Quite suddenly only the sound of beating wings persisted. This in itself was a roar but a different sort of noise so that I could call out for the crows to leave the palace. I kept calling, and then had the presence of mind to push open the remaining door, and walked back towards Reinhardt who was now at the entrance to the great hall, when all at once a mighty roaring sound came towards us. ‘Drop!’ I screamed to Reinhardt and fell to the floor myself, my stave sent flying. I pulled my sheepskin coat over my head to protect it and lay on my stomach frightened out of my wits.
It took five minutes or so for all the birds to depart the palace. We would both wear bruises to our backs and he some cuts to his hands and back for weeks to come, although I had been the more fortunate of the two of us. The full force of the leading birds had not been low to the floor, the birds naturally seeking the sky they could see through the open doorway. The leather of my long sheepskin coat pulled over my head had protected me. Similarly, Reinhardt had pulled his broad-brimmed felt hat over his head and down to protect the sides of his face. His back and hands were bleeding and the rear part of his tunic hung in strips, but in outward appearance at least, I seemed unscathed.
I stumbled to my feet and stood over Reinhardt who lay still. ‘Oh my God!’ I said, unknowingly blaspheming as I saw his torn and bleeding back and then his hands. ‘Are you all right?’ I cried.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ he cried, lifting the hat from his face and looking up at me. ‘What was that?’
‘Don’t blaspheme!’ I cried, not thinking.
‘You just did!’ he accused, pushing his arms up from the flagstones and rising shakily to his feet.
‘No I did not!’ I protested, still taken aback by the shock. Then we both began to laugh, although perhaps a little hysterically.
But not for long, for in the doorway lay Hans and Kurt. I would later realise that they had not dropped to the floor, but instead had turned, attempting to flee out of the palace only to be hit by a vortex of several thousand crows. All around them lay dozens of dying crows, some on their backs still jerking, their wings flapping, others attempting to fly turning in circles, a broken wing extended with the tip feathers touching the bloodied flagstones. Others lay quite still upon their backs, their claws curled with their legs in the air, while others shuddered in final death.
We ran the few steps to where the two men lay, kicking aside the dead and dying crows. The men’s tunics and hose were ripped but there was only a little blood to be seen on their backs and the backs of their legs. Both their heads lay at a peculiar angle, although it was the colour of the skin to the entire back part of their bodies that caught our immediate attention. It was as purple as a ripened plum where the pounding of several thousand crows had brought the blood under the skin to form a total bruising to the back of their bodies. Then we saw that it was not this that had killed them, though it might well have proved a later, slower cause of death, for their necks had been snapped by the impact. It was as if they had been struck with a blunt instrument to the nape of the neck and back of the head.
We rose and walked through the great doorway. ‘Reinhardt, can you play?’ I asked.
‘I think so,’ he said, working his hands to see if he’d broken any fingers. ‘Aye, they seem all right, what do you wish?’
‘To sing the Tantum Ergo.’ He nodded and we stood at the doorway, then slowly sank to our knees.
Tantum ergo Sacramentum
Veneremur cernui:
Et antiquum documentum
Novo cedat ritui:
Praestet fides supplementum
Sensuum defectui.
Down in adoration falling,
Lo! the sacred host we hail,
Lo! oe’r ancient forms departing
Newer rites of grace prevail;
Faith for all defects supplying,
Where the feeble senses fail.
I had barely commenced to sing this hymn when all the bishop’s servants and serfs fell to their knees, their hands clasped in prayer. Even Master Nicodemus went to ground and I saw that he crossed himself as he rose after I had completed singing and the last beautiful strains of Reinhardt’s flute had died away.
Of course, the servants and serfs who witnessed the event clearly saw God’s hand in all of it and were quick to make yet another miracle of the incident. They told how I walked from the palace without a mark upon me while the two soldiers, Hans and Kurt, lay dead at the entrance to the doorway. God had punished them for their sins against the Petticoat Angel. It was, they said, as if the birds had been a great rock hurled through the air to strike them both down, a rock thrown by the hand of an angry God. Quite soon the story had further changed. The bishop’s servants swore that as they watched, the birds had been transformed into a great black rock that contained an angry roar. Many years later I would hear tell of this miracle, but by then a round, dark-coloured rock with reddish stains, the blood of the two men, had been found upon a hillside near the bishop’s palace. It was named ‘The Rock of God’s Wrath’ and it had become a sacred place.
