“Jacob?”
“He saw the Devil. I don’t like the idea of the Devil sitting up there on the cathedral spitting down on us.”
Richmodis thought for a moment. Then she got up, shuffled across the room on bare feet to Goddert, and took his hand. “What if it wasn’t the Devil?” she said.
“Not the Devil?” Goddert gave a growl. “It could only be the Devil, he must just’ve taken on human form. The way he often does. What times do we live in when Satan comes to fetch the soul of an architect building a cathedral?”
“Hmm. Father?”
“What?”
“Skip all this about the Devil, all right? Just tell me what’s on your mind.”
Goddert scratched his sparse beard. “Well,” he said cautiously.
“Well?”
“He told us a lot of things, didn’t he, that red-haired lad? We ought to help him, don’t you agree?”
“Certainly.”
“You don’t think he was lying? What I mean is, if he isn’t a liar, then Christian charity demands we should help him. But I’m still not sure whether we can trust him. He could be a rogue. I say that just for the sake of argument.”
“Correct. He could be.”
“How should I put it?” Goddert wheezed. “I’ve got a soft heart, and when you gave him something to keep him warm, you probably got that from me. There’s nothing wrong with that, as such—”
“But?”
Goddert put his hands behind his head. The bed frame creaked under his weight. “Well.”
Richmodis smiled and gave his beard a little tug. “You know what I think, Father? Your soft heart tells you to help him. But if you help him, that means you believe him, which means you trust him. And unfortunately there’s no good reason to tell someone you trust not to see your daughter. Only you don’t want to lose her. A nice dilemma, eh?”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Goddert snorted. “Balderdash. Don’t get ideas above your head, missy. That’s neither here nor there. I didn’t say it and I didn’t think it. A beggar, a good-for-nothing, and you from a respectable family. The thought never entered my head.”
“Ha! You’re jealous, like all fathers.”
“Me? Jealous? Pull the other one. Why aren’t you sleeping? Off you go to your bed. Get a move on.”
“I will do what I think fit.”
Offended, Goddert pushed out his lower lip, pulled his blanket tighter around him, and turned to the wall. “Jealous!” he muttered. “Did you ever hear such childish prattle?”
Richmodis gave him a kiss and got back into her warm bed.
After a while the night watchman cried the tenth hour. She heard the clatter of hooves as he passed beneath their window. It was a comforting noise. She drew up her knees and snuggled deeper under the blanket.
“Richmodis?”
Aha.
“Do you like the lad?”
She giggled, thumbed her nose mentally at Goddert, and wrapped her arms tightly around her.
The tenth hour had passed.
Johann was kneeling at the little altar, trying to pray. He looked over to the wide bed where Hadewig would normally be sleeping. Today she was keeping the death watch with Guda Morart. His wife knew nothing of the alliance, none of their wives knew. She had no idea that he, who had received Gerhard in his house, as had the Kones and many other patrician families, had given his approval to his murder. She did not even know he had been murdered.
But for how long?
Johann suddenly realized that from the moment they had sealed their alliance, the men had distanced themselves more and more from their families. They had become outsiders in their own homes. He wished he could discuss the affair with Hadewig. He loved her, she loved him, and yet he was alone.
He asked himself what price they would have to pay. Not the price of earthly justice—if everything went well, they would never be found out—but the one their own self-respect would demand. Something inside them would die a little with every excuse they allowed themselves to get away with for their sin against life, the justifications with which they absolved themselves, at the same time recognizing them for the self-deceptions they were. What would be left of them when it was all over?
What would be left of him?
Johann thought of Urquhart out there. He knew as good as nothing about him, no more than the count of Jülich, who had sent him to them. He appeared like a deep red shadow against the gold-leaf background of an age in which things seemed nearer and more familiar the farther apart they were. Tears of courtly love beside streams of blood, the sophistication of the court side by side with the crudity of peasant life, dependent on each other, determining each other. The terrible and the beautiful, two sides of a magic mirror. People passed through from one world to the other—and were still in the same world.
