Death and the Devil

PLANS

“Now I know what we’ve got to do,” said Jaspar, his cheeks bulging with currant porridge.

Jacob was clasping his head.

“What’s the matter?” asked Jaspar. “Ill again?”

“Drunk.”

“Stuff and nonsense. The drink was yesterday. Look outside. The sun’s shining, the Lord has sent us a new day and phenomenal new thoughts into my head, since nothing will grow on top.” He waved his finger impatiently over Jacob’s bowl. “What’s wrong? I get the maid to make us some sweet porridge that would have the emperor himself licking his lips and you sit looking at it as if the currants had legs.”

“It’s my stomach that feels as if it had legs.” Jacob groaned. There was a thumping above his head. Rolof was working in the loft and he was doing it noisily. Too noisily for Jacob’s state of health.

“The youth of today!” Jaspar shook his head. “Go out, if you must, and stick your head under the pump.”

“I didn’t see one.”

“Where do you mean? In the yard? My house does not have the luxury appointments of Goddert von Weiden’s. Just past St. Severin’s there’s—ach, nonsense Rodenkirchen, you jackass. You mustn’t be seen outside with that burning bush of yours. I’ll go and see if I can find a habit for you.”

He scraped up the last of his porridge, licked his fingers with relish, and smacked his lips. “Excellent. Come on, eat up.”

“I can’t.”

“You must, otherwise you’re out on the street.” He grinned smugly. “And that would be a pity when I’ve thought up such a splendid plan.”

Jacob took his bowl resignedly and set about it. Jaspar was right. The stuff not only tasted good, it did him good. “What plan?” he asked from behind two hands sticky with porridge.

“Simple. There were two witnesses, you say, who spoke of an accident. Assuming you’ve got the story right, they must be lying. But what do they get out of it? They could make a lot more of a lovely, dramatic murder, so why go for a common or garden-variety little slip? What do you think?”

“I don’t. My head won’t start working again till I’ve managed to force this unaccustomed treat down me.”

“But it sticks out like a sore thumb. Even Goddert would see something so patently obvious.”

“Right then.” Jacob pushed the bowl away and tried to think. “They lied, without any clear advantage to themselves. Unless, of course, they killed him.”

“Getting warm. But if I’ve got it right, you only saw one man on the scaffolding—we’ll assume it wasn’t the Devil. Where was the second witness?”

“There was no one else there.”

“Exactly. And our oh-so-willing witnesses didn’t kill anyone, either. But they’re in league with the murderer. Why? Because he’s paying them. They were waiting nearby to be on the spot as quickly as possible, ready to tell their story before the body was cold. And what does that tell us about the murderer, Fox-cub?”

Jacob thought for a moment. “He prepared his crime?” he conjectured.

Jaspar gave a little whistle of applause. “Not bad for a thick head. But I’d go even further and say that also he could afford Gerhard’s death. Bribery costs money. Of course, they might just have owed him a favor, but it makes no difference. Either way, the witnesses were bought. Now to my simple priest’s mind, a knave will be open to other pieces of knavery. A man who sells his word for money has also sold his honor, prostituted his soul. He can be bought again. For the highest offer.” He grinned. “How about making these so-called witnesses one ourselves?”

“With money? I’d have to rob a church first.”

“I wouldn’t be entirely happy with that,” said Jaspar drily. “I was thinking more of a pretend offer.”

Jacob nodded. “Of course. I go out and start asking for the witnesses to Gerhard’s accident. How long do you think I’d last?”

Jaspar rolled his eyes and sent up a short prayer. “Don’t act more stupid than you really are,” he said. “Do you think I’ve forgotten? Gerhard’s death will have been reported to the magistrates and they will certainly have taken a statement from the witnesses. Now it so happens that one of the magistrates, since Conrad got rid of the old lot, is a friend of mine. Bodo’s his name. He’s master of the guild of brewers, so you can see we have a common interest. I’ll ask him where we can find the pair.”

“The magistrates,” Jacob mused. That was good. “How soon can you see this Bodo?”

Jaspar spread his hands. “As soon as I want. Now if you like. He doesn’t live far away.”

“Good. Give me a habit or a hat, something to hide my hair. Then we can be off.”

“Keep your hair on, Fox-cub. You’re not going at all. You’re going to be so good as to chop the firewood in my yard.”

“But—”

“No buts. I do something for you, you do something for me.”

“I’ll do anything for you, but you’ve got to take me with you, d’you hear? Disguised and in your company, I wouldn’t be in any danger. After all, it’s a magistrate we’ll be talking to.”

“I hear you.” Jaspar sighed. “And I can see you doing something silly behind my back. I’ll send Rolof to fetch Richmodis, to give you a good reason not to do something silly.”

“I—” Did Jaspar say Richmodis? “All right.”

“You see?” Jaspar rubbed his hands. “Aren’t you lucky? Old Uncle Jaspar does the spadework for you and scatters the seeds of reason. You may thank me. If it leads to anything, you can still come along.” He placed his finger on the end of his nose. “Just a minute. There was something else. Something I needed to know? Damn, we don’t get any younger. No matter. I’ll be away for an hour or two. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Jacob was thinking of Richmodis. “Of course not.” Then something occurred to him. “Tell Richmodis to bring her whistle.”

Jaspar turned at the bottom of the stair, a severe expression on his face. “Didn’t I say something about chopping wood?”

“No problem. She’ll be the one playing.”

“But she doesn’t know how.”

“That’s why she needs to learn.”

Muttering something incomprehensible in Latin, Jaspar went to find Rolof.

JASPAR

That morning Bodo Schuif, master brewer, did not look like a man who meant to spend the day tending his tuns of mash. As Jaspar arrived he was wearing his best coat and about to leave.

“Nevertheless,” he said, putting his arm around Jaspar’s shoulders, “there’s still time for a jar, don’t you think, Rodenkirchen?”

“You would have to assure me that beer, consumed after large quantities of red wine, has a purgative effect, promotes the digestion, and will not impair the harmonious functioning of my organs and bodily fluids.”

“Consider yourself assured.”

“Then lead me to it.”

The brewer gave the maid a sign. Before long two foaming mugs were standing on the table and in no time at all the two men had white mustaches.

“And where is your good lady?” asked Jaspar casually.

Schuif gave a drawn-out, rumbling burp. “At the market. I told her I wanted crayfish pie today, no one makes a better. Do you fancy a bite yourself?”

Jaspar’s mouth watered. “I’m afraid not,” he said reluctantly. “It looks as if I’ll be occupied with urgent business.”

“Me too.” Schuif sighed. “There’s always urgent bloody business. Since I was elected magistrate I seem to be spending more time in the Town Hall than anywhere else. There’s another meeting this morning. Why, I don’t know, there’s nothing important to be dealt with. Recently it’s the wife who’s been looking after the business. She’s almost better at it than me, the Lord be praised.”

He laughed and took a deep pull at his beer. “D’you know,” he said when he’d wiped the foam from his mouth, “the ones who give us the most trouble are those louts who call themselves the noble houses. Instead of the council of magistrates doing what it’s supposed to do and administering justice, we spend all our time squabbling with the few patricians left on it. Conrad cleared out the cesspit that was the old council and replaced it with honest traders and craftsmen, but there’s still a few patricians among us. I ask you, what do they want, these noble gentlemen? Behave as if they’d lost all their influence when what really gets up their noses is seeing ordinary burghers getting their sweaty hands on their supposed privileges.”

“No, they can’t stand that.”

“You know how I feel about it. I’m not petty-minded. Each to his own, I say. But the magistrates are responsible for the administration of justice and the running of the city. That means for Cologne. The whole of Cologne. Where would we be if those who represent everyone, the poor and needy as well, only came from the patrician families?”

“‘Would we be’? That’s the way things used to be.”

“Yes, and praise and thanks be to Jesus Christ that our lord archbishop took the shovel to that pile of dung! A bloody scandal, the way things used to be done! The guilds weren’t entirely free of blame, I have to admit. We let the patricians infiltrate us, even elected some guildmasters, all for the sake of profit. But that was all. Was it our fault the noble families increased their influence along with their wealth? They got everywhere, like blasted mildew. Conrad was right to kick up a fuss about them using their positions to protect criminals and help them evade his jurisdiction.”

Jaspar grinned. Bodo was so proud of being a magistrate, he never tired of trotting out the well-known facts again and again. Since becoming a magistrate he had tried to moderate his rough language, not always with success. No wonder the patricians, who had studied and seen the world, reacted to people like Bodo as if they had the itch. Despite the fact that, according to the statutes, anyone who was sound of mind and body, born within wedlock, and not convicted of any crime could become a magistrate, previously only representatives of the noble houses had occupied the magistrates’ seats. If the patricians had had their way, people like Bodo would have got a kick in the seat of the pants rather than a seat on the council. A brewer as magistrate was a slap in the eye for the old families, especially as it came from Conrad von Hochstaden.