Master Nicodemus approached us and it was clear to see that he was overcome by emotion. He saw Reinhardt’s bleeding back and called out to a woman to bring clean water and rags to cleanse the wounds and ointment to soothe them, then said he would cause to be fetched a fresh linen tunic and hose for him to wear. Then, almost as an afterthought he called for the two bodies to be moved.
Death on the streets of Cologne was a commonplace event. As Father Hermann, Nicholas and I worked among the poor, it was to be witnessed most days. Sometimes it was by violence, but mostly from slow starvation or sickness. Father Hermann would often sigh and say, ‘I give the last rites as often as we give out bread.’ Yet the death of the two soldiers, Kurt and Hans, was so immediate that I could not yet comprehend it. They were alive and stood fearful at my side, then moments later lay dead. If it had not been for Brother Dominic’s teaching, I would myself have thought, as the serfs and servants did, that they had been smitten by God’s hand.
Master Nicodemus, other than to instruct that they be removed, seemed unconcerned. A cold fish this one, to be sure. ‘You would break your fast, I shall arrange food to be brought,’ he said in a newly acquired unctuous voice. ‘I will then see that your wagon and mules are made ready.’
He turned to go and I said, ‘Oh, Master Nicodemus, I have a favour to ask now that we are rid of the crows.’
Despite seeming overwhelmed by the nature of the crow ridding, I knew this might not be how he would come to think when, in a calmer frame, he reported the incident to the querulous and ever-cantankerous bishop. They would, I felt sure, agree that I had brought this curse upon them in the first place, that I was ever dangerous and that to be rid of me, and also now of Reinhardt, was the better solution.
‘What is it, Sylvia?’ he said in his new and respectful voice.
‘We ask that there is an escort back to Cologne, perhaps you and six soldiers, to protect us? The road to Cologne is dangerous and we would not otherwise be safe with such a splendid wagon and four mules.’
He looked surprised but, quickly recovering, frowned. ‘Six soldiers? I am not at all sure I could persuade His Lordship. On the morrow he is to undertake a journey to Bonn and I must be at his side and he will need his troop to ride with him.’
‘Perhaps you could point out to His Lordship that such a grand escort would do much to restore his reputation in Cologne and would serve to emphasise the generous nature of his donation to our crusade?’
‘Ah! While the bishop is ever mindful of his duties to his flock, he is a man of God and leaves the final judgement of his nature not to the people of Cologne, but to our heavenly Father.’
The silver tongue was back. I looked down into the palms of my hands and spoke hesitatingly. ‘Master Nicodemus, I ask not for my sake, but for thine own.’
‘What mean you by this?’ he asked, again surprised. ‘We will keep our part of the bargain. A wagon and four mules?’
�
��With full harness,’ I added quickly.
‘Well then?’
I took a deep breath. ‘All is not as it seems with a ridding. If any harm should come to us, then the crows will return threefold by the ringing of the Angelus tomorrow.’ I wore a most innocent and wide-eyed expression but held my gaze steady, then gave a small shrug. ‘You have seen yourself how dangerous it is to perform this ritual and how the wrath of God punished two sinners who, I fear, bore malice in their hearts from the previous occasion when I was summoned by His Lordship. If harm should come to us I greatly fear the consequences, the return of the crows being perhaps the smallest part of it. I implore you, for the sake of the safety of the bishop and yourself, to ensure our safety back to Cologne.’
