The Bunting Quest

by Steven Marcuson

  ‘It appears they have taken anything they thought of value, however, the items I value,’ and here he patted a lithographic press, ‘are all still intact. A couple of days and we will be back in business again.’

  Jakob was already making his way to the front entrance. ‘I have to find my son.’

  ‘Master Gerard,’ said Hans anxiously, ‘the Spanish are every-where. It is very dangerous to be on the streets.’

  Bunting looked at Jakob’s pained expression. ‘Jakob, I will come with you to find Cornelis. We should leave your cousin to re-establish his business.’

  Gerard insisted that they take a bag of coins with them, for there was nothing a Spaniard loved more than money, and two daggers for use if all else failed. ‘God willing we will meet here again with your son,’ said Gerard, embracing his cousin.

  The sights on the streets were too terrible for words as they hurried towards the docks. Jakob had assumed correctly that his son, who had never seen great ships or harbours before, would head there first.

  Ignoring the wailing and screaming from within the buildings, they hurried along Kammenstraat, passing the occasional group of Spaniards, who were too busy carrying their ill-gotten gains to notice or care about the men.

  The scene at the docks was different to the carnage they had just passed through. Standing close to the hessian sacks that Cornelis had sat on twenty-four hours previously, it was clear that there had been a stand-off between the sailors and the Spanish soldiers: a tacit understanding that ships, their crews and cargoes and anything on the water was out of bounds for the marauders, while anything on land was fair game.

  The atmosphere was less tense on the docks, so much so that Bunting felt empowered to ask in halting Spanish to a group of soldiers lolling around if they had seen a fifteen-year-old young man of Cornelis’s description. Most ignored him, too intent on drinking, feasting and examining their plundered loot, but one man, persuaded by a few coins offered by the priest, pointed in the direction of Cathedral Square where he said a group of men had been taken the previous night.

  The square was crowded when the two men arrived, panting for breath. A huge throng of onlookers blocked their progress. ‘What’s happening?!’ shouted Jakob.

  ‘These bastards don’t know when to stop,’ said a voice from the crowd.

  They worked their way through the huge gathering until they could see that a podium had been erected under the shadow of the cathedral. Guarding it was a large group of soldiers evenly spaced out surrounding the construction. To the left of the podium was a bedraggled group of chained men, heads bowed, shuffling forward in single file. The first prisoner in the sorry queue was unshackled and forced up some makeshift steps onto the podium. Both Jakob and Bunting were transfixed by the sight as the man was dragged forward and forced to kneel facing the crowd.

  ‘You are guilty of rebellion against the Imperial Army and King Philip,’ proclaimed an officer.

  ‘I did nothing wrong,’ protested the man, ‘I tried to save my wife and daughters from your animals.’

  His protestations were of no value. ‘Jesus Christ, save me, for I am innocent.’

  Two soldiers forced the man’s head onto a wooden block. A muscular bare-chested man with a black mask emerged from behind a makeshift divide on the podium and, ignoring the crowd and the cries of the man, brought the axe down from shoulder height onto the exposed neck of the prisoner. The crowd groaned as one as the head sprung forward and dropped off the front of the podium into a large container, while the torso twitched and spurted a stream of blood into the air. Bunting could now see that this scene had been repeated many times before, by the number of grotesque heads lolling in the basket.

  Bunting was so taken aback and revolted by the spectacle he had not felt Jakob’s urgent pulling on his cassock.

  ‘Heinrich, Heinrich, it’s Cornelis. I can see him. Look!’

  He was frantically pointing to the front of the queue of condemned men. At first Bunting could not see the boy, then he noticed him about fifth from the front. Due to his blood-stained face, matted hair and head bowed in a stupor, he looked nothing like the eager and handsome young man of two days previous.

  ‘What can we do? We must save him,’ yelled Jakob above the noise of the crowd.

  The men struggled through the tightly packed audience to get closer. Jakob shouted. No reaction. Then he shouted again. This time Cornelis turned his battered head slowly towards the crowd, searching out his father’s voice, then recognised him with the most pitiful expression that would haunt Bunting for the rest of his life.

