The Bunting Quest

by Steven Marcuson

  ‘Priest,’ the knight warned, ‘you had better be telling the truth or you will all end up like this miscreant.’ He pointed at the broken body. ‘When the Prince’s torturers have finished with him, he will beg for death and dream of the good days slumped over this horse.’

  ‘Our mission is to deliver something special for him. The details are obscure to me and my group,’ Bunting offered. While they had been talking, one of the riders had dismounted and was now rummaging through their chattels on the mule.

  ‘What have we here?’ the soldier asked, lifting the ancient wooden box wrapped in cerecloth from beneath the leather pouches. ‘Perhaps it’s a gift for the Prince?’

  ‘Leave the box alone.’ Jakob who had been silent throughout the conversation lifted his head, stared at the knight and repeated himself. ‘Leave the box alone!’

  ‘Jew, mind who you address,’ shouted the knight, his narrow eyes flashing with anger.

  Bunting too stared aghast at Jakob, as did Cornelis and Amir. It was almost certain death for anyone to dishonour a knight of the realm in such a manner, let alone a Jew. However, Jakob continued.

  ‘It is my box and I invoke the Magdeburg Rights,’ he said firmly. ‘You have no standing, Sir Knight, to oblige me to hand over or disclose my property to you. The Prince himself was party to this very arrangement.’

  The knight and his men seemed momentarily stunned. Jakob continued: ‘Sir, the Jew is not regulated by the rules that apply to the common man in these parts. I am in no doubt that you will be aware of these arrangements.’

  An uneasy silence hung like an impending storm. Suddenly, the knight slammed his spurs into his horse’s flanks and rode up to Jakob until he towered over the man’s head. ‘Jew,’ he warned venomously, ‘do not cross my path again. The next time, I won’t be so generous.’

  And with that, he spat thick yellow mucus at Jakob and rode off. The other riders were quick to follow. Bunting hurried over to Jakob who was wiping his head with his hand. ‘What on earth are the Magdeburg Rights?’ Bunting demanded, still in a state of shock.

  ‘As I explained to you before, the Jew exists in particular circumstances, without the norms and conventions of the Christian community. The wise lawmakers of this land decided that since the Jew could not be obliged to swear an oath on the Christian Bible in a court of law, he therefore could not be obligated to give evidence, or to present goods for inspection or supply information against his will. So when I stated that the box belonged to me, and forgive me for lying, Pastor, the knight had two options: either kill me on the spot for my insolence or move on.’ Jacob shrugged. ‘Perhaps he had had enough killing for the day.’

  ‘I can see, Jakob,’ said Bunting, ‘that my choice of travelling companion was wise. And I forgive you for your lie. Without it, our quest would surely have been over.’

  ‘Thank you, Pastor. I too am beginning to suspect that you may not be the “simple” priest you had led me to believe either.’

  A few hours later, as they approached Lemgo, Jakob observed a subtle change in the mood of his priestly companion. It was as if a shadow of self-reflection had settled on the young priest who now reminded Jakob of a rabbit that, with whiskers twitching, sensed the change in the weather. Although it might appear to go about its business as normal, the rabbit had an eye to his burrow.

  ‘I believe we can pass through Lemgo in daylight hours,’ Bunting said. ‘Let us press on to Bielefeld for nightfall.’

  ‘As you wish,’ responded Jakob, although the light was disappearing quickly from the sky. They were close to Lemgo when the rain began to fall.

  First, it was a mere sprinkle but, within minutes, a deluge descended. Hidden by the Weser High Lands and the forests of Teutoburg, the storm had crept silently up on the travellers and was now unleashing its pent-up fury. The road, which moments before had been filled with all manner of humanity, was now a desolate muddy stream.

  ‘What shall we do?’ shouted Cornelis above the roar of the wind and rain, his long hair plastered to his head. ‘This storm could last for hours.’

  Bunting sighed and looked to the sky. Not at the storm, thought Jakob, but through the storm, to a higher plain. The three others stood staring at the barely visible priest through the gloom and driving rain, his cassock whipped up by the wind and waving like a flag in distress. Suddenly, his head dropped as if resigned.