Despite his silver tongue and high-lofty manner, this man, like me, was a peasant and I had seen the look of fear upon his face when he had knelt then later crossed himself. I was almost sure I had my man well fathomed, but he nevertheless had a slyness about him that was hard to read. Moreover, the bishop was likely to prove stubborn, having made up his mind to kill me – the addition of Reinhardt as another victim would not bother him unduly. He had not witnessed the ridding of the crows and lacked imagination and was also undeniably stupid. Like any member of the nobility, he would place the value of a pig, much less a wagon and four mules, well above that of a peasant’s life and in particular that of a woman. I knew it would be up to Master Nicodemus to convince him otherwise. It was important that he knew the threat concerned him as well as his master.
‘I must consult His Lordship, it is beyond my authority to grant your wish,’ Master Nicodemus said, spreading his hands. If he was frightened by my threat, his fear was now well contained, so I wasn’t at all sure whether my attempt to gull him had been successful.
I told myself if he returned from the bishop with a refusal to accompany us to Cologne, it could only mean that they didn’t believe the crows would return and had called my bluff. It would also mean the bishop still wanted to go through with the plan to kill us.
An old woman arrived with water and cloth and a jar of unguent to attend to Reinhardt’s cuts. I sniffed at the jar – it was mostly sulphur and a herb I didn’t know. ‘What herb is this?’ I asked her.
‘St John’s Wort,’ she replied. ‘Have you any cuts I can attend to?’
‘Thank you, no,’ I said, then added, ‘Poor Reinhardt has enough for both of us.’
‘Of course you don’t, I should not have doubted. An angel does not cut or bleed or bruise except to stain with Christ’s precious blood the petals of the Virgin’s pure white rose.’
I laughed and shook my head – this woman knew and believed all the market gossip. ‘Frau, I am no angel and I bleed like any other.’ I wondered what she might think if I told her that I’d earlier wet myself.
‘They say that you always deny your wondrous works. Is it true you have the sign of the fish upon your back?’
‘A birthmark,’ I replied dismissively.
‘Aye,’ she said, not believing me, smiling and nodding her head in silent wonder. I had long since given up arguing with folk, for the more I protested the more convinced they became.
After the woman had left, a kitchen maid brought over a meal of bread and wine. We sat under a linden tree where a bench and table had been placed not far from where an outdoor kitchen had been created, convenient to the stables, bread oven, granary and the nearby stream. I now told Reinhardt in more detail of the overheard conversation between the bishop and his servant. ‘Ratcatcher, you are not in this, you could leave now and be safely in Cologne before noon and I would think no less of you,’ I said.
Reinhardt jumped to his feet. ‘Then I must be off at once,’ he said. ‘You have been nothing but a burden since I returned! I was free as a bird and now I am nearly killed by ten thousand such. I can barely feed myself and now must help to feed thousands of children every day. I have, I swear in God’s name, not a single enemy, but now I am about to be murdered by a bishop!’ He smiled and threw up his hands, then did a little jig. ‘Oh, how very much I have missed you, Sylvia Honeyeater. My dear, it will be a pleasure to die in your arms with my head against your delightful breast.’
‘Reinhardt! We are in terrible danger and you may yet escape!’ I cried.
‘Sylvia, every breath we take is one more towards the last one. We will think of something, I know it. If God had meant you to die he would not have placed this terrible burden of a crusade for guttersnipes upon your shoulders! Our luck is forged together, but, alas, must we have this damned wagon? Without it we would walk freely from this place.’
‘Ratcatcher, be serious! Yes, the wagon is essential! Thank you,’ I cried, trying to rebuke him, answer his question and show him I was pleased he would stay with me, all at the same time. I had, of course, thought of forgoing the wagon and mules, but Master Israel’s advice, that I could win by knowing the plot, persisted. Besides, I knew myself to be stubborn and not easily persuaded if I should have a cause I believed was God’s divine will. It was, I knew, a dangerous trait in a woman and I knew it might yet bring me undone.
‘You have a plan, I know it!’ Reinhardt exclaimed. ‘Or why else would you have warmed him up as you did with a most thinly concealed threat?’ he asked, picking up his wine and once again coming to sit beside me.
‘I didn’t think it was that apparent,’ I replied, slightly miffed, then shook my head and sighed. ‘Nay, alas, ratcatcher, that was the plan. If he sees through the bluff we are done for.’
