Death and the Devil

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 when 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 finger 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.

She placed her index finger under his chin and turned his head back to face her. “And?”

“And nothing. I’m stuck like a rat in a trap and I don’t want to pull you in, too. Believe me, I really did want to see you again—”

“I should hope so, too.”

“—but I might be putting your life in danger. That monster chased me all around Cologne last night. I’m surprised I’m still alive.”

“Monster?” The line between her brows had reappeared.

“The murderer.”

“But you escaped?”

“Yes. For the moment.”

“Good. Then there’s nothing to worry about. If he had found you again, you’d presumably be dead as mutton by now.” She ran her fingers through his hair, then tugged it so hard he couldn’t repress a cry of pain. “But from what I hear, you’re alive.”

She let go, jumped up, and went out of the room. Creaking, rustling noises came from the other side of the door. “And who was it you saw being murdered that makes them so keen to get rid of you as well?”

“Not so loud!” Jacob rolled his eyes and ran over to where she was. The room at the rear appeared to be a mixture of kitchen and ground-level storeroom. She had opened a large chest and was rummaging around among material and other bits and pieces. He slumped against the door frame, then gave a loud groan. His shoulder! Richmodis gave him a brief glance, then returned to the tangle of cloth.

“Oh, I see,” she said. “The murderer’s in this chest listening to every word we say.”

“I can’t tell you. I don’t want someone else to get killed.”

“Here, put these on.” She threw him a tan coat and a cap with earmuffs. “If you won’t talk about it, we’ll have to do something. What are you waiting for?”

Jacob looked at the clothes. They were good, very good, well made from excellent cloth. He’d never worn anything like them in his life.

Richmodis clapped her hands. “What is it then? Does my lord require to be dressed?”

Jacob quickly put on the coat and pulled the cap so far down that not a red hair was to be seen. Richmodis strutted around, giving a pull here and a tug there, then stepped back, with a satisfied look on her face. Jacob felt stiff and hampered. He would have felt more at ease in the old, used coat.

“And now?”

“Now? We’re going for a walk.”

“Where?”

“To see my uncle. He’d better have a look at that shoulder and give you something decent to drink. Then you can tell him your story. If you manage to convince him, he’ll do everything he can to help you. He likes a little spice in his scholarly existence now and then. If not, he’ll throw you out on your backside. Without the hat and coat.”

Jacob couldn’t think of anything to say. They went out and crossed the stream. He turned around to see if anyone was watching, at which she gave him an irritated nudge and hurried him on. “Don’t look,” she whispered. “They’ll stare anyway.”

“And where does your uncle live?” asked Jacob, neatly avoiding a piglet that ran squealing between his legs.

“I told you. He’s dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Never heard of it, you heathen?”

“Not heathen, not long in Cologne, that’s all.”

“Mary Magdalene’s is opposite St. Severin’s. Rather small, I have to admit. My uncle lives three doors along. That’s where he has his study, too.”

“There’s another thing, Richmodis—”

“Mmm?”

“These clothes—”

“Are my father’s, that’s right.”

Oh, dear!

“Was he angry with you about the other things you gave me?”

“You bet he was! He was furious. He chased me all around the house crying blue murder. The neighbors came to see what was up.”

“Christ! A good thing he wasn’t there today.”

“A good thing indeed.”

They passed through the old Roman gate into Severinstraße, which ran straight toward the city wall. It was no mean street. Churches and chapels, monasteries and convents jostled each other for position, not to mention solid patrician houses and inviting inns. Catering to every need, so to speak.

Richmodis was striding out.

“Tell me, fairest nose in the West,” he said after a while, “where is he?”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

She stopped and looked at him as if that was the silliest question she had ever heard.

“Where would he be? At my uncle’s.”

A MORNING WALK

Matthias reached the Franciscan monastery punctually at seven. He had to look twice before he recognized Urquhart. The murderer was wearing a black monk’s habit with the hood drawn down over his face and his head bowed. He looked as if he were immersed in his devotions.

Matthias walked over to him casually, stopping beside him as if by chance. “Why the disguise?”

“It seemed a good idea for you to accompany one of the good friars on his morning walk,” he said. “Yesterday you were not very keen for us to be seen together. You may be right.”

“That’s perhaps going a little too far,” Matthias countered. “After all, no one knows who—”

“Not here. Follow me.”

With measured tread the two men walked out and around the corner into one of the city’s liveliest streets. It was full of workshops and rang with the sound of hammering, planing, and tapping, mingled with the rumble of carts, the stamp and roar of oxen, with barks, shouts, and the grunt of pigs, constantly interrupted by the bells from the countless churches and chapels. They were passing the harness makers. Matthias had commissioned a saddle that still wasn’t finished even though he had laid out so much money that he was contemplating a complaint to the guild.

They strolled past open workshops, splendid town houses, and the Münster Inn, which Daniel was frequenting more and more, much to the annoyance of the family. Then a mansion with extensive grounds.

“Your friend,” mocked Matthias.

“Friend?”

“The house of the count of Jülich.”

“William is not my friend,” said Urquhart in bored tones. “I served him for a while and he benefited from it. Now I am serving you.”

“And not without benefit,” said Matthias with a patronizing smile. He took a pear out of his coat pocket and bit into it heartily. “Gerhard is dead. Everyone is talking about an accident. Your witnesses were good.”

“Two of my witnesses were good.”

“But there were only two. Or am I wrong?”

“There were three.”

“There were?” Matthias stroked his lips. “I must be getting old. But three is better, of course.”

“It is not. The third was not part of the plan.”

Matthias stared at the marks of his teeth in the pear. “Tell me.”

“There was a thief,” explained Urquhart. “Presumably stealing the archbishop’s fruit. He saw me push Gerhard off the scaffolding. Too stupid. I had no idea he was stuck in that tree, until he fell out. Presumably from sheer fright.” He sucked the air in through his teeth contemptuously.

“What now?” exclaimed Matthias, somewhat horrified.

“Keep your voice down. We have a witness who can tell the good citizens of Cologne the opposite. That Gerhard did not slip.”

“Who’s going to believe a beggar, a thief?”

“No one, I should imagine.” Urquhart stopped. His eyes glinted at Matthias from under the hood. “But do you want to take the chance?”

“What do you mean, me?” spluttered Matthias. “It’s your fault.”

“No.” Urquhart’s rejoinder was calm. “You can’t know every bird roosting in the branches. Not even I can. But don’t start complaining too soon. There’s more. It is possible—though I wouldn’t swear to it—that Gerhard said something to the man.”

“What? I thought Gerhard was dead! This is getting more and more confusing.”

Urquhart gave a soft smile. “He died. That is not the same as being dead. Dying men can change their wills or curse God, all in the last moment before they pass away. An architect in his death throes, for example, might well mention your name.”

Matthias grasped Urquhart’s arm and stood blocking his way. “I do not find that funny,” he hissed. “Why didn’t you catch the bird?”

“I did attempt to.” Urquhart walked on and Matthias had to get out of his way quickly. Furious, he hurled the remains of his pear at a house door and continued on his walk with his presumed spiritual adviser.

“And what was the result of your—attempt?”

“At some point or other I lost track of him.”

“Then he’s probably been telling his story all over the place.” Matthias groaned. “Half of Cologne will have heard it by now.”

“Yes, he did tell some. They’re dead.”

“What?” Matthias thought he must have misheard. They hadn’t yet reached the pan makers, so the ringing in his ears couldn’t be coming from their constant hammering.

Urquhart shrugged his shoulders. “I did what was necessary.”

“Wait.” Matthias tried to recover his composure. “You mean you’ve killed more people?”

“Of course.”

“Saints preserve us!”

“Leave the saints out of this,” said Urquhart. “What does it matter if I gave Morart a few companions on his road to hell? If I understand you right, you’re more interested in the success of your plan than the welfare of your fellow citizens.”

He went over to a stall selling smoked honey slices and sweet cakes with nuts. There was an appetizing smell. A coin changed hands. Urquhart started chewing and offered Matthias a piece.

“Like some?”

“No, goddammit.”

They walked along in silence. The street was getting crowded with people buying and selling, checking goods, haggling with embroiderers, or simply going about their business. A gang of squealing children came running from the area that echoed with the hammering of the smiths and pan makers. It was one of their favorite games to ask the men, who were all half deaf from the ear-splitting racket, the time, then run away before the inevitable hammer came flying after them.

“You don’t need to worry,” said Urquhart.

“I don’t need to worry!” Matthias gave an angry laugh. “There’s someone running around the town who could ruin everything and you’re calmly eating cake!”

“We’ll find him.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“I need a few men. Naturally I wouldn’t bother you with this if it weren’t so urgent, but I haven’t time to go looking for them myself, as I did for the witnesses. Give me three or four of your servants, the fastest, if you don’t mind my suggesting it.”

“God damn you! Do you at least know who you’re looking for?”

“Yes,” said Urquhart, stuffing the last piece of cake into his mouth. It made Matthias feel sick just to watch him.

“And? What’s he called? What does he look like? Well?”

Urquhart wiped the crumbs from the corners of his mouth. “Short, slim, red hair. Fiery red. Name of Jacob.”

Matthias stopped in his tracks, thunderstruck. The ground seemed to tremble under his feet. “Tell me it’s not true,” he whispered.

In a flash Urquhart’s casual air had given way to alert concentration. “Why?”

“Why?” Matthias shook his head. “Because—no, it’s just not possible!—because less than an hour ago I gave this Jacob a guilder.”

Urquhart’s bushy brows contracted. Now he was the one to be flabbergasted. “You did what?” he asked softly.

“One guilder. Jacob the Fox. He was going through strange contortions outside our house in Rheingasse. It almost looked as if he were trying to—trying to cover up his hair.”

Of course. What else. It was all so obvious.

“Jacob the Fox,” muttered his companion. “A fox indeed.”

“And like an ass, I gave him a guilder.”

“And now you’re getting your just reward,” said Urquhart with a malicious sneer.

For one dreadful moment Matthias Overstolz, nephew of the head of one of the richest and most powerful of the noble houses and a man of wealth and influence himself, felt wretched and impotent. Then his fury boiled up. Enough of this wailing and gnashing of teeth; it was time to act.

“Let’s get the men,” he said, turning back. “I’ll give you a dozen of my servants. I’ll see if I can find a few soldiers as well. We’ll tell them who this Fox is—what he is, a thief in whose capture the Overstolz family has a keen interest.”

“I will have to speak to them,” said Urquhart.

“Is that unavoidable?”

“Yes.”

“It’s no problem with the servants. In your habit I can take you into the house. Behave like a real monk, a friend of the family. We were talking about bringing a thief to his God-ordained punishment and you, in your wisdom, had an idea about how it might be done.”

Urquhart nodded. “And what is this thief supposed to have stolen?”

Matthias thought. Then he had an idea. An amusing idea. He gave a grim smile. “Let’s say he stole some money from me. Yes, that’ll do. He stole some money. A gold guilder.”

THE PHYSICIAN

St. Mary Magdalene’s was, indeed, not a particularly impressive example of ecclesiastical architecture. It even looked somewhat dilapidated. The priests, canons, and suffragans of the city complained often enough that they could not manage on their tithes, so where should they find money for the upkeep of buildings? That was an exaggeration, at least to the extent that, thanks to substantial donations from tradesmen, merchants, and patricians, the big churches were resplendent and there was, after all, sufficient money for a new cathedral. Small parish churches like St. Mary Magdalene’s, however, were dependent on their own congregation and funds were naturally not so abundant.

St. Mary Magdalene’s looked all the more shabby as it stood opposite St. Severin’s, whose imposing stone spire made it clear where God would spend the night if He should happen to be in the district.

Modest as it was, however, the little church was a feast for the eyes compared with the box where Richmodis’s uncle lived. It was one of a row of a dozen or so crooked little houses that looked like a line of drunks about to collapse. Her father and uncle, Richmodis told Jacob, would swear blind the houses all stood as upright as the emperor’s bodyguard, but that was an optical illusion resulting from the fact that as often as not they were inclined at a similar angle to their architectural environment themselves.

While Jacob was trying to puzzle this out, Richmodis knocked at the door.

“No one at home again?” She strode in. Jacob followed somewhat reluctantly, wishing he wasn’t decked out in her father’s clothes. If the old man was here, he was in for a hard time.

All there was in the downstairs room, however, was a gray cat. They looked around the back room and in the tiny yard, then went back inside. Richmodis called out a few times, went up to the first floor and then to the attic. She was soon back with a knowing smile on her face.

“Found him?” asked Jacob.

“No. But my father’s coat is here, therefore so is my father. And where the one is, the other won’t be far away.”

She pulled Jacob out into the yard and pointed at a wooden hatch with a rusty ring attached. “What do you think that might be?”

“A cellar?” Jacob conjectured.

“Oh, no. In normal houses there might be a cellar under that. Here it leads straight down to hell. Watch.”

She bent down, grasped the ring, and pulled up the hatch. Steep, slippery steps led down. Together with a gust of stale air came some angry words.

“—that in the future I refuse to associate with a man who drinks other people’s piss!”

“But I don’t, you misbegotten lump,” another voice replied. “I’m tasting the urine, something quite different from drinking. Can’t you understand that?”

“Piss is still piss.”

“Not piss, urine, you piece of excrement. A tiny drop to tell me whether the patient has diabetes mellitus. I can taste it, here, on the tip of my tongue, d’you see? Here.”

