Turning red as a beetroot, the monk grabbed the bowl out of his hands. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he shouted, beside himself. “Out you go.”
“Wait.” Jacob ran over to a tiny window beside the porch.
“I’ll—I’ll—”
“Shh! The Devil’s waiting outside.”
The monk was speechless. Eyes wide—as far as the folds of fat would allow—he crossed himself.
Jacob peered out. He started when he saw the Shadow. He came down the lane to the church. Then stood still, turning his head this way and that.
Jacob didn’t even dare breathe.
The Shadow took a few more steps, then stopped again and looked toward the church. His pale eyes seemed to be fixed on Jacob. He jerked his head to one side, then the other, to and fro. He looked up at the sky. In the light of the moon his profile stood out against the dark background of trees and walls, his long hair a cascade of silver.
He’s confused, thought Jacob in jubilation. He can’t understand where I’ve disappeared to. His mind’s telling him I must be somewhere nearby, but his senses are telling him the opposite.
He’ll trust his senses. Like every beast of prey.
He waited, tense, until the figure moved hesitantly on his way again. After a while it had merged with the darkness.
The Shadow had lost him.
“Your confession, my son,” whispered the monk. There were tiny beads of sweat on his brow. He was trembling.
“Have patience, please. Just a little longer.”
Time passed agonizingly slowly in the gloomy church. The monk was obviously so terrified of the Devil he didn’t dare move.
When at last Jacob was sure he’d shaken off his pursuer, he sank down against the cold stone wall to the floor, closed his eyes, and sent a short prayer of thanks to St. Ursula. Of all the saints, she was the one he liked best. He made an on-the-spot decision to owe his rescue to her, conveniently forgetting that only a few minutes ago he had been vowing to become a monk in St. Maximin’s.
“What was that you were saying about the Devil?” quavered the monk.
Jacob came to with a start. “The Devil? Oh, forget it.”
“And confession?”
“Oh, yes, my confession. You know, when I come to think about it, it’s not that urgent.”
“But—”
“I’ve just remembered. I went to confession only this morning. Or was it yesterday evening? Tell me, Father, can a simple, honest man commit so many sins in one day that it’s worth going to confession?”
The monk stared at him as if he had misheard. Then he pulled himself together. He gave a chilly smile. A moon of a face without any of the moon’s charm. “My dear son—”
Jacob was on his feet in a second. That “dear son” did not sound particularly dear.
“—when I was your age I could thump three lads of your size so hard on the head, they ended up looking out through their ribs, like cocks in a cage. Now I’m much too old, and much too pious, of course.” He darted over to Jacob and dragged him to the door. “But I imagine I can still manage a godly kick up the backside to get you out of my church.”
Jacob thought about it. “Yes,” he said, “I imagine you can.” Without waiting for a reply, he opened the heavy oak door, glanced outside, and hurried off, his head well down between his shoulders. He just hoped the Shadow wouldn’t still be waiting for him.
This time no one followed him.
Shaking his head, the monk came out of the church and put his hands on his hips. Just let that ungodly scoundrel come for confession once again!
Then his anger dissipated. Reverently, he drew in the clear air and muttered a hurried Ave Maria.
What a beautiful, peaceful night.
12 September
JACOB
Jacob woke with a mouth as dry as an oven. He’d slept at most three hours and two had been torture, lashed by bad dreams.
But he was alive.
As he sat up, his body protested and he wondered for a moment why he was sore all over, as if he’d been whipped or broken on the wheel. Then he saw the ropes he’d been lying on. They twisted and turned like heavy snakes over the deck of the little boat. The pattern was probably imprinted on his body.
He pulled himself to his feet, wincing with pain. When he pushed up the short sleeve of his jerkin, he saw that his right shoulder was grazed and bruised. He’d scraped it along the stones of the archway as he tried to give his pursuer the slip by St. Peter’s. He fingered the spot and groaned. It felt even worse than it looked.
Cautiously he peeped over the rail at the bustle on the quay. Several broad-beamed cargo boats were anchored there. They must have arrived during the night. Porters were transferring their cargoes of slates onto oxcarts. Among them was the harbormaster with his scroll and quill, supervising the work. It was a hive of activity even though, to judge by the sun, it was not yet six. Work at the quayside began before daybreak.
With stiff muscles, he climbed over the rail and dropped to the ground, hoping no one would see him. It was only a small boat in dry dock, clearly it had no goods on board, but the overseers still didn’t like beggars and such riffraff sleeping in them. Being caught automatically meant being suspected of having stolen something, which was true more often than not. That for Jacob it had been a matter of life and death was neither here nor there.
He strolled along the harbor like a casual observer. There was a crush at Rhine Gate. It was one of the few places where goods could be brought into the city, also the site of the public weighhouse for grain. Not surprisingly, there was a long queue of wagons and carts. A little farther on at Filzgraben Gate a group of city sheriffs and beadles in their brightly colored robes were checking some tattered-looking individuals. Remembering his unsuccessful attempt to steal a chop, he decided it would be better to avoid being seen. Any other way into the city would be a detour, but probably safer.