“Well?” asked Schuif with a frown.

“You’re right, as always, Bodo.”

“That’s not what I mean. Do you like my magic potion? You’re keeping so quiet about it I almost take it as an insult.”

“Sorry.” Jaspar emptied his mug demonstratively. The beer was sweet and stuck to his teeth, almost a meal in itself.

“That’s better.” Schuif smiled. He stood up and smoothed out his coat. “And now I must be off. That is—” He frowned and gave Jaspar a questioning look. “Did you come for a reason?”

“Oh, nothing special. I was interested in poor Gerhard’s tragic accident.”

Schuif nodded fiercely. “Yes. Terrible, now the building’s coming on so well. Could it be God didn’t want him to finish the perfect church? I have a theory of my own there.”

“Huh!” Jaspar made a dismissive gesture. “Gerhard could have lived to be a hundred and not seen it finished.”

“Don’t say that. There are miracles—”

“There are architects. I’ve nothing against miracles, but Gerhard Morart was a human being like you and me.”

Schuif rested his knuckles on the table and leaned down to Jaspar conspiratorially. “Yes, perhaps we need a different word for it. You’re right, miracles are generally attributed to saints. Perhaps we should be talking of the Devil?”

“Not again.” Jaspar groaned.

“What do you mean, not again? And why not, anyway? If you ask me, Gerhard had dealings with the Arch-fiend. My wife says he jumped off that scaffolding.”

Jaspar leaned back, shaking his head. “Your wife should stick to crayfish pie. Do you really believe that?”

“Anything’s possible,” said Schuif, wagging his finger at Jaspar.

“If anything’s possible,” Jaspar countered, “what do you think of another theory, namely that Gerhard didn’t jump, but—”

“But what?”

Jaspar bit his lip. Better keep quiet about that. Instead he asked, “Have you spoken to the witnesses?”

“Yes, we questioned them.”

“Reliable?”

“I’d say so. Two respectable monks, preachers who happened to be staying in Cologne. Benedictines, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Aha,” said Jaspar. “Then they’ll be staying with their fellow Benedictines?”

“No, they’re lodging at St. Gereon’s, if you must know. Why do you want to know, anyway?”

“There’s a lot more I want to know. I’d be interested in their names.”

“Well, why not? One was called—just a moment—Justus? Brother Justus or Justinius? Can’t quite remember. The other’s an Andreas von Helmerode. I can’t for the life of me think why you want to know all this, but then you always were a mystery. My wife says with all your questions you’ll eat your way right through history. And when you come out the other side, you’ll see it’s just the same.”

“As I said, just curiosity.” Jaspar stood up. “Thanks for the beer. Perhaps you’ll come around for a jug of wine sometime?”

“Love to. When my official duties give me time.”

“I have a suggestion. Make time.”

Schuif furrowed his brow, obviously trying to work this out. Jaspar patted him on the shoulder and hurried out without a further word.

When he entered the pilgrim’s hostel of St. Gereon it was full of bustle. This was nothing unusual. Cologne attracted large numbers of pilgrims, which was hardly surprising given the presence of important relics such as the bones of the Three Kings.

St. Gereon itself boasted the bones of its patron saint, as well as those of St. Gregorius Marcus and his followers. Not long ago the fourth-century Roman atrium, on which the site was based, had been converted into imposing cloisters and the hostel had been opened the previous year. St. Gereon was a beautiful building and Jaspar took a little time to wander around the cloisters.

A monk came hurrying toward him, a bundle of scrolls under his arm. “Excuse me,” Jaspar called out.

The monk started and crossed himself, dropping half his scrolls in the process. Jaspar bent down to pick them up.

“No!” The monk pushed him away and grabbed the scrolls.

“I was just trying to help.”

“Of course. It was my fault. Brother—?”

“Jaspar Rodenkirchen, physician and dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s.”

“Brother Jaspar, these scrolls must only be touched by those authorized.”

“Of whom you are one, I assume?”

“Precisely. Can I be of assistance?”

“Perhaps you can. I’m looking for the two monks who were witnesses when God called Gerhard Morart to Him. One was called Andreas von Helmerode and the other’s name could have been Justus—”

“Justinius von Singen!” The monk nodded eagerly. “We have the honor of entertaining them under our unworthy roof. They saw him when he was called to his Maker, but I must say, I think it was a damned shame he had to die.”

“Brother!” exclaimed Jaspar in horrified tones.

Shocked at his unconscious blasphemy, the monk was going to cross himself again, but restrained himself just in time. “God’s will be done,” he said.

“On earth as it is in heaven.” Jaspar nodded, a severe look on his face. “I don’t want to keep you from your important business any longer, Brother, so if you could just tell me where I can find Andreas and Justinius—”

“I will send a novice to fetch them.”

The monk turned and passed through an archway. A short while later Jaspar saw a spotty boy in a novice’s habit shoot out and disappear into the building opposite. After a time he reappeared, followed by two monks who clearly belonged to the mendicant orders.

“There’s the man who wants to speak to you,” he muttered shyly, head bowed. He stumbled backward along the cloisters for a few yards, then turned and ran off full tilt.

“Andreas von Helmerode? Justinius von Singen?”

The pair looked at each other uncertainly. “I am Justinius,” said the shorter, fatter of the two. “But who are you?”

Jaspar slapped his forehead. “You must excuse me for forgetting to introduce myself. I am dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s. A good friend of Gerhard Morart. They say you saw the tragic accident from quite close to—”

The suspicion vanished from the monks’ faces. They had answered this kind of question often enough. Justinius came closer and spread his arms wide. “Like a bird he was in the sight of the Lord,” he declaimed. “As his body approached the earth, from which it came and to which it will return, his spirit rose in glory to be united with the All Highest. As Saint Paul says in his letter to the Philippians, Seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God.”

Jaspar nodded and smiled. “Beautifully put,” he said. “Though is it not in Colossians where we find those comforting words, while in Philippians it says, For our conversation is in heaven?”

The smile froze on the fat monk’s lips. “Yes, that is possible. For the ways of the Lord are unfathomable and Holy Writ more often than not perverted by irresponsible translators, to the confusion of honest seekers after truth.”

Andreas hastened to back him up. “It doesn’t affect the sense of the words.”

“No indeed, and it is a comfort to me,” said Jaspar, going over to a window from which the monastery’s magnificent orchard could be seen, “to know that you were with Gerhard when he died. Reports say you even heard his confession?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“And gave him extreme unction?”

Andreas gave him a funny look. “How could we have given him extreme unction since we didn’t have the oil with us? Had we known—”

“Which we didn’t,” Justinius interjected.

“Now I find that surprising,” said Jaspar softly.

“You do?”

“Yes, since you both knew very well that Gerhard Morart was to die at that time on that evening, as the murderer had told you.”

It was as if the two had looked back at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.

“What is more,” Jaspar went on, unmoved, “you also knew beforehand what you were to say afterward. Is that not so?”

“You are—you—” gasped Justinius.

“You must be mistaken, Brother,” Andreas quickly broke in. “I am sure you have good reason to make these accusations, these, yes, vile accusations, but you’ve got the wrong persons. We are but two humble servants in the vineyard of the Lord. And you are not an inquisitor.”

“Yes, yes, I know. And you are committed to the ideal of Saint Benedict.”

“Absolutely!”

“Absolutely,” repeated Justinius, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Jaspar smiled and started to walk up and down. “We all subscribe to Benedict’s interpretation of the poverty of Christ and His disciples,” he said, “and we are quite right to do so. But it sometimes seems to me that the hunger that accompanies it—and I mean the hunger for everything: life, whores, roast pork—causes certain rumblings in our pious bellies. I’m sure you know what I mean. Being a mendicant entails accepting alms—”

“But not for one’s personal possession,” insisted Justinius.

“Of course not. You have taken on the ideal of poverty and devoted your whole lives to the praise of the Lord and the well-being of Christendom. Nevertheless, could it not be that someone came and offered special alms for, let us say, a special service?”

“‘Special services’ can cover a multitude of sins,” said Justinius, cautiously if not inappropriately.

“It can?” Jaspar brought his perambulation to an end right in front of the two monks. “Then let me be more specific. I’m talking of the ‘alms’ you were paid to present Gerhard’s murder as an accident.”

“Outrageous!” roared Andreas.

“Blasphemy!” screeched Justinius.

“I have not blasphemed God,” said Jaspar calmly.

“You blaspheme Him by blaspheming His servants.”