  Jakob begged a guard, using his hands to convey his desperation, but the guard just shrugged and turned away.

  A woman shrieked and the crowd groaned again, as another man was executed and the sad queue shuffled forward.

  Jakob tugged urgently on the guard’s sleeve and screamed at him. This time the Spaniard lifted his sword and slammed the hilt into Jakob’s face. Jakob staggered back into Bunting’s arms, blood streaming from a gash on his broken nose. ‘What can we do?’ he sobbed.

  Again the crowd groaned as another innocent was beheaded. Now Cornelis was only two from the steps and the podium of death.

  ‘Stay here. We have a chance,’ said Bunting, quickly moving away from Jakob towards the podium. ‘Captain Figueroa!’ he shouted. ‘Captain Figueroa!’

  ‘Get back, Sacerdote, unless you want to join your friends on the stage,’ said a guard.

  Bunting would not be deterred. ‘Captain Diego Rodrigo de Figueroa!’

  ‘That’s it. You’re next,’ said the guard and started to manhandle Bunting.

  ‘Let him be, soldier! I know this man,’ said the weary but familiar voice of the captain. He turned to Bunting. ‘Ah, we meet again, Priest… I told you not to tarry in Antwerp and here you are joining me in this corner of hell.’

  ‘Please help me, Captain. The son of my friend is about to be executed and we have no one to turn to.’

  The crowd muttered and groaned as another kneeling victim screamed for God’s help. Bunting and the captain instinctively looked up as the black-masked executioner strode forward and violently drove the axe onto the man’s exposed neck, splattering them and others close by in warm crimson blood.

  ‘He is next in line! Please, in God’s name … you must do something.

  The captain turned slowly and with tired and lifeless eyes looked to the front of the queue. He noticed the boy. ‘Many innocents have died today. Maybe he is better off dead than to live in a world where cruelty knows no bounds.’

  ‘I beg you, Captain. Save this young man’s life!’

  Cornelis, now unchained, was shoved unceremoniously towards the blood-stained podium. Staggering and unbalanced, he fell into a trembling heap at the foot of the steps.

  ‘Get up you cur!’ shouted one of the guards.

  The captain pondered for what Bunting felt was an interminable time, stared at Cornelis then looked to the sky. Finally he turned to the priest.

  ‘My man died with God’s arms outstretched to him, because of you. I will try to repay the favour.’

  The captain moved a few paces forward, put his arm around the shoulder of Cornelis, stopping the boy from climbing the steps. He spoke quietly to the guard and then to the officer on the podium who had come across to investigate the hold-up in proceedings. A few heart-stopping seconds later, Cornelis was released into the crowd and into the arms of Bunting.

  ‘Priest, I have temporarily removed the boy from God’s outstretched arms. Take my advice this time and leave this place.’

  Jakob gathered his arms around his distraught son and all three, shaking in fear, hurried out of the square, as the crowd groaned once again.

  30

  ‘So here we are at the Rathaus und Marktplatz,’ said Schroeder, backing the Mercedes into the angled parking bay, just off the Lemgo market place and town hall. ‘I’m not sure if it is good news, but today is Wednesday and market day!’

  The thr
ee travellers got out and joined the throng milling around the cobblestoned market square. Brightly coloured stalls filled with flowers, honey, craft items and locally bottled mineral water contrasted with the whitewashed walls of the surrounding medieval buildings with their high pointed gables and red sloping roofs.

  ‘It would not surprise me to see knights with lances and fair maidens offering their handkerchiefs in this square,’ laughed Verity. ‘It’s like a scene from a movie.’

  ‘Well, luckily for Lemgo, neither of the wars damaged the town, so the buildings remain much as they were five hundred years ago,’ said Schroeder. ‘Let me translate this tourist pamphlet:

  Lemgo is a medieval Hanseatic City founded in 1190 by Bernard II of Lippe on the crossroads of two trading routes. Very few towns in Germany have a historical centre restored with such careful attention to detail. There are monumental buildings of European significance such as the Town Hall built between the years 1325 and 1612. This building represents a shining example of Renaissance architecture. Other masterly buildings adorn the market square including the thirteenth-century St Nicolai Lutheran Church with its dissimilar towers rising above the market centre.’