“Yeuch. Take that yellow pig’s tongue out of my sight.”

“Oh? A yellow tongue, you say? Then how do you explain that this pig’s tongue has a larger and more learned vocabulary than your whore-mongering mind could get together in a hundred years?”

“I’m no whoremonger. But what I do know is that last St. David’s Day you went to that house in Schemmergasse and sent for those two silk-spinner girls. Sixteen tuns of wine you drank, you and your herd of unwashed students.”

“That is not true.”

“Oh, yes, it is true. And the way you all lay with the women, I’m surprised to find you still fit and well. One would have thought your instrument of pleasure ought to have rotted and dropped off long ago.”

“What would you know about instruments of pleasure, you bloated tub of dye? You can’t even distinguish between a fart and a sigh.”

“Between wine and piss I can.”

“Ha! Prove it. As long as someone doesn’t tell you it’s wine—talking of which, shall we have another one?”

“Why not? Let’s have another one.”

“What’s all that?” asked a bewildered Jacob.

Richmodis stared grimly down at the candlelit cellar. “That? That’s my father and uncle.”

“What are they doing?”

“They call it learned disputations, though the only thing in dispute is who can finish his glass quickest.”

“Do they do it often?”

“Whenever they can find a suitable topic.” Richmodis sighed. “Come on, we’d better go down and join them. They’d have difficulty getting up the steps.”

“But it’s early!” exclaimed Jacob incredulously.

She gave him a scornful look. “So what? I just thank the Holy Apostles they don’t drink in their sleep.”

Shaking his head, Jacob followed her, taking care not to slip on the greasy steps. At the bottom they found themselves in something that was more like a cave than a cellar, though surprisingly spacious. What was immediately obvious was that it was a well-filled wine store. There was a constant drip of moisture from the ceiling and a slightly foul smell from the latrine, which Jacob had noticed next to the cellar. “Dungeon” was the word that occurred to Jacob, though one he would not have minded being locked up in.

Even stranger, however, were the two men sitting on the floor, a candle between them, earthenware jugs in their hands, continuing their debate as if Jacob and Richmodis were simply two further casks that would form the basis of some future dispute. They were around fifty. One was short and fat, with no neck at all, a bright red face, and a few remaining hairs, the color of which had gradually faded to somewhere between brown and nothing. His fingers were grotesquely twisted, recalling trees that had been struck by lightning. A thin, wavy beard, obviously attempting to emulate Jacob’s shock of hair, stuck out in all directions. Despite the cool temperature, sweat was streaming from his every pore.

The other was the exact opposite. Emerging from the plain habit was a long scrawny neck on top of which a round head, equipped with a dangerously long, pointed nose and chin, which always seemed to be on the attack, was nodding back and forth all the time. Apart from the arched brows he was completely bald. From the sum total of his physical attributes, he ought to have been frighteningly ugly, but strangely enough he wasn’t. His little eyes glinted with intelligence and high spirits, and the corners of his mouth were turned up in an expression of permanent amusement. Jacob was immediately drawn to him.

And both were talking and moaning, moaning and talking.

“Silence!” shouted Richmodis.

It was as if St. Augustine had performed a miracle. They shut their mouths and looked at each other in bewilderment. The fat one grimaced, as if he had a headache.

“Why are you shouting, Richmodis, my child?” he asked.

“Jacob,” she said, without taking her eyes off the man, “this is my dearly beloved father, Goddert von Weiden. Beside him you see my uncle, the learned dean and physician, Dr. Jaspar Rodenkirchen, master of the seven liberal arts and professor of canon law at the Franciscan College. Both must have been sitting in this cellar since around midday yesterday, and they ask me why I’m shouting.”

“I quite agree with my daughter,” said Goddert von Weiden, in a voice as solemn as if he were laying a foundation stone. “Our behavior has been unchristian in the extreme. If you hadn’t gone and filled your cellar with wine, I could lead a life that was more pleasing in the sight of God.”

“Your birth wasn’t pleasing in the sight of God,” Jaspar teased him with a wink in Jacob’s direction. After a certain amount of toing and froing Richmodis and Jacob had managed to lure the two disputants out of the cellar. They continued their disputation as they made their way up to the surface, but turned out to be less drunk than Richmodis had feared. Now they were sitting under the oppressively low beams of the downstairs room, around a table with an elaborately woven cloth showing St. Francis preaching.

“You’re wearing my coat,” Goddert remarked.

Jacob felt weary and worn out. The pain in his shoulder was almost unbearable. He would have been quite happy to take off Goddert’s coat, but by now his arm was stiff and almost useless.

“He’s wearing your coat because he needs help.” Richmodis came out of the back room and placed a yeast cake on the table.

“Just the thing!” exclaimed Jaspar.

“Neither of you deserve it. Do you realize, Father, since early yesterday I’ve been looking after the house, seeing to the customers, dyeing the cloth, and slaving away from morning to night, not to mention having to invent the most ridiculous stories to stop the men pestering me?”

“Including that one?” asked Goddert warily, pointing at Jacob.

“Of course not!” She gave Jacob a look full of warmth and started to tear off pieces of the loaf and hand them around.

“Jacob gave me a whistle,” she said with unmistakable pride.

“And what did you give him in return?” Jaspar giggled.

“Father’s old clothes.”

Goddert von Weiden went even redder in the face, if that was possible, but instead of the expected lecture, he just cleared his throat and bit off a piece of his cake.

Jacob was totally baffled. “Weren’t you telling me he chased you all around the house crying blue murder?” he said in a low voice to Richmodis.

“I did,” she replied with an impenetrable smile.

“But he—”

She leaned down and said softly, “I was pulling your leg. He’s the most kindhearted of men. Only you must never tell him or he might start getting too full of himself.”

“Hey!” shouted Goddert, cheeks bulging. “Stop that whispering.”

“Why shouldn’t they?” Jaspar snapped. “Just because no woman wants to whisper in your ear anymore.”

“I have them whispering in my ear all the time, blockhead. The only whispers you’ll get will be in the confessional.”

“If I waited for women to come from you with something to confess, I might as well close my confessional down.”

“You’d never do that. You’d have nowhere left to indulge your lascivious desires.”

“Do not blaspheme the sacrament of confession, Waldensian!”

“Waldensian? Me a Waldensian?”

“And a lying one, too.”

“Ridiculous. Accusing an honest craftsman of heresy! Anyway, the Waldenses are—”

“I know, I know.”

“You know nothing. You’re just not interested in ecclesiastical matters. Though I can well understand your dislike of the Waldenses. They want to ban people like you from saying mass and accepting presents.”

“What do you mean, people like me?”

“Unworthy priests who commit fornication.”

“The Waldenses never said anything like that, you simpleton, and I wouldn’t care if they did. Have you got rheumatism of the brain or something, trying to argue about the Waldenses with a scholar? Don’t you know they deny purgatory and their lay brothers preach against the veneration of saints?”

“They do not.”

“Oh, yes, they do. You won’t be able to pray to St. Francis when your back hurts, and when you’re dead there won’t be any requiem mass for your soul, no prayers, nothing. That’s what your Waldenses want, only they don’t even stick to their own rules.”

“You’re joking! They unmarried, every one of them, and—”

“And?”

“And they do nothing that is not according to the pure teaching of Christ.”

“They don’t? Then why were three of them put on trial in Aachen this summer?”

“Certainly not for going to that house in Schemmergasse.”

“I did not go to that house in Schemmergasse.”

“Pull the other one.”

“And I’ll tell you another thing, you son of an aardvark sow. They are heretics and were quite rightly placed under ban at the Synod of Verona.”

“The Synod of Verona was a joke, a bad joke. It was only called because the pope was worried about losing his income from indulgences.”

“The ban was promulgated jointly by God’s representative on earth, Pope Lucius III, and the emperor, Frederick Barbarossa, because, as you seem to know, astonishingly enough, your tatterdemalion Waldenses in their sandals are against indulgences. But I ask you, what will happen if we have no more indulgences? Do you want to deprive people of the God-given opportunity of buying their way out of the consequences of their minor transgressions? And I have to tell you, Goddert, there’s a disturbing tendency to overemphasize the poverty of the clergy. I sometimes worry we are turning into a nation of Cathars and Albigensians. Do you realize that our magnificent cathedral, which will tower over the Christian world, was only possible through indulgences?”

“Oh, you can keep your indulgences. That may be all well and good, but it can’t be right to condemn to death preachers who are against the death penalty themselves.”

“The Waldenses are only against it so they can spread their heretical beliefs unpunished.”

“Not at all. It’s the pure Christian faith they preach. I would even go so far as to say Christ himself is speaking through them.”

“Don’t let anyone else hear you say that.”

“I don’t care who hears me. I’m not saying I’m a Waldensian myself, but their insistence on the sacraments of penance, communion, and baptism seems to me more in keeping with the teachings of Christ than the outrageously dissolute behavior of the mendicant orders—or your expensive wine cellar.”

“What have you against my wine cellar?”

“Nothing. Shall we have another?”

“Enough!” Richmodis brought the flat of her hand down on the table.

“And what’s your opinion on this subject?” Goddert, who was obviously looking for allies, inquired of Jacob.

“I’m not interested in politics,” said Jacob in a weak voice. He could not repress a groan as he felt another vicious stab of pain in his shoulder.

“See what you’re doing?” said Richmodis angrily. “He needs help and here you two are, arguing like a pair of tinkers. Nobody’s having another drink here. Not even you, Father.”

“What do you say to that?” Goddert wrung his hands in despair. “Other children talk respectfully to their parents. Well, then, Jaspar, you’re the physician, do something.”

Jaspar Rodenkirchen gave Jacob a severe look from under his knitted brows.

“Pain?” he asked.

Jacob nodded. “In my shoulder. It’s getting worse all the time.”

“What happened?”

“I ran into a wall.”

“Makes sense. Can you move your arm?”

Jacob tried, but the only result was a further wave of pain.

“Right.” Jaspar stood up. “Richmodis, help him get his coat and jerkin off. I need to take a look at it.”

“With pleasure.” Richmodis grinned and immediately started fiddling with Jacob’s clothes.

“Can I help?” asked Goddert, making an attempt to get up.

“Better not. We want to make him better, not kill him.”

Not kill him? thought Jacob as he took off the coat with Richmodis’s help. Don’t worry, there are others who want to take care of that. Laboriously he managed to peel off his jerkin.

Jaspar gave his shoulder and arm a close examination. “Hm,” he said. His fingers felt Jacob’s shoulder blade and explored the back of his neck and his collarbone. “Hm, hm.”

He examined his armpit, then the shoulder again. “Hm.”

“Is it serious?” asked Richmodis with concern.

“Leprosy’s serious. Come here a minute, Richmodis.”

Jacob saw him whisper something to her, but couldn’t hear anything. She nodded and went back to him. “Would you have any objection,” she asked with a coquettish smile, “if I embraced you?”

“Er—” Jacob gave Goddert a questioning look, but he just shrugged his shoulders. “No, of course not.”

Richmodis grinned. Jacob felt her soft arms around him. She held him tight and pressed him so close he could hardly breathe. She was warm. He felt the first stirrings of arousal and forgot the pain for a moment. He didn’t notice that his injured arm had been left out of the embrace, hardly noticed even when Jaspar grasped his hand.

Richmodis looked at him.

Her lips parted slightly and Jacob—

“Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!”

For a second everything went black. He felt like being sick. Without warning, Jaspar had almost torn his arm out, while Richmodis pulled with all her might in the opposite direction. Now she let go. His knees almost gave way, but he managed to stop himself and staggered over to the bench.

“What was all that about?” he panted.

“Move your arm,” said Jaspar calmly.

“I think I deserve some explan—What’s this?” Jacob rubbed his shoulder and stretched out his arm. It still hurt, but nothing like as much as before.

“What did you do?” he asked, uncertain.

“Nothing. I just put the joint back in place. It was slightly out. Not completely, the pain would have been too much to bear, but it wasn’t quite the way the good Lord intended. Do you feel better now?”

Jacob nodded. The feeling of wretchedness had vanished. With his arm, his mind was back in working order, too. “Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” bellowed Goddert in his genial manner.

“What have you got to do with it?” cried Jaspar in annoyance. “If you’d helped, we’d have been burying him now.”

Richmodis slapped the table again. “Do you think you could stop quarreling for a moment? Jacob has something to tell us.”

Goddert raised his hand. “I do have a question.”

“What?”

“Who is this Jacob, actually?”

“Correct,” Jaspar broke in. “That’s a damned good question. Whom have I been treating?”

“He’s a—” But Richmodis got no further. Jacob had raised his hand and was astonished when all three fell silent.

He told them his story.

FROM THE LIFE OF A FOX

It was a quiet year.

The emperor issued an unpopular edict against the autonomy of cathedral cities, especially Cologne. The archbishop of Cologne confirmed the consecration of the Church of the Maccabees. A preaching order took over a building in Stolkgasse and a priest was convicted of murder. Otherwise nothing much happened.

Jacob was born.

He very quickly lost count of the number of his birthdays. There was nothing unusual in that. Very few knew exactly how old they were. His parents were peasants, taciturn folk who farmed a hide of land on the estates of the cathedral chapter in Worringen, a village outside Cologne. Their annual rent was two pfennigs. They weren’t married, since that would have required a further payment of six pfennigs, which they could ill afford.

