“But where will we—”
“Do you understand, dammit?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll find you somewhere. Now!”
Before Jacob could say anything, Jaspar gave him a push and ran off to the right, through a courtyard toward St. Mary’s. As he spun around, Jacob saw the four men abandon all pretense and set off after them, bawling and shouting.
He dived in among the people thronging the market stalls.
SEVERINSTRAßE
Rolof swore.
He cursed Jaspar’s cook because she had been ill for days and there was no decent food to eat, and he cursed the maid because she hadn’t cooked enough currant porridge that morning before going to stay with her parents out in the country for a week. He cursed the fact that he was the one who had to chop firewood, do the shopping, and clean the house, all on his own, and finally he cursed Jaspar Rodenkirchen, because it had to be someone’s fault. And as he unloaded the big handcart and carried the tub of soused herrings, the sack of peas, the half ounce of ginger, the brown sugar, and the butter into the back, he cursed Jacob, who had eaten some of the porridge he had had to go without, then Richmodis and Goddert, adding, for good measure, the archbishop, the king, and the pope. After that, he couldn’t think of anyone else and he didn’t have the nerve to curse saints.
That didn’t mean that Rolof didn’t love them all, especially Jaspar, Richmodis, and Goddert. Cursing was just his natural reaction to work.
Exhausted by the unloading and the cursing, he wiped the sweat from his brow and rubbed his belly. His eye fell on the handcart, which he had tipped up and leaned against the wall. One of the wheels was squeaking. He wondered whether to do something about it. That would mean more work. More work would mean more cursing, but Rolof regarded the mouth as a place where things went in rather than came out. He looked up at the sun and thought long and hard about what he should do. After a while he came to the conclusion he should do nothing, at least for the moment. With a brief prayer of thanks to the Lord for vouchsafing this insight, he went indoors and sank onto the fireside bench.
Just a moment! Jaspar had mentioned the wood in the yard. Didn’t it need chopping?
Jacob hadn’t chopped any, even though he was supposed to. Surely if it had been that important, Jaspar would have insisted. But he hadn’t. So why should Rolof have to do it? Anyway, he thought it was a waste of fine wood to burn it while the sun was shining and filling the house with natural warmth. No need to bother, then.
But if there was?
You can’t chop wood in your sleep, Rolof thought. Hey, that was a good idea! Get some sleep. He stretched, yawned, and was about to head for the stairs, when there was a knock at the door.
“One thing after another,” he grumbled. Still yawning, he waddled over to the door and opened it.
“The Lord be with you,” said the man with a friendly smile. “Is Jaspar at home?”
Rolof blinked and looked the man up and down. Up meant putting his head right back. The man was tall. He was wearing the black habit of the Dominicans.
“Does he know you?” asked Rolof.
The man raised his bushy brows in astonishment. “But of course. Jaspar and I studied at college together. I haven’t seen him and his bald head for ages. May I come in?”
Rolof hesitated. “Jaspar’s not here, yes?”
“Oh, what a pity. No one at all at home?”
Rolof pondered this. “Yes, there is,” he said slowly. “Me. I think.”
“Perhaps I could wait, then? You see, I’m just passing through and I’m pretty weary. In a couple of hours I’ll have to be going, to say mass in a village outside. It’d be such a shame if I couldn’t at least say hello to the old rogue.”
He beamed at Rolof, who scratched his chin. Didn’t Jaspar say hospitality was an important duty? Perhaps because it was connected with drinking, and drinking was good. And the man was in holy orders, even if he didn’t appear to have a tonsure. But then what did Rolof know of holy orders?
Rolof shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, Father,” he said, with all the politeness he could muster, stepped aside, and lowered his head respectfully.
“I thank you.” The man stepped inside and looked around with interest.
“Er, there.” Rolof pointed to the fireplace, where the fire was crackling. “Sit by the fire. I’ll see if there’s any wine—”
“No, no.” The man sat down and folded his arms. “Please don’t go to any trouble, my son. Sit down here. We can enjoy a cozy chat.”