  Nick and Verity gave each other a nod when the church was mentioned, recognising it as the one that Heinrich Bunting had served in until his dismissal in 1574 and, looking up, quickly spotted the towering edifices.

  It was only a short walk through the market place to Papenstrasse and the plain stone arched entrance to the church. However, the simplicity of the entrance gave little indication of the spectacular interior of towering Gothic ceilings, complemented by equally impressive tall arched windows, where filtered sunbeams highlighted the numerous Romanesque frescoes throughout.

  ‘This is stunning,’ said Verity, walking towards the Baroque-style altar and baptismal font. ‘Can you imagine it? Heinrich Bunting spent two or three years here. He must have been devastated when he had to leave. It’s so beautiful.’

  ‘Well, if Schroeder is correct and Bunting was forced to leave this church and town, it would certainly have been humiliating for him,’ said Nick thoughtfully, ‘considering that this was one of the main centres of the Lutheran movement.’

  Nick changed the subject as he noticed their host in deep discussion with a woman on the far side of the hall. ‘By the way, what was all that stuff about Catholic conspiracy he was going on about in the car?’

  ‘I know, it was a bit of a rant, wasn’t it? I’ve only known him as a very conservative and sober economic historian. Then again, I’ve never really had much to do with him, apart from reading his papers and attending some of his public presentations. Obviously feelings run deep in this part of Europe.’

  They both wandered across to the professor who was still in an animated discussion. ‘Ah, Verity and Nick, let me introduce you to the local historian, Claudia Werner. I met Claudia previously when I was researching Bunting.’ The three of them followed Claudia as she walked briskly through the spectacular main hall, clearly wanting to show them something.

  ‘Claudia tells me that during recent renovations to the church they discovered an ancient entrance on the south side that had been blocked up in the 1600s. Claudia wanted to show it to me because of my interest in the life of Bunting. She believes this would have been the entrance that he would have used privately, as opposed to the main public entrance.’

  They turned off the main hall and down a longer narrow passage, their feet echoing off the stone floor, past two meeting rooms to what appeared to be a dead end. Claudia gestured at the wall.

  ‘So this is it,’ said the professor, translating their guide’s explanation. ‘There was an entrance here, which is part of the original fourteenth-century building. So it makes sense that our young pastor would have walked in and out of this very passage.’

  They then followed the historian back to one of the rooms they had passed on the way to the blocked entrance. Claudia spoke to the professor as they walked.

  ‘This room is also part of the original church,’ said Schroeder, ‘and perhaps he spent some time studying or living in here.’ They looked round the large simple room, with its high wooden-beamed ceiling, book-lined whitewashed walls and empty fire hearth. Nick could almost feel the presence of the past in a few fleeting seconds.

  They then followed the guide through a modern fire-exit door and walked outside the church and into the light. Looking through workmen’s scaffolding and sheeting attached to this southern wall, they could see where the original door had been.

  ‘Well, thank you so much,’ said Verity, nodding at Claudia and Schroeder. ‘It really does connect you with the past, standing in the same area as him.’

  They were about to move off when Nick noticed a bulge in the sheeting above the newly exposed ancient door and, curious, he pulled the tarpaulin gently to reveal a weathered carving of an animal and some men with pointed hats.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Verity, ‘is it the crest of Lemgo?’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Schroeder, ‘it is a Judensau. The renovations also uncovered it. The men with the pointed hats are Jews and the animal is a pig. If you look carefully, you will see another figure representing a rabbi, examining the animal between its legs.’

  ‘My God, that’s disgusting,’ gasped Verity.

  ‘Absolutely disgusting,’ agreed Schroeder. ‘They were very popular in medieval times and even today some still exist publicly on churches in Germany. In fact, there is another on St Marian’s Church, not far from here. As I explained in the car, the Catholic institutions treated the Jews with contempt and this was a constant reminder to their flock when they passed the building or attended services.’