  ‘Come with me. I know where to go,’ Bunting shouted.

  The three followed the priest off the road, with Amir and Cornelis pulling the mule against its will. They struggled through a raging barley field towards the asymmetrical twin spires of a church in the centre of the town.

  A few minutes later, Bunting led them through the flooded market square and around to the south side of the Romanesque-style Lutheran church. He ignored the main entrance in the centre of the building and directed them towards a small closed door attached to a more ancient part. The door was locked, but Bunting raised his right hand above it to an irregular brick, which he moved slightly to reveal a large, rusted key. Within seconds they were out of the storm and inside the thirteenth century Church of St Nicolai, patron saint of merchants.

  ‘You know this place, eh, Pastor?’ questioned Jakob.

  ‘Yes, I do know it,’ said Bunting in a distant, quiet voice. ‘This was my church for three years, before I was removed in disgrace. I have returned, it seems, against my will, to the place of my humiliation.’

  As Jakob contemplated these strange words, a slow-moving figure carrying an oil lamp appeared out of the gloom from the end of the long, shadow-filled hallway. An old lady shuffled towards them, stopped, hesitated and peered for a long while at the group. Then a smile of recognition slowly crossed her cracked lips. ‘Master Bunting!’ she exclaimed. ‘I am so happy to see you again. I thought the tears I shed three years ago were for a goodbye forever.’

  ‘Fraulien Gunhilde,’ Bunting responded, ‘I can assure you, I too thought that sad day was to be our last encounter. However, the Lord has an interesting way of challenging and testing his flock.’ The young priest walked quickly across to the old lady and embraced her warmly.

  ‘Oh, I have been so rude,’ the old lady apologised through sudden tears. ‘Your friends are wet, cold and shivering. Let me show you to a fire and some blankets.’

  Jakob, Cornelis and Amir looked on in amazement as the old woman, still sniffling with emotion, led them through a Gothic hall to an oak-panelled library with a flaming fire burning bright in the hearth.

  ‘Archbishop Wilhelm? He is here?’ Bunting ventured cagily.

  ‘Nah, the Archbishop spends most of his valuable time in Hanover, contemplating. I will go and get you some hot soup and bread.’ With that she shuffled out of the room, leaving them alone.

  ‘It is a miracle,’ marvelled Cornelis, smiling at Amir who nodded his head enthusiastically. The roaring fire and the promise of hot soup were indeed miracles to them.

  The storm raged outside. High winds whistled and screamed while heavy rains clattered off the pitched roof and cascaded waterfall-like onto the flooded courtyards. The old church had been battered many times before but, apart from some dripping that Bunting could hear further down the darkened hallway, the holy residence was holding nature at bay.

  Amir and Cornelis, dry, warm and fed, were now fast asleep in front of the fire. The hot meat, potato soup and crusty bread supplied by Fraulein Gunhilde had been devoured without ceremony as young men do when they are cold, wet and famished.

  Bunting, in respect for God and his kindly old helper, had ignored his hunger pangs to say Grace and reminisce with Fraulein Gunhilde, eating the food with commendable restraint. However, he noticed, glancing occasionally past the adoring eyes of the Fraulein, that Jakob appeared sullen and thoughtful. More telling of his mood was the unfinished soup on the table.

  After the Fraulein had said her goodnights, Bunting carefully spoke. ‘Well, Jakob, have we not been fortunate tonight? The storm is outside and we are safe
inside.’ Jakob seemed not to hear the priest, so he tried again. ‘You have not eaten your food. Are you not hungry? Are you feeling sick?’

  His travelling companion stared in a preoccupied fashion into the plate of soup, pushing the food around with a wooden spoon.

  ‘Perhaps you are worried that the soup is cooked with the meat of the pig?’ Bunting suggested. ‘I guess it is possible that is so.’

  Finally after a few seconds, Jakob looked across to the priest. ‘When I took on this journey or “quest” or whatever fanciful title we give it, I did not expect to remain religiously pure. I will do my best to observe God’s commandments but he will have to be forgiving on occasion in return.’

