Death and the Devil: A Novel

by Frank Schätzing

  Jacob walked slowly back past the palace, continuing until he was almost at the river, then turned left. A few steps took him to the Franks Tower, where suspects were questioned under torture and criminals handed over to the warden of the archbishop’s palace.

  He was to the east of the cathedral, separated from it by a large square and the smaller church of St. Mary’s-on-the-Steps. Again he looked up and studied the mighty facade with its incredibly high, slender windows. He could get there from the Franks Tower without having to pass through a gate with guards.

  As he crossed the square, walking at an unhurried pace, apparently deep in prayer, he suddenly knew where the Shadow had appeared from.

  All at once he knew.

  All at once he knew.

  He had hurried along behind the procession because he had suddenly had the idea Urquhart might have joined it, disguised as a priest, a monk, or even a horseman in armor. His progress was followed by irritated glances from those who had felt the sharpness of his elbow as he quickly made his way through the singing and praying throng. Some way ahead of him Conrad was riding underneath the baldachin, two men in armor behind, beside, and before him. His hair fluttered in the wind. His lively, bright blue eyes surmounted a nose which gave him something of the animal dignity of a falcon. The archbishop was neither tall nor strongly built, but he had a presence that dominated everything and everyone.

  Urquhart was not in the procession. Jaspar felt foolish at the idea of running on in front, like a court jester, to gawp at the buildings. He looked around. It was getting more and more crowded. He tried to find Jacob.

  What a fool he’d been to trot off like that, following a stupid idea. Annoyed with himself, he pushed his way through the onlookers to get back to Jacob.

  “Listen,” he heard a ragged woman say to the girl she was carrying, “listen to the holy men singing. That’s the choir.”

  “The choir,” the girl repeated.

  The choir—

  The cathedral choir! It struck Jaspar like a bolt from the blue.

  He groaned. He felt a surge of nausea. Using fists and elbows this time, he started to force his way back through the crowd.

  THE CATHEDRAL

  Compared with what was supposed to become the most sublime church in Christendom, the choir appeared fairly modest. Gerhard had only been able to complete the ground floor with the ring of chapels around the apse and a large part of the adjoining sacristy to the north.

  Compared, however, with all the other buildings in Cologne, the result was already colossal. The gigantic semicircle of the chancel joined onto what was left of the old cathedral, so that one had to pass through it to get to the interior of the new building. It made a curious picture. A few months before the foundation stone for the new cathedral had been laid, the old one, a massive basilica over a hundred yards long with chancels and transepts to the east and west, had burned down. Only the western half had been temporarily rebuilt, so that the old church looked as if it had been cut right through the middle with a blow from a huge sword. What began beyond it was not only a new house of God, but a new age.

  Jacob stood and let his gaze wander over the airy structure of the scaffolding. High up he could see cranes, windlasses, and tread wheels.

  It was immediately obvious that what he was looking at was not a simple semicircle. The chancel was in the shape of a horseshoe and it was only the rounded end of the horseshoe, where the chapels were, that was roofed over. When Urquhart had suddenly seemed to come from nowhere, he had not appeared by magic, he had climbed up the open interior of the horseshoe, while Gerhard had gone along the outside. He had not been waiting on the cathedral, but inside.

  But how should a man who knew a lot about stealing apples and nothing about architecture be expected to realize that? Jacob had simply assumed the whole building was covered by a single, continuous roof. Instead, the interior was open to the sky. Which meant that from the top one could see, depending where one was, into each of the chapels around the apse and, with a little care, not be seen oneself. One could see—and shoot—into the chapels.

  Jacob stepped under the scaffolding and laid his forehead against the cool stone. The mass was due to start at prime, at six of the clock. Conrad would enter the central chapel to deliver his sermon. Then what Jacob had prophesied would happen, only not in the street, but in the cathedral. Conrad would fall to the ground, a bolt through his heart, and no one would think of looking up. They’d search for the assassin in the crowd, while Urquhart made his escape over the roof and the outside scaffolding.

