The most beautiful apples were luring him farther toward the end of the branch. For a brief moment he considered making do with what he had. But given that he was in the archbishop’s apple trees, he saw no reason to accept less than Conrad himself.
He screwed up his eyes and crept forward a bit. The branch was getting visibly thinner; now it was jutting out over the cathedral building site. Through the foliage he could see the chancel corseted in scaffolding. There was no one there. In the morning, at cockcrow, the whole area would resound with bustle and hammering, shouts and rumblings, but now it was wrapped in a strange peace.
For a moment Jacob was amazed at how close the horseshoe of soaring windows and pillars seemed to be. Or were his eyes playing tricks on him? Was it just the huge proportions that gave the work a physical presence, as if he could touch it with his hand? And they said it was going to be even bigger? More than twice as high, even without the towers. He could scarcely imagine it.
Nor was it important. He turned back to the apples. A cathedral did nothing for an empty stomach.
At the very moment his fingers were closing around a particularly fine apple, a figure appeared high up on the scaffolding. Jacob jerked back and pressed against the rough bark. Time to be going. But that would be a waste. Better to sit still for a while. In the shadow of the leaves he could see everything without being seen. His eyes followed the man as he made his way along the planks. Even at this distance he could see that he was expensively dressed. His coat had a trimming of rich fur. He held himself erect, like a man who was used to giving orders. At times he shook the scaffolding poles, as if to make sure they were well fixed. At others he placed his hand on the balustrade and just looked down.
Even though Jacob was just an idle good-for-nothing, he knew who the man inspecting the building was. Everyone knew the architect. There was a story doing the rounds that Gerhard Morart had called up the Devil to produce his plans. A stonemason by profession, his appointment had made him one of the most respected and influential burghers. The cathedral chapter had granted him a piece of land on which he had built himself a magnificent stone house in the style of the old established families, the so-called noble houses. He moved in patrician circles, with the Overstolzes, the von Mainzes, the Kones. His advice was sought, his work admired, and at the same time feared, as he was himself. Gerhard was already a legendary figure, and there were those who thought he would, with the help of the Arch-fiend, manage to complete the impossible before his death, at which he would plunge from the topmost spire straight down to hell. Accompanied by that vain and pompous archbishop.
To Jacob, though, the cathedral still seemed more the result of hard labor than of a satanic pact.
In the meantime Gerhard Morart had climbed to the highest level of the scaffolding. His massive silhouette stood out black against what was left of the daylight. The wind tugged fiercely at his coat. Jacob felt the first raindrops splash on his face and shivered. Gerhard could spend the whole night up there, if he wanted. It was time for a few more apples and a quick getaway.
Just then someone else appeared on the scaffolding. He seemed to Jacob to come from nowhere. The second figure was much taller than Gerhard. It materialized so close behind him that for a moment the two shapes seemed to merge.
Then a scream rang out, and Jacob saw Gerhard plummet down, past his scaffolding, pillars, and capitals, past his buttresses and piscinas, his pediments and recesses. His arms were flailing; for one terrible moment it looked as if he were waving to Jacob in his apple tree. Then there was a dull thud as the body hit the ground, rose up, as if grabbed by a giant fist, then came to rest on its back.
Jacob stared at the motionless figure. It was impossible that the architect had survived the fall. Hastily he started to push himself back, but he had gone only a couple of feet when, with a loud crack, the branch gave way. Like a witch on a broomstick, he flew down on the rotten branch and landed with a loud crash in a tangle of leaves and scraps of bark. He kicked his legs to free himself, desperately gasping for breath.
Sweet Jesus! He’d fallen into the cathedral site.
Still panting, he got to his feet. His hat had been pulled off. He stuck the shapeless clump back on his head and looked around wildly.
Out of here, said a voice in his head. Out of here while there’s still time. It was the same voice that had warned him in the marketplace that morning.
Out of here!