  He sighed and shook his head in a resigned way, without looking at the priest. ‘We truly are an accursed people. Wherever we go we are frowned upon, tolerated for a while, but always living in fear and trepidation.’

  ‘But, is it not your choice?’ asked the priest. ‘I mean, you could choose to accept our Lord and throw off your Jewish mantle. You might then better the lot of all your family.’

  ‘Did you see the carved decoration above the church door, Pastor?’ Jakob asked tightly. ‘I did. Even through the driving rain. The Judensau. It makes me sick!’

  ‘Judensau?’ The name was vaguely familiar.

  ‘You must know it. It is an image of a sow with Jews suckling from it and a rabbi looking between its legs.’

  ‘Of course,’ Bunting remembered. He had, after all, seen it every day for three years and other similar ones in other towns and churches. He had never given them a second thought, though. If he’d ever known the name of them, it was just in passing. ‘So?’

  ‘Well, here I am taking shelter in one of the very places that represents my people in such a humiliating and degrading manner! How about you? Where do you stand? These are the works of good Christian men, are they not?’ Jakob asked angrily.

  ‘Jakob, forgive me. You are right. I have passed these sculptures for years and yet I did not notice or care. Now that you remind me, I agree. They are truly despicable. But I don’t know why Christian men made them. Some men, it appears, just have hatred in their hearts.’

  Jakob considered that for a few seconds. ‘Yet, if it is only some Christian men, as you say, then why don’t the others demand removal? They all see it when they come to worship on Sunday. I think the Church sanctions this behaviour. The people simply follow … as usual.’

  Bunting did not know what to say to that. He recalled what the Pope had said to him a few weeks before: that the common man could not be held responsible, that they were like sheep. It was people in his position who held the ultimate responsibility.

  By the time he had gathered his thoughts, Jakob had turned away and settled himself for sleep, leaving Bunting alone with his thoughts.

  18

  The Australian died almost without a sound. At the end, when her struggle finished, she simply expelled a shallow sigh that worried Billy. It was still troubling him, in fact, as he laid her gently on the floor and rolled the wire of death into his pocket.

  The Libyans had been good teachers. Even in a few words, their message was clear: learn quickly or die. Billy had witnessed a number of deaths at the desert camp. A Bosnian was first then, later, a Palestinian, both blown to high heaven with Semtex. Two Chechens bought it in a night firefight at Waw Al Kabir.

  But hand-to-hand combat took its toll too. Billy had seen a big German he liked succumb to infection from a knife wound. ‘Irish, you moved too quick for me, ya?’ were his last words to Billy, in the hot, stinking medical tent.

  Here, you were known only by your country of origin, and it was better that way.

  Billy had spent four weeks in the sleepy south-west Cretan fishing village of Palaiochora, a village built on the neck of a peninsula. He soon discovered that there were two beaches nearby, about half a mile apart. One faced west and featured gentle waves and golden sand while the other, closer to his accommodation and facing east, was mostly rocks with wilder waves.

  After a few days of waiting by his apartment for contact, he ventured out into the dusty baked streets to mingle with the locals and the seasonal influx of adventurous backpackers. By the end of the first week, he’d joined a group of university students partying through their summer holidays. Lazy, hot days melded into each other with most nights ending up at Agios Bar.

  That was where Agnetha had made a move on him. He was surprised by his luck when they ended up at his place, bathed in the sweat of their lovemaking, listening to the waves from the Libyan sea caressing the shoreline.

  She told him she’d never been to Ireland so Billy captivated her with ancient legends and myths of the Emerald Isle … while lying to her about his name and purpose.

  ‘You are my lucky leprechaun, Patrick,’ she teased. ‘Maybe I will visit you in Ireland one day.’ Her husky Swedish accent struggled with unfamiliar Irish words.

  One perfect, magical night, perched precariously on the side of a hill where an outdoor movie theatre was showing Zorba the Greek, he and Agnetha sat arm in arm in deck chairs. Billy couldn’t remember an occasion he’d felt so content and he wished that time could stop forever. That morning, they’d risen earlier than normal, sprinting to catch the tour bus up to the Lefka Ori and the Omalis Plateau, the so-called White Mountains with their parched and sun-bleached terrain.