“Is not the opposite rather the case? Is it not His servants who blaspheme Him by telling lies?”

Justinius opened his mouth, pumped his lungs full of air and swallowed. “I see no point in continuing this discussion,” he said between clenched teeth. “Never before have I been so offended, so insulted, so…so humiliated!”

He turned on his heel and left in high dudgeon. Andreas flashed Jaspar a quick glance and made to follow.

“One hundred gold marks,” Jaspar said, more to himself.

Andreas was rooted to the spot. Jaspar turned to face him, his index finger on the tip of his nose. “Was it that much?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” replied Andreas sullenly, but with an undertone of uncertainty.

“I’m talking about money, reverend Brother. Since you are obviously unwilling to help me formulate my offer, I can only guess.”

“What offer?”

“Twice what Gerhard’s murderer paid you.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” insisted Andreas, but stayed where he was.

“We both know whom I’m talking about, the tall man with long hair. Tell me, have the pair of you thought how you are going to justify your paid lie on Judgment Day? The Devil and his minions are looking over our shoulders, Brother, every day. Counting every syllable missed out during the anthems, every minute slept during the sermon. Now just imagine: not only do I absolve you of your grievous sin, as my office permits me, within certain limits, but you come out of the affair both purified and enriched.”

Andreas was staring. His fingers clenched. “God will reward me,” he said, not very convincingly.

“I know, Brother,” said Jaspar soothingly, patting Andreas on the cheek. “But God will be unhappy, to say the least, with the fact that you have shielded a murderer and accepted bloodstained money. Money can be washed clean, of course, but can you wash your soul clean? Is not our first reward that purgatory of which Saint Paul says it is a fire that shall try every man’s work, of what sort it is? Does not Boniface tell us of the terrible pits of scorching fire we must pass through on our way to the heavenly kingdom to decide who will arrive purified on the other side and who will descend into the sunless abyss? Do you want to burn eternally for your sins, Andreas, when I am offering you the chance of atonement and a reward into the bargain?”

Andreas looked to the side as he considered this. “How much will my remorse be worth?” he asked.

“How much were you given?”

“Ten gold marks.”

“Only ten?” Jaspar said in amazement. “You sold your souls too cheaply. What do you say to twenty?”

Now Andreas looked at him. “Each?”

“Hmm. All right, it’s a promise. But for that I want the truth.”

“The money first.”

“Not so fast.” Jaspar jerked his thumb in the direction Justinius had gone. “What about your friend?”

“Justinius? For twenty gold marks he’d admit to the murder of the eleven thousand virgins.”

Jaspar smiled. “Better and better. And just so there’s no misunderstanding: I want the truth. Then a statement to the city council so that no more innocent people are killed. Your stupid lie has had unfortunate consequences. I give you my word that I will purify your soul and”—he gave Andreas a wink—“your purse.”

Andreas looked around nervously. Monks and pilgrims kept passing, though none came too close. But the curiosity on the faces of the monks, especially the younger brethren, was unmistakable. They were always curious, about everyone and everything.

“Not here and not now,” he decided.

“Where then?”

“After mass Justinius and I were going to the bathhouse opposite Little St. Martin’s for, er, for a good wash.”

The bathhouse opposite Little St. Martin’s had a number of facilities on offer, none of which contributed to the purification of the soul. Jaspar was well aware of this. Too often his weak flesh drew him to the establishment, where every attempt was made to reward it for its weakness.

“When shall I be there?” he asked.

“Ah.” Andreas’s lips curved in a slight smile. “First we need a period of quiet contemplation to thank God for the invigorating effects of hot water and massage—I mean foot baths. Come around midday, and bring the money. We’ll be undisturbed there.”

“A good idea, Brother,” said Jaspar. “May I give you a piece of advice?”

“If you wish.”

“Don’t think you’re cleverer than you are.”

THE TOWN HALL

The bells of the old cathedral were striking ten.

With all the dignity he could muster, Bodo entered the great meeting room of the house where the citizens meet, as it was carved in Latin above the door. He threw back his shoulders and went to join the group who were talking together in low voices.

“Ah, Herr Schuif,” said one. “And what’s your opinion?”

“About what?” asked Bodo.

“About the murders in Berlich and by the Duck Ponds?”

“Not exactly the most shining examples of Christian living,” said another, “but men and women all the same.”

“My initial opinion,” said Bodo, “is that they’re dead. Are there suspects?”

“There are always people willing to accuse others,” replied the first. “But we have to be careful. I remember the old council had a man broken on the wheel who had been accused of being a werewolf. Afterward it turned out his only crime was staying alive too long for his heirs.”

Knowing laughter and conspiratorial looks were the response.

“Things are not always as they seem,” remarked the first magistrate.

“And do not always seem the way they are,” the second added with a sage nod.

“Quite right.” Bodo saw his chance to impress. “Take the case of Gerhard Morart. I had a very interesting talk with an old friend this morning. He was asking me about the names of those two witnesses. You know, the two mendicants who saw him fall. An accident, say some. He jumped, possessed by the Devil, others think more probable.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “But my old friend was hinting at a third possibility, although propriety or perhaps caution prevented him from saying right out what he thought.”

“And what,” drawled the first magistrate, “might he have been hinting at?”

“I didn’t press him. It was only going over his words later that it struck me. I think what he was suggesting was that at least Gerhard was not responsible for his own death.”

“Who was, then? The Devil?”

“No. At least not directly.”

“Don’t keep us on tenterhooks.”

“Well.” Bodo cocked his head self-importantly. “What if someone pushed him…?”

“Murder?” The other magistrate laughed out loud and shook his head. “Is your friend right in the head? Two upright men in holy orders tell us it was an accident, they even heard his confession—”

“And we questioned the two for a long time,” added the second. “If someone had pushed Gerhard, then presumably they would have seen it and told us.”

“I know. Nevertheless.”

“Somewhat far-fetched, Herr Schuif. Did your friend really talk of murder?”

Bodo hesitated. “Not as such,” he admitted.

“But you suspect that’s what he had in mind?”

“I know Jaspar. He likes to talk in riddles. Often I can’t understand him. This time, though—”

The other cut him short. “This time we will proceed to the meeting, where we have more important matters to discuss.” He seemed to have lost interest.

Bodo shrugged his shoulders. They set off up the stairs to the council chamber on the first floor. On the half-landing he felt a hand on his shoulder. He slowed down.

It was the second magistrate. “You must excuse me if I sounded so suspicious,” he whispered as they continued slowly up the stairs. “It’s a delicate matter. Certain…persons are of the same opinion as your friend. Keep that to yourself. For various reasons it doesn’t seem opportune to discuss it in public. What did you say your friend was called?”

“Jaspar Rodenkirchen,” Bodo replied, getting excited. “And you really think—”

“What I think is neither here nor there. Let us say one must make the truth known at the right time and in the right place. This Jaspar, would you trust his judgment?”

“I should say so! He’s a physician and dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s, master of arts and so on and so forth.”

“And you think he intends to question the witnesses again?”

“He said that.”

“Hmm. I understand. I just hope he and the others are wrong, but my hopes have no legal status and my wishes are less objective than a thorough investigation. May Gerhard’s soul find peace, and may the murderers—if your friend is right—suffer unimaginable torments. But justice is a matter for the magistrates. I’d advise your friend not to take things into his own hands. Tell him to confide in us.”

They had reached the council chamber. “After you,” said the other magistrate with a friendly smile to Bodo.

Bodo gave a dignified nod and entered the chamber.

The other watched him go in. Then he turned on his heel, ran down the steps two at a time, and disappeared down Judengasse.

LAST WORDS

“Middle finger,” said Jacob.

“She’ll never learn to play, will she?” said Rolof.

“If I’d wanted your opinion, you old polecat, I’d have grunted,” Richmodis said with a laugh.

“Don’t talk to Rolof like that,” growled Goddert from the corner where he was refilling his mug with wine. He had insisted on coming. “Polecats are God’s creatures, too.”

Jacob took her middle finger and gently placed it on the correct hole. They had been practicing playing the whistle ever since Jaspar had left. Unfortunately Richmodis’s talent in that direction fell far short of her other merits. “I just can’t get the change from here to there,” she complained.

“From where to where?” Jacob asked.

“From there—to there.”

“You can do it if you try. Now blow.”

Richmodis placed the whistle to her lips and took a deep breath. The result could hardly be classified as music. Sweet as a snake bite, thought Jacob.

“Told you,” muttered Rolof. “She’ll never learn.”

“Oh, yes, she will,” retorted Goddert. “She needs a bit of practice, that’s all.”

“My fingers feel as if they’re going to break off.” Richmodis slapped the whistle down on the table, pouted, and looked at Jacob from beneath her long eyelashes. “I save your life and you torture me.”