He shrugged. ‘God did not bring us together so that we might die in each other’s arms,’ he said, attempting to comfort me. ‘In any event, we shall soon know how goes this plot – here comes the bishop’s little arse-licker.’
Master Nicodemus approached carrying a garment over his arm that I took to be a tunic for Reinhardt. This proved to be correct, and with it hose. ‘You have eaten well, I hope, though I regret only bread and wine?’
‘Aye, we thank you, sire,’ Reinhardt said, putting down his wine and jumping to his feet. ‘Both were excellent, the wine young yet the grape plucked sweet enough, the summer sun its sugar brought to bear, bread still warm-baked from the oven, we may ask no more!’ Reinhardt replied in his cultured Frenchified voice, speaking of the wine as if he possessed knowledge gained in a more refined society. His posing sat awkwardly with his disarray, torn tunic and hose and the sticky yellow ointment smeared across his back and hands.
Master Nicodemus laughed. ‘A good summer, yes, for both wine and grain. Both the cellar and the granary are full and we thank our Saviour for His bountiful blessings. It was also most fortunate that the bread oven, granary and the wine cellar are outside the palace building and so we have not gone hungry while held hostage by the crows.’ His manner was relaxed and friendly and there was no hint of the decision the bishop had made concerning our lives. He handed the tunic and hose to Reinhardt. ‘I regret they are not new, but clean and in good repair, the cloth still has some wear in it and the hose no holes. You may keep them,’ he said generously. I could not help but wonder if they were meant to be his death shroud.
‘Thank you, I shall go down to the stream to wash so they are not stained.’ Reinhardt left us to walk down to the nearby stream and I watched as he walked behind the large granary that was as big as any such as were to be found in Cologne. In this alone the bishop was a very rich man.
Master Nicodemus waited until the ratcatcher was out of sight before he spoke. ‘Alas, Fräulein Sylvia, the bishop’s business in Bonn is of great importance to the Church and must proceed. He greatly regrets that he cannot give you protection as he needs his escort and myself to be fresh for the journey.’ He gave me a deeply sincere look. ‘We will pray for your safe return to Cologne.’
I shook my head sadly, still playing the bluff even after it had been called. ‘Thank you, Master Nicodemus, I understand. His Lordship’s prayers for our safety are greatly appreciated.’ I looked up to see that a small smile played at the cor
ners of his mouth and hoped that, from the look of my eyes, he did not sense the despair contained within my heart.
‘I have seen to the wagon and mules, they are nearly harnessed and will be brought to the front of the palace.’
I fought to keep the note of desperation from my voice knowing this conniving Nicodemus, servant and chief bishop’s bum-licker, missed very little. ‘May we at least have a muleteer, since neither Reinhardt nor I know nought of mules or wagons?’ I pleaded.
He shook his head slowly. ‘Regrettably the mule driver is employed with ploughing, we cannot spare him,’ he replied, the smug little smile still hiding at the corners of his mouth. He must have momentarily forgotten that I was a peasant and would know that ploughing takes place in October and not in May. I would have liked to play this perfidious bastard at chess. He had just the mind for it to be a good contest, that is, if he was not tempted to cheat as I thought he would be.
‘Shall we wait at the front of the palace? I must see to it that the cleaning is underway. The wagon will soon be here and the bishop himself will bless you and it and send you on your way wishing you Godspeed,’ Master Nicodemus said in a benign voice.
We walked to the front of the palace where numerous servants with buckets and mops and ladders and long brushes hurried through the doors. I walked inside with Master Nicodemus and was astonished at what I saw. The interior of the great hall was thick with bird droppings and the great beams caked and whitened. The sharp smell was, as before, quite overpowering, so that I held my hand to my nose and mouth. The servants busy at cleaning wore rags tied across their mouths and a great coughing was heard from one and all. None could tarry long and rushed past us with half a bucketful of bird shit, not able to endure long enough to fill it. We both quickly retreated, coughing and gulping as we hurried back through the doors and into the fresh air beyond.
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