  Jaspar had told them Conrad wanted to be buried in the central chapel. It looked as if he was going to die there, too. There was less than an hour to go.

  Should he see if he could find one of the sheriffs? But whom could he trust, when even the archbishop’s secretary turned out to be a traitor?

  One hour.

  Jacob caught his fingers starting to massage the bridge of his nose, as if he were Jaspar, the thinker. When would Urquhart climb the wall and where would he take up his position? Then he realized the murderer had no choice. To be able to fire into the central chapel, he had to be at one or the other of the ends of the horseshoe. But he couldn’t make his escape over the southern facade because that would take him into the cathedral precinct and past the guards outside the archbishop’s palace. To the north, on the other hand, was Dranckgasse, running along the cathedral building site. A much better escape route.

  At the end of the north wall, then. That’s where Urquhart would be waiting to kill Conrad. Unless someone tried to stop him first.

  Jacob looked up again. He was standing at the side of the sacristy, where the curve of the apse began. Right in front of him was a ladder pointing upward, almost as if Providence had led him to the right place to climb up and sacrifice his life.

  His life. Was that where it was all heading?

  Tentatively he placed his hands on the vertical ladder that led to the lower platform. Until two-thirds of the way up the choir wall the structure of beams, sturdy reeds, and planks had been kept to the minimum necessary to allow workers to reach the upper areas. Work on the lower parts was largely completed. Higher up, on the other hand, delicate work was being done on the tracery of the windows and the supports began to get stronger, rising above the stonework in preparation for the next stage on the way to heaven.

  Like the Tower of Babel.

  Why not run away after all?

  Before he had completed the question to himself, Jacob was already climbing. There was nobody to see him. The whole of Cologne was still watching the procession. He might find some tool up there, an axe or a crowbar, he could use to defend himself when Urquhart arrived. The murderer would hardly expect to find anyone else there. Jacob could hide in one of the tread wheels or behind a crane and attack him from behind. That was the coward’s way, true, but being courageous might very quickly mean being dead. Trying to defeat Urquhart with courage was pointless.

  As he climbed higher, Jacob was astonished at how huge the windows were in reality. Seen from street level, they appeared to rise to a slender, delicate beauty; from close up they looked broad and massive, the buttresses almost fortresslike. In the dim light the glass, although colored, was a black skin with veins of lead running through. He continued to climb until he reached the first walkway. He was already looking down on the roofs of the houses around.

  The next ladder was right in front of him. He climbed it slowly, rung by rung. Jacob had not intended to spend longer than necessary on the scaffolding, but he was fascinated by everything he saw. Just above, the pointed arches at the tops of the windows began, filled with magnificent tracery that seemed to render the heavy stone weightless. He almost felt he could abandon the foot-and handholds to be borne up by the soaring lightness of the concept on which this church of churches was based—

  Gerhard’s concept. Gerhard had not soared. He had fallen.

  Jacob tore his eyes away from the architecture. His hand
s clasped the next rung, and the next, and the next. He reached the second level and continued to climb. The edge of the roof was getting closer.

  All at once he started and nearly let go, but the thing that had suddenly emerged from the stone beside him was only a grotesque gargoyle. Nothing to worry about. Not yet.

  Then he had reached the top of the wall and was looking out in wonder over the great segmented curve of roofs on the chapels, gently sloping gable roofs, almost impossible to walk on. For a brief moment Jacob was reminded of a range of rolling hills with a deep, gloomy chasm yawning in the middle. Above it stretched the further landscape of the walkways and platforms of the scaffolding. Almost unreal in the distance, the towers of the old cathedral tried to assert themselves, but from this perspective they were nothing but sacred toys.

  Jacob quickly climbed the last rungs to stand on the top of the scaffolding. From here narrow walkways and platforms led to all parts of the chancel. There was nobody to be seen. Some distance away, at the northern end, he could see two tread wheels, each large enough to take two men, one beside the other. He would hide in one until Urquhart came. Poking out from behind the wheels was a low, crudely made chest. Jacob hoped it was used to keep tools in. Without some kind of weapon he might as well go straight back down.