In which world did Urquhart live? Was he hell or did he carry hell within him? People were familiar with death. The passion with which executions were carried out corresponded precisely to the passion that led to murder. But it was the coldness inside Urquhart that both fascinated and repelled Johann because he could find no reason for it, not even the blood money. How many had murdered and slaughtered in the name of their faith? But they did it out of religious fervor, others out of cruelty or the perverse pleasure they took in the sufferings of their victims; there were the robbers who did it for gain, those who hated, and those who loved too much.
And then there were the hired killers, mindless and cruel.
But Urquhart was not mindless. The look in his eyes spoke of cold intelligence. A look so sharp you could cut yourself on it! He had a high, handsome forehead, a soft, cultured voice, almost gentle, with a tone of mild mockery.
Why did he kill?
Johann shook his head. Pointless reflections. He had seen Urquhart just once that morning, when Matthias had brought him to the house, and had spoken briefly to him. Why was he so desperate to find out what made him tick?
Fear, he thought. Fear of asking how far away I am from what Urquhart is. Whether the difference is one of kind or just one of degree.
Fear of finding out how one becomes like him.
Johann raised his right hand to cross himself.
He couldn’t.
The two night watchmen turned their horses out of Saxengasse into Haymarket. They had just called midnight. In an hour the Franciscans, Benedictines, and Carmelites would be getting up for matins, to greet the new day with psalms and listen to readings from the Church fathers. Most of them with their eyes closed and snoring.
“Getting cold,” one said with a yawn.
“You should be glad,” said his comrade. “When it gets cold the thieves stay in the warm, the down-and-outs freeze to death, and the streets are quiet.”
The house entrances passed, solid blocks of darkness.
“Did you hear they found two dead bodies this morning? A whore in Berlich with a bolt through her eye and a man by the Duck Ponds, he had one through the back of his neck. Odd little things they were. Like a crossbow bolt, only somehow too small.”
“So what? Scum.”
“Still.” He shivered. “It’s odd.”
“I’m quite happy if they start cutting each other’s throats. Peace and quiet for us.”
“Sure, but who goes shooting these funny little bolts nobody’s ever seen before? The canon of St. Margaret’s mentioned the Devil. A possibility, don’t you think? Whatever, my parents are so scared they’ve shoved the table up against the door.”
“What’s the point?” The other man gave a harsh laugh. “Let the Devil come. We’ll keep our eyes open.”
The other grunted some kind of agreement. They rode on in silence, across Haymarket and down past the malt mill. The horse in front snorted. The man stroked its mane, muttering quiet words to calm it down, then resumed his sleepy posture, slumped slightly forward.
Urquhart watched them pass.
They had ridden so close by him he could have stretched out a hand to pat
the horse’s flanks. His fingers touched the polished wood of his tiny crossbow. It was almost a caress.
Then he set off to check the churches where the homeless slept in the doorways.
13 September
PLANS
“Now I know what we’ve got to do,” said Jaspar, his cheeks bulging with currant porridge.
Jacob was clasping his head.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jaspar. “Ill again?”
“Drunk.”
“Stuff and nonsense. The drink was yesterday. Look outside. The sun’s shining, the Lord has sent us a new day and phenomenal new thoughts into my head, since nothing will grow on top.” He waved his finger impatiently over Jacob’s bowl. “What’s wrong? I get the maid to make us some sweet porridge that would have the emperor himself licking his lips and you sit looking at it as if the currants had legs.”
“It’s my stomach that feels as if it had legs.” Jacob groaned. There was a thumping above his head. Rolof was working in the loft and he was doing it noisily. Too noisily for Jacob’s state of health.
“The youth of today!” Jaspar shook his head. “Go out, if you must, and stick your head under the pump.”
“I didn’t see one.”
“Where do you mean? In the yard? My house does not have the luxury appointments of Goddert von Weiden’s. Just past St. Severin’s there’s—ach, nonsense Rodenkirchen, you jackass. You mustn’t be seen outside with that burning bush of yours. I’ll go and see if I can find a habit for you.”
