“But they’re still God’s apples.”
“Could be. But my hunger’s not God’s hunger.”
“Why am I wasting my time listening to all this? Help me with the cloth.”
Together they lifted out the linen, heavy with water, and carried it to the drying poles in front of the house, which was clearly where she lived. Others were already hanging out to dry. There was a smell of woad, the dye from Jülich without which the blue-dyers would not have been able to carry on their trade.
“How about telling me your name, seeing as I’ve just saved your life?” she asked as she pulled the cloth smooth along the poles and checked that it wasn’t touching the ground anywhere.
Jacob bared his teeth. “I’m the Fox!”
“I can see that. Do you have another name?”
“Jacob. And you?”
“Richmodis.”
“What a beautiful name!”
“What a corny compliment!”
Jacob had to laugh. “Do you live here alone?”
She shook her head. “No. You’re the second man to ask me that already today. How many more stories do I have to invent to get you good-for-nothings to leave me in peace?”
“So you live here with your husband?”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t give up, do you? I live with my father. He’s really the dyer, but his back’s getting worse and his fingers are bent with rheumatism.”
Rheumatism was the typical dyer’s disease. It came from having their hands in water all the time, whatever the season. In general the blue-dyers made a good living. The material they dyed was made into the smocks most people wore for work, so there was no shortage of commissions, but they paid for it with their health. But what could one do? Every craft ruined a person’s health; even the rich merchants, who earned their money by their wits, suffered from gout almost without exception.
Only recently, so people said, the king of France’s doctor had declared that gout came from overindulgence in pork, but the pope’s physicians replied that rich people had more opportunity to sin and so needed correspondingly more opportunity to do penance. It simply showed that the gout was one more example of God’s grace, encouraging the mortification of the flesh, just as, in His infinite goodness, He had given the gift of bloodletting to medicine. Anyway, they concluded, they could see no point in looking for causes—as if God’s will could be used to support arguments in ecclesiastical disputes or even the obduracy of recalcitrant, stiff-necked heretics!
“I feel sorry for your father,” said Jacob.
“We have a physician in the family.” Richmodis gave the cloth a close inspection and smoothed out a crease. “He’s gone to see him just now for some medicine, though I strongly suspect it’s medicine derived from the grape that my uncle also prescribes for himself quite a lot.”
“You should be glad your father can still hold his glass.”
“He can certainly do that. And the rheumatism hasn’t affected his throat.”
The conversation seemed to have reached a dead end. Each was waiting for the other to think of something to say but for a while all that could be heard was a dog barking.
“May I ask you something, Richmodis?” Jacob said at last.
“You may.”
“Why haven’t you got a husband?”
“Good question. Why haven’t you got a wife?”
“Well—I have got a wife.” Jacob felt a surge of embarrassment. “That is, I haven’t actually. Call her a girlfriend if you like, but we don’t really get on anymore.”
“Does she look after you?”
“We look after each other. When we have something to spare.”
Jacob had not intended to sound sad but a frown had appeared on Richmodis’s face. Her smile had gone and she was looking at him as if considering various ways of reacting to what he had just said. Her gaze wandered up and down the street. One of the neighbors who was outside filling his tub glanced across at them, then quickly looked away.
“Just can’t wait to ask each other what Goddert von Weiden’s daughter’s doing talking to a half-naked redhead,” she snorted contemptuously. “And at the first opportunity they’ll tell my father.”
“I get the message,” said Jacob. “You’ve done more than enough. I’m going now.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” she snapped. “You don’t need to worry about my father. Wait there.”
Before Jacob could reply she had gone into the house.
So he waited.
Now that he was by himself, more people stared at him, mixing unashamed curiosity with open suspicion. Someone pointed at him and Jacob wondered whether it wouldn’t be better simply to disappear.
But what would Richmodis think if he just cleared out? How could he even consider it in view of the prettiest crooked nose a woman had ever pointed in his direction? Lost in thought, he fiddled with the cloth.
Immediately the neighbors’ expressions turned threatening and he pulled his hands away. Someone drove a flock of geese past and subjected him to a furtive scrutiny.
Jacob started whistling and took the opportunity to have a better look at the von Weidens’ house. It was not the most magnificent he had ever seen, that was for sure. Its first floor with its two tiny windows overhung the street, and beneath its steep roof it seemed to be cowering between the adjoining buildings. But it was well cared for, the timbers had recently been painted, and by the door, under the parlor window, was a bush with waxy yellow flowers. Presumably Richmodis’s work.
Richmodis. Who had vanished.
He took a deep breath and shifted from one foot to the other. No point in waiting any longer. He might as well—
“Here.” Richmodis reappeared in the doorway, almost completely hidden behind a bundle of clothes. “You may as well take these. The coat’s old, but better that than giving all the women a fright. “And there”—before Jacob knew what was happening he felt something placed on his head and pulled down over his eyes—“you have a hat. The brim’s a bit droopy but it’s good enough keep the rain and snow off.”
“A bit is putting it mildly,” said Jacob, pushing the hat onto the back of his head, at the same time trying not to drop the other things she was loading onto him.