Jacob’s earliest memory was of a hollow in the clay floor. He was put there when his parents and older brothers and sisters were out in the fields, or doing their labor on the home farm. Over the edge he could see the fire in the middle of the floor and steam rising from the large earthenware pot above it. At first he was too small to get out of the hollow on his own, but as he grew bigger, he kept on going off. When they found him in the plowed field or among the pigs, they would put him back in, until there was no point and, anyway, the hollow was occupied by his successor.

He didn’t know how many brothers and sisters he had either. His mother used to talk of a blasted army, but she smiled as she did so. She had problems counting, especially since some died soon after birth and she was constantly pregnant. His father beat her for that, but he also beat her when she refused to let him have his way with her. Jacob could never remember her rebelling against this treatment. She always tried to smile, while the look in her eyes became sadder and sadder.

That was the way things were.

Just when he could walk and therefore, according to his father, also work, several of his brothers and sisters all died of some fever. He did not have the impression his father was particularly sorry. His mother cried, but that was probably more for the pain she herself had had to endure. Then she apologized to God for succumbing to such unrestrained grief and stared into space. A priest came and the bodies were removed.

That didn’t make the helpings at mealtimes any bigger. They ate gruel and gruel and gruel. By this time Jacob had learned that there were much better-off peasants with farms belonging to the chapter estates. They got on well with the steward and some even had good Sunday clothes. His father, who, day in, day out, wore the same homespun, moaned about them at every opportunity, calling them crawling lickspittles. It made no difference to his fortunes. Jacob did not know why his father was poor. In fact, he knew nothing except that he wanted to get away and see the world.

He must have been three or four when his mother took him to Cologne one day. She had to deliver some hose she had made to order for the cathedral chapter and Jacob went on and on at her until he was allowed to go, too. One of the steward’s men happened to be going and took the pair of them in his cart, which was at least better than having to walk.

And that was how he came to fall in love for the first time.

It was a chilly May day, but the whole city was thronging the streets, while thousands of burghers in their finery were streaming out of the gates bearing flowers and branches. The people had come, they were told, to see Isabella of England, who was to stay in the city before going on her way to marry the emperor, Frederick II. The archbishop of Cologne was accompanying her to Worms, where the wedding was to take place. To the glory of the city, which for the archbishop was basically the same as his own, he had arranged for her to stay in Cologne for six weeks. The citizens were beside themselves. Isabella in Cologne! The emperor’s bride was said to be more beautiful than the sun, more delectable than the morning dew! Arnold, the prior of St. Gereon, was overwhelmed to be allowed to welcome her in his house for the duration of her stay and shower her with luxury. Arnold, whose pride was only exceeded by his garrulousness, went on to everyone about it. His boasting became so outrageous that the archbishop considered withdrawing the privilege, at which Arnold quieted down somewhat and awaited Isabella’s arrival with the same quivering impatience as all the other inhabitants of the city.

Jacob’s mother decided to delay their return to the village so they could watch Isabella enter the city. She laughed and joked; suddenly her eyes, usually so sad, were sparkling with life. Babbling away, they gradually pushed their way through the crush lining the route until they were right at the front. Jacob was in a fever of anticipation at the promised marvel that was sending the crowd delirious: the incomparable Isabella.

And she came.

What a spectacle! Some ingenious mind had hit on the idea of making ships that appeared to float on dry ground, pulled by horses hidden beneath silk cloths. In them were clerics playing sweet melodies on fiddles, harps, hurdy-gurdies, tin whistles, and shawms, while alongside soldiers in armor rode on gaily caparisoned horses and children in white with lilies in their hair danced along in front of the bride waving garlands.

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 only 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.”

“Oh, yes, you would,” Jaspar broke in, “if there’s no brain behind it. I’d say you could pull enough whistles out of your ears to supply Mainz and Aachen as well as Cologne.”

“It didn’t bring much in.” Jacob hurried on with his story before the two of them could start another of their disputations. “I played my whistle and tried to tell Bram’s stories, but people didn’t stop and gather around.”

“Even though you play so well,” said Richmodis with a look of outraged astonishment.

“Half the people in Cologne can play the whistle.”

“But you play better,” she insisted.

Jacob gave her a grateful smile. “I’ll teach you. I promised and I’ll keep my promise.”

“And now?” Goddert demanded. “Do you still live in the house in Spielmannsgasse?”

Jacob, somewhat embarrassed, stared at his piece of yeast cake. “No. After Bram died I didn’t have enough money. And I had problems with a gang of beggars. So I left Cologne and tried Aachen. But I had trouble there, too. The last few years I’ve just been traveling around. I find it difficult to stay in one place for any length of time.”

“So what brought you back to Cologne?”

“I don’t know. The past? I had a piece of luck when I inherited the lean-to by the Wall. Soon after that I met Maria. She had a real roof over her head, and at first we got on so well I promised Tilman to let him have the shack, because I thought I’d soon be moving in with Maria and her brothel keeper. Well, I was wrong.”

“So now?”

“So now I play my whistle. Not very often, though I do make new ones to sell. Occasionally I find work down at the harbor. And then sometimes—”

“And then sometimes you steal what you need,” Jaspar said. He gave Jacob a long look. “But that’s not the story you were going to tell us. Or, if my instinct does not deceive me, will have to tell us if you’re to get out of the mess you’ve obviously got yourself into. With God’s help, of course. Right. You’ve kept us entertained, Jacob, I’m not ungrateful, and even in Goddert’s tub of a body there beats a true Christian heart. How can we help you—provided, that is, that you haven’t killed someone?”

Jacob felt their eyes on him. He thought about leaving. The image of Maria had come into his mind, Tilman’s grotesquely contorted body. As if he only had to tell what he had seen to condemn his audience to death. All of them sitting there, Richmodis, Jaspar, Goddert. As if nothing could protect them from the short, swift bolts from the miniature crossbow once they had heard his secret. He could not sacrifice more people for the truth.

Run away, then. Once again.

Richmodis seemed to guess his thoughts. “Don’t you trust us?” she asked.

It was a trick. Richmodis knew it and Jacob knew it. The decision was no longer his alone. It would reflect on the trustworthiness of these who had looked after him. She had him trapped.

Jaspar gave Richmodis a quick glance. “Half a story is no story,” he said slowly. Then he raised his eyebrows, as if expecting the worst. “But, of course, if you don’t trust us…”

“Yes,” growled Goddert, “if there’s a lack of trust, you can’t do anything about it.”

Jacob took a deep breath and looked at them, one after the other. “Oh, I do,” he said through clenched teeth, “I do trust you.”

Richmodis gave a little smile of victory. Jaspar and Goddert grinned at each other.

“More than you’re going to like,” Jacob whispered.

RHEINGASSE

There were a dozen men gathered around the table, burly men with horny hands and weather-beaten faces. They stared at the tall figure of Urquhart with a mixture of fear, uncertainty, and respect. Matthias leaned against the door, arms crossed, as Urquhart gave the servants his instructions. After a while he went out, reassured to a certain extent. The horses for him and Johann were ready.

“I don’t think that was a particularly good idea,” said Johann as a groom helped him into the saddle. Like Matthias, he was wearing a long black cloak as a sign of mourning.

“It’s the only idea that makes sense,” replied Matthias.

Johann dismissed the groom with a wave of the hand and waited until he was out of earshot. “Urquhart is an ungodly murderer,” he said irritably. “That we use him is no reason to bring him into the house. Apart from that, I consider it highly dangerous.”

“I know.” Matthias leaped into the saddle and patted his mount’s muscular neck. The horse whinnied. “So what could we have done, in your considered opinion? Arrange a meeting outside the town? Find some quiet spot in the country and recruit twelve volunteers from the surrounding farms? We’d have wasted a whole day. Or do nothing and hope the redheaded bastard will keep his filthy trap shut?”

“That would be risky,” Johann reluctantly agreed.

“Precisely. After Gerhard’s funeral I’ll have a word with Lorenzo and ask him to let us have a few soldiers.”

“Urquhart mustn’t speak—”

“Don’t worry, he won’t. Lorenzo will tell his men the same story that Urquhart’s telling the servants—some rascally redhead relieved the Overstolzes of a gold guilder—and place them at the main gates. Our fox might just have the idea of leaving town.”

“Does Lorenzo have the authority?”

“I selected him because of that, Johann. Anyway, he’ll try. After all, he has to earn all the money we pay him.”

“Hm, well, all right,” growled Johann. “We must tell the others.”

They set their horses going at a slow walk and rode out through the great gate into Rheingasse. The street was crowded, but the people immediately made way when they saw the two patricians in their dark clothes. Many mumbled a quick prayer. The news of Gerhard’s death had reached the farthest corners of the city and everyone knew where the two horsemen were headed.

“Theoderich will call a meeting,” said Matthias, guiding his horse between two apathetic beggars, “but I suspect there will be a full turnout at the funeral.”

“You never know,” muttered Johann.

“You’re right. For example, I saw Daniel this morning behind the stables. Do you think he slept there?”

“I have no idea what Daniel was up to behind the stables,” said Johann testily. He obviously regretted having brought up the subject with his remark.

Matthias frowned. “You ought to keep an eye on him,” he said, the reproach all too evident in his voice.

“Ought I?” Johann’s lips turned down in a mocking grin. “And who keeps an eye on your children? I’ve heard Gertrude say she might just as well have married an ice floe on the Rhine, for all the difference it would have made. Do you show the same warmth toward your children?”

Matthias glowered at him. He knew that among the extensive Overstolz clan he enjoyed the dubious reputation of being without feeling or pity. “That is irrelevant,” he said icily.

“No,” said Johann, sighing, “it’s never relevant, is it? We all know Daniel still hasn’t got over losing the office of magistrate. He was one of the youngest. I can reprimand him, but I can’t condemn him for the bitterness he feels.”

“Always the same old story.” Matthias gave a scornful snort. “Have you forgotten, we bought the post for Daniel. And wasn’t I a magistrate, too? Didn’t Conrad get rid of me in the same insulting way as he did Daniel? Do you see me in the ale houses, in low company, drinking like a fish, swearing, and molesting respectable women?”

Johann did not reply. He had no desire to pursue the subject any further. It had been the sole topic of conversation since the archbishop had relieved almost all the magistrates as well as one of the burgomasters of their posts the previous year. As a result, both Matthias and Daniel had had to accept that their political careers were finished. There were far fewer patricians in the new council, and those who were patricians had to work together with tradesmen and shopkeepers.

“I recently had the pleasure of reading what our friend Gottfried Hagen had to say about the archbishop’s new council,” said Johann, in an attempt to change the subject. “And though it be a sin, still I would hate the asses that have been put at the head of the holy city of Cologne. You can put an ass inside a lion’s skin, it will still bray like an ass.”

Matthias gave a sour grin.

“And he goes on: They tax rich and poor more than ever and share their ill-gotten gains with the bishop. When they must pronounce judgment, they first ask the bishop what judgment would be acceptable to him, so they do not lose his favor. They are always guided by the wishes expressed by the bishop and nothing happens against his will.”

“Gottfried’s right, of course, but if he goes on writing things like that, he’ll end up on the gallows. Bloody fools and arselickers! A magistrate who decides in favor of the noble houses exposes himself to the most vitriolic attacks.”

“It will all change,” said Johann confidently.

They had left the crowded marketplaces behind them. Once they were past the archbishop’s palace, behind which part of the new cathedral chancel could be seen, they would be able to get on more quickly.

“Certainly,” Matthias agreed, “everything will change. I just hope it changes in our favor, that’s all.”

“Why are you so concerned? We’ll find your redhead, don’t worry. Anyway, who’ll believe a beggar?”

“That’s what I said, too. But in the first place, Urquhart thinks there are certain people who would be quite happy to listen to the biggest scoundrel in the city, and in the second, I’m concerned about our alliance. I’m sorry that it has to be your son who causes me most concern. After Kuno, that is.”

Johann felt his heart sink.

“You know it yourself, Johann,” Matthias added.

Johann nodded gloomily. “Daniel will obey me. I promise.”

Matthias looked at him. Then he attempted a placatory smile. “Don’t misunderstand me, Johann. How you bring up your son is your own business. But we’re engaged in a hazardous venture. You and I see things clearly. Hatred hasn’t clouded our judgment. Heinrich is just a coward, I can live with that. But Daniel and Kuno have a tendency to extreme emotional outbursts and their dislike of each other is growing stronger by the hour.”

“I know.”

“We must keep the two of them apart as much as we can.”

“That will hardly be possible. Look.”

Matthias followed the direction Johann’s finger was pointing. They were in Marzellenstraße now, not far from Gerhard Morart’s large house. Old and young, rich and poor had come to pay their last respects to the architect. They included an array of patricians such as was seldom seen, expressing the general admiration for a man who wanted to build the perfect church and whom God, in His mercy, had taken up to the paradise he deserved.

Kuno was among them.

And coming down Marzellenstraße from the other side was Daniel, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

Trouble was not very far away.

SEVERINSTRAßE

Jacob was exhausted.

He stood at the window watching Richmodis take her unwilling father, complaining all the time and dragging his feet, back to their house. Goddert had been fired up by Jacob’s story. Horrified and outraged at what he had heard, he was all for setting off in pursuit of the demon at once, of informing the magistrates and constables, no, better the governor and the executioner or, no, why not go straight to the archbishop, who could summon a posse of clerics to crush the Devil beneath the weight of their prayers.

“We’re not going to crush anything today,” was all Jaspar had said.

“And why not?” snapped Goddert. “Are you too scared?”

