“A little fox-cub.” Jaspar grinned.
“It was Bram who called me Fox. Strangely enough, not because of my hair. He thought there was something of the sly fox in the way I kept on at him until he decided I could be of use to him.”
“And were you?”
Jacob shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Where is he now?” asked Richmodis. “I can’t remember ever having heard of this Bram.”
“He’s dead. Died years ago. Toward the end he was so ill I went out and played the whistle by myself. Bram taught me everything he knew. He even had a few clever conjuring tricks.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed Richmodis eagerly, giving her father’s beard a tug. “Jacob will pull a whistle out of your ear.”
“Ouch. Stop that. You wouldn’t get a whistle in a respectable person’s ear.”
“Oh, yes, you would,” Jaspar broke in, “if there’s no brain behind it. I’d say you could pull enough whistles out of your ears to supply Mainz and Aachen as well as Cologne.”
“It didn’t bring much in.” Jacob hurried on with his story before the two of them could start another of their disputations. “I played my whistle and tried to tell Bram’s stories, but people didn’t stop and gather around.”
“Even though you play so well,” said Richmodis with a look of outraged astonishment.
“Half the people in Cologne can play the whistle.”
“But you play better,” she insisted.
Jacob gave her a grateful smile. “I’ll teach you. I promised and I’ll keep my promise.”
“And now?” Goddert demanded. “Do you still live in the house in Spielmannsgasse?”
Jacob, somewhat embarrassed, stared at his piece of yeast cake. “No. After Bram died I didn’t have enough money. And I had problems with a gang of beggars. So I left Cologne and tried Aachen. But I had trouble there, too. The last few years I’ve just been traveling around. I find it difficult to stay in one place for any length of time.”
“So what brought you back to Cologne?”
“I don’t know. The past? I had a piece of luck when I inherited the lean-to by the Wall. Soon after that I met Maria. She had a real roof over her head, and at first we got on so well I promised Tilman to let him have the shack, because I thought I’d soon be moving in with Maria and her brothel keeper. Well, I was wrong.”
“So now?”
“So now I play my whistle. Not very often, though I do make new ones to sell. Occasionally I find work down at the harbor. And then sometimes—”
“And then sometimes you steal what you need,” Jaspar said. He gave Jacob a long look. “But that’s not the story you were going to tell us. Or, if my instinct does not deceive me, will have to tell us if you’re to get out of the mess you’ve obviously got yourself into. With God’s help, of course. Right. You’ve kept us entertained, Jacob, I’m not ungrateful, and even in Goddert’s tub of a body there beats a true Christian heart. How can we help you—provided, that is, that you haven’t killed someone?”
Jacob felt their eyes on him. He thought about leaving. The image of Maria had come into his mind, Tilman’s grotesquely contorted body. As if he only had to tell what he had seen to condemn his audience to death. All of them sitting there, Richmodis, Jaspar, Goddert. As if nothing could protect them from the short, swift bolts from the miniature crossbow once they had heard his secret. He could not sacrifice more people for the truth.
Run away, then. Once again.
Richmodis seemed to guess his thoughts. “Don’t you trust us?” she asked.
It was a trick. Richmodis knew it and Jacob knew it. The decision was no longer his alone. It would reflect on the trustworthiness of these who had looked after him. She had him trapped.
Jaspar gave Richmodis a quick glance. “Half a story is no story,” he said slowly. Then he raised his eyebrows, as if expecting the worst. “But, of course, if you don’t trust us…”
“Yes,” growled Goddert, “if there’s a lack of trust, you can’t do anything about it.”
Jacob took a deep breath and looked at them, one after the other. “Oh, I do,” he said through clenched teeth, “I do trust you.”
Richmodis gave a little smile of victory. Jaspar and Goddert grinned at each other.
“More than you’re going to like,” Jacob whispered.
RHEINGASSE
There were a dozen men gathered around the table, burly men with horny hands and weather-beaten faces. They stared at the tall figure of Urquhart with a mixture of fear, uncertainty, and respect. Matthias leaned against the door, arms crossed, as Urquhart gave the servants his instructions. After a while he went out, reassured to a certain extent. The horses for him and Johann were ready.
