Cathedral

by Ben Hopkins

  of another life in God

  a reunion in another world

  and all of this it comes

  from that discarded escritoire

  thrown amongst rubbish, cobwebs and dust

  † † †

  The Rose.

  If he had a dying wish, it would be to see the original drawing, to see, just once, how it was truly meant to be.

  A sketch is all he has inherited from Achim von Esinbach and his amanuensis. A radiating corolla of corrugated concentric circles, tinted by Rettich here and there with dye and paint, and annotated in his peasant’s hand: as I remember, here blak, here wite . . . here pure blu . . . here sunyello, here leafs of red . . .

  A riddle, a ghost of a vision, beatific and strange.

  And in his days as a young Master he puzzled over it, and puzzles still. Is it the Creation here represented? Is at the centre, darkness? Surrounded by pure white Light? . . . and God divided the Light from the Darkness . . .

  And God made the firmament and divided the waters . . . Is this the Blue? The Blue of heaven and the ocean deep?

  And God said let the earth bring forth grass . . . and the fruit tree yielding fruit after its kind? Green . . . and Red?

  Is the Rose a vision of the Universe when she was young?

  Now the stone framework for the Rose is nearly ready, but other generations will guide its genesis, other masters will complete it. Albrecht Kaibach, Master Builder of the Western Façade, will not see its final form.

  The children are now gone. When he struggles to open his eyes, he can see amber in candlelight, the worn faces of his wife and sons, holding vigil.

  “Sleep, my love.” His wife’s voice, whispering in his uncharted darkness. He no longer feels his body, all weight and pain is gone. Unanchored, he drifts like flotsam on the gentle waters of Old Father Rhine.

  † Albrecht Kaibach

  (1249–1318)

  ANNO

  1269

  BLOOD

  (ANNO 1269. TYBOLT I)

  The Accused confessed to all the murders,

  and gave the following deposition.

  I arrived at Castle Moder in the guise of a travelling salesman. I had been apprised earlier that day that a group of salesmen were planning on showing their wares at the castle, and so I joined their group, and arranged that I would be seen last by the Baroness and Count.

  I was admitted to their chamber, where I knelt before the Baroness who was seated upon a divan, and opened the cloth that concealed my so-called wares; some worthless trinkets and baubles that we had robbed from pilgrims in the previous weeks. Lying on top of the jewellery, was my sword.

  “There is nothing here for me, young man,” said the Baroness.

  “No, look, My Lady,” said I, and showed the sword.

  “What will I with a sword?” she asked, and I declared, “This, My Lady, is a very special sword,” whereupon I unsheathed it and showed it to her, and said, “This is the sword that my father gave me, my Father, the Baron Volmar von Kronthal.”

  Whereupon there was a look of confusion in her face, and then terror.

  At that very point when I was certain that she had understood who I was and the import of my presence there in her chamber, I brought the sword down upon her with great force. She, the Baroness, was already screaming and flinching away from my attack and so my first stroke only served to slice open the front of her neck. With my second blow, following immediately after, I struck off her head.

  The Count was now already running from his lectern in the corner of the room, and screaming, with all his might, “To Arms! To Arms!”

  I leapt over the divan and caught up with the Count von Moder just outside his chamber doorway, where he, unarmed, retreated like a rat into a corner.

  The corner afforded me no angle from which I could strike at him. I was therefore forced to stab him with the point of my sword. I stabbed him numerous times, I cannot tell you how many times I stabbed him.

  Where did you stab him?

  I stabbed him in the face, in the eyes, in the throat, in the heart, in the stomach, in the groin, until he sank to the floor and I could be certain that no surgeon could ever sew his guts back together again.

  And then I fled. The castle servants had heard the alarum and were running around in confusion. Only two of them were armed and it was not difficult for me to evade them and mount my horse. The Castle gates were open to allow the other merchants to leave the premises and so I simply galloped forth, scattering the terrified and panicking merchants out of my way.