“No, too sensible. You can pray till the roof falls on your head, I’m going to use mine.”

“Huh! You couldn’t even use your head for a tonsure! If this poor, oppressed soul here”—he pointed at Jacob with a dramatic gesture—“is being pursued by the Devil or one of his demons, then we must call on the Lord without delay, if not just for his sake, then for the sake of Gerhard Morart.”

“That is based on the assumption that the poor oppressed soul here is right. Who says it was the Devil? Or that Jacob is telling the truth? Were you there?”

“Were you there when they cut down poor Archbishop Engelbert? You still can’t deny he was murdered.”

“What I can’t deny is that you’re a stupid ass, Goddert. Gerhard Morart, God rest his soul, fell from a great height and broke every bone in his body, which does not prove conclusively it was the Devil. Engelbert’s body, on the other hand, had precisely forty-seven wounds—”

“More than three hundred it was!”

“—as Caesarius von Heisterbach wrote in his Vita, passio et miracula beati Engelberti Coloniensis Archiepiscopi. Wounds that he could hardly have inflicted on himself. And his murderer wasn’t the Devil, but Friedrich von Isenburg.”

“He was a devil!”

“He was Engelbert’s nephew, pea brain! I have to admit, though, that Engelbert wasn’t poor. He was a robber and bully, like our Conrad. It was not without reason that the pope excommunicated him.”

“That just shows your lack of respect toward your superiors in the Church. You’d also have to admit that Engelbert led the crusade against the Waldenses and Albigensians—”

“Because he liked fighting.”

“To do penance, you mudslinger!”

“Nonsense. He couldn’t tell the difference between a penance and a pig.”

“Better than you, he could!”

And so on and so on.

Like a herd of stampeding horses, the disputation was leaving the original topic farther and farther behind. Jacob’s brain was numb with exhaustion.

Richmodis stroked his hair. “Don’t let Jaspar fool you,” she said softly. “He argues for the fun of it, but when things get serious his mind’s as sharp as a razor.”

“I hope so.” Jacob sighed. “I can’t stand much more of that kind of conversation.”

She looked at him with a sympathetic, almost tender look in her eyes. Jacob felt a sudden fear she might go and he would never see her again.

“I’ll come and see you as soon as I can,” she said, as if she could read his thoughts. They were probably written all over his face.

“Do you believe me?” Jacob asked.

She thought for a moment. “Yes, I think I do.”

“Let’s have a drink,” Goddert shouted, the formula that brought their disputations to a conclusion.

Richmodis jumped up, before her uncle had the chance to give his standard response. “No! No more drinks. We’re going home, if you know where that is.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

Goddert accepted his lot, though with bad grace, muttering incomprehensibly to himself. He’d probably soon be sleeping off the drink. The way he waddled down the street reminded Jacob of the dancing bears you sometimes saw in Old Market Square. Beside him Richmodis looked like his trainer. The wind was toying with her brown hair.

“A pretty child, isn’t she?” Jaspar’s voice came from behind him.

“She has a pretty nose,” Jacob replied. He turned away from the window, went over to the tiled stove and slumped onto the bench. Maria had been pretty, too. She could have been beautiful. Could have become beautiful if she hadn’t—Jacob shook his head. He must put these thoughts out of his mind.

Jaspar observed him in silence.

“You don’t believe me,” Jacob said.

“Well, now.” Jaspar massaged his nose. “There are whole worlds between believing and disbelieving. I believe you when you say you saw something. But was it really there?”

“It was there.”

“Perhaps you got hold of the wrong end of the stick.”

“Then the wrong end of the stick killed Gerhard Morart. Killed Maria and Tilman. Almost killed me. What more do you want?”

Jaspar frowned. “The truth.”

“That is the truth.”

“Is it? I would say it’s what you saw. Nowadays the truth tends to be trumpeted abroad all too quickly, especially when it concerns the Devil. Was it the Devil?”

Jacob looked him up and down. “If you don’t believe me,” he said calmly, “why don’t you throw me out?”

Jaspar seemed both irritated and amused at the same time. “I don’t know.”

“Good.” Jacob stood up. “Or not good. Whatever. Thank you for your time.”

“You’re going?”

“Yes.”

“I think that would be unwise.”

“Why?”

Jaspar came over and stood so close to Jacob the tips of their noses were almost touching. There was a glint in his eyes. “Because you have a soused herring in your head where you should have a brain. Because if you leave now it will prove God created a fool who deserves all he gets. Are you so simple-minded you can’t understand anything besides yes or no, black or white, day or night? Don’t be ridiculous. Why do you think I’ve spent so long listening to you, instead of handing you over to the archbishop’s justices, as was probably my duty, given the numerous petty crimes you’ve doubtless committed? You have the brazen cheek to come into my house, go moaning on at me, then stand on your measly little pride. If I were the kind of man who swallows every so-called truth whole I’d be no use to you whatsoever. Quite the contrary. A fool trying to protect a fool. Saints preserve us! Just because I don’t say I believe you doesn’t mean I think you’re lying. Oh, dear, is that too complicated? Are all those ‘nots’ too much for the poor fish inside your skull? Go and find someone else who’d invite a beggar and a thief in to listen to his life story.”

Jaspar came even closer and bared his teeth. “But if you go, don’t even think of coming back. Do you understand, you self-pitying apology for a clown?”

Jacob felt the fury rise up inside him. He looked for a devastating reply. “Yes,” he heard himself say like a good little boy.

Jaspar nodded with a grim smile. “That’s right. Now sit back down on that bench.”

Jacob looked around, as if he might find his bravado somewhere in the room. Then he gave up. His anger was replaced by a feeling that was not unlike having his head plunged into a bucket of ice-cold water. He went back to the bench by the stove and sat down.

“So you don’t believe me?” he asked warily.

“Not necessarily.”

“Do you think I’m lying, then?”

“Ah!” Jaspar made a bizarre-looking jump. “Our friend is learning the art of dialectics. May even be trying to engage me in a Socratic dialogue. No, I do not think you’re lying.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” moaned Jacob, completely at a loss.

Jaspar sighed. “No Socrates after all.” He sat down beside Jacob and clasped his hands behind his bald head. “Right. There are two men who have never done each other any harm. One night the archangel appears to one of them and announces that the other will hit him over the head with a rock and kill him. Terrified, the man picks up a rock and hurls it at the other so as to beat him to it. But his aim is poor and the other, seeing himself attacked, picks up the stone and strikes the first man dead in self-defense, of course, thus fulfilling the archangel’s prophecy. Did the archangel speak the truth?”

Jacob thought for a while. “Who would doubt the words of an archangel?” he said. “But I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“The truth. The archangel told the man the other would kill him. He didn’t say the other intended to kill him. But the first man took what he thought was the truth as the truth. Looked at in this light, it was his misinterpretation of the archangel’s prophecy, that is something that was not the truth, that led to it being fulfilled, that is the truth. If, on the other hand, he had ignored the warning, then nothing would have happened. But in that case the archangel would have lied, which, as you quite rightly point out, is de facto impossible. Leaving us with a dilemma. Do you follow me so far?”

“I—I’m trying. Yes, I think so.”

“Good,” said Jaspar. “So where is the truth in the story?”

Jacob thought. Hard. It was like a fairground inside his head. Stalls being opened, music blaring, peasants dancing across the floor with thunderous steps, bawling and shouting.

“So?” asked Jaspar.

“The archangel alone is in possession of the truth,” Jacob declared.

“Is he? Did he tell the truth, then?”

“Of course. What he said came true.”

“Only because the man didn’t understand the truth. But if he didn’t understand it, then the archangel may well have intended the truth, but he didn’t tell the truth.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Exactly. Every divine prophecy is clear, or are we to assume an archangel lacks the intellectual capacity to communicate with an ordinary mortal?”

“Perhaps the archangel intended the man to misunderstand?” Jacob proposed hesitantly.

“Possible. But then he would have told a deliberate lie to provoke the misunderstanding. Where does that leave the truth?”

“Just a minute,” Jacob exclaimed. The fairground inside his head was threatening to degenerate into complete pandemonium. “The truth is that the archangel told the truth. The man was hit over the head and killed.”

“But you’ve just said yourself he was killed because the archangel told a deliberate lie.”

Jacob slumped back down. “Oh, yes,” he admitted sheepishly.

“But an archangel always tells the truth, yes?”

“I—”

“So where is it, this truth?”

“Couldn’t we talk about something else?”

“No.”

“The truth is nowhere in your story, dammit.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know. Why are you telling me all this?”

Jaspar smiled. “Because you are like the man the archangel appeared to. You judge by appearances as well. You don’t think. It’s possible you might have told the truth, and everything happened as you said. But can you be sure?”

Jacob was silent for a long time. “Tell me where the truth is,” he begged.

“The truth? It’s simple. There was no archangel. The man imagined it. That solves our dilemma.”

Jacob stared at him, openmouthed. “A bloody clever conjuring trick.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Does that mean I dreamed it all, too?”

Jaspar shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows. You see how difficult it is to get at the truth. To see the truth, you must first doubt it. Put another way, in a desperate situation you have two alternatives. Headlong flight, as so far—”

“Or?”

“Or you use your head.” Jaspar stood up. “But do not forget,” he said, a severe expression on his face, “that I still have no proof that you’re really telling the truth.” Then a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “But I like you. At least I’m willing to try to find out. In the meantime you can stay here. Just think of yourself as my servant. And now you’d better get a few hours’ sleep. You look a little pale about the gills.”

Jacob let out a slow breath. “How did you mean that?”

“What?”

“That about using my head. What do you think I should do instead of running away?”

Jaspar spread his hands out. “Isn’t it obvious? Go on the attack.”

MEMENTO MORI

Matthias stood by the bier with Gerhard’s body, immersed in his memories.

He had gotten on well with the architect. Not that they had been quite what you would call friends. Matthias would not have sacrificed a friend. That would have been impossible anyway since, basically, he had no friends. But there was a characteristic he had shared with Gerhard, an exceptional clarity of mind combined with the ability to plan months and years ahead. Too few people saw time as something to be planned. The mystics even denied its very existence because an ever-rolling stream of time made possible what they condemned as heresy: progress, poison to the minds of the logicians with their Roscelin of Compiègne, Peter Abelard, Roger Bacon, Anselm, and the like. Most people saw time as a gift from God, to be consumed rather than exploited, parceled up into lauds and vespers, prime, terce, sext and none, matins and compline, rising, eating, working, eating, sleeping.

Time seen as the stage for human activity prompted the question of what a man could achieve in the course of his allotted span, if anything. The mystic’s concept of stasis was countered by the ideas of beginning and completion. But to complete something you had to live long enough, and did man ever live long enough to complete the things he began? A question that brought cries of “Heresy!” and “Criticizing God!” from traditionalists. It was the lot of man to suffer in silence, not to create. When the mystics talked of a crusade, they meant a crusade against the humanists as well. Christendom was more and more splitting up into enemy camps and Gerhard Morart, whose ambition had been to create something impossible to complete, had been pulled this way and that.

Matthias found the argument interesting, too. Did not he also, as he built up the Overstolz empire, place one stone upon another? It was not without reason that one of the mocking names for merchants was “sellers of time.” It also expressed an undercurrent of unease. They certainly never stood still.

The two men had often discussed the relationship between idea and execution, whether the concept of a new cathedral was incomplete without its physical realization and whether it was important to see your ideas carried through to completion. It was in this latter point that their views diverged. Matthias’s rational approach, which, as he well knew, came from a lack of imagination, led to a single-minded pursuit of immediate profit. Gerhard, on the other hand, saw reason simply as the best method of giving ideas that were clearly impracticable a basis of probability. In the final analysis, Gerhard had been a passionate visionary, inspired with the idea of creating something completely new, of introducing a revolutionary style into architecture that would fill the massive, earthbound buildings of his time, dominated by stone and shade, with pure light, soaring, slender, sublime—and above all, with no restriction on size. There was to be nothing castlelike about his vision of the heavenly city, the new Jerusalem, where God sat in state with His angels. Castles were the home of the Devil.

That was indeed something new. But however much they respected and admired him, some of his fellow citizens felt Gerhard’s enjoyment of the role of creator was all too plain to see. It was hardly surprising that the simple folk began to assume he had magic powers and rumors spread that he had called up Satan in the dead of night. There were many among the mendicant orders in particular who would have liked to see him tried for heresy and burned at the stake, together with Conrad von Hochstaden and Albertus Magnus. Had not Joachim of Fiore, whom the Franciscans held in high regard, prophesied the dawn of a new age for 1260, the age of a truly poor church? Was that colossal monument to human pride being built in Cologne an expression of that poverty? For many, Joachim’s prophecy represented the absolute truth, therefore the new cathedral, that most ambitious of enterprises, could only be the work of the Devil.

But then the pope and the emperor would have had to be burned along with Gerhard, since they supported the cathedral. It would be unwise, however, to criticize their decision publicly, if one wanted to avoid being beheaded, drowned, hung, drawn and quartered, or boiled in oil. The Holy Father had described the cathedral as a holy work and it was best to leave holy works be.

So the critics of the new cathedral in Cologne contented themselves with general sermons on dens of iniquity and vanity, which was nothing new, but not a risk, either. Soon Gerhard’s supposed pact had become merely part of the local folklore.