  They’d screwed up their eyes to soften the reflected glare and laughed. Then they descended by foot through the spectacular Samaria Gorge, negotiating its vertical cliff faces, goat tracks and rock pools, until they finally emerged along a dry riverbed at the sea. Stripped naked, they’d leaped screaming into the cool, refreshing blueness.

  Now, just a few hours later, he looked up at the vast mass of stars that formed a canopy over the open-air theatre and felt a warm breeze waft over him. Even the words of the movie resonated with him.

  ‘I felt once more how simple a thing is happiness,’ Zorba had said. ‘A glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. Nothing else. And all that is required to feel that happiness, is a simple, frugal heart.’

  A simple, frugal heart. The words had shaken him. Here he was at an isolated Greek village by the sea, with a beautiful woman at his side, and he wished with all his heart that his future could be different.

  He was enjoying himself so much that, when the contact actually came, Billy had almost forgotten the real reason he’d travelled so far. Almost.

  The usual partying crowds packed Agios, all sunburnt, bleached hair, cotton pants, beads and white t-shirts. Billy made his way to the bar for his round, enjoying as he went a surreptitious backwards glance at Agnetha through the throng. At the bar the bloke next to him, a man he’d seen around the village a couple of times before, caught his eye, then spoke to him quietly in a Belfast accent, ‘In whom do you put your trust Billy?’ Billy froze. The guy nodded toward Agnetha on the dance floor. ‘Shame,’ he said. ‘You’ll miss her for sure. We leave at 4 am from the quay.’

  ‘Pat!’ someone from his group at the back of the crowd yelled. ‘A packet of Karelias as well!’ Billy threw up an arm to signal he’d heard, and turned back to the bar. The man was gone. And that was that.

  Billy had not gone to the house with the intention of killing the Australian. The Master had merely required him to search two properties. First he went to Clapham and turned over the Lawrance place.

  Two hours later he was in Wandsworth. With the curtains drawn in the front room, the place looked deserted. So Billy hadn’t noticed the woman asleep on the couch. When she awoke and saw him, he was left with no option.

  After laying the body on the floor, he moved quickly and silently from room to room. His training had fine-tuned his skills: always work from bottom to top: floor first, then the drawers, any shelves, walls and finally the ceilings. However, this house, like the other, yielded nothing of interest. If the map had been in either place he would have found it.

  The Mas
ter would be disappointed. Before he left, Billy planted a listening device under the kitchen table, just as he’d done in Clapham.

  19

  Although it was late, the A40 was slow and they’d taken longer than expected to get to London.

  ‘Probably an accident or road works further on,’ said Nick, glancing at Verity who was thumbing through some files.

  ‘You know,’ she said without looking up, ‘I can’t be as enthusiastic as Julius that Bunting left some important message in his map. You know, Dad’s been in trouble before, for sticking his neck out with his hunches. He is less …’ she hesitated. ‘Well … careful than I am. I love him to bits, of course, and he has had his wins but there have also been some damaging failures. Some people even call him an eccentric, especially in the more conservative cartographic societies. I would hate to see him hurt by this new interest you have brought him.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Nick assured her. ‘You know I care for your dad. Anyway, this whole business will probably turn out to be a storm in a teacup. I can’t imagine why it would go public, and certainly not from me!’

  Verity favoured him with a smile. ‘Thanks, Nick,’ she said. ‘I really appreciate that.’

  ‘Verity,’ Nick said anxiously, ‘I’ve still had no luck contacting Bronte on her mobile or land line. If I take the A205 turnoff, I can drive to her place in Wandsworth.’

  ‘I’m sure everything will be okay,’ Verity reassured him. ‘She’s probably been out at some event and turned her phone off.’

  ‘Yeah, or her battery’s flat,’ responded Nick, agitated. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t normally panic but seeing your father’s place turned over like that was really disconcerting.’

  ‘You must be worried. She’s worked for you for years, hasn’t she?’ Verity said.

  ‘Well, yeah, I guess so. I mean, she is virtually my business partner, and a true friend … I don’t know what I’d do without her.’