“I don’t think that was a particularly good idea,” said Johann as a groom helped him into the saddle. Like Matthias, he was wearing a long black cloak as a sign of mourning.
“It’s the only idea that makes sense,” replied Matthias.
Johann dismissed the groom with a wave of the hand and waited until he was out of earshot. “Urquhart is an ungodly murderer,” he said irritably. “That we use him is no reason to bring him into the house. Apart from that, I consider it highly dangerous.”
“I know.” Matthias leaped into the saddle and patted his mount’s muscular neck. The horse whinnied. “So what could we have done, in your considered opinion? Arrange a meeting outside the town? Find some quiet spot in the country and recruit twelve volunteers from the surrounding farms? We’d have wasted a whole day. Or do nothing and hope the redheaded bastard will keep his filthy trap shut?”
“That would be risky,” Johann reluctantly agreed.
“Precisely. After Gerhard’s funeral I’ll have a word with Lorenzo and ask him to let us have a few soldiers.”
“Urquhart mustn’t speak—”
“Don’t worry, he won’t. Lorenzo will tell his men the same story that Urquhart’s telling the servants—some rascally redhead relieved the Overstolzes of a gold guilder—and place them at the main gates. Our fox might just have the idea of leaving town.”
“Does Lorenzo have the authority?”
“I selected him because of that, Johann. Anyway, he’ll try. After all, he has to earn all the money we pay him.”
“Hm, well, all right,” growled Johann. “We must tell the others.”
They set their horses going at a slow walk and rode out through the great gate into Rheingasse. The street was crowded, but the people immediately made way when they saw the two patricians in their dark clothes. Many mumbled a quick prayer. The news of Gerhard’s death had reached the farthest corners of the city and everyone knew where the two horsemen were headed.
“Theoderich will call a meeting,” said Matthias, guiding his horse between two apathetic beggars, “but I suspect there will be a full turnout at the funeral.”
“You never know,” muttered Johann.
“You’re right. For example, I saw Daniel this morning behind the stables. Do you think he slept there?”
“I have no idea what Daniel was up to behind the stables,” said Johann testily. He obviously regretted having brought up the subject with his remark.
Matthias frowned. “You ought to keep an eye on him,” he said, the reproach all too evident in his voice.
“Ought I?” Johann’s lips turned down in a mocking grin. “And who keeps an eye on your children? I’ve heard Gertrude say she might just as well have married an ice floe on the Rhine, for all the difference it would have made. Do you show the same warmth toward your children?”
Matthias glowered at him. He knew that among the extensive Overstolz clan he enjoyed the dubious reputation of being without feeling or pity. “That is irrelevant,” he said icily.
“No,” said Johann, sighing, “it’s never relevant, is it? We all know Daniel still hasn’t got over losing the office of magistrate. He was one of the youngest. I can reprimand him, but I can’t condemn him for the bitterness he feels.”
&
nbsp; “Always the same old story.” Matthias gave a scornful snort. “Have you forgotten, we bought the post for Daniel. And wasn’t I a magistrate, too? Didn’t Conrad get rid of me in the same insulting way as he did Daniel? Do you see me in the ale houses, in low company, drinking like a fish, swearing, and molesting respectable women?”
Johann did not reply. He had no desire to pursue the subject any further. It had been the sole topic of conversation since the archbishop had relieved almost all the magistrates as well as one of the burgomasters of their posts the previous year. As a result, both Matthias and Daniel had had to accept that their political careers were finished. There were far fewer patricians in the new council, and those who were patricians had to work together with tradesmen and shopkeepers.
“I recently had the pleasure of reading what our friend Gottfried Hagen had to say about the archbishop’s new council,” said Johann, in an attempt to change the subject. “And though it be a sin, still I would hate the asses that have been put at the head of the holy city of Cologne. You can put an ass inside a lion’s skin, it will still bray like an ass.”
Matthias gave a sour grin.