He scraped up the last of his porridge, licked his fingers with relish, and smacked his lips. “Excellent. Come on, eat up.”
“I can’t.”
“You must, otherwise you’re out on the street.” He grinned smugly. “And that would be a pity when I’ve thought up such a splendid plan.”
Jacob took his bowl resignedly and set about it. Jaspar was right. The stuff not only tasted good, it did him good. “What plan?” he asked from behind two hands sticky with porridge.
“Simple. There were two witnesses, you say, who spoke of an accident. Assuming you’ve got the story right, they must be lying. But what do they get out of it? They could make a lot more of a lovely, dramatic murder, so why go for a common or garden-variety little slip? What do you think?”
“I don’t. My head won’t start working again till I’ve managed to force this unaccustomed treat down me.”
“But it sticks out like a sore thumb. Even Goddert would see something so patently obvious.”
“Right then.” Jacob pushed the bowl away and tried to think. “They lied, without any clear advantage to themselves. Unless, of course, they killed him.”
“Getting warm. But if I’ve got it right, you only saw one man on the scaffolding—we’ll assume it wasn’t the Devil. Where was the second witness?”
“There was no one else there.”
“Exactly. And our oh-so-willing witnesses didn’t kill anyone, either. But they’re in league with the murderer. Why? Because he’s paying them. They were waiting nearby to be on the spot as quickly as possible, ready to tell their story before the body was cold. And what does that tell us about the murderer, Fox-cub?”
Jacob thought for a moment. “He prepared his crime?” he conjectured.
Jaspar gave a little whistle of applause. “Not bad for a thick head. But I’d go even further and say that also he could afford Gerhard’s death. Bribery costs money. Of course, they might just have owed him a favor, but it makes no difference. Either way, the witnesses were bought. Now to my simple priest’s mind, a knave will be open to other pieces of knavery. A man who sells his word for money has also sold his honor, prostituted his soul. He can be bought again. For the highest offer.” He grinned. “How about making these so-called witnesses one ourselves?”
“With money? I’d have to rob a church first.”
“I wouldn’t be entirely happy with that,” said Jaspar drily. “I was thinking more of a pretend offer.”
Jacob nodded. “Of course. I go out and start asking for the witnesses to Gerhard’s accident. How long do you think I’d last?”
Jaspar rolled his eyes and sent up a short prayer. “Don’t act more stupid than you really are,” he said. “Do you think I’ve forgotten? Gerhard’s death will have been reported to the magistrates and they will certainly have taken a statement from the witnesses. Now it so happens that one of the magistrates, since Conrad got rid of the old lot, is a friend of mine. Bodo’s his name. He’s master of the guild of brewers, so you can see we have a common interest. I’ll ask him where we can find the pair.”
“The magistrates,” Jacob mused. That was good. “How soon can you see this Bodo?”
Jaspar spread his hands. “As soon as I want. Now if you like. He doesn’t live far away.”
“Good. Give me a habit or a hat, something to hide my hair. Then we can be off.”
“Keep your hair on, Fox-cub. You’re not going at all. You’re going to be so good as to chop the firewood in my yard.”
“But—”
“No buts. I do something for you, you do something for me.”
“I’ll do anything for you, but you’ve got to take me with you, d’you hear? Disguised and in your company, I wouldn’t be in any danger. After all, it’s a magistrate we’ll be talking to.”
“I hear you.” Jaspar sighed. “And I can see you doing something silly behind my back. I’ll send Rolof to fetch Richmodis, to give you a good reason not to do something silly.”
“I—” Did Jaspar say Richmodis? “All right.”
“You see?” Jaspar rubbed his hands. “Aren’t you lucky? Old Uncle Jaspar does the spadework for you and scatters the seeds of reason. You may thank me. If it leads to anything, you can still come along.” He placed his finger on the end of his nose. “Just a minute. There was something else. Something I needed to know? Damn, we don’t get any younger. No matter. I’ll be away for an hour or two. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
Jacob was thinking of Richmodis. “Of course not.” Then something occurred to him. “Tell Richmodis to bring her whistle.”