“Torture?” said Jacob, baffled. “But you wanted to—”

“Feminine logic.” Goddert giggled. “I get it all the time at home.”

“Oh, Jacob,” she breathed, “you play us something.”

“You’ll never learn like that.”

“I do want to learn, but I need”—she gave him a sugary smile that made his heart melt—“inspiration. Just once, please. Play a dance tune so this fat lump can get some exercise. Then I’ll practice day and night, promise.”

“You will?” Jacob grinned. “How can I resist that argument?”

He picked up his whistle and started to play a fast peasant dance. Richmodis immediately jumped up and tugged and pulled at Rolof until he lumbered around the room with her, still mumbling and grumbling. Then he started to enjoy it, and the lumbering turned into a stamping that made the floor creak and tremble. Richmodis spun around and around him. Jacob watched her hair fly and played faster and faster, beating out the rhythm with his foot on the floor. Goddert decided to join in and thumped the table with his fist.

The door opened.

Jaspar Rodenkirchen came in, stared goggle-eyed at the goings-on, and went out again.

“Oh, dear,” said Rolof.

Jacob put down his whistle.

Richmodis pulled a face, put her hands to her mouth, and called out, “Uncle Jaspar.”

Jaspar came back in with a sigh of relief.

“What was wrong?” asked Goddert cautiously.

“What was wrong?” Jaspar scratched his bald pate. “I was in the wrong house. Must have gone next door. There were four lunatics trying to pull it down. You’re all nice and quiet, thank God. And Jacob’s chopped the wood, haven’t you, Fox-cub?”

“Oh, the wood! Err—”

“And my old friend Goddert’s drinking water from the well. Let’s see, Goddert, you crimson crayfish. What’s this? Wine? Where did you get that?”

Goddert squirmed. “Erm, you know—”

“No, I do not know.”

“The cellar was open and I thought, well, someone might go and steal the wine. I was worried, you see—”

“Oh, now I do see. And I thought you’d repeated the miracle at Cana. Could that be my wine cellar you’re talking about, and therefore my wine?”

“Your wine?” said Goddert with an astonished glance at the jug. “How could that be, my dear Jaspar, when Saint Benedict’s Rule says that monks must not own anything, not even the habit that clothes their nakedness?”

“Outrageous! You drink my wine and then dare to quote Saint Benedict at me!”

“And you? Begrudge an old friend his last glass.”

“What?” Jaspar exclaimed in horror. “Things are that bad?”

“Well, no. But if I were to die, this jug of wine might be my last comfort. Would you deny me it?”

“You’re not going to die. You’re much too busy ruining me.”

“I could have a stroke, now, at this very moment.”

“Impossible.”

“No, it’s not. What proof do you have?”

“You’re right, none at all.”

“May a thunderbolt strike you, you heartless wretch. Just imagine they came to, let’s say, arrest me—unjustly, of course—for some crime and burned me at the stake. Wouldn’t you be prostrate with grief?”

“You wouldn’t burn. You consist of nothing but wine and fat. It’d make a stench, but no fire.”

“How can you be so unfeeling?”

“I’m not unfeeling.”

“You are. You’re miserly. All this fuss about a few mugfuls. I’m ashamed of you. Your stupid wine sticks in my throat now. Why don’t you follow the example of Ensfried? You know, the priest who was asked for alms on the way to mass, and as he had no money with him, he went into a dark corner of St. Mary’s, took off his breeches, and gave them to the beggar. And he even tried to keep his work of Christian charity a secret and didn’t take off his fur cloak when he was sitting by the fire—”

“Rubbish. Your Ensfried was an invention of some pious chronicler. Are you asking me to give you my breeches?”

“Lord preserve us from the sight of your nakedness!”

“I’ll tell you something, Goddert. You can drink till you burst, for all I care, but I’d like to be asked first before you go stomping down there to draw yourself a jug. I think I’ve earned that much consideration.”

“Right then. I’m asking. Shall we have another?”

“Let’s have another.” Jaspar, back in a good mood, smacked his lips. “And while Goddert’s fetching another mug from where he found his, perhaps I will condescend to tell you what I’ve achieved this morning.”

“Why only two mugs?” asked Richmodis in a sharp tone.

“Because only seasoned drinkers are allowed wine before sext, and Jacob needs a clear head anyway.”

“Did you manage to track down the witnesses?” asked Jacob excitedly. At the same time he felt the return of the fear he had forgotten for the last few hours.

“Hm,” said Jaspar. “Do you really want to hear?”

“Please.”

“You scratch my back. Now if you’d chopped the wood—”

“I’ll chop up a whole forest if you like, but don’t keep me on tenterhooks like this.” I have to know whether I was seeing things, Jacob thought. It all seemed so long ago now, so unreal, that he had suddenly started to have doubts whether he had actually seen the fiendish figure with the long hair.

But Maria and Tilman were dead. Or had he dreamed that, too?

Imperturbable, Jaspar waited until Goddert returned with his mug, took a long draught, and licked his lips. “Aah, I needed that. You were right, Jacob, I’ve not only found the witnesses, I’ve spoken to them.”

“And?”

“Two mendicants, Justinius von Singen and Andreas von Helmerode. The one behaves as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, the other is more open to temptation, especially when it takes the form of filthy lucre. He’s willing to recant.”

“So they were definitely bribed.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then!” Jacob leaned back and let out a deep breath.

“We have a rendezvous with this pretty pair. This time you’re coming, too. I’ll get you a fine habit with a hood you can wear to the bathhouse.”

“Why to the bathhouse?”

“Oh, did I forget to mention it? We’re to meet them in the bathhouse opposite Little St. Martin’s.”

“Monks in the bathhouse?”

“That—er”—Jaspar cleared his throat—“does happen, people say. What’s that got to do with it anyway? Aren’t you going to thank me for everything I’ve done for you? What I can’t do, of course, is supply the forty gold marks it will cost to persuade Andreas and Justinius to change their minds and give evidence to the city council.”

“They won’t do that anyway,” Richmodis broke in. “They might tell you they were bribed, but not the magistrates. That would be to admit they lied before.”

“So what, you prattling baggage? What can happen to them? They haven’t killed anyone; they just have to admit they saw someone and describe him. They can always say they kept silent out of fear, because they thought the Devil was involved. Now they come along, all sackcloth and ashes. They’ll probably be expelled from the city, but with forty gold marks in their pockets, that’s no great hardship.”

“Except they aren’t going to get them.”

“No. But if they tell us who Gerhard’s murderer is, we’ll make it public anyway and their lives won’t be worth a brass farthing. Unless they go to the magistrates for protection. Then they’ll have no choice but to tell the truth, money or no money.”

“When are we to see them?” asked Jacob.

“There’s still a good two hours,” replied Jaspar coolly.

“Two hours,” Goddert muttered. “We ought to offer up a prayer to the Virgin—”

“Yes, Goddert, you do that. You do the praying while I do the thinking.” He looked at Jacob, his brow furrowed. Then his expression brightened. “Oh, yes. Now I remember what I wanted to ask you this morning. You still haven’t told me.”

“What?”

“Gerhard’s last words.”

True! How could he have forgotten something so important?

“Well?”

Jacob thought. “It is wrong.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Richmodis, puzzled.

“That’s what Gerhard said. ‘It is wrong.’ Those were his last words, ‘It is wrong.’ I don’t find them at all puzzling. If someone pushed me off the top of a cathedral, I would have said it was wrong.”

Rolof gave a snort of laughter and immediately fell silent again.

“‘It is wrong,’” mused Jaspar, ignoring him. “You think he was referring to his murder?”

“What else?”

Jaspar shook his head vigorously. “I don’t think so.”

Goddert wagged his index finger. “Yes. There’s always something mystical, something sublime about last words.”

“No, there isn’t, Goddert,” Jaspar snapped irritatedly. “All this last words stuff is a load of nonsense. Do you think someone who’s lying there with every bone in his body smashed is going to go to the trouble of thinking up some original curtain line? As if any ass turns into a poet just because he’s about to depart the stage.”

“Many a man has been inspired when the soul is freed from the prison of the flesh. Saint Francis of Assisi even spoke in verse.” Goddert puffed himself up and declaimed,

“My God, listen to Goddert! And I always thought he’d never learned anything,” exclaimed Jaspar in amazement. “You’re still wrong, though. The great man wrote those lines long before he died, but only revealed them on his deathbed. Very spiritual but not particularly spontaneous.”

“Then take Archbishop Anno. Didn’t he see the destruction of Cologne on his deathbed?”

“Anno had a fever, took several weeks to die. Plenty of time to rehearse his last words.”