Gerhard’s real genius, however, lay less in conceiving a building such as the new cathedral, the perfect church, than in actually getting it built. His plans were not the product of visionary euphoria but of logical reasoning. Gerhard saw himself as a scientist pursuing goals that were absolutely unscientific. He marked out the space for the freest unfolding of the spirit with compass and measuring line; in his attempt to give it universal validity he submitted his divine inspiration to the unfeeling plumb line, transposed the exhilaration of heavenward soaring into a pinnacle of measurable height. And with every inch the cathedral grew, he became ever more painfully aware how small man was in the sight of God and how pitiful his attempt to rise above himself.

This contradictory nature of his work had brought Gerhard to the brink of despair. He might succeed in completing the impossible church, but not in imbuing it with meaning. Even as it rose up, it was a self-contradiction. It only worked in the mind; none of the goals that had instigated the idea of the building would ever be achieved.

Archbishop Conrad had laid not a foundation stone, but a gravestone to his hopes.

Despite all this, there had never been the slightest suggestion Gerhard was contemplating asking to be released from his contract. Deeply unhappy within himself, he had accepted the worldly nature of his commission, giving his passion for art and architecture free rein. There was no lack of money. The pope was happy to sign letters of indulgence, wealthy princes and clerics donated considerable sums in addition to offerings from the Church in Rome. In the meantime the archbishop’s petitores were abroad everywhere, tireless in their pursuit of contributions. Only a few years ago Conrad had asked Henry III of England to commend the collectors to his people; the proceeds had been unparalleled.

Gerhard built as if his life depended on it. And it did.

When he finally realized he would never see his building completed, not even the chancel, he threw himself into his work with even greater determination. It was his church, his idea. And there was still the power of logic. The completed cathedral existed—on parchment. The impossible cathedral had been alive inside his head, without the constraints of time and space, as long as he had been alive.

Matthias gave a pitying shake of the head. “You were right,” he said softly to the corpse, “you achieved none of your goals.”

Gerhard was wearing a costly shroud. He had had it made some time ago and had obtained permission from Conrad to place it, just for a moment, on the bones of the Three Kings, whose relics had been brought to the city less than a hundred years ago. To be accompanied by the Wise Men on his last journey was Gerhard’s deepest wish.

Memento mori.

Matthias watched as the Dominican monks drew the sheet over Gerhard’s head and sewed it up. Each one did one stitch, while their quiet singing and praying filled the room. The air was heavy with incense. The body was blessed with incense and sprinkled with holy water.

Guda, Gerhard’s widow, was sitting beside the body, deep in prayer. The previous evening she had washed the body, the priests had anointed it, and then, together with the family and neighbors, kept watch through the night, praying for Gerhard’s soul.

Why am I not praying for him? Matthias wondered. I had no quarrel with him.

Because I can’t, he concluded dispassionately.

He looked around. There were not many gathered in the half-lit room. The street outside was teeming with people who wanted to bid their last farewell or were simply curious to see the funeral procession. Inside, on the other hand, only clerics, family, friends, and nobles were allowed. He knew them all, apart from a few monks. From the Overstolzes, Gertrude and Johann’s wife, Hadewig, had hurried over the previous evening to support Guda in her hour of need, to join with her in prayer. Johann and Theoderich were behind him, staring blankly at the winding sheet the body was sewn up in, while Daniel was looking up at the ceiling, a bored expression on his face. Various members of the stonemason’s guild had hastily drummed up a quorum. Two of Gerhard’s sons and a daughter, all in holy orders, were kneeling beside Guda. Other noble families had sent representatives.

Kuno was the only member of the Kone family present. Stone-faced, he ignored the others. Matthias watched him from beneath knitted brows.

Suddenly he noticed two strangers who came in, sank to their knees by the bier, crossed themselves, and nodded deferentially to Guda, before going out again. From their habits they must belong to one of the numerous mendicant orders. They had only stayed a few moments, but Matthias thought he knew who they were. He slipped unobtrusively away from the mourners and quickly followed them. They were standing outside the house, gesticulating and speaking to the people.

“—as he walked along the planks he was looking up at the heavens,” one of them was proclaiming.

“Surely he must have seen the Holy Spirit,” the other cried, “his face was transfigured.”

“God was telling him, ‘Come, I will take you up into My Kingdom.’”

“Whatever it was he saw, he did not keep his eye on the walkway—”

“Alas, alas.”

“—and although, in my attempt to save him, I called out—”

“So did I, so did I!”

“My lord, I cried, watch your step—”

“—or you will fall—”

“—go no farther. But it was too late. I saw him fall, fall like a withered apple from the tree—”

“He fell and his bones were shattered.”

“—and break in two like a dry stick.”

The crowd was holding its breath. Matthias leaned against the doorpost watching the performance with interest. The shorter of the two, a chubby fellow, had worked himself up into a frenzy.

“And when we went to the aid of our fallen brother,” he declaimed, “to offer him our spiritual assistance, he opened his eyes, one last time—”

“—and confessed—”

“—confessed his sins, yes. ‘May the Lord forgive me my trespasses,’ he said, ‘as I forgive those who have trespassed against me—’”

“‘—that I may be received into God’s grace—’”

“‘Amen!’ and died.”

“‘—and be assured of eternal peace,’ he said, and—”

“And died!”

“In the name of the Lord, yes. And died.”

“Amen, amen.”

The people were moved. Some made the sign of the cross. The two monks looked at each other, visibly pleased with themselves.

“Tell us again, reverend brothers,” screeched a woman, pulling a pair of grubby children to the front. “The children didn’t hear.”

The monk with the louder voice raised his hands to heaven and opened his eyes wide. “O Lord,” he wailed, “how painful it is for me to bear witness to the death of Thy son Gerhard again and again. I would have given my life to save him, yet Thy will be done. But still, to see him fall while my brother here, Andreas von Helmerode, and I were sitting in pious contemplation beside one of the chapels, O Holy Mother of God, sweet vessel of grace and mercy, it was as if I were being tortured by a thousand red-hot knives. But is it our place to lament if it has pleased the Lord to take brother Gerhard to his bosom? Should we not be joyful and give thanks for the moment when, leaving this unimportant earthly existence behind, he was born anew? For, dear brothers and sisters, what is death but our true birth? What should we feel in the face of death but joyous anticipation that we, too, will soon appear before our Judge to be blessed with His infinite mercy. True, the cathedral has lost its guiding hand, but others will come and they will be imbued with Gerhard’s spirit. This is not a moment for vanity, not a moment to turn our thoughts to material things, to stones and towers, colored glass and mosaics. Yes, we saw Gerhard fall, saw him plunge from the highest point of the scaffolding at a moment when he was communing with God. You call it an accident? I call it Divine Providence and grace!”

“What sins did Gerhard confess to?” a man in the crowd shouted.

The monk went red as a beetroot and clenched his fist. “How dare you ask!” he roared. “May God send His lightning down upon you and shrivel you up, body and soul.”

“You should be praying instead of asking questions,” the second monk broke in, making the sign of the cross again, “praying all the time. Do you want to meet the poor soul in your dreams, accusing you of not having supported it with all your heart? Recite the Creed, sing the Te deum. Remember, at this very moment the dead man is on his way to appear before his heavenly Judge, weighed down with his sins, humbly offering up his remorse. But woe betide the sinner who stumbles, for the Devil’s fiendish crew lies in wait for the lamb along the path it must take to its Merciful Shepherd. Stinking filth, demonic obscenities, the wolves of darkness!” He made a grand gesture, as if to damn Cologne and all the surrounding villages. “Verily I say unto you, all of you, each and every one, will have to take that path, and you will long to have the prayers of the whole of Christendom to keep you safe from the clutches of the Evil One, who will try to drag you down to the darkest depths of hell where Leviathan writhes in transports of satanic delight on its red-hot grill, crushing human souls in its countless claws. Remember, we all must die! It opens its gaping maw, and its teeth are terrible round about! Its eyes are like the eyelids of the morning! Out of its mouth go burning lamps, and sparks of fire leap out! Out of its nostrils goeth smoke, as out of a seething cauldron! Its breath kindleth coals and a flame goeth out of its mouth! There is not its like upon earth.”

The terrifying image the monk had neatly borrowed from the Book of Job had its effect. Many of those around turned pale, some putting their heads in their hands and groaning, “Lord, forgive us our sins.”

“Forgive us our sins, is it? Then pray. Did not the angels, when they were taking Saint Martin to the world above, have such terrible struggles with the Powers of Darkness, that even the heavenly choirs fell silent? Pray! Pray!”

“Yes, pray, pray.” The crowd took up his words, heads were bowed, hands clasped, some sank to their knees, sobbing and trembling.

The fatter of the two monks gave the other a meaningful look and jerked his head in the direction of the corner of the street. Time to leave. The pair of them slowly made their way out of the kneeling crowd, then gradually quickened their pace.

Urquhart’s witnesses.

Matthias gathered up the skirts of his cloak, pushed his way through the crowd, and hurried after them. “Reverend Brothers!” he called out.

The monks stopped and turned, their eyes full of suspicion. When they saw he was a patrician, they immediately bowed their heads and adopted a deferential posture. “How can we be of service?” asked the fat monk.

“You were the only ones who saw Gerhard fall?” Matthias asked.

“Definitely.”

“Then there is just one thing I would ask of you. Speak in praise of Gerhard wherever you go.”

“Well, er—”

“You are itinerant monks?”

“Yes.” The taller raised his chin and a smug look appeared on his face. “It is the Lord’s will that we preach His Word all over the land. We say mass in the villages and hamlets, but sometimes we come to the towns and cities.”

“A magnificent city, this Cologne, a holy city,” added the other in hushed tones, moving his head this way and that, as if he could not see enough of it.

Matthias smiled. “Yes, of course. Tell people what you saw at the cathedral. People everywhere. They say there are some”—he leaned forward and put on a conspiratorial air—“who would drag Gerhard’s name through the mud.”

“Is that possible?” gasped the fat monk.

“I’m afraid it is. They bear false witness against you and claim it was not an accident.”

A wary glint appeared in the monk’s eyes. “But?”

“But murder. Perhaps even the Devil.”

“Absolute nonsense, of course.” The monk drew out the words.

“And a great sin to make such a claim,” the other added. “A good thing such lies are without foundation, since we can testify to what really happened.”

Matthias nodded. “A real blessing, Brother. Let us thank the Lord that He led you to the right place at the right time. I can rely on you, then?”

The two nodded alacritously.

“Most certainly.”

“We will announce it wherever we go.”

“Provided God watches over us and supplies our modest needs.”

“Which He does not always do.”

“Brother! Who would criticize the Creator? If He does not always do so, then I am sure it is for the good of our souls. We will go on our way in humility—”

“And hunger. Sometimes.”

They looked at him, smiling. Matthias took out a coin.

“The Lord be with you,” the fat monk murmured unctuously. The coin vanished into the depths of his grubby habit. “And now you must excuse us. Our Christian duty calls.”

“Of course, reverend Brothers.”

They grinned their excuses once more and took off. Matthias watched them until they had disappeared around the corner. He hadn’t realized Urquhart would send the two to the funeral. Not a bad idea. The people had certainly swallowed their account of Gerhard’s death. That would make things more difficult for the redhead.

But not difficult enough.

Matthias shivered at the thought of the damage he might do. They had to find him.

He hurried back to Gerhard’s house. The funeral procession was just starting. The bells of the old cathedral had begun to ring out the death knell. The bier was preceded by monks, deacons and acolytes, the provost of the cathedral chapter, and the suffragan in their vestments, with the processional crucifix, holy water basin, thurible, and candles, even though it was broad daylight. The body was carried by members of the stonemasons’ guild, followed by Guda, the family, and friends. Nuns and lay sisters carrying candles sang psalms and said prayers. One of the nuns pushed another aside to get nearer the body, a routine happening at the funeral of important persons. Those who prayed most for the salvation of the dignitary would have a better chance at the Last Judgment.

Gerhard’s body would lie in state in the cathedral for three days. Monks would sit beside him, reciting the Kyrie and perhaps, even though it was forbidden, one of the pagan songs from the old religion, all the time waving the thurible to mask the inevitable smell. Now, in the cooler days of September, it wasn’t so bad, but three days was still three days.

First, however, there was the requiem mass to get through. That meant listening to interminable sermons, then enduring visions of the end of the world and the Day of Judgment called up by the power of the Dies irae, when the trumpet shall sound and even death will look on in amazement. Since the Franciscans had made this poem—its author was said to have carved the words in stone—part of the mass, it struck fear and terror into the hearts of the faithful with apocalyptic visions, to comfort them in the end with a reminder of the mercy of Jesus.

Matthias took his place in the procession and concentrated on business matters.

At that moment the quarrel blew up.

Whatever Daniel, who unfortunately was walking beside Kuno, may have said, he suddenly slumped to the ground as if felled by an axe. Kuno had punched him. And he was pulling him back to his feet, his face contorted with rage, preparing to hit him again.

Daniel’s nose was bleeding. He ducked and butted Kuno in the stomach. With a yelp, Kuno stumbled backward, gasping for breath. Then he kicked Daniel in the groin, which had the desired effect.

The front half of the procession was continuing on its way, as if nothing had happened; the rear half halted.

Daniel drew his sword. With two strides, Matthias was beside him and knocked it out of his hand. Immediately Kuno attacked. Johann quickly came up from behind and held him, while Matthias immobilized Daniel.

“Let him go,” shouted Kuno.

“That’s enough,” Johann barked.

“No. Let him use his sword. Let everyone see what a gang of murderers he’s in.”