  Cautiously he made his way along the airy walkways. When he had almost reached the wheels he went to the edge and looked down inside the chancel.

  It was breathtaking.

  Each of the piers supporting the structure and separating the chapels seemed to be composed of many smaller columns of varying diameter, crowned by capitals of petrified foliage below the sweep of the vaults and arcades. Jacob was looking down into a ravine, as frightening as it was wonderful, an abyss containing nothing broad or bulky, only endless vertical lines.

  Suddenly Jacob realized what kind of man Urquhart had pushed off the scaffolding.

  His eye took in the central chapel. He could clearly see the pulpit from which Conrad was to preach. The archbishop could scarcely have chosen a better place—from the point of view of the assassin.

  He took a step back and looked out over the roofs of the city to the hills of the County of Berg. The sun would soon be rising. A blur of noise reached his ear. He couldn’t see the procession, the streets were too narrow, but he could hear the singing and the jostle of the crowd. The wind tousled his hair. It was beautiful up here. Had Gerhard flown, too, he wondered, the architect taking flight? Some run away, others try to soar aloft.

  He leaned forward again, as far as he could. Perhaps he’d see something even more wonderful.

  Come on, a voice whispered in his head, it’s time you were hiding.

  In a minute. It’s so beautiful here.

  Quick!

  In a minute.

  Quick!!

  Yes, in a minute. I just want to—

  “What a pity I can’t push you over just there.”

  Jacob felt a thousand tiny birds take off in his stomach, fluttering their wings in panic. Before he could turn around, he was dragged back and dumped on the planks with a jolt.

  Urquhart was grinning down at him. He looked terrible. The left side of his face was in a bad way, the eyebrows singed off. Not much of his blond mane was left.

  “Incredible sometimes, the way old friends meet, isn’t it?”

  Jacob hastily slid backward and tried to get to his feet. Urquhart’s arm came down. The fingers grasped his habit and lifted him up like an empty sack.

  “Thought you’d gotten rid of me, did you?” Urquhart laughed. His fist came flying and a bolt of lightning flashed right through Jacob’s head. He slammed painfully into the edge of the nearest tread wheel, fell to his knees, and was pulled up again.

  “You thought wrong.”

  The next blow was to his solar plexus. Pain stabbed through every part of his body. He slumped to the floor by the wheel in a writhing heap.

  “Nobody gets rid of me.”

  Jacob gagged. He pushed himself up on his hands and collapsed again. His mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood. Urquhart bent down and pulled him up with both hands. Jacob’s feet were off the ground. He kicked out helplessly, flailed his arms, and tried to grab Urquhart’s throat.

  “Nobody, do you hear?” Urquhart whispered. “I’m inside your head. You can’t drive me away, can’t burn me or drown me. Your hatred isn’t enough to defeat me, it only makes me stronger. I feed on hatred. I am stronger than all of you, faster and cleverer. You will never get rid of me. I’m part of you. I’m inside you. Inside all of you.”

  Jacob felt himself being lifted up and up, above Urquhart’s head, then sky and scaffolding scrambled. He flew through the air and landed on his side with a thump that made the whole structure shudder. He rolled to the edge of the platform and found himself looking down, a long way down, into Dranckgasse. His hands grabbed empty air. He was falling.

  With a jerk that almost tore his scalp off, Urquhart grasped his hair and pulled him back up so vigorously he shot across the platform straight into the tread wheel.

  The next moment Urquhart was there, leaning in.

  “Not a good idea, to send you the same way as Gerhard,” he said. His eyes gleamed with perverse amusement. “Might interfere with my mission. Cause too much of a stir to have you lying down there, don’t you agree? Let’s continue our chat up here—”

  Jacob tried to say something. All that came out was a weak groan. His desperate fingers clutched at the axle of the wheel he was inside to pull himself up.

