At last Isabella herself came, riding in state on a strawberry roan with a magnificent white mane and tail, followed by the archbishop and Petrus de Viena, the emperor’s lord advocate. Four youths with wreaths in their hair, wearing gold blouses and purple hose, the black eagle embroidered on their chests, protected the fair princess from the sun with a canopy covered in tassels and bows. Beneath this second sky, veiled in mystery, almost a being from another world, she seemed closer to the Blessed Virgin than any woman before, indeed, almost outshone the Mother of God, so that the crowd, in blasphemous ecstasy, fell to their knees and some, forgetting the dividing line between truth and the wiles of the Devil, started to pray. And the noble ladies on their balconies, so beautiful and yet, even unveiled, not nearly so beautiful, tormented by their own vanity, masking their jealousy beneath tones of humble but false deference, ravaged by uncertainty and envy, demanded to see her face, to see at last the face of the English saint, princess, lady, whore, strumpet, destroying angel—her face, her face, her face!
With the whole crowd going wild in its desire to see her, Isabella lifted up her tiny white hands and, in a simple movement, removed both hat and veil, and the mystery was revealed.
And Jacob knew there was a God in heaven.
He sensed it in his small body. He was filled with love and reverence for true beauty, which came to him as a refreshing draught, a blessing from the Almighty. He was aware of his beating heart and fevered brow, felt the bliss only a boy in love can feel.
They stood there, gaping. Jacob’s mother forgot the steward’s man with the cart and when they went to find him, hours later, he was gone. They had to walk. It was a long way to their village for little Jacob, who fell into a gentle sleep as they sat under an oak tree in the night, his heart full of Isabella and the hope that after all there was a God who loved mankind.
It was late the following afternoon that they reached the farm.
His father beat his mother till she collapsed. What did she think she was doing, he screamed at her, staying away for so long? She did not reply. There were no words for this world, nor for the world to come, toward which she had turned her eyes.
A few days passed. Jacob’s mother died.
She passed away without her smile and Jacob’s father stood there, stone-faced.
From that day on life on the farm was one long hell. The following year the fever returned and carried off more of Jacob’s brothers and sisters. The youngest suffered an even worse fate when the handle of the pot over the fire broke, sending a flood of boiling water over the floor and into the hollow. This time the priest did not come. He sent a message to say he had important business to deal with and would come, if possible, at the next full moon. Jacob’s father didn’t wait that long, and another small grave appeared behind the house. After that he stopped talking to other people and refused to have anything to do with them. Jacob heard other children say he had the evil eye and had probably turned various people into pigs in order to increase his livestock. Suddenly Jacob too was regarded with suspicion. Red hair was not a sign of a good Christian. They started throwing stones at him and he had no idea why.
One day a wandering journeyman, with the latest news from Cologne, knocked on the door, looking for a bed for the night. Whether it was his total isolation from other company, or the fact that he went more and more in fear of his life because he was supposed to dabble in the black arts, his father offered the journeyman lodging for a few days. In return for the bed and the hard, black peasant bread, the man talked all the time of what was going on in the world and his father listened, in silence as always, just shaking his head now and then.
Jacob listened, too, breathless and with shining eyes. The dark room was suddenly alive with strange figures and happenings, and he greedily absorbed every word, without understanding the least of what was said. But he felt once more the fascination of a strange and exciting world in which everything seemed to be of the utmost complexity.
Thus they learned that the old archbishop had died and been succeeded by Conrad von Hochstaden. The most fantastic stories were circulating about him. If their guest was to be believed, this Conrad was something of a villain, violent and dangerous, quite willing to engineer an opportune accident. Before his election as archbishop he was provost of St. Mary’s-by-the-Steps. At some point he must have decided that was not enough for a man of his ability and assigned the office of provost of the cathedral chapter to himself, even though the post was already occupied. He suggested to the old provost he should vacate his house as quickly as possible, which the latter refused to do. Conrad solved the embarrassing situation by pulling strings to get the old provost excommunicated.
It was a scandal. The whole city was up in arms.
The inevitable ensued. Conrad was summoned to Rome to appear before the Curia. But the Romans had reckoned without Conrad. Hochstaden only appeared where he wanted to appear. The response was immediate. The pope’s representatives arrived in Cologne to restore the old provost to his post. He, however, did not dare enter the cathedral, where Conrad was lording it with a couple of unpleasant-looking thugs, explaining to all and sundry he would challenge anyone who refused to recognize his authority. So the provost sent a proxy for the papal legates to install in office, saying he would deal with the matter himself once Conrad had given in and crawled back to that den of iniquity known as St. Mary’s.
All hell was let loose. Foaming with rage, Conrad dragged the legates out of the cathedral by the hair. Then he set off at the head of his gang for the provost’s house, where they removed everything that wasn’t actually nailed down, smashed the rest to bits, and took the terrified old man prisoner.
Enough, the pope decided, was enough. One of his flock was defying the power of the Holy Roman Church and some of its most distinguished servants. Very soon, Conrad found himself excommunicated. The interdict was pronounced and Conrad would doubtless have come to a sorry end had not events taken a completely absurd turn.