“But he called on Peter and all the saints to protect Cologne.”

“Probably because he believed the Virgin had vouchsafed him such a terrible vision as a punishment for the way he’d treated the citizens.”

“Anno was a saint. He loved the people of Cologne with all his heart!”

“You’ll have known him, of course—he only died two hundred years ago, while all I’ve done is read his Life. As for being a saint, I don’t doubt his miracles, but if you ask me, I’d say he had more eyes put out than he healed. No wonder he prayed for the city on his deathbed, but more out of fear of purgatory than for the welfare of the city.”

“If I was a cleric, I’d accuse you of blasphemous talk. I sometimes wonder which of us follows the teachings of the Church more closely, you in your habit or a hardworking dyer like me.”

“You aren’t a hardworking dyer, you’re an old drunkard with a hardworking daughter. As to your mania for last words, let me remind you of Saint Clare of Assisi. She died just seven years ago saying, ‘Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit’—very pious, but not particularly original or mystical.”

“And what about all the saints who suffered and died for their faith,” cried Goddert, who had gone bright red, “and still found words of defiance for their tormentors or had visions of the future?”

“Were you there? Most of them will have said ‘ouch.’ Last words are bandied about like relics. Three months ago Conrad sent the king of France a casket supposedly containing the bones of Saint Berga. If it goes on like this, we’ll have to add another nought to the eleven thousand virgins to explain the miraculous appearance of holy bones.”

Goddert drew a deep breath to reply, but instead gave a muffled growl and emptied his mug of wine.

“And now we have another set of broken bones,” said Jaspar, looking around at them pensively. “What was going on inside Gerhard? He’s dying and he knows it. Would he say ‘It is wrong’ about his own death? No one would dream of calling God wrong when He decides to call someone to Him, even if a murderer does have a hand in it.”

“But what is it that’s wrong, then?” asked Jacob, confused. “If Gerhard wasn’t talking about himself, it’s beginning to sound like one of Goddert’s mystical utterances after all.”

Goddert nodded vigorously.

“Not mystical,” said Jaspar. He rested his long chin in his hands. “Peter Abelard said that words do not veil reality, but reveal it. What reality did Gerhard want to reveal? Or, to put it another way, why did he have to die?”

“A rival?” Goddert suggested tentatively. “There are many who would like to be in charge of building the cathedral.”

“Hmm. There’s a young man called Arnold. A good stonemason. I believe the cathedral chapter has had its eye on him for some time.”

“I certainly had no intention of accusing the chapter of anything untoward,” Goddert declared hastily. “I just thought—”

“Why not?”

Goddert stared at him, openmouthed. This time his horrified incredulity seemed genuine. “Jaspar! How could even the shadow of suspicion fall on the cathedral canons? After all, they are the ones who instigated this holy work.”

“You mean the cathedral? That’s not a holy work.”

Goddert went even redder. “What? How can you say something like that? You’re always carping and criticizing.”

“No, I’m not. I just happen to know that Conrad laid the foundation stone on the spot set aside for his tomb, which poses the question of whose glory is this temple being built to, the Lord’s or Conrad’s?”

Goddert slapped his hand on the table. “You just have to drag everything through the mud.”

“All right.” Jaspar raised his hands in appeasement. “May the Lord preserve your simple faith. Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve come to the same conclusion as you. The chapter had nothing to do with Gerhard’s death. The cathedral was an expression of its power, too, and who better than Gerhard to realize it? Arnold will probably succeed to the position, but just because he’s a capable young stonemason, not for any dubious reasons.” He sighed. “Which brings us back to the question of what Gerhard meant when he said, ‘It is wrong.’”

“Perhaps he was referring to the future,” suggested Jacob.

“The future?” echoed Goddert.

“Yes. To something that’s going to happen. Something so important it was worth using his last breath for. Perhaps he knew some secret and it weighed on his conscience. So much so that someone expected Gerhard to tell the whole world what he thought was wrong.”

“And reveal a dark secret that was other people’s secret, too. Excellent, Fox-cub.” Jaspar could hardly contain himself. “Gerhard Morart knew something he shouldn’t have. He had become a danger. He was killed so he would take the secret, his murderer’s secret, to the grave with him.”

Richmodis swallowed and looked at Jaspar. “Then it’s not just the murder of an architect?”

“No. There’s something else. Something that’s still to happen.”

“Lord preserve us,” said Goddert in a hoarse voice. “I daren’t imagine what’s behind it. If they’re willing to kill Gerhard Morart to keep it secret, then it’s not going to be some petty crime.”

“Another murder, yes?” said Rolof impassively.

Everyone turned to look at him, but Rolof was fully occupied with a pear.

“That can’t be my Rolof,” mocked Jaspar. “Someone must have been speaking through him.”

“But he could still have been speaking the truth,” cried Richmodis.

“You must go and see your magistrate friend,” Goddert insisted. “You must tell him everything.”

“No,” Jaspar decided, “not yet.”

“But there’s no point in making inquiries ourselves. It’s too dangerous.”

“Then go home, you old coward. You’re the one who was determined to help Jacob. We can’t go to the magistrates before we’ve got these supposed witnesses on our side. That reminds me. Do you happen to have forty gold marks?”

“Of course, Jaspar,” Goddert declared. “Forty thousand, if you want. I’m the richest man in Cologne, aren’t I?”

“All right, all right.”

“That’s not a bad idea at all, Uncle Jaspar,” said Richmodis. “Tell the magistrates. It’s the only way of protecting Jacob and it’ll still allow us to talk to the witnesses.”

“They wouldn’t believe us, child,” Jaspar insisted. Whenever he called her child he was being serious. “We have no proof, and Jacob is not exactly what you’d call a pillar of society. And anyway, what do you think the magistrates would do, now the old wolves have been replaced by a herd of sheep? Conrad’s puppets wherever you look. Whatever you think of the so-called noble houses—arrogant, corrupt, cruel—there’s too few left on the council. Only this morning Bodo was boasting about his important position again. I like the old fellow, but he’s just as spineless and brainless as most of the tradesmen who fell for Conrad’s sweet talk when he got nowhere with the patricians.”

“There are still some patricians.”

“But they’ve lost influence. Perhaps it’s a good thing, but you can have too much of a good thing. Even the Overstolzes provide just one magistrate. That’s all that’s left of their power and authority.”

“That’s right,” agreed Goddert. “I heard his name mentioned recently. What was he called?”

Jaspar sighed. “Theoderich. But that’s irrelevant.”

RHEINGASSE

“Bodo Schuif,” said Theoderich. “But that’s irrelevant.”

“Bodo Schuif,” mused Matthias, and he slowly strode up and down the room. “That’s that ignorant ass of a brewer. And he believes the murder theory?”

“Bodo will believe anything until someone comes to persuade him of the opposite. He’s not a danger. The one we have to concentrate on is this Jaspar Rodenkirchen.”

“You think he’s been talking to the redhead?”

“There’s a strong presumption.”

“What do you know about him?”

Theoderich Overstolz shrugged his shoulders. “There wasn’t much time. I did what I could. Jaspar Rodenkirchen is dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s; also claims to be a physician and Master of the Seven Arts. Lives diagonally opposite St. Severin’s. A braggart, if you ask me, whom God has blessed with remarkable ugliness, but loved by his congregation.”

Matthias looked at him, brows furrowed. “We can’t afford to keep on killing people. A whore I don’t care about, but a dean—”

“Forget the dean. We can let him live. What I mean is we might get at the redhead through him.”

“Too late. The fox has put the dean in the picture, therefore both represent a risk.” Matthias was rocking back and forth on his feet. He was nervous and getting irritated because he couldn’t think what to do.

“Let’s discuss it with Urquhart,” suggested Theoderich.

“Yes,” said Matthias reflectively.

“And I agree with Johann,” said Theoderich, taking a handful of grapes from a bowl and stuffing some in his mouth. “It wasn’t particularly clever to bring Urquhart into the house. We can ignore the redhead. The important thing is that no one connects the murderer with us.

Matthias shook his head irascibly. “I’ve told you a hundred times, when I brought him here he was wearing the habit of a Friar Minor. He was unrecognizable; can’t you get that into your thick skull? We’ve got other problems. We must stop this talk of murder spreading and putting people on the alert. No one’ll pay much attention to whores and down-and-outs getting killed; those kinds of things happen. But how are we going to carry out our plan if respected burghers start deciding their lives aren’t safe in Cologne, dammit? And then this problem with Gerhard’s last words.”

“Gerhard fell off the cathedral,” said Theoderich matter-of-factly, chewing his grapes. “There were no last words.”