He caught sight of Gerhard. The twisted body was no more than fifty paces from him. Could that have been a groan he’d heard?
He had another look.
Gerhard’s dead, said the voice.
Jacob clenched his fists as the sweat broke out all over his body. There was still time to slip away unnoticed.
Then he saw the movement. Gerhard’s arm had twitched. Just slightly, but there was no doubt he was still alive.
A memory surfaced. He pushed it back down.
Get away, Fox!
“Will you never learn, blockhead?” Jacob muttered to himself as he scampered over to the cathedral. The rain, heavier now, was falling into his eyes. He knelt down beside the body.
Gerhard was looking up with a glassy stare. The rain was running over his face and through his thinning hair. His fur-trimmed cap was on the ground beside him. He certainly didn’t look like a man who had made a pact with the Devil. It was a gentle, noble-looking face. Or, rather, had been. Now all it showed was the trauma of approaching death.
His chest rose convulsively. His lips quivered.
Jacob brushed the wet hair out of Gerhard’s face and bent over him. Gerhard seemed aware of his presence. With an immense effort he turned his head and looked at him. Again his lips moved.
Had he said something?
Voices and steps could be heard from the other side of the cathedral, probably people who had heard the scream. Jacob hesitated, then placed his ear close to Gerhard’s lips and closed his eyes.
It was three words.
Without thinking, Jacob grasped his hand and squeezed it.
A trickle of blood came out of Gerhard’s mouth.
He was dead.
For Christ’s sake, get out of here, the voice urged.
Jacob could hear strange scraping noises above him. He leaped up. Something was coming down the scaffolding. He bent his head back and looked up.
He caught his breath.
The tall black shadow was coming closer, story by story. But it was not climbing down, it was jumping with uncanny speed, springing across the planks as nimbly as an animal, its hair streaming out behind like a comet’s tail.
It had almost reached him.
Whoever or whatever it was that was coming, Jacob felt no desire to make its closer acquaintance. He turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could. People were approaching across the cathedral close, shouting and gesticulating. Jacob darted sideways, slipped into the shadow of a workman’s shed, and managed to join the crowd from behind. Everybody was talking at once. Someone shouted out the news and already others were carrying it out of the cathedral and into the streets.
No one had seen him. Apart from the shadow.
Oddly enough, it was the apples that came to mind at that moment. He patted his pockets. Some were still there, they’d not all come out when he’d fallen down. Good. He’d saved more than just his skin.
As unobtrusively as possible, he strolled across the close and out by Dragon Gate. He turned around once, but there was no sign of the shadowy being on the scaffold.
Somewhat relieved, he quickened his pace and set off along Bechergasse.
THE SHADOW
Urquhart followed him at a distance. He had pulled his cloak up to cover his hair and, despite his height, was merely a phantom among the busy crush of people, as black and inconspicuous as the night that was falling.
It would have been easy to kill the fellow on the building site. Urquhart knew he had observed the murder. But Gerhard’s death was supposed to look like an accident. Th
e shattered body of the architect, and beside it another with a crossbow-bolt in his chest—that wasn’t the idea. Nevertheless, he had to dispose of the annoying witness who had so unexpectedly tumbled out of the tree quickly and well away from the cathedral, someplace where there were not many people around. The crossbow under his cloak was ready, but in the crowded market area there was no opportunity for a shot. The head of the fellow kept disappearing among people going home or to vespers, as he hurried on his way out of the city.
What had Gerhard whispered to him? Had he said anything at all or had the only thing to pass his lips before he died been blood? But if he had spoken, then that fellow was carrying a secret, and it was hardly to be expected he would keep it to himself.
He could spoil everything.
Urquhart lengthened his stride while his mind was working out what he knew about his quarry. Observations combined like glass tiles in a colorful mosaic. The man had red hair. When he fell out of the tree his hat had been pulled off. Urquhart had seen his red mane blaze up in the evening sun before he ran over to Gerhard. And he seemed to be in good physical condition. A fast runner. He had to be. Anyone clambering around in the archbishop’s orchard at that time of night must be a thief and thieves could either run like the wind or were dangling from the gallows. A clever thief, too. The way he had blended with the crowd suggested an alert mind, as did the fact that he had immediately made for the busiest streets, where it was difficult for someone to follow him.