  I then joined my troop in the forest. They informed me that they had located the son, Reinhard von Moder, who was nearby in the woods, hunting with friends. I and two of my men rode out to meet them. I was bloodstained from the dispatch of the Count and the Baroness, and as we approached Reinhard’s hunting party I cried out, “Murder! Murder! My Lord, come quickly!” I told him his father and aunt had been attacked and that I, a merchant, had tried to prevent the attack. I told him his wounded father wished to see him and that his friends, along with my two men, should chase after the attackers who had fled. In this way I inveigled him to ride with me alone.

  On the way, as we galloped towards his castle, I unseated him with my sword. He fell heavily to the ground. I believe he broke his spine on the stone on which I caused him to fall.

  I doubled back on my horse and dismounted. He was still conscious, and screaming in terror and in pain. I told him who I was and bade him confess that he and his father had killed the Baron von Kronthal.

  He confessed. I pressed him to reveal who else had been there at my Father’s death. He refused to speak further and so I struck off his head.

  What is this “troop” you mention? Who are these men that you ride with?

  When my Father died, those close to him—and here I will name no names—advised me to go into hiding in the Black Forest. This I then did, living in poverty and privation. Later I was joined by some members of my Father’s Prinzbach garrison, who had been divested of their post by the mines’ new owners, the von Moders. Together we formed a troop and lived from robbery and extortion.

  We crossed from the Black Forest to operate in the forests of the Vogesen. It was our intention to find those so-called “robbers” who had murdered my father, and take our revenge upon them. It was later that we received information from my Father’s friends that he had been murdered not by robbers but by the von Moders. It was then that I swore to exact a Son’s revenge on this family.

  And was it also You who murdered the Canon von Moder?

  It was I. I do not know if the Canon had been implicated in my father’s murder, but I had sworn to erase the name of von Moder, root and branch, and he was the last living scion of that family. I waylaid him in the pissoir of the zur Glocke tavern in Hagenburg, where he—I had been told—often drank after Evensong. I throttled him with a wire and left his corpse in the latrine.

  I left Hagenburg just as the city gates were closing and returned to my troop in the following days. I then disbanded them, as my task had been completed.

  Thereafter I searched amongst the farms of the foothills for honest work as an ostler, as I am good with horses. I found work on a farm near Kinschheim. But my conscience troubled me and I could find no peace.

  One day I travelled to Avenheim Monastery, where my mother is buried outside the walls, to pay my respects at her grave. Whilst I was there, a monk of the monastery asked me who I was and why I was weeping at the grave of Elise of Schwanenstein. My heart filled with Contrition and I confessed to that Monk all that I had done in the name of Revenge.

  The Monk told me that I had committed mortal sins and that I would burn in Hell, and that my only hope of salvation would be to confess and accept punishment for my crimes.

  And so I do here before you Gentlemen, in the hope of my Salvation. And if
God will not forgive me, then I will go to Hell. And when I am in Hell, I will once again seek out those whom I have killed; Rutger and Reinhard, who murdered my Father, the finest man of Alsace.

  And, amongst the fires and torments of Hell, I, Tybolt, will, with the permission of Satan, double and triple the eternal punishment of their blackened souls.

  For I was there at their mortal demise, and wrought it with my own hands. And I testify to you Gentlemen of the Court, their suffering was but trifling and brief. Blood has its own terrible Justice, and in my veins my Father’s blood still flows, and cries for Vengeance.

  Here ends the Accused’s deposition.

  The Verdict, here duly recorded:

  The Accused is found guilty of the murder of four persons of Noble Blood and Standing.

  The Sentence: To be broken on the wheel and then hanged by the neck. Whilst hanging, to be disembowelled. Then to be taken from the rope, and Quartered by the Sword. To be buried without the city walls in darkness, and in an unmarked grave.

  † Tybolt

  (1244–1269)

  THE WOODEN DOLL

  (ANNO 1269. GRETE GERBER V)

  In my dream I’m walking through the woods above Lenzenbach village, and Emmerich is beside me, behind me, flitting through the fir trees like my Shadow. It’s winter, and our feet crunch in the snow, and that worries me, because when we were little we were never allowed to go into the woods at wintertime because of the Wolves, and our footprints will give us away, the whole village will know, and Dadda will hear and punish us with the belt.