“A chat?” Rolof echoed with a skeptical look.
“Why not? I’ve heard there have been all sorts of goings-on in Cologne. I haven’t been able to get the exact details, unfortunately, but someone did say the architect in charge of the cathedral fell to his death. Is that true?”
Rolof stared at him and then at the fire. “Yes,” he replied.
“How dreadful. Such great plans and then this!” The stranger shook his head. “But the ways of the Lord are unfathomable. How did it happen?”
Rolof slumped back on the bench. A cozy chat was beyond him. That Gerhard had not fallen but had been pushed, that much he had understood; also that something terrible was going to happen. Strange, the way he’d heard himself say someone else was going to be murdered. That had exhausted him and he hadn’t said anything else. But what should he say now?
The stranger leaned forward and gave him an encouraging nod. “Speak, my son. It would do my heart good to hear you, even if what you have to say will also sadden it. I did hear”—he looked around then, coming closer and lowering his voice as if there were someone else in the room—“not everyone agrees about the way he came to die.”
“It was the Devil,” Rolof blurted out.
“Aha! The Devil. Who says that?”
“The—” Rolof halted. “The man,” he said cautiously.
“Which man?”
“Who was here.”
“Oh, him. I see. The redhead, you mean?”
Rolof looked at the stranger, racking his brains as to what he should say. If only Jaspar would come back. Slowly, his lips pressed tightly together, he nodded.
The stranger seemed very satisfied. “I thought so. I know that redhead. A very fertile imagination he’s got. A liar, did you know that? Who did he tell all this nonsense to, my dear—what was your name?”
“Rolof.”
“My dear Rolof, the Lord looks down on you and sees a devout servant. But the Lord looks down in anger on those who out of vanity would slander others. Unburden your heart and tell me what this redhead—is his name not Jacob? Jacob the Fox he calls himself in his presumptuous pride, as if he were cunning and wise—said to you about poor Gerhard Morart.”
“Yes, well—” Rolof shifted uneasily on the bench. “Came yesterday, yes? Just Jaspar and Goddert here, drinking as usual. And Richmodis. She’s sweet.” Rolof gave an ecstatic smile. “Nose like a tree in the wind.”
“Beautifully put, my friend. I hope it’s a compliment to the young lady.”
“Richmodis’s sweet. The redhead told us some strange things. Don’t know if I should—” He bit his lip and was silent. Keep your stupid trap shut, Rolof, he told himself.
The stranger was no longer smiling. “Who else did he tell?”
“Else?”
“Who else? Apart from those you’ve told me about?”
“Don’t know.”
“When is Jaspar coming back?”
“Don’t know.”
“And Jacob? Jacob the Fox?”
“Don’t know.”
The stranger looked at him appraisingly. Then he relaxed and leaned back, a beatific smile on his face. “Is not the world a fine place, Rolof? I think I will have that mug of wine, if you wouldn’t mind. Blessed are they that know nothing.”
“Blessed are they that know nothing,” muttered Rolof glumly.
JACOB
Their pursuers had obviously split up as well. When Jacob reached the m
eat stalls and looked around he could see only two. He skidded through the mud and headed for the maze of alleys behind the iron market. That was his only hope of getting away. He knew every nook and cranny there and would have the advantage over the men chasing him.
They were getting closer. It was incredibly cramped. Swearing under his breath, he jumped over a large dog and suddenly came face-to-face with a portly matron who completely filled the gap between the cheese and the vegetable stalls. She regarded him with a baleful gleam in her eye, obviously not intending to budge an inch. Behind him he heard furious barking that ended with a yelp before turning into a whimper. Then he heard the all-too-familiar cry, “Stop, thief! The one in the habit! Don’t let him get away.”
Jacob spun around. The two men and the dog were a tangle of limbs and black paws. The men were just getting up again, pointing at him.