As he ambled along outside the city wall, he kept one eye on the workers, gossiping boatmen, overseers, and toll collectors hurrying past. He was ready to take to his heels at a moment’s notice. There didn’t, however, seem to be any immediate danger. With any luck his pursuer from the previous night had lost his track or, rather, his scent, after he had poured holy water over himself. Which suggested he was dealing with some creature that was only part-human, a demon or perhaps even Satan himself.
Jacob shuddered.
But could you escape from the Devil? The Arch-fiend would have found him anywhere. The Shadow, on the other hand, had lost him.
A man after all?
Suddenly Maria came into his mind. She was dead. He had some difficulty remembering what she had looked like—he had suppressed her image. The things that had happened last night seemed strangely distant, as if all the horrifying experiences belonged to the memory of another person. Jacob was intelligent enough not to be deceived by this. He had a vague feeling the affair wasn’t over, that it was only just beginning and he should be prepared for the worst. He couldn’t be dousing himself in holy water all the time. Cologne was large but anyone who was determined to find him would do so sooner or later. And the Shadow was looking for him, there was no doubt about that.
He was the quarry, not Tilman.
Perhaps the sensible thing would be to leave Cologne. He had been running away all his life, so why not now? And how many more times would he have to run away?
Jacob didn’t feel like running away. Not again.
The next gate was Wash Gate. Not hurrying, Jacob passed under the half-timbered portal, past the toll collectors with their bills of lading, drifting with the crowd. Shortly before Haymarket, he turned off down Rheingasse with the splendid stone-built house of the Overstolz family. Despite the exasperated noises his stomach was making, he decided to avoid the markets. They probably remembered his red hair all too well there, especially at the meat stalls.
His hair!
Could the Shadow have seen his hair? His hat had come off wh
en he fell out of the tree and it hadn’t been too dark for someone to see the color of his hair. No problem finding him, then. His lurid mane was a direct invitation to his would-be assassin. And his hat had gone for good. Tilman was wearing it. What was left of Tilman, that is.
Dozens of creepy-crawlies seemed to be wriggling through his intestines. He slipped into the porch of the Overstolz house, took off his jerkin, and started to wind it around his head. Pain stabbed his right shoulder; he could hardly use his right arm. The cloth slid down over his eyes. Cursing, he pulled it off and tried again. It slid to the ground.
“What are you doing here?” a sharp voice behind him asked.
His heart missed a beat.
Slowly he turned around and breathed a sigh of relief. It was no long-haired giant aiming a crossbow at him. The man was wearing a brown coat trimmed with black fur over a pleated burgundy robe and an embroidered hat with earmuffs. His beard was flecked with gray and the eyes fixed on him had a cold gleam.
“Sorry,” whispered Jacob.
“This isn’t a place to be hanging around, d’you hear? I could set the dogs on you.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. Forgive me.” Jacob picked up his jerkin and squeezed past the man.
“Hey!”
He froze. There was a lump in his throat that even the most violent swallowing could not get down.
The man came up to him. Jacob saw his hand push back the coat to rest on the pommel of a slim sword hanging from his hip in a gold-mounted sheath.
“I—I was just taking a breather,” Jacob assured him.
The other frowned. “You’re a beggar,” he said. “Why aren’t you outside one of the churches begging?”
“I didn’t want to beg.” Just a moment, why ever not? “It’s the hunger, you see, that’s all.” Jacob assumed his most heartrending expression and pointed at his belly, which, indeed, did not have an ounce of spare fat. “My knees are like wax in the sun, the same sun that’s burning my brain. I don’t know if I’ll survive till the evening. My poor children! My poor wife! But forgive me, your honor, forgive me for having stood in your way, no harm intended. Forgive me, but all I want is a little of God’s grace and something in my stomach.”
It was a load of soft soap, really, but effective. The man scrutinized him from head to toe. Then he grinned. “What’s your name?”
“Jacob, sir. They call me the Fox.”
The man felt in his pocket and pressed a coin in Jacob’s hand. “Pray for me, Fox.”
Jacob nodded vigorously. “That I will, your honor. I promise.” Then, closing his fingers around his prize, he hurried off.
“And buy yourself something to eat, Fox, before you steal it,” the man shouted after him.
Jacob turned around and watched him go into the big house. A patrician! Jesus Christ! The man must be one of the Overstolzes, the most important family in the whole of Cologne and the surrounding area. That was what he called a piece of luck.
He had a look at the coin. A guilder! That was enough to keep the demons of the night at a distance for a while.
But not enough to make him forget them.
Clutching the cool metal, he turned left into Filzengraben and hurried on, trying at the same time to wrap the blasted jerkin around his head with his left hand so that it covered his hair. He had almost reached the end of the street before he managed it. He didn’t dare think what he looked like, even less what Richmodis would say.
Another stab of pain in his shoulder.
Just now she was the only person who could help him. He glanced along the Brook. There were more people there than yesterday.
He devoutly hoped that turning up there would not put Richmodis in danger. He was still alive, but two people had already been killed for something he had seen when he shouldn’t have. At least that was the assumption. So far he hadn’t had much leisure to think it over.