Conrad was elected archbishop.
Had he had the time, Conrad would probably have laughed himself silly. As it was, he was all sweetness and light, released the provost from captivity, dusted him down, and apologized to him. What had their disagreement been about? Provost of the cathedral chapter? The old man was provost of the chapter.
So the good burghers of Cologne had a bully as archbishop. But Conrad was not stupid. He knew that the citizens had more than once made their opinion of their archiepiscopal lords crystal clear. Just under two hundred years ago they had thrown Archbishop Anno out because he had commandeered a ship for his guest, the bishop of Münster. Christ Almighty, what was a ship and a bit of cargo that had been thrown into the Rhine so that Münster would not have to sit among flax and cheese! But Anno had been forced to flee, slipping out by a tunnel like a rat, otherwise the citizens would probably have killed him.
And then Philip von Heinsberg, who had left the city, only to find they had immediately started building a wall behind his back. Fine to have a wall, but shouldn’t the bastards have asked first?
Finally Engelbert von Berg. He had been stabbed in the back by his own nephew. The nephew didn’t come from Cologne, true, but that was irrelevant. Engelbert had been the city’s lord and master, and that was why he had been killed. The citizens of Cologne had blood on their hands, sacred blood!
And Conrad’s predecessor? He had made debts. Of course he had! What was money in the fight against the Devil? What in Christ’s name was it that made the Cologne merchants insist on repayment of their loans, as if the archbishop were a common debtor, at the same time denouncing him to the pope as a libertine who committed fornication with the wives of German knights and squandered their money on feasting and orgies?
Impudent, ungrateful rabble!
But the city was also the leading trading power in the empire and enjoyed privileges that made it as good as a free imperial city, such as the right to levy dues and mint coins. To make an enemy of the city would onl
y bring problems. Better to acknowledge their rights.
For the moment at least.
The journeyman had also heard that the people in Cologne did not really trust Conrad. Everyone knew that the new archbishop’s cleverness was only surpassed by his unscrupulousness. For the moment he appeared as meek as a little lamb, though in the opinion of the citizens he was anything but meek and bore no resemblance whatsoever to a harmless grass-eater. Things were bound to get lively at some point, that was for sure.
Conrad was simply too crafty.
For the moment, though, no one had any complaints. On the contrary. He had opened two ale houses, the Medehuys in Old Market Square and the Middes in Follerstraße. That had meant a beer tax, but as long as they had plenty to drink, the burghers of Cologne were not too worried about taxes. No one had forgotten that terrible time, in 1225, when Archbishop Engelbert had briefly forbidden the brewing of beer.
The journeyman had been in the Medehuys and it had been to his taste. He went into raptures about the beer, praising every bubble in the foaming head. The way he talked about the effect of drinking this, for him unknown, liquid made Jacob feel like a dusty mug.
He listened, fascinated.
And with every word the tattered journeyman uttered, stuffing pieces of bread into his mouth so greedily he bit his own fingers, Jacob’s dreams took him farther and farther away from the farm and his father, and into the city, even if he had no idea what a provost, a papal legate, or an archbishop was. In his mind’s eye he kept on seeing Isabella’s pure, white face, kept on reliving that one day he had spent in Cologne, and more than ever the city came to represent the true life his mother had told him about when the warmth of her smile still brightened his life.
His father cursed Cologne. Otherwise he said nothing.
The journeyman left and Jacob was slaving away in the fields once more. Another brother died, leaving only him and an elder brother. Their father drove them like draft oxen. The weeks passed with agonizing slowness, one day the same as the next. Summer came, and still he saw the image of Isabella, still Cologne called. He was infected with love and the longing for a different world.
One very hot, very restless night, he got up quietly from his bed of straw, took a hunk of bread, and went out, away from their shack, across their fields until he could no longer see the small, squat hovel.
Then he started to run.
After a while he had to rest. The cathedral estates lay far behind him, the sun was about to rise above the horizon. Hungrily he bit off a piece of bread, decided to stretch out for a while, and fell asleep in the middle of the meadow.
It was the humming of the bees that woke him.
He leaped up, rubbing his eyes to clear them. At first he had no idea where he was, nor how he came to be there. The sun was right overhead; nowhere was there any sign of human habitation, just gently rolling meadows with bushes and tall shrubs. Only a few steps away was the edge of a wood.
Then he remembered. He had run away.
Suddenly he felt small and shabby. He hardly dared look up; he felt God’s eye resting on him with the weight of a death sentence. You have deserted your father and brother, the farm, everything, said God. You are a coward and a traitor, Jacob. You don’t deserve to live. Repent.
Turn back.
For a moment he hesitated. Isabella. The city. Pulsating with life like the heart in his chest. Then he picked up what was left of the bread, turned around dejectedly, and tried to work out which direction he had come from. After casting around for a while, he found the path that led back to the farms. He had run quite a way, he realized, and set off as fast as his legs would carry him.