  ‘I can imagine any Jew who saw it must have felt degraded,’ said Nick, looking at the Judensau.

  ‘Of course they would’ve,’ said Schroeder passionately. ‘These days, there is usually a plaque placed near them by the authorities, explaining what they are and what they represented, as a form of warning against prejudice. In my opinion, they should all be removed and destroyed.’

  As they walked back quietly, each lost in their own thoughts, through the market place towards the car, Schroeder pointed to a building off the square. ‘That’s where the Alten Schützenhaussaal was, the original meeting hall where Hitler came in 1933 and addressed a gathering of over 3000 people. By the way, it was in this square that the sixty or so Jews of Lemgo were rounded up in 1942 and sent to Theresienstadt concentration camp. Only three survived. It does put a different slant on this place, don’t you think? Okay, on to Magdeburg.’

  31

  Perhaps I am an old-fashioned man, priest. Much as I desire riches and wealth, I prefer to live. The Sao Cristovao is the fastest caravel in the Portuguese fleet and what we lose in storage we gain in wind speed and manoeuvrability. This vessel has outrun many a pirate ship off the Zanzibar coast and through the islands of the Moluccas. These days, young captains prefer the carrack with its deeper draughts and larger capacity for cargo, and good luck to them and their crews. A successful voyage will profit them three times over my returns. However, woe betide them when suddenly out of the sun, as if from nowhere, the lookout sights the Moor dhow with its lateen-rigged masts bearing down on them.’

  Captain Antonio Serrao turned away from Bunting, the cold wind blowing his wiry grey hair off his face, exposing all the weathering and lining of years at sea. He stared into the vastness of the ocean as if dredging up a long-lost memory from the deep, his eyes watering from the force of the wind.

  ‘There is nowhere to hide and nowhere to run. The captain will call to arms, but all know that only a cruel death or slavery awaits them. At that moment, the bowels of the strongest man will empty, as he contemplates the time he has left on this earth. Many cry out to Mary and Jesus to save them, and some, preferring certainty, jump overboard to their deaths.’

  ‘You have seen this yourself, have you not?’ said Bunting gently.

  ‘I was a cabin boy on my first voyage. They s
mashed their dhow into our leeward side and swarmed aboard. Priest, I cannot relate what I saw but only what I heard. I was small for my age and hid in the bilge, thinking that it was the last place they would search. I will never forget the screams of terror as they tortured and murdered the crew one by one and, as if for amusement, forced some of our men to slaughter their own mates.’

  The captain’s voice was now a whisper and Bunting had to lean closer to catch his halting words. ‘A few days later I was discovered and assumed that a similar fate was mine. However, my youth and fair looks saved my life but consigned me to a living hell, as I became the ‘girl’ for the captain of their dhow. No Christian boy or man should ever have to experience such humiliation and cruelty. At first I begged God to save me, and later I cursed him for not letting me die like the others.’

  ‘Yet, you are here today.’

  ‘I would like to say that I plunged a dagger deep into his neck and stole away into the night, however, life is not that simple. After many weeks at sea, the dhow arrived at Hitu Island near Ambon, where my tormentor now tired of me, kicked me off the vessel while laughing and threw me a few gold coins. For years I wished he had killed me. A Portuguese trader showed me kindness and I returned to Lisbon a few months later.’

  The captain took a deep breath and continued. ‘Now you know why I prefer the caravel, and why my crew listen very carefully to my orders. I may have not have told them my past, but it is a small sailor’s world and each one will know the events as if he had lived it himself. I promised myself then, that if I was to survive my ordeal, I would one day captain my own vessel and never allow the same thing to happen to any of my crew. To this end I have modified the Sao Cristovao and added two extra masts. Both are square-rigged with detachable bonnets for extra speed; however, I have retained a foremast with lateen rigging to ensure manoeuvrability if the wind speed increases too much.’

  The captain looked over his ship with pride from the low forecastle where he and Bunting were standing. Bunting, who had no experience of ships, nodded his head in quiet agreement, thankful that God had provided them with the right ship and captain for their quest.