Though not for Urquhart the Shadow.
There were still too many people in the streets. For the moment all he could do was keep the redhead under observation. With any luck he would have some stolen goods in his coat and would make for his hiding place, perhaps the place where he slept. They were usually quiet places. Thieves kept away from other people.
Unless he had a bed in a monastery. It wasn’t easy to get into the friaries and hospices. To follow him there might pose a problem.
There was no time to lose.
Urquhart slipped his hand under his cloak and grasped his crossbow. They were in Minoritenstraße; the Franciscan monastery was there on the right.
And, suddenly, almost all the people seemed to disappear into some house or other. The odd figures still out were hurrying over the slippery ground, heads down against the rain. Then, for a brief second, the street was empty except for the witness hurrying along in his floppy hat. The witness who had seen too much and heard too much.
Urquhart raised his arm.
And quickly lowered it. Too late.
Four men, all of them pretty down-at-heel, had come out of a low tavern opposite the monastery. One greeted the redhead noisily. The others gathered around the two and all Urquhart could see was shoulders and backs.
He crept along in the shadow of the wall of Greyfriars church until he was close enough to hear. Then he waited.
Tilman!” cried Jacob. It was his friend from the Duck Ponds staggering out of the tavern. Jacob was delighted. He had headed for the Hen in the hope of finding Tilman there before the source dried up.
And he needed someone to talk to. He hadn’t got over the fright yet.
Tilman grinned. He didn’t look any better than he had two hours ago, but there was a feverish gleam in his eyes. The drink was having its effect.
The others were beggars, too. Jacob only knew them by sight. Apart from one, who shared the “privilege of the Wall” with him, an unpleasant tub of lard, with whom he’d exchanged insults now and then. Nothing to get worked up about. They understood each other, that was all. Or, to put it another way, so far neither had smashed the other’s skull in for a few scraps of food. Not that there weren’t enough smashed skulls around. The fat man had a propensity to violence when there was something to be gotten out of it. The word was, he was getting careless. Jacob gave him six months before his head dropped in the executioner’s basket.
The Hen was one of the few ale houses that didn’t throw people out just because they were dressed in rags. The landlord was tolerant of the poor, as long as they could pay. Many beggars lived honest, God fearing—and correspondingly short—lives, and there was no reason why they should not enjoy the blessings of the Cologne brewer’s art.
With time, however, the clientele had sunk so low that respectable people no longer went there. The landlord had to put up with local hostility, especially from the Greyfriars, whose monastery was directly opposite. As well as that, the town whores complained it operated as an unofficial brothel for part-time prostitutes, ostensibly respectable ladies who sold themselves, secretly of course, to wealthy gentlemen. Thus they took business away from the licensed whores, which annoyed the town executioner, under whose jurisdiction they were placed and to whom they paid dues.
There had been repeated threats against the Hen, and the landlord had grown cautious. Only recently a brewer in Cleves had been accused of sorcery and burned at the stake. The night that happened, the venerable Franciscan brethren had written the word “Cleves” in pitch on the door; the merchant families in the imposing neighboring houses, at the sign of the Large and the Small Water-Butt, wondered out loud about a denunciation to the Holy Inquisition because their children had seen black cats running out of the Hen while inside two demons, Abigor and Asmodeus, in the form of lecherous women had shouted obscenities and given off sulfurous odors. Jacob wondered how the children knew it was precisely those two demons when there must be at least—how many was it?—at least ten demons, but the Hen had its problems.
And for that, Jacob was told by tub of lard, they’d simply been thrown out.
“Nonsense,” whispered Tilman. “The money was finished. You’re too late.”