“And he goes on: They tax rich and poor more than ever and share their ill-gotten gains with the bishop. When they must pronounce judgment, they first ask the bishop what judgment would be acceptable to him, so they do not lose his favor. They are always guided by the wishes expressed by the bishop and nothing happens against his will.”
“Gottfried’s right, of course, but if he goes on writing things like that, he’ll end up on the gallows. Bloody fools and arselickers! A magistrate who decides in favor of the noble houses exposes himself to the most vitriolic attacks.”
“It will all change,” said Johann confidently.
They had left the crowded marketplaces behind them. Once they were past the archbishop’s palace, behind which part of the new cathedral chancel could be seen, they would be able to get on more quickly.
“Certainly,” Matthias agreed, “everything will change. I just hope it changes in our favor, that’s all.”
“Why are you so concerned? We’ll find your redhead, don’t worry. Anyway, who’ll believe a beggar?”
“That’s what I said, too. But in the first place, Urquhart thinks there are certain people who would be quite happy to listen to the biggest scoundrel in the city, and in the second, I’m concerned about our alliance. I’m sorry that it has to be your son who causes me most concern. After Kuno, that is.”
Johann felt his heart sink.
“You know it yourself, Johann,” Matthias added.
Johann nodded gloomily. “Daniel will obey me. I promise.”
Matthias looked at him. Then he attempted a placatory smile. “Don’t misunderstand me, Johann. How you bring up your son is your own business. But we’re engaged in a hazardous venture. You and I see things clearly. Hatred hasn’t clouded our judgment. Heinrich is just a coward, I can live with that. But Daniel and Kuno have a tendency to extreme emotional outbursts and their dislike of each other is growing stronger by the hour.”
“I know.”
“We must keep the two of them apart as much as we can.”
“That will hardly be possible. Look.”
Matthias followed the direction Johann’s finger was pointing. They were in Marzellenstraße now, not far from Gerhard Morart’s large house. Old and young, rich and poor had come to pay their last respects to the architect. They included an array of patricians such as was seldom seen, expressing the general admiration for a man who wanted to build the perfect church and whom God, in His mercy, had taken up to the paradise he deserved.
Kuno was among them.
And coming down Marzellenstraße from the other side was Daniel, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.
Trouble was not very far away.
SEVERINSTRAßE
Jacob was exhausted.
He stood at the window watching Richmodis take her unwilling father, complaining all the time and dragging his feet, back to their house. Goddert had been fired up by Jacob’s story. Horrified and outraged at what he had heard, he was all for setting off in pursuit of the demon at once, of informing the magistrates and constables, no, better the governor and the executioner or, no, why not go straight to the archbishop, who could summon a posse of clerics to crush the Devil beneath the weight of their prayers.
“We’re not going to crush anything today,” was all Jaspar had said.
“And why not?” snapped Goddert. “Are you too scared?”
“No, too sensible. You can pray till the roof falls on your head, I’m going to use mine.”
“Huh! You couldn’t even use your head for a tonsure! If this poor, oppressed soul here”—he pointed at Jacob with a dramatic gesture—“is being pursued by the Devil or one of his demons, then we must call on the Lord without delay, if not just for his sake, then for the sake of Gerhard Morart.”
“That is based on the assumption that the poor oppressed soul here is right. Who says it was the Devil? Or that Jacob is telling the truth? Were you there?”
“Were you there when they cut down poor Archbishop Engelbert? You still can’t deny he was murdered.”
“What I can’t deny is that you’re a stupid ass, Goddert. Gerhard Morart, God rest his soul, fell from a great height and broke every bone in his body, which does not prove conclusively it was the Devil. Engelbert’s body, on the other hand, had precisely forty-seven wounds—”
“More than three hundred it was!”
“—as Caesarius von Heisterbach wrote in his Vita, passio et miracula beati Engelberti Coloniensis Archiepiscopi. Wounds that he could hardly have inflicted on himself. And his murderer wasn’t the Devil, but Friedrich von Isenburg.”
“He was a devil!”
