gatehouses. The Bishop’s Knights and Cathedral Canons hide, fearing for their lives. The mob runs to the tavern zum Sterne, where Baron Kronthal drinks. They call on him from the street, begging him to lead them in uprising, in overthrow.”

  Emmerich cannot wait. “And the Baron? What did he say?”

  The Merchant of Worms stands, throws his hands in the air, laughs. “He wasn’t there! He was hunting in his country estates!”

  Emmerich slams his fist down, toppling his glass. “I knew it! That useless fool!”

  “By the time he came to the City, the Mother of the dead child had been given seven marks blood money, the most hated Knights had fled to their country estates, the Militia were back, patrolling the town. The crowd had dispersed, gone back to their daily work.”

  Emmerich shakes his head, looks at Rettich, his eyes flashing. “I should have been there!”

  The Merchant sits again, pulls his bowl of food towards him, finishing his tale. “But mark my words, Men of Hagenburg! This will not end well. Hagenburg is a City waiting to rise.”

  † † †

  Emmerich taps the boatman on the shoulder, speaks in his approximate Latin, “Carry on, the shore along,” and then in Greek, “Piyene gialo gialo . . . ”

  They lean back in the boat. A cooling breeze sighs in from the Marmara Sea. Rettich remembers Werlinus von Nordhausen and their argument about the Blue Glass. “When I hold it to the light I see a Virgin surrounded by dark blue sky and stars, I see a Knight reposing in glory on a bed of bluest silk and velvet. And you, Master Rettich?”