“Thrown out!” bellowed the fat man, who had heard and was obviously the one who had been standing the treat.
Tilman coughed his lungs out.
“Doesn’t matter,” he panted. “Back to the Duck Ponds then.”
“Yes, lie down and die.” One of the others laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh.
Jacob felt a wave of disappointment. Why did it have to happen to him? The chance of drinking something other than foul water didn’t come his way that often.
Then he remembered the apples and Maria.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing Tilman by the arm. The beggars disappeared in the opposite direction, cursing because the money hadn’t been sufficient to get properly drunk.
“Did you get any apples?” asked Tilman, out of breath.
“Here.” Jacob pulled one out. Tilman bit into it as if it were the first thing his teeth had had to bite on all day. Perhaps it was.
Behind them a late cart rumbled across the street.
“Where are we going, anyway?” Tilman wanted to know. The last syllables turned into a new fit of coughing.
“To Maria.”
“See you tomorrow.” Tilman tried to pull away, but Jacob kept his arm in a tight grip and continued along the street.
“You’re going nowhere. For one thing there’s an incredible story I want to tell you and Maria.”
“You and your stories. Was there ever one that was true?”
“For another, you’re not well. If you don’t get a dry bed tonight you soon won’t be needing any more apples.”
“You know Maria can’t stand me,” whined Tilman as he scurried along beside Jacob.
“I know she’s fed up with giving shelter to all and sundry, but you’re my friend. And who isn’t to say whether, tonight of all nights, thanks to a happy coincidence—”
“You can forget your happy coincidences.”
“You’re coming!”
“All right, all right.”
The oxcart rattled out of the side street and blocked Urquhart’s view. When the redhead and his companion reappeared they were way ahead. A few Greyfriars were returning to the monastery from New Market Square, pulling a cartload of thin boards. Urquhart let them pass, then hurried on after the two, but now other people were coming into
the street.
He would have to be patient.
Urquhart thought it over. The meeting with the gang of beggars had been too brief for the redhead to have told them anything. The one who was going with him was quite another matter though. Every moment the risk of Gerhard Morart’s last words being passed on grew greater.
Of course, it was possible he had not said anything, just groaned and given up the ghost. It was possible, but Urquhart felt it was safer to assume the opposite.
After a few minutes the pair turned off to the right into Berlich, a seedy, sparsely populated district, best known for its pig breeders—which explained the stench. But there were others who went about their business there.
Were they going to the whores?
Urquhart stole along in the shadow of the dilapidated houses. In front he heard someone softly call out, “Maria.” A door opened a crack and the two slipped inside.
They had managed to escape.
For the moment.
He briefly considered following them in and settling the matter there and then, but decided against it. He had no idea how many people there were in the building. It was a small house, clearly a brothel. There might be a brothel keeper. Someone staggered out and waddled along toward him. Not one of the men he’d been following. Well dressed and too drunk to notice him. Clearly a merchant. Mumbling to himself, he disappeared behind some pigsties.
Urquhart watched him go, then turned his attention back to the house. A light appeared in a first-floor window and the shutters closed with a crash.
They had to come out again. Eventually.
Urquhart melted into the darkness. He could wait.
BERLICH
It was a whorehouse. The keeper, Clemens Brabanter, was a burly, good-natured fellow. He charged his customers, as a cover charge, so to speak, for four pints of wine, of which only three appeared on the table. A peat fire smoked out the cheap taproom that took in the whole of the ground floor, a grubby curtain dividing off the place where Clemens slept. Fatty, gristly meat was grilled over the fire, usually burned black, unless one of the guests brought a better-quality joint. Then Clemens would sit himself by the fire and keep turning the delicacy. He wanted his guest to enjoy it. The girls only got a taste if the visitor invited them. Since Clemens, as a man of honesty and fairness, did not exempt himself from this rule, the girls respected him, especially as he didn’t bother to beat them.
Death and the Devil: A Novel Page 5