“Imbecile,” hissed Daniel. “You want my sword? You can have it. Right between the eyes would be best, if you ask me.”

Matthias gave him a few quick slaps on the face. “Not another word, do you hear?”

“But he started it. I—”

“You will keep your mouth shut,” growled Matthias, quivering with rage. “Remember this is a funeral, not an ale house, and try not to bring any more dishonor on the name of Overstolz. Or shall we bury the two of you along with Gerhard?”

“He—”

“I don’t give a damn what he did.” He turned to Kuno. “And you, off you go. Don’t let me see you till the funeral’s over. We’ll talk about this later.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” Kuno retorted, beside himself. He wriggled out of Johann’s grasp. “And certainly not from that bastard, that ruffian, that killer, that—”

“Oh, yes, you do,” said Johann calmly. “And you obey them, otherwise I’ll see you get a public whipping. And don’t go talking about killers.”

The people behind, clerics, patricians, and burghers, were crowding round, full of curiosity.

“I warn you,” said Johann.

The two faced each other, panting. Kuno was white as a sheet while Daniel’s features were contorted with hatred and loathing.

“Traitor!” said Daniel hoarsely. Without so much as a glance at Kuno, he wiped the blood from his upper lip, picked up his sword, and rejoined the procession, limping.

Kuno watched him go. Then he became aware of all the eyes on him. He straightened up, turned his back on the crowd, and not without a certain dignity, strode away in the opposite direction.

“He loved him, too much,” muttered Johann.

“Yes, he loved Gerhard,” said Matthias out loud, turning to the people around. “And Daniel loved him, too. Love made them blind and each thought he was closest to him. Thus love can engender hatred and turn friends into enemies. Forgive them. Now let us go and pay our last respects to Gerhard.”

Strangely, the crowd seemed happy with the explanation he had quickly cobbled together. As if Daniel had ever felt anything like love for Gerhard! They all set off again together.

Johann moved next to him. “Well lied,” he said.

“Sweet bleeding Jesus!” Matthias exclaimed, contrary to his usual dislike of strong language. “If Kuno goes on like this, we’ll all be saying our last prayers.”

Johann was silent for a while. Eventually he said, “He will not go on like that.”

“It’s easy enough to say that! And what about your mad son who almost split the other madman’s head open? These things have got to stop, Johann.”

“They will stop.”

Matthias muttered a few more curses. The procession was slowly approaching the cathedral. The sound of the bells made their whole bodies vibrate.

They will stop—

Matthias could not let the matter rest. “What do you mean by that?”

“I spoke with Mother yesterday evening. We discussed Kuno. She suggested I read the Bible.”

“Blithildis!?” said Matthias. “What’s wrong with her? She usually gives rather more practical advice than that. I can’t believe she’s getting soft in her old age. After all, it was her idea to—”

“Shh.” Johann placed a finger to his lips.

“Sorry,” Matthias mumbled.

“She recommended the Psalms because there’s a passage she felt fit the situation. How well do you know your Bible?”

“I know my account books better.”

“As was to be expected. Psalm one hundred and nine, verse eight.”

Matthias’s brow furrowed. “No idea.”

“Neither had I. So I went and looked it up to see what Mother’s advice was.”

“And?”

Johann gave a deep sigh. “It is very clear: Let his days be few—”

Matthias let out a low whistle. “That’s what she thinks, is it?”

“—and let another take his office.”

HAYMARKET

Urquhart was standing under the lime trees, watching the market. He knew that his instructions had been too much for the servants’ simple minds. He had positioned them around the city on the chain principle. It was a strategy they used in the Scottish Highlands to communicate over long distances. They were divided into pairs and each kept an area under observation, just within view of the next pair. They carried a torch with them, and when they saw the enemy, one of them held it aloft so that the flame and the inevitable greasy black smoke could be seen from a distance. Sword in hand, the other would approach the enemy, assuming there were not too many, then retreat in order to lure them toward his other comrades. They in their turn would light their torches, that being the signal to close up. Carried out competently, this maneuver allowed a scattered group of warriors slowly to surround an enemy, who would keep on chasing after a different man until they realized too late they had fallen into a trap.

Accordingly Urquhart had divided the servants up into pairs. Since, in the city, they could not rely on keeping the next pair in sight, the aim was to drive the redhead, once he had been spotted, toward the other pairs, until they had him trapped. A simple plan, one would have thought.

Matthias’s servants had stared at him openmouthed. He had had to explain the principle several times. By the time they had understood it, they had forgotten the color of Jacob’s hair or what he looked like. Urquhart repeated his explanations patiently, but he found their stupidity infuriating. If, as appeared to be the case, Jacob had at least a modicum of common sense, he would make himself unrecognizable. His only hope was that Jacob would make a mistake.

At the moment one pair was keeping Haymarket under observation, one Old Market Square, and a third the area around the cathedral site. Six men for at most one-tenth of the city. There was no other way. He had to station most of his men in the crowded parts of the city. Three other pairs were patrolling the area between St. Severin’s and the Brook, from the Church of the Apostles past New Market Square as far as St. Cecilia’s and the district around St. Ursula’s and Eigelstein Gate.

Urquhart put them out of his mind. He hoped Matthias’s contact would be able to post soldiers at the city gates.

His only reassurance at the moment was the tiny crossbow he could feel under his cloak. He strolled across Haymarket, studying faces. The market was in full swing. He walked along the meat stalls, submitting each man he passed to a few seconds of highly concentrated scrutiny. He worked to a set scheme, which allowed him to register the essential details, categorize and assess them before acting or proceeding to the next. It was a skill acquired through years of practice; he could not have explained how he went about it. Urquhart was far from being vain, but there was hardly anyone he had come across who was capable of seeing patterns as he could; very few could even think logically. People perceived things as if through a haze, and the haze was called religion.

This worked to his advantage. Urquhart believed in nothing. Neither in God, nor the Devil. He didn’t even believe in the value of his own or any other existence.

Perhaps, he thought, as his eyes captured another face, analyzed and released it, this architect would have been a man he could have talked to, a man with whom he could have shared a jug of wine and a few jokes about their fellow men. What he had seen of the cathedral under construction had inspired his respect. If it did actually represent the overall plan, he had a logical structure before him. For the ring of chapels around the apse, that steeply soaring, straining caricature of perfection, was cold. Its mathematical precision took the life out of any inspiration.

Capture, analyze, release.

A little farther on was the part of the market where offal was sold: liver, heart, and tripe, kidneys and sweetbreads. He elbowed his way through and watched the butchers as they weighed handfuls of pale white or blue-and-red-veined collops, strings, and folds, and passed them to the customer. One rummaged around in a mass of undefined entrails and pulled out a long, tangled intestine. The pile started to move, pieces slithering over each other like skinned snakes, bodies still warm and twitching. He saw the butcher’s arm plunge back into the mass, again and again, presumably the pieces on offer were too long, too short, too thick, or too thin. Again and again the man plunged his hand into the moist pile and pulled something out—

The world turned red.

He saw a man in armor, an iron claw descending and pulling something out of the body of a child, something warm, gleaming, sticky. The child was still alive. It must be making the high-pitched, unearthly shrill sound, and all about him—

His head was pounding.

Urquhart closed his eyes and pressed his fists to the sides of his head.

The image faded.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you feel well?”

He blinked. He was at the market. It was just the entrails of dead animals.

“Do you need help?”

He turned to face the woman and looked at her, without really registering her features. A nun. Concerned.

Urquhart forced his lips into a smile. Then he realized he was recovering quickly. A different man’s strange memory of a different life had almost gone.

“It’s all right, thank you, reverend Sister,” he murmured, bowing his head in acknowledgment.

“You’re quite sure?”

“A slight headache, that’s all. The unexpected blessing of your Christian sympathy has worked miracles. I thank you.”

She blushed. “The Lord be with you.”

“And with you, Sister.”

She made the sign of the cross and hurried off. Urquhart watched her go and wondered what had happened. It was a long time since he had had one of these attacks. Why now?

And what was it he had seen?

He no longer knew. The horror had sunk beneath the black waves of oblivion.

Almost automatically his eye went back to capturing the features of the people going about their business, analyzing them, releasing them, going on to the next. Swiftly, precisely, coldly.

DEUS LO VOLT!

It was already getting dark by the time Jacob woke up. He rolled over on the pile of dry twigs that formed his mattress and found himself staring into the yellow gleam of a cat’s eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you going to set me on fire?”

It frequently happened in these tiny wooden houses. Cats would lie on the still-warm ashes in the fireplace and when they were driven off there would still be some glowing embers caught in their fur. Then they ran up to the loft, which was full of kindling, pine shavings, and other combustible material, and in no time at all the house was in flames.

The cat objected to the insinuation. It mewled, turned its backside toward him, and released a substantial jet of urine. Jacob stretched, wondering how long he had slept. After Jaspar had driven him to despair with the story about the archangel, he had crawled up to the loft, collapsed onto a pile of kindling, and fallen asleep on the spot. He must have slept through the whole day.

But he was still alive, that was the important thing.

At the memory of what he had been through during the last twenty-four hours he felt a tremor of fear. But it was bearable, as was the pain in his shoulder. Jacob felt revitalized. He also felt a strong desire to do something. Jaspar would probably be downstairs. He found the trapdoor, ran his fingers through his hair to make himself reasonably presentable, and clambered down the ladder.

In the room a massive, good-natured-looking man was sitting by the fire chewing at a joint of fatty ham. For a moment Jacob felt like running away. But the man didn’t look as if he was in league with murderers and devils. Cautiously Jacob stepped a little closer and nodded.

“And a very good day to you, too,” said the man, his mouth full, so that the words were scarcely comprehensible.

Jacob sat down carefully on the bench and looked him up and down. “I’m called Jacob,” he said.

The man nodded, grunted, and continued to tear at the piece of ham.

“Jacob the Fox. That’s what they call me. Jaspar probably mentioned me?”

A further grunt was the response. Impossible to say whether it expressed agreement or appreciation of the food. Clearly not a great conversationalist.

“Right,” said Jacob, crossing his legs, “your turn.”

“Rolof.”

“What?”

“’m called Rolof. Servant.”

“Aha. Jaspar’s servant.”

“Mmm.” Rolof took a deep breath and let out a colossal burp.

“And? Where is he? Jaspar, I mean.”

Rolof seemed to have understood that a conversation was unavoidable, even if the idea of continuing to gnaw the ham joint was more attractive.

He licked the fat from his lips. “St. Mary Magdalene’s. Sermon. Epistle to the Hebrews, yes? At least that’s what he said.”

“St. Mary Magdalene’s? The little church opposite St. Severin’s?”

“Mmm. ’s dean there. Little church? Yes, but lovely. Not a great big lump like St. Severin’s.”

“Er, Rolof,” said Jacob, shifting along the bench toward him, “that joint of ham you’ve got there, er, could you imagine, I mean, assuming you don’t think you really need the whole of that huge piece, you know it could give you a horrible stomachache, my uncle, for example, he ate an enormous piece like that, all by himself, it wasn’t so long ago, and it killed him, his body stank of ham for days on end, it made even the grave-diggers throw up into his grave, and it probably meant he didn’t go to heaven, either, all because of the ham, now you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Rolof froze. He sat there motionless for a long time. Then he looked at Jacob. “No,” he said slowly.

“I thought so.” Jacob gave a jovial laugh and put his arm around Rolof’s shoulder. “Now I would be willing to take some off you. Let’s say half.”

Rolof nodded, gave him a friendly grin, and continued to work at the smoked meat with his huge jaws. That was all.

Jacob started to grow uneasy. “Rolof?”

“Mmm.”

“You want to go to heaven, don’t you?”

“Mmm.”

“You understood what I said?”

“Yes. You said, when I die, I’ll stink of smoked ham. Great, yes? Everyone’ll know Rolof was rich man, lots of ham to eat, yes?”

“Unbelievable!” muttered Jacob and retreated into his corner.

After a while Rolof leaned toward him and bared his teeth. “You hungry?”

“What a question to ask! Of course I’m hungry.”

“There.” He was actually holding half the joint out to Jacob. His heart missed a beat, then he grabbed it and took such an enthusiastic bite the fat came spurting out. How long was it since he had eaten something like this? Not since Bram had died, if at all.

It tasted salty. Rancid. Delicious!

Rolof leaned back, a smug expression on his face, and began to lick his fingers. “Jaspar says Rolof has one big advantage,” he grunted. “Rolof looks thick as two short planks, yes?”

Jacob stopped chewing and gave him a cautious glance. He didn’t quite know what to say. Any comment could be the wrong thing.

“But,” Rolof went on with a sly look, “Rolof ’s not. You want ham, yes? Make up tall story. Not a fox, an ass, yes? In a fox’s skin. Could’ve asked.”

“I did ask,” Jacob protested.

Rolof laughed. “Did lie. Your story’s rubbish. Impossible.” He raised his index finger and beamed. “No uncle. Jaspar says you’ve not got anyone, never had. But no uncle, no ham story, yes?” He rubbed his belly, satisfied with his demonstration of intellectual superiority. Soon after, his snores were making the beams shake.

“I suspect you’re supposed to be keeping an eye on me.” Jacob giggled and returned to his piece of paradise.

At last Jaspar came, putting an end to the tranquility of the tiny, crooked room. He seemed irritated and gave the bench a sharp kick. Rolof awoke with a start. Then Jaspar’s eye fell on Jacob. He raised his brows, as if seeing him for the first time, scratched his bald head, and pulled at the end of his nose. “Oh, yes,” he said, cleared his throat, and disappeared.