  Urquhart drew back his fist. “—seeing it’s so pleasant.”

  The blow almost knocked Jacob out. His head crashed against the side of the wheel.

  He had to get out of it. Urquhart was about to beat him to death.

  “No,” he panted.

  “No?” Urquhart placed his right hand on the top of the wheel. “Oh, yes.”

  Out, out of here, Jacob thought. I must get out. He staggered to his feet and immediately fell down again as, with a squeal of protest, the huge drum slowly started to turn. For a moment he saw his feet above his head, then he tumbled back down. The wheel started to rotate more quickly, above and below were the same. Jacob was going around and around, arms outstretched. He could hear Urquhart laughing. It seemed to be coming from all sides and everything went black.

  With what remained of his strength, he braced himself with both hands, threw himself to one side, and fell out of the wheel.

  His head was still going around and around. Completely disoriented, he crawled across the planks. He heard rapid steps and looked up just in time to see Urquhart’s foot coming toward him. The toe of the boot struck him on the chest, sending him flat on his back.

  The world around started to grow colder.

  Urquhart came up to him and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said. It sounded almost sympathetic.

  Jacob coughed and felt the blood running down his chin. His lungs seemed unwilling to take in air. “I know that.” He had to force the words out.

  “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just run away?”

  “I was too slow.”

  “You’re not slow.”

  “Oh, yes, I am.” The air whistled as he sucked it in. “You’re always too slow when you run away.”

  Urquhart hesitated. Then he gave an unexpected nod as his hand disappeared inside his cloak. When it reappeared Jacob saw the all-too-familiar little crossbow. The disfigured face twisted in a smile. “Welcome to nowhere, Jacob.”

  Jacob turned his head away.

  A voice rang out. “Urquhart of Monadhliath!”

  The effect was startling. A look of pure horror appeared on Urquhart’s face. He swung around, pointing his bow with outstretched arm in the direction the voice had come from.

  Jaspar’s voice!

  Breathing heavily, Jacob rolled onto his side and crawled on all fours to the wheel. Away from Urquhart was the only thought in his head.

  But the murderer
seemed to have forgotten him. He was looking around wildly for Jaspar, who was nowhere to be seen, though his voice was still to be heard.

  “Do you remember the children, Urquhart? What they did to the children? You wanted to stop them. Remember?”

  It came from below. Jaspar must be somewhere on the scaffolding. Gasping with pain, Jacob pulled himself up and stood there, swaying. Urquhart leaped across to the side of the scaffolding and looked down into Dranckgasse. At the same time Jaspar’s head appeared farther away.

  “But you couldn’t stop them,” he cried.

  With a scream of fury, Urquhart whirled around toward him. But Jaspar had disappeared again.

  “Lies!” he shouted. “Lies! I wasn’t there when it happened.”

  From below came a clattering, like footsteps running, then it faded. Urquhart took a step forward, but there was nothing there. No boards, no struts, no rails. Urquhart drew back.

  Then he turned to face Jacob again. His eyes had lost their icy coldness. All they registered was pure horror. The bolt was aimed at Jacob’s forehead.

  “Do you sometimes dream of the children?” came Jaspar’s voice, echoing across the roof.

  Urquhart’s hand started to tremble. The next moment he was running along the planks away from Jacob. He leaped the gap to the next platform, ran to the edge and—staggered. He doubled up. The arm with the crossbow sank, his free hand went to his head.

  Jacob held his breath.

  Jaspar appeared on the rungs, directly in front of Urquhart. He looked tense. After a quick glance at Jacob, he clambered onto the platform. His eyes were flickering with fear, but his voice was steady, each word cutting like a sword.

  “You are Urquhart, duke of Monadhliath,” he said.

  Urquhart drew back a step.

  “You came down from the Scottish Highlands to join Louis of France in the sixth Crusade. You wanted to serve the Lord your God and win back the Holy Land, but what you saw after you took Damietta was the face of Satan.”