  But Emmerich and I, we’re as old as we are now, bent and weary. Beneath his roguish red cap, Emmle’s hair is white as the snow, and my dark hair is broken with grey.

  “Come with me, I’ll show you something,” says Emmle, and takes my hand, pulling me deeper into the woods, and I don’t want to go with him, but know that I must.

  He looks at me and smiles, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Little Sis,” and when he says that I get more and more scared. Because he was always mean to me, Emmle, always playing tricks on me, always trying to make me look the fool. And I think, This is another trick. He is going to hurt me. Run. Run away. But I don’t know which way to run. I don’t know the forests like he does. He was always off on his own, playing in the woods. Even on Sundays, when the whole village would be kneeling in Church, meek as mice, having the Fear of God hammered into them by Father Willem’s sermon on Hell, then naughty Emmle would slip away, creep through the vestry door . . . and be gone until nightfall.

  And no one would know where he had gone.

  And now he is leading me There. There into his secret hideyhole deep in the wood. Deep and dark where the kobolds drink children’s blood, and the wolves of winter keen and howl.

  When I was a child, o!, how Emmle would make fun of me, o!, how he would make me cry. And dear, sweet brother Rettich would come between us and try and make peace. And once, just for me, Rettich carved a beautiful, lovely wooden doll.

  And how I loved that doll. Big Sister Amaline taught me how to weave and sew, and whenever there was a scrap of cloth for me to work on, I would make that doll some little clothes, and dye them and adorn them with acorn shells, bright red dried berries and curls of carded wool.

  But that Doll, one day it disappeared, and I could find it nowhere, and I cried and cried. And all Emmerich did was to laugh and taunt my childish tears. And Rettich, to console me, said “I will make you another one, just like it,” and that only made me howl and wail even more, because I didn’t want another one just like it, I wanted my wooden doll, I wanted My Doll.

  And Emmerich leads me through a secret hole in a thicket, and up a steep gully slope. And the bramble thorns tear at us, the blackthorn scratches my cheek, and finally he says, “Here, here you are, Little Sis.”

  And I look up and I see a shrine. A Shrine like the Grandmothers used to make before Father Willem told them it was Unholy. A woodland shrine, with bright ribbons tied around old horseshoes and polished iron nails, hanging from the boughs of an old oak tree, and in the heart of the trunk, an offering.

  And the Offering is My Wooden Doll.

  And I rush to take her in my hands and kiss her, and as I pull her from the tree there is a little rain of coins . . . the penny offerings to the woodland spirits.

  And I hold my wooden doll in my hands and weep for joy.

  And I wake and the dream is over. And I know that it was Emmle. It was Emmle who stole my wooden doll. It was he who took it from me, and hid it far away in the darkness, in the deepest dark of the deep dark wood, where kobolds drink children’s blood and the wolves keen and howl, so that he could laugh forever, laugh at my anguish and my childish tears.

  † † †

  “What doll?” he asks, when I confront him with my dream.

  “So you’re saying you didn’t steal my doll and hide it?”

  “Why would I steal your doll?”

  His blank grey eyes stare at me, and his cheeky face breaks into a smile. “Grete, are you going mad in your old age?”

  We’re sitting by the fire on the family floor of Haus Gerber on Cathedral Square. Outside, through the narrow glass windows, a cold autumn shower is sprinkling the panes and the gargoyles of Our Lady of Hagenburg are spouting rain.

  Inside it’s warm and snug, and the sounds of the cooks preparing the evening meal and the aroma of rosemary and roasting pork fill the house from cellar to eaves. Manfredle and his family are out visiting friends, Mayenz-Manfred and Rosamunda have gone to the cellars for wine, and it’s just the two of us, me and Emmle, the last of the five-strong Schäffer brood. For Mechthild and Amaline passed over last winter, and dear Rettich . . . well, it’s been nigh on fifteen years . . .