“Oho,” said Rolof. “Better I go, yes? Every time Jaspar talks of Hebrews—oh! oh!”

“What’s all this about the Hebrews?” Jacob asked, getting up to see where Jaspar had gone. He heard the sound of the trapdoor in the backyard. Obviously Jaspar felt in need of a visit to his wine cellar.

Rolof looked all around, lumbered over to Jacob, and whispered confidentially, “Jaspar Rodenkirchen, people can’t understand him.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Too clever. Can talk till his teeth fall out, yes? Because—the Hebrews—I know nothing about it, only it says something about peace and brotherly love, entertaining strangers and good things like that. At least I think so, but he always gets furious, in a rage, like an animal, bleeeh, bleeeh.”

“Yes, because those are the only words you can understand,” growled Jaspar, coming in with a well-filled jug in his arm. “Bleeeh, bleeeh. For Rolof that’s a whole sentence with subject, object, and predicate. That’s why he can understand pigs. What do the pigs say, Rolof? What do they say? ‘Eat me, eat me,’ isn’t that what they say? Incredible the way he can understand pigs. Not even St. Francis could speak their language so perfectly.”

“Comes from all that ham,” Jacob whispered to Rolof.

The servant roared with laughter until he was left gasping for breath. Then he stood there, apparently unsure what to do next. He decided to try yawning. It worked. “Late,” he observed.

“Oh, excellent,” Jaspar mocked. “We’ve learned to distinguish between morning and evening! What an intellectual achievement. The world will tremble at the power of your mind.”

“Yes.” Rolof nodded, completely unabashed. “Going to bed.”

He yawned again, then climbed the stairs. They heard him singing, some unmelodious plaint that suddenly broke off, to be followed by the familiar snore, proving that for every unpleasant noise there is an even more unpleasant one.

Jaspar placed two mugs on the table, filled them, and invited Jacob to drink. They emptied them in one draught, Jacob greedily, Jaspar with the unhurried calm of the experienced drinker.

“So,” he said, and put his mug on the table, refilled it, drank, put it down again, refilled it, emptied it, put it down again, and looked at Jacob as if he saw things rather more clearly than a few minutes ago. “How did you sleep, my little fox-cub?”

Jacob felt odd. The stuff was going to his head. “Like a fox-cub,” he said.

“Marvelous. My house a fox’s earth. How’s the arm?”

“Better.”

“Better? That’s good.”

They were silent for a while. Jacob wondered whether he ought to bring up his problem, although he would have preferred to be able to forget everything.

The silence began to weigh on him. “You gave a sermon on the Hebrews?” he asked, more out of politeness than anything.

Jaspar gave him a surprised look. “How on earth—oh, of course, Rolof. Yes, I told him what I was going to preach on. Sometimes I really don’t know whether he has the brain of a piglet or the sly duplicity of my cat. But he’s a good servant—when he’s not sleeping or eating. Yes, I preached on Hebrews and some of my fine parishioners did not like it.”

He snapped his jaws shut. His fury was almost tangible. Jacob stared at his mug. They could go on like this, drinking and saying nothing, but the idea didn’t appeal to him much. He suddenly felt the need to know more about Jaspar.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Why not?” Jaspar grunted, pouring himself some more wine. “Because they’re unrepentant hypocrites through and through, our good Christian ladies and gentlemen, and because that unspeakable whoreson Alexander is preaching a crusade and they’re delighted, instead of being outraged. As if the so-called holy city of Cologne didn’t have good reason to mistrust the promptings of the Roman snake that calls himself pope. The people of Cologne of all places.”

“Why Cologne of all places?”

Jaspar rolled his eyes. “O Lord! See Thy son Jacob, he lives within the walls of Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium, but what does he know of it? Nothing. Or have you heard of the lost children? Anno Domini 1212?”

Jacob shook his head.

“Just as I thought. But you do know what a crusade is?”

“Yes. A just war to win back the Holy Land from the heathen.”

“Amazing! The words just roll off his tongue! Learned off by heart so he doesn’t need to think about it. Sancta simplicitas! Now, if you were to ask me, I would say a crusade is a mockery of the teaching of Augustine, put about by another blockhead known as Urban II. God, what am I doing talking to you about crusades and Augustine? I must be out of my mind.”

“Perhaps.” Jacob was starting to get angry. “No, definitely. You’re out of your mind and I’m an imbecile. How is it possible I’m talking to the venerable Jaspar Rodenkirchen, dean, physician, and goodness knows what else? To know nothing is unforgivable, of course.”

“What’s unforgivable is to have an empty head.”

“Oh, right. It’s all my fault. I’ve been surrounded by sages all my life. I only had to ask. Everyone was just waiting for the opportunity to fill my head with knowledge. Wasn’t I stupid? Unforgivable, as you say.”

Angrily he grabbed the jug, poured himself some wine, and gulped it down. Jaspar watched him in amazement.

“What’s all this? The poor don’t need to be ashamed of their ignorance, I know that. No one expects a philosophical treatise from you. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they—”

“I am not poor in spirit! And when I don’t know something, it doesn’t bother me until someone insists on rubbing my nose in it, at the same time spouting platitudes such as ‘use your head.’ How can I, reverend sir, when there’s obviously nothing in it? At the moment I don’t even know what to do to survive the next few days. I’m an ignorant fox, yes, or more likely a wretched little squirrel, but I will not accept insults. Not even from you, however many times you boast about wanting to help me.”

His mouthful of wine went down the wrong way; he coughed and gasped for breath. Jaspar looked on, then stretched over and gave him a thump on the back.

“So you really want to know about the Crusades?”

“Yes,” Jacob panted, “why not?”

“A history lesson. Might be a little dry.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Hm. Right then. I’ll have to go back a little. Pour yourself more wine. There’s still some in the jug?”

“Should be enough.”

“Good. You’ve heard of the Holy Roman Empire, I suppose?”

“Of course.”

Jaspar shook his head. “There’s no ‘of course’ about it. To be precise, it’s a divided empire; holy or not, it has disintegrated over the centuries. On the one hand there’s the East Roman empire with Byzantium as its center and the West Roman with Rome. If you think things are pretty turbulent now, let me tell you they were much worse when the old empire finally collapsed, about two hundred years ago. The pope inveighed against the supposed depravity of the kings and emperors. The old story. When the spiritual and secular powers are at each other’s throats they like to use our Lord Jesus Christ as a figurehead. The king got them to elect an antipope. Suddenly there were two popes. God had two representatives on earth who couldn’t stand each other and always proclaimed something different from their opposite number. One spoke of the dunghill of Rome, the other of the king’s whore. All very edifying. The Roman pope excommunicated the king. Unfortunately that was only valid for the West Roman empire. There was also the East Roman, with an emperor in Byzantium who didn’t give two hoots for Rome. He was a rather dubious character anyway, who had got to the throne by a bloody intrigue, which had really irritated the Vatican. So what did the pope do in his righteous anger? What do you think?”

Jacob shrugged his shoulders. “Difficult to say.”

“What would you have done as the pope of Rome?”

“I would have excommunicated the other one as well.”

“Very good, Fox. That was exactly what the pope did. Not that the Byzantine emperor cared. He didn’t care about much. Not even about the Seljuks who were at the gates—”

“Seljuks?”

“Sorry. Seljuks, Pechenegs, all Turkish tribes that Mohammed had united with the Arabs. So their empire stretched from Khorasan across Iran and the Caucasus, over Mesopotamia, Syria, and Palestine as far as the Hejaz. A huge area. And now the infidels wanted Byzantium as well. Given the conflict of interest within Christendom, the most they were likely to be faced with was a few toothless quotations from the Bible. The emperor of Byzantium was as false-hearted as he was weak, which was probably a good thing because it made him easier to depose. There was the usual palace revolution and a remarkable young man by the name of Alexios came to power. Once he was firmly established, he took stock and the result was not encouraging. Many parts of the empire had fallen into the hands of the Turks and the rest threatened to follow suit.”

Jaspar licked his lips and had a drink.

“In addition to which,” he went on, “Alexios had problems with Rome. The excommunication had been passed on to him like foot-and-mouth disease. No hope of help from the West. So Alexios tackled the Seljuks, Pechenegs, and what have you on his own, drove them back and managed to negotiate a peace, a pretty flimsy affair, but still. For the benefit of Christendom, he announced, though basically all he was interested in was regaining his territory. He couldn’t have cared less about the fact that the holy places—Palestine, the Holy Sepulcher, Jerusalem, Antioch, where St. Peter had lived—were under Seljuk rule, which was what the pope was so concerned about. All the horror stories about the ungodly Turks who slaughtered Christian pilgrims by the thousand, cooked and ate them, were products of the overheated imagination of deranged hermits. The Christians in the occupied territories had the advantage of Islamic law, the most tolerant there is, if you ask me. They were allowed to practice their religion and had very few complaints, certainly not enough to send a call for help to the West. Is this all beyond you, or would you like to hear the rest?”

“Of course. Go on.”

Jaspar smiled. “You’re not so muddleheaded as that mat of red hair would suggest. Right then. Back in Rome things were improving. Both the pope and the antipope died and a new one was elected. He called himself Urban II and if I said before he was a blockhead, that was only half the story. He certainly wasn’t stupid, but his indolence was nothing short of blasphemous. He simply had no desire to quarrel with anyone at all. The first thing he did was to lift the excommunication from Alexios, fighting with his back to the wall in far-off Byzantium, and conclude a treaty of friendship with him. Two crooks who deserved each other, ha! Alexios immediately tried to think up ways of winkling a few pious warriors out of his new friend, to help him win back some of the occupied territory, Anatolia in particular. But there were limits to this friendship, since Urban just wasn’t interested in war. He ran his church and that was that. Alexios was unhappy with that. What was the point of an ally who did nothing? So he sent an embassy of twelve ambassadors to Piacenza, where Urban was holding a council, and they went on at great length about the sufferings of the Christians under the yoke of Islam, wailed and gnashed their teeth at the siege of the Holy City, and made a great to-do about pilgrims on their way to Palestine being hung by the feet and chopped into little pieces while still alive and God knows what other nonsense. All hugely exaggerated and full of oriental rhetoric, which they learned down there. But effective. Urban promised help. Promising was one thing Urban was good at.”

“And? Did he send help?”

“Urban? Not straightaway.” Jaspar giggled. “As I said, he was a cleric through and through, and preferred to spend his time in the usual ecclesiastical pursuits. Canonizations, witch trials, that kind of thing. But at least he’d promised. Alexios was rubbing his hands at the prospect of a hundred well-armed knights, and Urban would certainly have sent them, sooner or later—if he hadn’t had that blasted dream.”

Jacob, who was listening fascinated, went to fill his mug, but there was nothing to fill it with.

“Oh,” said Jaspar and teetered off toward the back of the room.

“I’m not bothered,” Jacob called out after him.

“But I am.”

“You can’t just stop like that.”

“Why not?” Jaspar’s voice was already coming from outside. “The story took hundreds of years to become history, but you can’t wait.”

“I want to know what happened next. And you still haven’t told me about the lost children.”

Jaspar was trying to open the trapdoor in the yard. “Well, if you insist, come out here.”

Jacob jumped up and went out into the dark yard. Jaspar had lit a candle and indicated he should go down first. Cautiously they negotiated the slippery steps. Jacob was plunged into the damp, musty smell once more and a strange feeling of timelessness came over him. The darkness in front echoed with the drip of water. Then candlelight filled the immediate surroundings. Jaspar was standing beside him.

“Could you imagine spending the rest of your life here?” he asked. “Not out of choice, but if you had to?”

“Not even by choice.”

Jaspar gave a dry laugh. “And yet this is paradise. What do we know about the Crusades anyway?” He went over to a barrel and drew off two or three pints. As he followed him, Jacob seemed to be floating. He wasn’t used to the stuff. He spun around, arms outstretched, and felt himself sink to the ground like a feather.

Jaspar gave him a searching look and placed the candle on the ground in front of him. Then he sat down opposite and filled the mugs. “This is a better place to talk about the Crusades,” he said, taking a draught.

Jacob followed suit. “Agreed.”

“No, you misunderstand. This cellar is a hole in the ground. It’s unhealthy and oppressive. It’s my penitential chamber.”

“Nice penance.” Jacob grinned.

“I could just as easily drink up there, in the warm. But that’s what I don’t do. To sit in a cozy, well-heated room talking about injustice and suffering seems to me tantamount to mocking those who really suffer. You want to know what Urban dreamed? He claimed the Lord appeared to him and commanded him to take up arms in the name of the Cross against the heathen and unbelievers. In November of the year of our Lord 1095 he preached the Crusade at the Council of Clermont, beseeching rich and poor to wipe out the Turks in a massive campaign, a holy, just war the like of which had never been seen. And everyone who was there—and there were lots, too many—burghers, merchants, clerics, and soldiers, tore their clothes into crosses, screaming Deus lo volt! Deus lo volt!

He was silent for a while. Jacob didn’t ask what the war-cry meant. He could guess.