“Thief!” The woman joined in, swung an immense radish, and hit Jacob over the head with it, setting off a magnificent display of stars. He pulled the radish out of her hand, threw it at his pursuers, at the same time performing a neat sidestep, which landed him among piles of yellow cheeses. For a moment he found himself staring into the horrified face of the cheesemonger, then he rolled over and pushed him out of the way.
“Thief!” screeched the woman behind him. “He took my radish. My lovely radish.”
Jacob didn’t wait to see if the two men were plowing through the cheeses after him, he zigzagged between the shiny wares of the ironmongers and into the tangle of narrow streets separating the market from the Rhine. He heard footsteps splatting through the mud behind. They were still on his trail. No point in hiding while they still had him in view. In front the street widened out. He would have to dive off to the left or the right. Then he saw a pile of empty barrels carefully stacked on top of each other, ready to be sent out. Behind them a man was checking them off against a scroll. Jacob dashed around the back of the pile just as his pursuers entered the street, faces twisted with rage.
“Sorry,” said Jacob. He gave the man with the scroll a firm push, sending him, arms flailing and with a despairing yell, staggering against the barrels and dislodging them. With a hollow rumble, the whole stack, at first slowly, then faster and faster, started to roll toward the two men. Jacob saw their eyes open wide with horror, then there was a sickening thud. One was felled immediately, the other was twirled around before he managed to escape back along the alley. Jacob didn’t stop to enjoy the spectacle, but took the opportunity to give them the slip. He dived into Salzgasse and sped along to the fish market.
There he stopped, panting.
Where now? Who were these people chasing him and Jaspar anyway? What had they to do with the man with the long hair? And where was he?
All a mistake. The idea flashed through his mind. They’ve nothing to do with it, nothing at all. A double murder in the bathhouse and two people who’d suddenly turned away. They’d drawn suspicion upon themselves. Maybe people even thought they were the murderers.
Who said the dead men were Justinius von Singen and Andreas von Helmerode? Jaspar had jumped to the wrong conclusion. And ruined their only chance.
“Thief! There he is!”
Or perhaps not? No time to think. One of the two had obviously managed to escape the avalanche of barrels and was running out of Salzgasse toward him. He was pointing at Jacob, but he was looking at something beyond him. Quickly Jacob turned around and saw three more men in similar dress staring at him.
“Curses,” he muttered.
They fanned out to the left and right. He couldn’t go back, and in front the fish stalls were packed close together. He couldn’t get away by running along them, the men were too near.
It had to be fish!
“I don’t like fish.” He moaned. Then, accepting the unavoidable, he dived into the crowd, elbowing people aside and heading straight for the biggest stall, setting off shouts of protest in his wake. The long table, piled high with eels, herring, mackerel, catfish, and crayfish loomed up, a menacing, stinking, slippery nightmare. The men and women behind it, busy selling their wares, stared at him in disbelief as it gradually dawned on them that he had no intention of stopping. Just in time, they dropped the fish they were holding and hastily jumped aside, putting their hands up to protect themselves.
Jacob leaped.
Beneath him he saw the pile of eels like a tangle of snakes, the jagged red sea of crayfish, the silvery waves of herring. The stall seemed to go on forever, as if some fiend kept adding on another bit, with different kinds of sea creatures waiting to enfold him in their slimy embrace. He stretched out his arms and prayed for wings, but it didn’t stop him dropping down toward an ocean without water, moist, twitching bodies, gaping mouths and claws, spidery legs, a sticky, shiny mass of slithering obscenity into which Jacob was falling, down and down, desperately flailing his arms, to land in a pile of octopuses.