With a few quick steps Matthias was beside him and dashed the grapes out of his hand. He grabbed Theoderich by the collar. “Urquhart said this Fox, or whatever he calls himself, put his ear to Gerhard’s lips, you idiot,” he snarled. “What if he could still speak? Perhaps he said, yes, one of my murderers is called Theoderich Overstolz, you all know him, he’s a magistrate. And Jacob tells the dean, and the dean works on Urquhart’s witnesses, and tomorrow they come to fetch you—and me as well. And they’ll drag your blind old aunt Blithildis to the place of execution and tie her between two horses, before they hand you over to the executioner.”

Theoderich took a deep breath. “You’re right,” he croaked.

“Good.” Matthias straightened up and wiped his hand on his breeches.

“Matthias, we’re starting to quarrel among ourselves.”

“Don’t be such a baby.”

“That’s not what I’m getting at. Our alliance is in crisis and I can’t see things improving. It’s dangerous. Remember Daniel and Kuno. Even you and Johann don’t always agree.”

Matthias brooded for a few moment. “You’re right,” he said softly. “So close to our goal and we threaten to split apart.” He drew himself up. “Back to this dean. You talked to Bodo—what do you think he’ll do?”

“Try to find the witnesses.”

“Hmm. The witnesses.”

“We haven’t much time. It’s past ten and I don’t know where Urquhart is—”

“But I do. He’s distributed the servants around the city. His own section is the market district. It won’t take me long to find him. There, you see, Theoderich, things aren’t as bad as they seem. Now we know where the Fox is most likely to be hiding, we know who’s protecting him, and we know they’re tracking down the witnesses.”

Matthias smiled to himself. “That should give Urquhart something to work on.”

THE BATHHOUSE

“Aaaaah!” Justinius von Singen sighed.

The girl laughed and poured another stream of warm water over him. She was pretty and well worth the sin.

“O Lord, I thank you,” murmured Justinius, half blissfully, half remorsefully, as his right hand felt the breasts of his ministering angel and his left slipped down her stomach and under the water. At the same time he watched the girl sitting at the edge of the pool, playing her harp and singing to her instrument. She was in the bloom of youth, a veritable goddess, and her thin white dress revealed more than it concealed.

Drunk with joy, Justinius hummed to the music, out of tune, while his eyes wandered from the beautiful harper up to the galleries above the bathers, where men, young and old, some very old, were standing. They occasionally threw down coins and wreaths of flowers and the girls would jump up and, laughing, spread out their dresses to catch them, at the same time revealing their hidden charms. The music, the singing, the murmur of conversation, the splash of water all merged into a timeless stream in which rational thought was swallowed up as he abandoned himself to the siren voice of lust.

Justinius burped and laid his head on the girl’s shoulder.

Little St. Martin’s bathhouse was crowded at that hour. Clerics were there, though they tended to slip in quietly, for the attendants were as experienced in the arts of love as in giving hot and cold baths, massaging, beating the bathers with bundles of twigs, or rubbing them down with brushes made of cardoon bristles, which left them feeling as if liquid fire were running through their veins. At one time there had probably been a curtain separating the men’s from the women’s section, but all that remained were three iron rings in the ceiling.

Now the copper tubs and great brick basins were open to all. Decorated trays floated on the water, loaded with jugs of wine and various delicacies. Justinius had one right by his belly with a chicken on it roasted to such a crisp golden brown that it was a delight to the eye.

The girl giggled even more and pushed his hand away.

“Oooooh,” said Justinius, winking at Andreas, who was sitting on the other side of the basin, taking no notice of anything.

Justinius frowned. Then he sent a huge wave of water splashing over Andreas. “Hey! Why so gloomy?”

“What?” Andreas shook his head. “I’m not gloomy. I just can’t stop thinking about that man who came to see us this morning.”

“Oh, him again.” Justinius sighed. “Don’t I keep telling you not to worry so much? I agreed with you, didn’t I, that we should accept his generous offer and get out of Cologne as quickly as possible?”

“He wants us to make a statement to the council,” Andreas reminded him. “That makes a quick getaway impossible.”

“The council can go hang itself. We tell the man what we know, take the money, and before the council can get off their fat arses we’ll be spending it on a life of luxury in Aachen.” He leaned forward and grinned. “I’ve heard Aachen’s fantastic. Have you been there? What else would you expect from the city where they crown the kings?” He put his head to one side and shrugged. “On the other hand, they say nothing can compare with Cologne, so I can understand your feelings.” He nestled his head against the girl’s shoulder, groaning with pleasure.

Andreas pursed his lips. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right. The big fellow with the long hair gave us something and we did what he asked. Now someone else wants to give us something, so we do what he asks. What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t know. How did he find out we had anything to do with Blondie?”

“What does it matter? This Jaspar will be here soon. We’ll go into one of the side rooms, do the deal, take the money, tell him what happened and what we know—God knows, I’m an honest man, Andreas—and take ourselves off to some other place where you can get plenty of meat on your dagger. By the time Blondie’s realized we’ve let something slip, we’ll be over the hills and far away.”

“I hope you’re right,” Andreas repeated, a little less tensed up.

“Of course I am. Look around. This is the life! And we’ll live forever, God forgive my sinful tongue.”

The girl laughed. “Here everything’s forgiven,” she said, pouring another bowl of water over him.

Justinius shook himself luxuriously and pulled himself up onto the side. “What manly passion our Creator has implanted in us,” he cried. “Keep yourself in readiness for me, my rose, pearl of this holy city. I will betake myself to the massage couch and when I return you will feel the sword of my desire, O blessed body of the Whore of Babylon.”

Andreas gave him a scornful look. “You should have another look at the scriptures some time,” he said. “That was a load of nonsense.”

Justinius gave a roar of laughter. “Life is a load of nonsense.”

“Yes,” said Andreas, sighing, “for once you might just be right.”

Still laughing, Justinius went to the back of the room and pushed aside a curtain, revealing a small candle-lit cubicle with a wooden table covered in towels and blankets, a tub of steaming water, and some jugs filled with fragrant oil. One could have a massage from the owner and his assistants, or from the girls as long as the curtain remained closed.

Grunting and groaning, Justinius pulled himself onto the table, pressed his belly flat on the soft blankets, and closed his eyes. He had paid for the full treatment. First a good kneading from a pair of strong male hands, then he would roll over on his back and take on the sweet burden of sin in whatever shapely form it should appear. The owner of the bathhouse was discreet and showed a sure touch in his selection of companions for his customers. The surprise was all part of the fun.

Justinius began to hum softly.

The curtain rustled and he heard the masseur come in. No point in turning over yet. There was a scraping noise. The man was pulling one of the jugs of oil closer.

“Give me a good going over.” He giggled, not opening his eyes. “I want to erupt like a volcano.”

The man laughed softly and placed his hands on Justinius’s back. They were pleasantly warm. With powerful yet gentle movements he spread the oil over his shoulders and started to loosen the muscles with rhythmic kneading. Justinius gave a groan of pleasure.

“You like it?” asked the masseur quietly.

“Oh, yes. You do it perfectly.”

“Thank you.”

“Although—but don’t take this personally—you lack the charms of the priestess who will succeed you in this temple and spoil me in a quite different and more delightful way.”

“Of course.”

The hands moved across his shoulder blades to his spine, parting and coming together again as they slowly made their way down to his waist. Justinius felt the warmth begin to spread over his whole body.

“This is going to be something”—he grinned in anticipation—“a fitting farewell to the holy city.”

“All in good time,” said the masseur. “Aren’t you a monk?”

“Yes.” Justinius frowned. What was the point of a question like that in a place like this? “There are worse sins,” he quickly added, at the same time wondering why he felt the need to excuse himself to this fellow. On the other hand, God could see everything. Even in a closed cubicle of a bathhouse in Cologne.

“There’s no need to worry,” said the masseur softly. His thumbs glided up Justinius’s ribs to his armpits. “There have been saints who were fond of women, if you know what I mean. Abstinence is a modern invention. You don’t have to pretend with me. I knew some students, years ago. Their only reason for studying was to gain a well-endowed benefice and well-endowed women. There was a song—”

The tips of his fingers squeezed the fat at the base of Justinius’s neck, released it, then moved lower down. “It’s a confession the wandering scholars used to sing—presumably they granted themselves absolution. Light are the elements forming my matter, they sang, Like a dry leaf, the storm winds scatter. And My breast is pierced by women’s beauty. My hand can’t touch? Let the heart do duty.”

“Sounds like a good song,” said Justinius, though with a frisson of unease somewhere at the back of his mind. He had the feeling he knew this masseur.