  And five years ago, you would never have expected this to happen—me and Emmerich sitting together, chatting like old enemies reconciled. Ever since we were little we always fought like cats in a sack, and when he turned up on my doorstep five years ago like a Ghoul returned from the grave, I wasn’t surprised that the first thing he did was shout at me and call me a devious bitch. That’s the way we always were.

  But time salves all, and even tricky Emmle has turned back to Family in the end. It’s funny how everything turns out. Emmle spent so much time in Vergersheim’s bureau trying to browbeat him into returning Yudl’s old lacquered coinbox and the “Rosheimer Fortune,” that the two of them, those two penpushing schemers, have ended up best of friends. And my brother and I, after fifty years of screaming at each other, now meet on Sunday afternoons in Gerber House on Cathedral Square, and drink fine wine and chat like seamstress gossips.

  “Well, if you didn’t steal my Doll, who did?”

  “It could have been any girl in the village. Besides, you were always losing things.”

  “Hah! I’ve never lost a thing in my life.”

  “Except your virginity to the first ginger fool who felt your arse.”

  “Sssh! The servants might hear.”

  And I think of those youthful days with my Manfred, and then go all soft inside. There it is again, the Itch. I look up at the crucifix above the hearth, and whisper a brief prayer; get behind me, Satan. But why did God give us the Itch if he never wanted us to scratch it? The Priests will tell you that it’s all about making babies, new Christian souls to be baptised and offered up to the Glory of the Lord. But I’m now years beyond my fruitful age, and the Itch is pretty much as strong as it ever was.

  “Emmle?” I ask, reaching out to poke the logs in the grate.

  “Gretele?”

  “What do you do for . . . pleasure? These days?”

  I can’t bear to look him in the eyes, and keep on poking the embers. He drags out the silence—on purpose, no doubt, and then asks, as if he’s too dull-witted to read my gist. “What do you mean, Grete?”

  “You know what I’m asking. The Itch.
How do you scratch it?”

  I dare to look up, and see his insolent, wicked smile, his blank, staring grey eyes. “Well, I know where to look.”

  “You mean the red-scarfed girls?”

  He shrugs, as if to say, well, who else?

  “It’s just as I thought. It’s all right for you men, all ever so easy. Well, brother, I want you to do something for me.”

  “Yes?”

  “You know the streets. I’m sure you can get me my heart’s desire. For a price. Something young and vigorous.”

  He laughs. “Sister, have you no shame?”

  “No. Why should I? When you gad about with whores? Why shouldn’t I . . . ”

  “WE BROUGHT THE WINE!”

  It’s Mayenz-Manfred, calling out from below, mounting the stairs with two big pitchers of Dorlisheimer. Rosamunda, now not so steady on her ageing legs, brings up the rear with a platter of ham. Emmerich wags his finger—naughty girl!—and then lets it rest upon his lips—leave it to me.

  I change the subject as quick as I can. “And Bishop Eugenius? Will he meet with me?”

  “About the Citizens’ Building Committee?” Emmerich looks over to the new arrivals. “Well, now that they’ve brought the wine, let me say it. For we can celebrate! Manfred, pour it out.”

  Mayenz-Manfred, plumper and rounder than his Father ever grew to be, bangs down the pitchers on the dining table. “What’s the toast?”

  Emmerich folds his long fingers together. “His Grace will meet with Mistress Gerber and Councillor Enzelin. At the Palace, the day before Martinmas, after Lauds.”

  † † †

  If you want to get anything done in this City, if you want to be taken seriously, then don’t be a Woman, let alone a Woman Without A Husband. You need to be a Man. And, well, if you can’t be a Man because God didn’t make you one, then you have to settle for the next best thing, which is to have a man by your side. I call it a “Beard.” And Councillor Enzelin—a wealthy, gentle man of few words and few ideas—is a perfect Beard for many of my present endeavours: he has poise and generates respect, but when it comes down to the shillings and the pence, he lets me do all the talking.