Jaspar turned at the bottom of the stair, a severe expression on his face. “Didn’t I say something about chopping wood?”
“No problem. She’ll be the one playing.”
“But she doesn’t know how.”
“That’s why she needs to learn.”
Muttering something incomprehensible in Latin, Jaspar went to find Rolof.
JASPAR
That morning Bodo Schuif, master brewer, did not look like a man who meant to spend the day tending his tuns of mash. As Jaspar arrived he was wearing his best coat and about to leave.
“Nevertheless,” he said, putting his arm around Jaspar’s shoulders, “there’s still time for a jar, don’t you think, Rodenkirchen?”
“You would have to assure me that beer, consumed after large quantities of red wine, has a purgative effect, promotes the digestion, and will not impair the harmonious functioning of my organs and bodily fluids.”
“Consider yourself assured.”
“Then lead me to it.”
The brewer gave the maid a sign. Before long two foaming mugs were standing on the table and in no time at all the two men had white mustaches.
“And where is your good lady?” asked Jaspar casually.
Schuif gave a drawn-out, rumbling burp. “At the market. I told her I wanted crayfish pie today, no one makes a better. Do you fancy a bite yourself?”
Jaspar’s mouth watered. “I’m afraid not,” he said reluctantly. “It looks as if I’ll be occupied with urgent business.”
“Me too.” Schuif sighed. “There’s always urgent bloody business. Since I was elected magistrate I seem to be spending more time in the Town Hall than anywhere else. There’s another meeting this morning. Why, I don’t know, there’s nothing important to be dealt with. Recently it’s the wife who’s been looking after the business. She’s almost better at it than me, the Lord be pr
aised.”
He laughed and took a deep pull at his beer. “D’you know,” he said when he’d wiped the foam from his mouth, “the ones who give us the most trouble are those louts who call themselves the noble houses. Instead of the council of magistrates doing what it’s supposed to do and administering justice, we spend all our time squabbling with the few patricians left on it. Conrad cleared out the cesspit that was the old council and replaced it with honest traders and craftsmen, but there’s still a few patricians among us. I ask you, what do they want, these noble gentlemen? Behave as if they’d lost all their influence when what really gets up their noses is seeing ordinary burghers getting their sweaty hands on their supposed privileges.”
“No, they can’t stand that.”
“You know how I feel about it. I’m not petty-minded. Each to his own, I say. But the magistrates are responsible for the administration of justice and the running of the city. That means for Cologne. The whole of Cologne. Where would we be if those who represent everyone, the poor and needy as well, only came from the patrician families?”
“‘Would we be’? That’s the way things used to be.”
“Yes, and praise and thanks be to Jesus Christ that our lord archbishop took the shovel to that pile of dung! A bloody scandal, the way things used to be done! The guilds weren’t entirely free of blame, I have to admit. We let the patricians infiltrate us, even elected some guildmasters, all for the sake of profit. But that was all. Was it our fault the noble families increased their influence along with their wealth? They got everywhere, like blasted mildew. Conrad was right to kick up a fuss about them using their positions to protect criminals and help them evade his jurisdiction.”
Jaspar grinned. Bodo was so proud of being a magistrate, he never tired of trotting out the well-known facts again and again. Since becoming a magistrate he had tried to moderate his rough language, not always with success. No wonder the patricians, who had studied and seen the world, reacted to people like Bodo as if they had the itch. Despite the fact that, according to the statutes, anyone who was sound of mind and body, born within wedlock, and not convicted of any crime could become a magistrate, previously only representatives of the noble houses had occupied the magistrates’ seats. If the patricians had had their way, people like Bodo would have got a kick in the seat of the pants rather than a seat on the council. A brewer as magistrate was a slap in the eye for the old families, especially as it came from Conrad von Hochstaden.
Death and the Devil: A Novel Page 19