“Greedier for love I am, than God’s grace to win. Dead my soul, so all I care is to save my skin,” the man continued. The movements of his hands followed the rhythm of the poem. Or was it the other way around? “The hardest thing of all, I say, is to tame our nature. Who can keep out lustful thoughts near a lovely creature? We are young, impossible to obey this hard law. Our bodies too are young, they know omnia vincit amor.”

“Quite right,” agreed Justinius, if slightly doubtfully.

“And what does it say in the Romance of the Rose? Marriage is a hateful tie. Nature is not so stupid as to put Mariette in the world for Robichon alone, or Robichon for Mariette, or Agnes or Perette. There is no doubt, dear child, that she made everyone for everyone. How true! Then Follow nature without hesitation. I forgive you all your sins as long as you are in harmony with nature. Be swifter than the squirrel, tuck up your skirts to enjoy the wind, or, if you prefer, go naked and so on and so forth. And all these supposed blasphemers who wrote such verses ended their lives as good Christians. The Archpoet sang the praises of Frederick Barbarossa, Hugo Primas taught in Paris and Orleans, and Serlo of Wilton mended his ways in England and died a pious Cistercian, Walter of Chatillon as a canon, all of them men who enjoyed life to the full and cared little for the Church’s rules.”

“How comforting,” muttered Justinius. What was the point of all this? All the names and things the fellow knew? Much too well-educated for a bathhouse assistant. And then the voice. He knew that voice. But from where?

“Listen,” said Justinius, “I—”

“But”—the pleasantly powerful hands continued without pause—“how many died in misery? A chaste, God-fearing man like Tristan, burning with such love and fleshly desire he fell sick and died. Even if he was united with his beloved after death, how he suffered for it.”

Who was this Tristan, dammit? Justinius von Singen was no monk, he was a swindler, a charlatan in a monk’s habit who could churn out standard portions of the Bible, usually mixing them up. What was it this bastard wanted of him?

Suddenly he felt afraid. “I want you to stop,” he gabbled.

As if he had not heard, the masseur continued to knead his flesh, digging the tips of his fingers into Justinius’s ribs.

“And fair Isolde, promised to King Mark of Cornwall”—he continued his lecture—“where did love lead her? Did it protect her against the deceived king, who wondered whether to burn her or abandon her to the lepers? And when he finally relented and let her go, what was left for her? Brokenhearted for her Tristan, she lay beside a rotting carcass, Justinius. What an end to love!”

“What do you want?” panted Justinius, trying to get up.

The fingers flitted up and down his spine.

“For there are no secrets on earth, everything comes to light, and in the light everything looks shabby, and the light is the punishment, and the punishment is—pain.”

“Please, I—”

Something cracked.

Justinius gave a yelp of pain. His head was pressed down, then the hands continued their gentle, pleasant massaging.

“And now we’ll see,” said that terribly familiar voice, “who can bear pain. And who can’t.”

Again it was like a lance thrust between Justinius’s bones. He screamed and tried to get up, but the merciless iron grip forced him down onto the bed, his face in the towels.

His tormentor laughed. “You see, Justinius, that’s the advantage of these bathhouses. The audible expressions of pleasure go unheard in such a discreet establishment. And all that music out there. You can scream as much as you like.”

“What have I done to you?” Justinius whimpered.

“Done?” The hands gently grasped his shoulders and massaged the muscles. “Betrayed me, that’s what you’ve done, reverend Brother. I paid you well to be witnesses, but you obviously prefer to collaborate with the dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s.”

So that’s what it was. That was the voice. “Please—” Justinius begged.

“Now, now. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want the truth.”

The truth? “It was—it was nothing,” Justinius groaned. “This dean came along. I don’t know what he wanted, we talked about various things, but not about Gerhard—”

The sentence ended in a further scream. Justinius’s fingers gripped the edge of the bed.

“Interesting, human anatomy,” the voice went on calmly. “Didn’t you know how fragile a shoulder blade is?”

The tears were running down Justinius’s cheeks. Tears of pain.

“Will you tell me the truth now?”

Justinius tried to speak, but all that came out was a moan. In a futile attempt to escape he tried to pull himself to the top of the bed. The hands gripped him and pulled him back.

“Come now, Justinius, relax. How can two old friends have a sensible conversation if you’re all tensed up like that?”

“He—” Justinius swallowed. “He knew about you. And he knew you killed Gerhard and that’s the truth, in the name of God I swear it.”

“That’s more like it.” As if to reward him, the hands made soothing circular movements over his shoulders. “But he made you an offer, didn’t he?”

“Double.”

“Not more?”

“No,” Justinius cried, “as God is my witness, no.”

“And you accepted?”

“No, of course not, we—”

The sound of breaking bones was sickening. He almost fainted from the pain.

“Justinius? Are you still there? Sorry, but a good massage can get a bit rough. Did you accept his offer?”

Justinius let out an unintelligible babble. The saliva was running down his chin.

“Clearer, please.”

“Yes. Yes!”

“When and where are you to meet the dean?”

“Here,” Justinius whispered. “Please don’t hurt me anymore—Our Father, who art in heaven—”

“Oh, you know a prayer? Your piety shames me. I asked you when.”

“Soon—he should be here any minute. Please, I beg you, no more pain, please—”

The other leaned down close. Justinius could feel something soft on his back. Hair. Long blond hair. “Don’t worry, Justinius,” said Urquhart softly, “you won’t feel any more pain.”

The fingers reached his neck.

Justinius couldn’t hear the last dull crack.

Andreas von Helmerode leaned back in the water. He felt a profound disquiet. On the one hand, he wished he could take things as calmly as Justinius, who was at this moment doubtless lying on the bed in his cubicle and nothing would disturb him.

On the other hand, he was the one who had had to get them out of a jam more than once. As soon as money was mentioned, Justinius threw caution to the winds.

Perhaps it was time to turn respectable. The swindling and living on their wits had gone on for long enough, going around as false priests, exploiting the grief of simple people mourning their loved ones, the faith of those too eager to believe. The stranger’s offer had been a godsend, and one of the easiest things they’d had to do—just lie. Thanks to his own foresight they had not squandered everything. There was some money laid by, including some from the blond stranger. In fact, there was enough. Better to stop while they could.

The harpist smiled at him. Her voice rose in a sweet trill that went right through him.

It was high time that bald dean put in an appearance. Then take the money and run. To Aachen or anywhere. “Away from Cologne, that’s the main thing,” Andreas muttered to himself. He took hold of one of his feet and started to pull off some hard skin.

Someone slipped into the water beside him.

Andreas paid no attention. He studied his toes, then threw the harpist a winning smile, but she had turned to someone else. Serves you right, thought Andreas, if you go around with a long face all the time.

He slid down until he was completely underwater. Warm. Pleasant. Invigorating. What a hopeless miseryguts he was. He should go and chat up that pretty girl playing the harp. He put his hands on the bottom to push himself up.

He couldn’t.

To his astonishment he realized someone was pushing him down. For a moment he thought it was just a joke. Then he was seized with panic and started to thrash his legs.

A hand grasped his throat.

It was all over very quickly.

Urquhart closed Andreas’s eyes and mouth under the water, then pulled him up. Now he was sitting there as if he were sleeping. No one had noticed anything, they were all too preoccupied and the men in the gallery had eyes for the fair sex alone.

Without a further glance at the dead body, Urquhart got out of the water. Despite his great height and physique, he went unnoticed. He had a slightly hunched gait he adopted on such occasions, the gait of the downtrodden and dispossessed. If he wanted, he could dominate a packed room with his physical presence alone. If not, he was almost invisible, a nobody.

He picked up a towel, dried himself, went to the room where the bathers’ clothes were kept, dressed, and strolled out into the street.

Bright light greeted him. The sun was shining.

Unnaturally bright.

He put his hand over his eyes, but the brightness remained. And in the brightness he saw the child again and the iron claw plunging into the twitching, writhing body—

No! He could not allow these attacks to continue. Not now, not ever.

Urquhart filled his lungs to the bursting point with air and let his breath out in a slow, controlled exhalation. Then he held his right hand out in front of him. After a few seconds it started to tremble slightly.

Again he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This time his hand did not tremble.

His eyes scoured the street. If they were keeping to his instructions, two of Matthias’s servants ought to be somewhere nearby. After a while they came along the street, chattering away. He raised his hand in the agreed signal and went to meet them.

Jacob the Fox might cover his red mop, but they would recognize the dean. According to the description Matthias had given him an hour ago, there could only be one face like that. Jaspar Rodenkirchen would come alone or with the Fox, not suspecting that he was expected. One way or another he would fall into the trap. Then they would stay hard on his heels, unobserved.

The servants would, that is.

He himself had other plans. If Jaspar brought the Fox with him, all the better. If the dean came alone, Jacob was sure to be where Urquhart was about to go.