“Stop moaning. Here’s a doublet and hose to go with it. My father’ll have me put in the stocks! The boots, too. And now clear out before half of Cologne starts telling the other half you’re about to ask for my hand.”
Jacob had always thought of himself as fairly unflappable, but for the moment he was speechless. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.
A roguish smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “No one gives me a whistle and gets away with it.”
“Oh?”
“Now you’re obliged to teach me how to play it, of course.”
Jacob suddenly felt he could have embraced the butchers and everyone else who had chased him to the Brook.
“It’s a deal. I won’t forget.”
“I’d advise you not to.”
“Do you know what?” he suddenly blurted out, unable to contain himself. “I love your nose.”
She flushed deeply. “That’s enough of that. Away with you now.”
Jacob gave a broad grin, turned on his naked heel, and trotted off.
Richmodis watched him go, her hands on her hips. A good-looking lad, she thought. The temptation to run her hand through his hair had been quite strong. Pity he wouldn’t come back. Men like that were a law unto themselves. His red mop wouldn’t be seen on the Brook that soon again. It was with mixed feelings that she went back to the stream.
Little did she know how wrong she was.
RHEINGASSE
The old woman was sitting in the shadow. Only the outline of her hands, an oddly bizarre shape in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, stood out against the black velvet of her dress.
The room where she was sitting was high and spacious. It ran along the northern side of the first floor and had five arca
ded windows close to one another overlooking the street. Apart from the magnificent tapestries on the rear and side walls, it was sparsely furnished. Only a massive black table and a few chairs gave it something of a lived-in look. In general it was used for festivities or official gatherings.
On her right sat a man in his late forties drinking wine from a pewter goblet. A younger man was standing beside him, motionless. Matthias, leaning against the door frame, thoughtfully observed a man in his early twenties who was restlessly pacing up and down by the windows before finally stopping in front of the old woman and the man seated next to her.
“Gerhard won’t talk,” he said.
“I have no doubt he won’t talk,” said the man with the goblet after a pause during which only the rasp of the old woman’s breathing was to be heard. “The only question is: for how long?”
Matthias pushed himself away from the door frame and slowly walked into the middle of the room. “Kuno, we all know the architect is your friend. I’m as convinced as you are that Gerhard will not betray us. He has more honor in his little finger than is in the fat bodies of all the priests of Cologne put together.” He stopped in front of the younger man and looked him straight in the eye. “But what I believe won’t necessarily correspond to the facts. We have everything to gain, but also everything to lose.”
“It’ll all be over in a few days anyway,” said Kuno imploringly. “Until then Gerhard won’t do anything to harm us.”
“And afterward?” The other young man stepped forward, his fist clenched in fury. “What’s the use of all our precautions if we end up celebrating the success of our scheme broken on the wheel with the crows gorging themselves on our eyes? On yours, too, Kuno! They’ll peck out those dreamy eyes of yours that look at the world with all the sharpness of a newborn baby.”
The older man raised his hand. “That’s enough, Daniel.”
“Enough?!” Daniel’s fist crashed down on the table. “While this sentimental fool is exposing us to ruin?”
“I said that’s enough!”
Matthias stepped in. “Your father’s right, Daniel. Arguing among ourselves is not going to help our cause. It’s bad enough having an ass like Heinrich in our ranks.”
“That was unavoidable,” muttered Daniel.
“Sometimes even idiots have their uses,” Matthias admitted, “and his money’s a handy ally. As you see, I accept inevitable risks. However”—he placed his index finger to his lips as was his habit when he wasn’t a hundred percent certain of something—“we must be sure we can trust Gerhard.”
“We are,” said Kuno softly.
“Like piss, we are!” Daniel screamed.
“Stop this!” The older man leaped up and slammed his goblet down on the table. “Use your brains instead of blurting out the first thing that comes into your head. Where’s the problem? We discussed a matter of common interest and Gerhard, a highly respected citizen and dear friend whose opinion we all value, decided not to join us. As was his right, I say. We should have taken that into account before indulging in such careless talk. If there’s a problem, it’s of our own making.”
“But we’re not talking of who’s to blame,” said Daniel.
“No? Well, anyway, it’s happened and Kuno here is ready to vouch for his friend’s discretion.”
“That’s just what he can’t do,” Daniel exclaimed. “Gerhard made it quite clear what he thought of our plan.”
“He rejected our offer to join the group. So what? That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s going to betray us.”
Daniel glowered but said nothing.
“True, Johann,” said Matthias. “But it doesn’t mean we have a guarantee, either. What do you suggest?”
“We must talk to Gerhard again. Assure ourselves of his loyalty. From what I know of him, I’m sure we’ll all be able to sleep soundly after that.” Johann looked at Kuno, who couldn’t hide his relief. “I think it’s in the interest of our young friend here, too.”
“Thank you,” whispered Kuno. “I’m sure you won’t regret it.”
Johann inclined his head. “And you can tell your brothers they needn’t worry.”
Kuno hesitated, then gave a curt nod and left the room.