At first all he could see was tentacles. They grabbed him, their suckers attaching themselves to his clothes. Then he saw the chaos his dash for freedom had created. The three pursuers, once they had overcome their initial amazement, had tried to follow him, but this time the stallholders had been ready and blocked their path. Two of the men couldn’t stop in time. They crashed into the furious fishmongers and all went sprawling across the counter in a welter of flying fish. The stall began to wobble dangerously. With shrieks and cries women leaped out of the way, trying to fend off the sea creatures flying toward them. The pile of eels turned into a whirlpool in which one of the pursuers disappeared head first, while the stall tilted more and more, raining crayfish on the other. Finally the great long counter toppled over, burying fishmongers, customers, and pursuers beneath it. Jacob saw several carp skimming across the ground toward him. He rolled out of the octopus tangle, went sprawling on the slippery surface, then managed to get to his feet. No one was paying him any attention, even though he was the one who had triggered off the mêlée. It all happened so quickly, and everyone was trying to get themselves to safety.
Then he saw his first two pursuers coming around the collapsed stall. He set off running again, retching from the smell of fish, past Great St. Martin’s and through the rest of the fish stalls. The others kept on his heels, but the distance between them was gradually increasing. He had to do something to shake them off before reinforcements appeared from the opposite direction again. Panting, he sped along between the city wall on the Rhine embankment and the cathedral building site and turned into Dranckgasse. That took him out of sight of his pursuers for a moment, even if it must be obvious to them which direction he had taken. Somehow he had to become invisible. He had to—
A covered wagon drawn by two shaggy oxen was rumbling along the street, the carter dozing in the sun. There was a slight gap between the two parts of the canvas cover, but it was impossible to tell what load the cart was carrying. Only one way to find out: jump in. Jacob gathered his strength for one more leap and dived into the blackness between the two sheets.
His head cracked against something hard. With a groan, he rolled onto his back then sat up.
Barrels!
Head throbbing, he crawled to the back of the cart and cautiously peeped out between the canvas sheets. The two men appeared by the Wall at the end of the street. They seemed confused and were jabbering and gesticulating at each other, clearly arguing about what to do next.
Then one pointed to the wagon.
“What has the Devil got against me?” Jacob sighed. Hurriedly he looked around for somewhere to hide. Nothing, apart from the barrels, and they filled the front of the cart with nowhere he could squeeze into between them.
Suddenly there was a terrible screech from the axles and Jacob was thrown to one side as the wagon slowly turned left, to the accompaniment of a bizarre series of noises. They must be going through Priest Gate. That meant they were out of sight of his pursuers, at least for a few seconds. Quickly Jacob crawled to the back and dropped out under the canvas, catching his foot on the p
lanks and bashing his head again. He could dimly hear footsteps approaching. His head was spinning.
“The cart went in there,” shouted a voice.
“And what if he’s not in it?” asked a second, out of breath.
“Where else would he be, stupid?”
They were coming and Jacob the Fox was lying in the street, gift-wrapped. If only he could think clearly. He scrambled to his feet and, half staggering, half running, caught up with the cart. Then he dropped to the ground and crawled underneath, only narrowly avoiding the iron-clad wheels, pulled himself onto the broad central shaft, drew up his legs, and stuck his fingers through the gaps between the planks above him. He was clinging to the underneath of the cart like a bat. As long as they didn’t check there, he was invisible.
The steps came around the corner and up to the cart. Turning his aching head to one side, he saw two pairs of legs.
“Hey, you! Carter! Stop!”
“Whaaat?”
“Stop, goddammit!”
The wagon came to an abrupt halt. Jacob held on even tighter so as not to be thrown off the shaft by the jolt.
“What d’you want?” he heard the carter demand gruffly.
“A look in your cart.”
“Why?”
“You’re hiding a thief in the back.”
“A thief?” The carter laughed uproariously. “Don’t you think I’d know if I was, you blockhead? It’s wine I’ve got.”
“If you’ve got nothing to hide, then let us check,” insisted the other.
“If you must,” grumbled the carter, jumping down. Jacob saw the legs of the three of them go right around the cart, then he heard the cover being pulled back. There was more clatter and the cart swayed as one of his pursuers jumped up and walked around on the planks, bent double.
“Anything?” his partner called up.
Death and the Devil Page 24