It was late afternoon when, with a heavy heart, but ready to take his deserved punishment like a man, he came around the hedge bordering the land his father leased. Their hovel could be seen from here and, despite his fear, he was almost glad to be back. He would think up some explanation, perhaps he’d even tell the truth. His father wouldn’t kill him; after all, he needed him in the fields. Perhaps he’d have to go hungry for a day, but he’d survive. Or perhaps he’d have to herd the pigs when it was his brother’s turn. He could live with that, too. Or he’d have to—
His musing came to a sudden halt.
There, some way in front of him, where his home was, a column of dirty brown smoke rose up into the blue sky.
At first he thought his father must be burning some rubbish. It must be a big fire he’d lit. Too big. There was no reason for such a big fire, nothing he could think of, anyway. He looked again.
Their hovel had disappeared.
Jacob felt his limbs go numb and a lock seemed to snap shut in his mind. He felt he couldn’t breathe. His reason pointed out that there ought to be a shack there and demanded that reality go back to the former, accustomed version immediately.
The column of smoke stayed.
Jacob dropped the bread. With a cry he set off running, stumbling over the furrows, waving his hands around wildly, until he was close enough to the dark smoke to see clearly the charred beams that were the remains of his home.
His eyes burned. His mind refused to comprehend, but gradually the terrible truth crept into his mind like a spider.
He went closer.
And closer still.
One more step.
And saw—
—saw—
What?” Richmodis asked softly.
Jacob stared into space. He felt he had fallen backward through time. With difficulty he forced himself to return to the present.
“Yes, what?” Jaspar Rodenkirchen leaned forward. “What was it you saw?”
Jacob was silent.
“Nothing,” he said eventually.
“Nothing? What do you mean, nothing?” exclaimed Goddert, clearly dissatisfied with the answer.
Jacob shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing. There was nothing there. Just charred wood and smoking lumps of peat.”
“What then? What did you do next?”
“What I had intended to do anyway. I went to Cologne.”
“And your father? Your brother? What about—”
Jaspar interrupted him. “One moment. Our young friend has presumably not come here to tell us the whole story of his life, although I have to admit I find it very moving.”
Jacob didn’t know what to say. He had not intended to tell them everything. He hardly knew these people, but they had been hanging on his every word, as if it had been a sermon about the Last Judgment. And it was just the story of any little boy.
A little boy I used to know. That thought suddenly appeared in Jacob’s mind. Was that really me? He felt as if he had been telling the story of someone else, without really knowing why.
“I went to Cologne,” he repeated pensively.
Richmodis placed her hand on his arm. “You don’t have to tell us any more.”
“Why not?” bellowed Goddert. “It’s a truly beautiful and interesting story. You don’t often hear stories like that nowadays. And paying a doctor with a story seems to me a highly original idea.”
Jaspar nodded. “There’s no disputing that. Though once again you can see no farther than the ruby-red tip of your nose. Or do you imagine I could buy wine with stories?”
“Of course you could,” said Jacob.
“I could?” Jaspar’s nose and chin went on the attack together. “Then you know more than I do. How can you do that?”
“You can. I used to have a friend in Cologne, Bram, an old whistle player who lived in a house in Spielmannsgasse, where all the musicians and players live. He was also a storyteller,” Jacob went on. “He would stand at some corner or other and play his whistle, until he had enough people watching. Then he’d start talking about far-off countries, legendary kingdoms, and enchanted castles, about fair princesses and fearless knights, journeys across storm-tossed oceans, combats with giants and sea monsters, and about the world’s end.”
“Nobody’s ever been to the world’s end,” snorted Goddert.
“Maybe. But Bram earned quite a lot of money with his descriptions of it.”
“I remember Bram,” said Jaspar, frowning. “He claimed to have been a crusader.”
Jacob nodded. “Yes. He was on the last Crusade. You should have heard him telling his stories in Haymarket. Everyone listened, even the great merchants, the Hirzelins and Hardefusts, the Quattermarts, Lyskirchner, or Kleingedancks, stopped their horses to listen. Patricians and clerics, monks and nuns, even the suffragan of Great St. Martin’s, the one who’s always fulminating against the works of the Devil. And Bram knew how to tell a story! The merchants laughed at him, claiming his descriptions were completely devoid of truth, but they listened spellbound. And they all gave him something: money, wine, fruit. God knows, we had a good life in those first years.”
“I always say those mountebanks don’t do too badly,” Goddert declared.
“Bram took me in when I finally reached Cologne after several days wandering around. I can’t have been particularly pleasing to the eye. A scrawny, red-haired thing with big eyes and an even bigger appetite.”
“A little fox-cub.” Jaspar grinned.
“It was Bram who called me Fox. Strangely enough, not because of my hair. He thought there was something of the sly fox in the way I kept on at him until he decided I could be of use to him.”
“And were you?”
Jacob shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Where is he now?” asked Richmodis. “I can’t remember ever having heard of this Bram.”
“He’s dead. Died years ago. Toward the end he was so ill I went out and played the whistle by myself. Bram taught me everything he knew. He even had a few clever conjuring tricks.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed Richmodis eagerly, giving her father’s beard a tug. “Jacob will pull a whistle out of your ear.”
“Ouch. Stop that. You wouldn’t get a whistle in a respectable person’s ear.”
Death and the Devil: A Novel Page 13