For some time Johann, Matthias, Daniel, and the woman in the shadows remained in silence. From outside came the scrunch of the wheels of a passing cart, the faint sound of voices, scraps of conversation. A crowd of children ran past, arguing noisily.
Finally Johann said, in an expressionless tone, “What shall we do, Mother?”
Her voice was no more than a rustle of dry leaves.
“Kill him.”
THE GREAT WALL
On the way back to the place he called his home, Jacob suddenly decided to visit Tilman, a friend who lived in a somewhat less salubrious neighborhood.
To call where either of them lived a “neighborhood” was a joke. During the last few years, however, a bizarre hierarchy had developed among the poorest of the poor, who didn’t even have a place in one of the hospices or convents, and the status muri, the “privilege of the Wall,” was part of it.
The origin of this privilege went back to the end of the previous century and the conflict between the emperor Frederick Barbarossa and Pope Alexander III, in which the archbishop of Cologne was involved—on the emperor’s side. As far as the peasants were concerned, it made no difference whose army happened to be passing through. Their womenfolk were raped, their children murdered, and they themselves held over a fire until they revealed where they had hidden what few valuables they possessed. Their farms were burned down, their stores requisitioned or consumed on the spot, and, since it was clear to the soldiers that a farmer couldn’t survive without his farm, they saved him from starvation by hanging him from the nearest tree.
Nothing for people to get worked up about.
Philip von Heinsberg, the then archbishop of Cologne, joined in the pillaging and plundering with a will and was not above razing the occasional monastery to the ground and massacring the monks. Perhaps surprisingly, this did not stop the pope, when he finally made peace with Barbarossa, from confirming him in his office of archbishop. The only loser in the whole affair, apart from the poor peasants, appeared to be the duke of Saxony, Henry the Lion.
Things started to get critical for Cologne only when the archbishop, having decided to extend his territory at Henry the Lion’s expense, made the mistake of squabbling with his allies and found himself facing an angry Lion with only his Cologne foot soldiers. He was forced to retreat, and the ugly mood of his troops threatened to bring disaster down on them all. The Cologne warriors slew everyone and everything that came within range, thus considerably increasing the chances of hostilities spreading to the city’s own territory. And if that happened, as everybody was aware, the first to be killed would be those who had nothing to do with this obscenity of a war.
Now they were landed with it.
So far the city council had supported their archbishop, but this was too much. In his absence they started to build new fortifications, which, legally, was the right of the emperor or the archbishop alone. The result was the inevitable bust-up. Philip was furious, forbade the wall, was ignored, appealed to Barbarossa, and in the end was bought off with a payment of two thousand marks. There was nothing to stop the good citizens from building their wall.
Now, in the year of our Lord 1260 and a good eighty years later, it had finally been declared completed. Five miles long, with twelve massive gate towers and fifty-two turrets, it literally dwarfed all other town walls. As well as the city proper, it also enclosed farms and monasteries, productive orchards and vineyards, which until then had lain unprotected outside the city gates, making Cologne an almost self-sufficient world.
For the citizens the great wall was a symbol of their independence and bolstered their self-confidence, much to the disgust of the present archbishop, Conrad von Hochstaden.
For Jacob it was a blessing.
He knew nothing abou
t politics, nor did he want to. However, the men who designed the wall had included an architectural feature of which he and others like him had made good use. At regular intervals along the inside there were arches that were deep and high enough to provide shelter from the worst of the weather and the seasons. Eventually someone had the idea of making a lean-to shack out of planks, branches, and rags, and others followed suit. One of these was an old day-laborer called Richolf Wisterich who managed to keep body and soul together by working in the tread wheel for the hoists on the cathedral building site. When Jacob came back to Cologne a few months previously he had made friends with the old man and, when he died, inherited his shack. Thus he possessed what soon became mockingly referred to as status muri, the privilege of a roof—of a kind—over his tousled head.
In contrast to Jacob, who had virtually nothing, Tilman had nothing at all. He usually slept at the Duck Ponds, a miserable patch of ground at the back of a section of old wall left over from the tenth century. It had no arches to shelter under. The moat had more or less filled in and consisted of a series of putrid, stagnant pools where ducks dabbled. Beyond it willows and poplars rose out of the mud, and then began the extensive gardens of the monasteries and convents. The stench was awful. Tilman used to say living there was probably worse than dying out in the open fields, underlining his opinion with a barking cough that sounded as if he was unlikely to be around to reflect on such matters much longer.
When Jacob eventually found him he was sitting with his back to the wall at the Ponds, staring at the sky. His scrawny body was clothed in a long, tattered shirt and his feet wrapped in rags. He could have been an imposing figure of a man, but he was skinny as a rake.
Jacob sat down beside him. For a while they both observed the clouds slowly sailing past.
A dark bank assembled on the horizon.
Tilman coughed and turned toward Jacob, inspecting him from top to toe with his reddened eyes. “Suits you,” he said.
Jacob examined himself. In the clothes of his unwitting benefactor he looked more like a simple tradesman than a beggar, if you ignored the monstrosity of a hat. Remembering his bath in the Duffes Brook, he had to laugh.
Death and the Devil: A Novel Page 3