As he came nearer, he scanned the Duffes Brook. No sign of Richmodis.
He’d have to leave. Either that or knock at her door. But then he risked an earful from her father because he was wearing his jerkin and boots. He might even want them back and report him to the magistrate for theft.
Certainly, Jacob could hear himself saying, take back what is yours. For the hat and coat you’ll have to go to Plackgasse. See the man with a crossbow bolt through his neck; he won’t cause you any difficulty.
Oho! A crossbow bolt. And you’ll be the one who killed him?
Jacob could feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat. He sat down on the narrow strip of grass beside the stream and dipped his hands in the water. That hadn’t occurred to him.
It was just too much. He lay on his back, spread his arms wide, and stared up at the sky. The sheriffs, beadles, and magistrates were probably already after him. Plus Gerhard’s murderer and the odd butcher.
Great, great.
He closed his eyes. If only he could get some sleep.
“Wake up. Aren’t you going to teach me to play the flute?”
“Richmodis!”
Her face was upside down, her hair hanging down and appearing to reach out to him. He shot up and felt the stab of pain in his shoulder, worse than before.
She came around to face him and smiled. She was carrying a basket with a cover. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“I told you, I love your nose.” Jacob tried to struggle up.
She noticed his injured shoulder and frowned. “Oh, dear me, where did you do that?”
“Door was too narrow.”
He got to his feet, picked up the jerkin, and, with a guilty expression, shook off the dust. Her eyes darted from his shoulder to the jerkin, scrutinized him from head to toe, and returned to his shoulder. She stretched out and squeezed it.
“Ouch!”
“Oh, come on. Squealing like a little piglet.”
“Richmodis.” He grasped her by the shoulders, then thought better of it and took his hands away. “I know it’s asking a lot, but—” He looked around. People were staring at them again.
“What have you done this time?” She sighed.
“You said your uncle’s a physician?”
“Not only that, he’s dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s and knows important people. Why?”
“I need him to—I don’t know what I’ve done to my shoulder. They’re trying to get me because I saw everything, all because of that stupid tree, and I’m sorry about the clothes, but I just wanted to help Tilman and—”
Richmodis shook her head and raised her hands. “Stop! Who’s trying to get you? What did you see? Who’s Tilman? I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“Me neither,” admitted Jacob.
“Then you’d better come with me.” She took his arm and led him to the house. “I don’t want to have to drown you under the cloths again, or to invent a story about my dozens of lovers for any would-be ladies’ man who happens to turn up.” She opened the door and pointed inside. “In you go.”
“Won’t you get into trouble with your father?” asked Jacob in a low voice.
“You can be a bore with your conscience. Sit down there.” She pointed to a bench beside the fireplace. There was a fire crackling in it. The room was simply but comfortably furnished.
Jacob shook his head. “No. I may not exactly be a wealthy burgher, but I do know that respectable young ladies do not take young men into their parlor when the whole neighborhood is watching. I think I’d better go.”
“Out of the question.”
“I’m serious.”
“And so am I,” she said emphatically. “You think you can come here handing out pretty little whistles in return for jerkins, and my father’s coat and hat—I can’t wait to hear what happened to them—and then simply disappear? I’m warning you….” She gave him a stern look, tried a pout, but couldn’t stop herself bursting out laughing. “And not a word about my nose.”
Jacob spread out his arms in submission and sank down onto the bench. She wagged a f
inger at him. “And don’t you move. I’ll be back right away.”
He nodded and breathed deeply. It was irresponsible of him to come to see Richmodis, but what else could he have done? He was injured, and there was always the danger Clemens would think he had killed Maria. Running off like that was the stupidest thing he could have done. Running away meant you were guilty. To be accused of her murder, and of Tilman’s, was all he needed. Next they would be saying he’d pushed Gerhard off the scaffolding! No, that was one thing they wouldn’t suspect him of. There were witnesses to say it had been an accident. Witnesses who hadn’t been there to witness it.
Richmodis returned with a pail of water. She came from the back room, which led into the yard. The von Weidens must have their own well. Not everyone did. Most people shared the wells at crossroads or street corners.
She sat astride the bench and started to clean the wound carefully with a cloth. She did it so gently it was almost enjoyable. Under different circumstances Jacob would have invented further injuries just to feel the caress of her soft hands.
“There we are.” She dropped the cloth into the pail and inspected her work. “That’s the best I can do for the moment.”
Jacob squinted down at his shoulder. It was all the colors of the rainbow. “Richmodis—” He took her hand and squeezed it. She didn’t pull her hand away, just stared at him with her green eyes and waited. He didn’t know what to say.
Eventually she came to his rescue. “You’re running away.”
“Yes.”
“You were doing that yesterday, too.”
“Yesterday I’d stolen something. That’s different. It’s my profession.”
“Aha, profession.” She raised her eyebrows in mock respect.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” he said urgently. “I’m a thief and a cheat, I admit it. But this is different. My only mistake was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I saw someone being murdered and the murderer saw me—and the two people I told about it are dead.” His voice trailed off at the thought of Maria. He cleared his throat noisily and looked away.
Death and the Devil: A Novel Page 10