“So off they went, kings and princes, knights and squires, thieves and beggars, priests and bishops, the riffraff from the streets, swindlers, murderers, anyone who could ride or walk. They set off rejoicing to fight for the Lord, bribed by the unparalleled remission of their sins, if only they would take up the sword and journey to the Holy Land. And they kept on crying Deus lo volt!, as if God could have wanted them to massacre the unbelievers in their own land, steeping their hands in the blood of the Jews of Mainz, Worms, Speyer, and other cities, to indulge in mindless, wholesale slaughter, beheading, burning, disemboweling innocent men, women, and children, laying waste to the countryside, plundering, the scourge of even the Christians they claimed to be going to liberate.”

Jaspar spat on the ground. “God willed that? The stories your Bram told about the Crusades were a load of crap. I heard them and nothing could be further from the truth, even if he did put it over well. Bram was no crusader. He’d got to know a few of those who came back with no arms, no legs, or no wits left. Hungary and Byzantium, Istria and Constantinople, everything was razed to the ground. I read what a chronicler from Mainz wrote, before they butchered him, too: Why did the sky not go black? Why did the stars not extinguish their light? And the sun and the moon, why did they not go dark in the vault of heaven when, on one day, eleven hundred holy people were murdered and slaughtered, so many infants and children who had not yet sinned, so many poor, innocent souls? They beseeched the Almighty to help them, but the Almighty happened to be somewhere else, or perhaps He thought they deserved it. And all that happened while they were still here, in our towns and cities.”

He shook his head. “Then they went off to the Holy Land, in the name of the Lord. The scum, the foot soldiers, the bands of marauders, never arrived. They either died of starvation, were killed, or simply dropped dead on the way. But the great armies of knights did get there. They besieged Jerusalem. For five weeks! They sweated themselves silly in their armor, they must have stunk like pigs, they were foul and festering, but they held on. Then they entered the city. It is said that on that day our men waded up to their horses’ fetlocks, to their knees in Saracen blood. What was their new Christian kingdom founded on? On murder! On torture and mutilation! On rape and pillage! Those are your Christians, my son. That is the Christianity we’re so proud of. Brotherly love!” He spat contemptuously. “And what is it Paul says to the Hebrews? A few boring injunctions: Let brotherly love continue. Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. Remember them that are in bonds, as bound with them; and them which suffer adversity, as being yourselves also in the body.”

Jacob waved his mug as he tried not to lose his balance. “But that was all a long time ago,” he said, the sounds merging into one long word.

“No!” Jaspar shook his head violently. “No, the Saracens reconquered Jerusalem. There was one Crusade after another, especially after even a saint like Bernard of Clairvaux placed himself at the service of the butchers. You know Bernard?”

“Not as such—”

“Of course not. Again there were letters of indulgence, sold like quack remedies, papal bulls sanctioned murder and more murder. And the knights! Life in a castle can get pretty boring when there’s no call for your skills, so they put their armor on and went out crying Deus lo volt! again. But it was no use. They couldn’t repeat the pathetic success of the first Crusade. Lured by the promise of fabulous treasure, they went to the Holy Land to be defeated and die, fighting for power among themselves, with the Church trying to consolidate its leading role. Honorable reasons, as you can see. And then the Crusade came to Cologne. Or rather, its vile breath blew through the streets and touched a boy named Nicholas and one or two other ten-year-olds. This Nicholas stood up in the streets and called on all the children to follow him to Jerusalem and defeat the Saracens by the power of faith alone. They intended to part the Mediterranean as Moses had parted the Red Sea, this infantile horde, and even priests and pilgrims didn’t think it beneath them to join it, not to mention maids and servants. God knows how they managed to cross the Alps, the youngest not even six years old, but by the time they reached Genoa most were dead and they were reduced to a pitiful handful. And what happened? What happened, eh?”

Jaspar’s fist hammered on the stone floor. “Nothing! Nothing at all! The sea didn’t give a shit for them. Part? What, me? I need a prophet for that, or at least a Bernard of Clairvaux. There they stood, the lost children, exhausted, robbed of everything they had, weeping and wailing. In St. Denis there was another such lost child, Stephen. He’d not yet grown a beard, but they still followed him by the thousand and they marched to Marseilles. Suffer the little children to come unto me, said the Lord, but in Marseilles it was two merchants who said that. They packed the children on ships and sold them as slaves to the very men they had set out to conquer, Egyptians and Algerians. Now do you wonder why the people of Cologne of all places have good reason to be suspicious of Crusades?”

Jaspar’s voice had started to go around and around Jacob, like a dog yapping at his heels. He put his mug down. It fell over. “They should have just boxed the children around the ears,” he babbled.

“They should have. But they didn’t. Do you know what the pope said? These children shame us. For while they hasten to win back the Holy Land, we lie asleep. That is what he said. But one year later, when the disaster was there for all to see, they hanged Nicholas’s father in Cologne. Suddenly it was all his fault; he had sent his son off out of a desire for glory. Suddenly everyone thought it had been madness. Funny, isn’t it? And now? Conrad von Hochstaden has announced a sermon against the unbelievers for the day after tomorrow. He’s going to deliver it in one of the chapels of his new cathedral. In Rome recently a new Crusade was proclaimed against the Tartars. Does anything strike you?”

Jacob was finding thinking difficult. Did anything strike him? “No,” he decided.

Jaspar reached over and grabbed him by the jerkin. “Yes! It’s starting again. I talk of brotherly love and the Christian life, and they talk of Crusades. God knows, I’m not overendowed with morality, I drink, I swear, and, yes, as Goddert quite rightly pointed out, I fornicate, and I think the Waldenses should be punished, and a few other heretical curs along with them—but a Crusade can’t be God’s will. It’s too cruel. It makes a mockery of the cross on which Christ died. He damn well didn’t die so we could start a bloodbath in Jerusalem, or anywhere else in the world for that matter.”

Jacob stared at him. Jaspar’s chin was slowly merging with his forehead, while a second nose had appeared. He burped.

Then Jaspar’s face dropped from view to be gradually replaced by the patterns of shadow on the cellar ceiling. Incapable of thinking of anything but sleep, Jacob slid to the floor.

Jaspar’s hand tugged at his breeches. “Hey, just a minute, Fox-cub, I’ve just remembered. There’s something I wanted to ask. You forgot to mention it this morning.”

“I know nothing about politics,” mumbled Jacob, eyes closed.

“Forget politics. Jacob? Hey, Fox-cub?”

“Mmm?”

“What did he say?”

“What did wh-who say?”

“Gerhard, dammit. What did he say to you? His last words?”

“Last—?” What had Gerhard said? Who was this Gerhard?

Then he remembered. “He—said—”

“Yes?”

For a while there was silence.

Then Jacob began to snore gently.

RHEINGASSE

The mood was as gloomy as the evening.

Almost the whole group was gathered around the wide black table. Of the Overstolzes, Johann, Matthias, Daniel, and Theoderich were there, plus Heinrich von Mainz. Kuno represented the Kones, since his brothers, Bruno and Hermann, had been exiled. It would have been fatal for them to let themselves be seen in Cologne.

Blithildis Overstolz was sitting a little to one side. She looked as if she were sleeping. Only the slight trembling of her fingers showed that she was wide awake and alert.

There was nothing on the table, no wine, no fruit.

Johann looked around the assembled company. “Good,” he said, “we’re all here. Seven who share a secret plan. Plus two banished men whose fate is in our hands.” He paused. “That is not many when you remember our goal and in whose interest we are acting. Each one of us has sworn an oath committing him to absolute, unconditional silence and obedience as far as our cause is concerned. One would have thought such a handful of loyal comrades would be like a coat of chain mail, each link so interwoven, no one can tear it apart. United we stand.” His eyes went around the table and rested on Kuno, who was sitting with bowed head. “Clearly I was wrong. Can you tell me why, Kuno?”

Kuno turned toward him without meeting his gaze. “Ask Daniel,” he replied in a low voice.

“I’ll ask Daniel soon enough. For the moment the question is, why did you knock him down at Gerhard’s funeral? Apart from the danger to us all that represented, it was an act of sacrilege.”

“Sacrilege?” Kuno leaped up. “You can talk of sacrilege? You who had Gerhard murdered?”

Daniel stared daggers, but he remained silent.

“Sit down,” said Johann calmly. “If you are going to talk of Gerhard’s murderers, then remember you are as much a murderer as we are.”

“You made the decision, not me.”

“No. We took certain measures to attain certain goals that we, and many of our class, hope to achieve. You too, Kuno. You leaped at the chance of freeing your brothers from their banishment—without expressing any scruples about the action we all deemed unavoidable. Do you really think you can pick and choose as far as responsibility is concerned? Accept what seems reasonable to you and leave us to bear the rest because it’s not to your taste? You didn’t bat an eyelid at the idea of ordering a death, indeed, you were one of the first to agree. But now you seem to want to distinguish between one death and another, you accept one but not the other, though both are grievous sins. Are you less of a sinner than the rest of us because you didn’t reckon with the death of a man you loved and therefore refuse to accept responsibility for it? As I said, you cannot pick and choose when all these actions flow from one and the same decision, which you made along with the others. You may not have wanted Gerhard’s death, but you must accept responsibility for it, whether you like it or not. If you reject it, then you reject us and place yourself outside our group. We will be compelled to regard you as someone we cannot trust.”

Kuno had gone pale. He started to speak, then shook his head and sat down.

“And now to you, Daniel,” Johann went on in the same flat tone. “You knew how hurt Kuno was. Kuno Kone has no parents; Gerhard was father and friend to him. What did you say to him during the funeral?”

“I told him he was a coward. Is that reason to attack me?”

“That’s not true,” Kuno screamed at him. “You accused Gerhard and me of—of unnatural lusts.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Crazy. What would you call it if someone asked you—” He broke off. His chin began to tremble.

“What did you say to Kuno?” Johann repeated his question.

Daniel’s lips quivered with contempt. He looked at Kuno, eyes half closed, and leaned back. “I asked him what he had done with his strong perfume, since he was on his way to sleep with a dead man for the next three nights.”

There was shocked silence in the room. All eyes turned away from Daniel. He frowned and folded his arms defiantly.

“Daniel,” said Matthias softly, “if it were up to me, I would beat you till the flesh dropped from your bones.”

Daniel stared at the ceiling.

“Yes, well—” said Johann. He placed his fingertips together. “Things are not going as well as they might. We have gone as close as we can to attracting attention to ourselves by putting some of our servants at Urquhart’s disposal. The redhead still hasn’t been found. Urquhart’s idea of getting his witnesses to perform outside Gerhard’s house was a neat tactical stroke, but we still can’t rest easy. This Jacob could be passing on what he knows at any moment. We’ll have to keep our eyes open, too. This situation has unfortunately made further deaths necessary—”

“A whore and a beggar,” muttered Daniel dismissively.

“You shouldn’t talk like that about whores,” Theoderich remarked. “If my information is correct, you make pretty frequent use of their services.”

“—and will also result in the death of the redhead.” Johann could scarcely control his irritation. “We have to live with it, and we will have to atone for it. I pray the Lord no more deaths will prove necessary and that Urquhart can proceed to his main task without further damage. So much for the position at the moment.”

“Yes.” Heinrich von Mainz sighed. “Bad enough.”

Blithildis’s head shot up. “Bad? Oh, no.”

Those few words were enough to bring deathly silence to the room. The men stared at the table, unmoving.

“It was a bad day,” the old woman whispered, “when our men had to go down on their knees before Conrad, in front of twenty thousand people, to beg forgiveness for their just and godly deeds. It was bad when those among us who refused to serve a corrupt, criminal archbishop left the city as free men to be brought back and beheaded like common thieves. Twenty-four patricians in Conrad’s prison, at the mercy of his greed and hard heart, and so many outlawed and scattered abroad over the face of the earth, like the peoples after Babel, can there be worse? Bad, too, are the faintheartedness and shoddy doubts of the moralists, who look for any excuse not to act, the fear of the rabbits pretending to be lions who squeak and quail at the sight of a toothless cur. But worst of all are secret alliances where they raise their fists, shout out watchwords, and pledge their lives to a noble end, and then turn into a pack of whining women, ready to betray everything they swore to fight for body and soul. Men who wear a sword yet cannot kill a rat, those are the worst.”

She raised two bony hands in solemn entreaty.

“What we are doing is right. The deaths are regrettable. Every minute that is left to me will be a prayer for those unfortunate souls. How should I not suffer with them, I who have already tasted of death’s profound peace? The brother of sleep lies with me, one last, sweet lover before I enter into the glory of light and give back the gift of life to the Creator. And yet, my every heartbeat hammers out defiance of those who would destroy us, the whores of the Baphomet and the Great Beast, my every breath pants for justice and revenge for our dead and our exiles. Who among you will tell me my longing is vain, that I must depart this life grieving and unfulfilled, that I have hoped and prayed to no avail? If there is one among you who will tell me that, let him stand before me. I will see him. Blind old woman that I am, I will know him.”

Her hands sank limply to her lap. In their wake her words left the silence of the grave, the speechlessness of shame and self-knowledge.

She bowed her head and spoke no more.

Johann cleared his throat. “We will not abandon our plan,” he declared. “The oath is still valid. I think everyone knows the part he has to play. Kuno—”

Kuno continued staring into space.

“—I think it would be better if you did not take part in our future discussions. That is all, gentlemen.”

Without a further word, Johann stood up and left the room.

NOTTURNO

“I can’t get to sleep.”

Richmodis sighed. She turned over onto her side and peered through the darkness to Goddert’s bed. The blanket rose over his body like a miniature Ararat. All that was lacking was a tiny ark.

“What’s the matter?” she asked gently.

“I can’t stop thinking about that fellow,” Goddert muttered.

“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.