“He was Engelbert’s nephew, pea brain! I have to admit, though, that Engelbert wasn’t poor. He was a robber and bully, like our Conrad. It was not without reason that the pope excommunicated him.”
“That just shows your lack of respect toward your superiors in the Church. You’d also have to admit that Engelbert led the crusade against the Waldenses and Albigensians—”
“Because he liked fighting.”
“To do penance, you mudslinger!”
“Nonsense. He couldn’t tell the difference between a penance and a pig.”
“Better than you, he could!”
And so on and so on.
Like a herd of stampeding horses, the disputation was leaving the original topic farther and farther behind. Jacob’s brain was numb with exhaustion.
Richmodis stroked his hair. “Don’t let Jaspar fool you,” she said softly. “He argues for the fun of it, but when things get serious his mind’s as sharp as a razor.”
“I hope so.” Jacob sighed. “I can’t stand much more of that kind of conversation.”
She looked at him with a sympathetic, almost tender look in her eyes. Jacob felt a sudden fear she might go and he would never see her again.
“I’ll come and see you as soon as I can,” she said, as if she could read his thoughts. They were probably written all over his face.
“Do you believe me?” Jacob asked.
She thought for a moment. “Yes, I think I do.”
“Let’s have a drink,” Goddert shouted, the formula that brought their disputations to a conclusion.
Richmodis jumped up, before her uncle had the chance to give his standard response. “No! No more drinks. We’re going home, if you know where that is.”
“But—”
“No buts.”
Goddert accepted his lot, though with bad grace, muttering incomprehensibly to himself. He’d probably soon be sleeping off the drink. The way he waddled down the street reminded Jacob of the dancing bears you sometimes saw in Old Market Square. Beside him Richmodis looked like his trainer. The wind was toying with her brown hair.
“A pretty child, isn’t she?” Jaspar’s voice came from behind him.
“She has a pretty nose,
” Jacob replied. He turned away from the window, went over to the tiled stove and slumped onto the bench. Maria had been pretty, too. She could have been beautiful. Could have become beautiful if she hadn’t—Jacob shook his head. He must put these thoughts out of his mind.
Jaspar observed him in silence.
“You don’t believe me,” Jacob said.
“Well, now.” Jaspar massaged his nose. “There are whole worlds between believing and disbelieving. I believe you when you say you saw something. But was it really there?”
“It was there.”
“Perhaps you got hold of the wrong end of the stick.”
“Then the wrong end of the stick killed Gerhard Morart. Killed Maria and Tilman. Almost killed me. What more do you want?”
Jaspar frowned. “The truth.”
“That is the truth.”
“Is it? I would say it’s what you saw. Nowadays the truth tends to be trumpeted abroad all too quickly, especially when it concerns the Devil. Was it the Devil?”
Jacob looked him up and down. “If you don’t believe me,” he said calmly, “why don’t you throw me out?”
Jaspar seemed both irritated and amused at the same time. “I don’t know.”
“Good.” Jacob stood up. “Or not good. Whatever. Thank you for your time.”
“You’re going?”
“Yes.”
“I think that would be unwise.”
“Why?”
Jaspar came over and stood so close to Jacob the tips of their noses were almost touching. There was a glint in his eyes. “Because you have a soused herring in your head where you should have a brain. Because if you leave now it will prove God created a fool who deserves all he gets. Are you so simple-minded you can’t understand anything besides yes or no, black or white, day or night? Don’t be ridiculous. Why do you think I’ve spent so long listening to you, instead of handing you over to the archbishop’s justices, as was probably my duty, given the numerous petty crimes you’ve doubtless committed? You have the brazen cheek to come into my house, go moaning on at me, then stand on your measly little pride. If I were the kind of man who swallows every so-called truth whole I’d be no use to you whatsoever. Quite the contrary. A fool trying to protect a fool. Saints preserve us! Just because I don’t say I believe you doesn’t mean I think you’re lying. Oh, dear, is that too complicated? Are all those ‘nots’ too much for the poor fish inside your skull? Go and find someone else who’d invite a beggar and a thief in to listen to his life story.”
Death and the Devil Page 14