THE TRAP

“I’ve been thinking about your friend a bit,” said Jaspar as they went down Severinstraße together.

“What friend?” Jacob asked. He pulled the hood of Jaspar’s old habit farther down over his face. During the last couple of days he’d worn more coats and cloaks than in his whole life before. Despite the disguise, he felt horribly exposed.

“The one who wants to get you,” replied Jaspar. “Word has got around that there is someone in Cologne using strange little arrows, and we two know who it is. But what kind of weapon is it?”

“A crossbow. Didn’t I tell you?”

“You did. With that power of penetration it has to be a crossbow. Only the bolts are too small for every known type of crossbow.”

Too small? Jacob thought. True, the bolts were too small. But he knew nothing about weapons.

“Tell me again, Fox-cub, what he was carrying while he was chasing you.”

“What we’ve been talking about all the time.”

“Yes, but how was he holding it?”

“Holding it?”

“God in heaven! Just describe how he was holding it.”

Jacob frowned, then stretched out his right hand. “Like that, I think. More or less.”

“In his right hand?” Jaspar clicked his tongue. “Not with both hands?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

Jacob tried to picture in his mind again what he had seen when he had turned around in the narrow alley and looked his pursuer in the face. “Yes,” he said, “absolutely sure.”

“Interesting.” Jaspar smiled. “There is no crossbow you can hold in one hand while running after someone at the same time.”

“But it was a crossbow,” Jacob insisted.

“Of course it was.” Jaspar seemed very pleased with himself.

“All right, you fount of knowledge,” said Jacob, sighing, “what is it you know this time that no one else knows?”

“Oh,” said Jaspar, putting on a humble expression, “I know that I know nothing. A man in ancient Greece said that. It appeals to me. Now Platonic forms, would you like to hear—”

“Oh, no, not another of your lectures!” Jacob protested.

“You’re not interested in learning? Your loss. But I know a lot about the Crusades as well. You may have noticed. I’ve read eyewitness accounts and heard the stories of various poor wretches who made it back home. I know the odd secret of the Orient—Al Khwarizmi’s algebra, Rhazes’s medical writings, Avicenna’s Canon medicinae, Alfarabius’s powerful philosophy—although I can’t remember as much as I should and I’d like to know more. But the key secret of the Muslims is well known to me. It’s called progress. In many ways they’re a good bit ahead of us.”

In unison, the bells of St. George’s, St Jacob’s, and the church of the Carmelites struck the first hour of the afternoon. Jaspar quickened his step. “Come on, we’d better hurry up before those scoundrels change their minds. Now: weapons. The crusaders discovered that the infidels were decidedly inventive in that respect. Rolling siege towers, castles bristling with lances on the backs of elephants, and catapults that not only send their projectiles into the enemy camp, but actually hit what they’re meant to hit. And among all these reports there was one I heard years ago about single-handed crossbows. Very light, a work of art almost, and extremely elastic. With small bolts. You can’t shoot as far with them as with the big ones, but you’re quicker on the draw and can keep the other hand free for your sword. The Saracens’ sharpshooters, the man told me, are incredibly accurate with them, even when they’re charging the enemy on horseback or on foot. Before you know it, you have one of those little bolts sticking out of your chest. Not a pleasant experience.”

It certainly made Jacob think as he trotted along beside Jaspar. “So the murderer’s a crusader,” he said. “How does that help us?”

“Was.” Jaspar corrected him. “Was a crusader. If he was, then he’ll have brought it back with him. A fairly recent invention, by all accounts. As far as I know, the first examples appeared during the last Crusade under Louis IX. He started out from France in 1248 and went via Cyprus to Egypt, where he took Damietta at the mouth of the Nile. I’ll spare you the horrors of the campaign. Suffice it to say that Louis was captured, but, incredibly, released for a large ransom. The Crusade ended in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, but not the city, and the army was wiped out at Acre on the coast. A total disaster. Most of those who did make it home never got over the experience. They felt they had failed, felt guilty for not having managed to carry out God’s will, whatever they thought that was, not to mention the constant massacres, less an expression of Christian liberation than a perversion of human nature.”

He paused for breath. “I have to say that some of the crusaders, however much I condemn their deeds, were motivated by a vision. But most of them were unscrupulous adventurers and they had no idea of what actually awaited them. They wallowed in dreams of immeasurable riches and generous remission of sins. Others, brave knights, experienced in warfare but blinded by the legends of the Holy Grail, probably imagined it would be like a grand tournament.”

Jaspar shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m going on like this, we haven’t the time. The point is, it was in connection with that Crusade that I heard about the tiny crossbow. Some poor devil who had lost his legs at the siege of Acre rambled on about it during confession. And I didn’t know whether to believe him. He was already a bit—” Jaspar tapped his forehead.

“When did this Crusade end?” Jacob asked.

“Six years ago. So it would fit in with this monster going about his business in Cologne. We know a little more about him.”

“So? What help is it to know him?”

“Knowledge always helps. Can’t you get that into that empty water-tub you have for a brain?” said Jaspar as they walked along by the Brook. “He is a former crusader who has committed murders. And will commit a further murder, if we assume that the main action is still to come. The basic question, it seems to me, is: is he acting on his own initiative or on someone else’s behalf? Gerhard’s death shocked Cologne. If that’s only the prelude, then it’s more than just an old crusader running amok, especially considering how well planned the whole thing was. So we assume the man’s being paid. Well paid, probably. They’ll have chosen him carefully.”

“Who’re they?”

“How should I know? Someone with money and influence, I suspect. Someone willing to pay for a silent, invisible executioner, who probably still has an exceptionally difficult task to perform. He buys himself witnesses and on the same evening as the murder manages to get rid of the only two people you told about it. So we have a mind capable of logical planning, rare enough nowadays with the followers of Saint Bernard railing against reason and trying to stop the wheel of time. He’s intelligent, quick, and skillful, probably very strong physically, and an expert shot into the bargain. Now most crusaders were complete blockheads, ergo our murderer must have belonged to the elite.”

“So why does he go around murdering? The Crusade is over. If he’s so clever, why doesn’t he just go home?”

“That,” said Jaspar, “is a good question.”

They had reached the street of Little St. Martin’s. The church was some way down on the left and opposite it, according to Jaspar, the bathhouse where they were to meet Justinius von Singen and Andreas von Helmerode. Jacob had never been in a bathhouse, but at the moment all that interested him was the false witnesses. If he and Jaspar managed to persuade them to change sides, as he fervently hoped they would, and make a statement to the council, then his nightmare might be over and the long-haired monster consigned to the jaws of hell out of which it had crawled. If only—

“Wait,” Jaspar said softly and stopped.

Jacob stumbled on for a step, then turned to face him. “What is it? Why are we stopping?”

Silently Jaspar pointed to an obviously excited gathering outside the bathhouse. A gang of children came running from that direction. As they went past, Jaspar grabbed one by the sleeve.

“Lemme go,” the urchin shouted. Jaspar’s bald pate and long nose seemed to fill him with fear.

“Right away, my son, if you tell us what’s happening down there.”

“Two men’s been done in. Lemme go, I didn’t do nothin’. Lemme go.”

“Stop shouting,” hissed Jaspar and let go of his sleeve. The boy chased after the others as if the Devil were at his heels.

Grasping Jacob by the arm, Jaspar swung around. “We’ve got to get away.”

“But—” Away? Jacob felt his heart sink and looked back.

“Keep walking,” Jaspar commanded. “Behave normally. Don’t hurry.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Jacob, already filled with dread.

“Once again our murderer has been quicker. We stroll along discussing how clever he is, idiots that we are, like lambs to the slaughter, my bald head shining in the sun for all to see.”

Jacob looked back again. Four men, burly types in the dress of house servants, had emerged from the throng and were following them.

“We’re being followed?” asked Jaspar, not turning his head.

“Four,” said Jacob dully.

“Perhaps we’re in luck,” said Jaspar. Jacob took another quick glance behind and saw the men quicken their step. Now they were almost running. “They didn’t count on us turning back like that. Once we’re past the malt mill we’ll split up. You go off to the left, get among the crowds in Haymarket. I’ll take the opposite direction.”

“But where will we—”

“Do you understand, dammit?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll find you somewhere. Now!”

Before Jacob could say anything, Jaspar gave him a push and ran off to the right, through a courtyard toward St. Mary’s. As he spun around, Jacob saw the four men abandon all pretense and set off after them, bawling and shouting.

He dived in among the people thronging the market stalls.

SEVERINSTRAßE

Rolof swore.

He cursed Jaspar’s cook because she had been ill for days and there was no decent food to eat, and he cursed the maid because she hadn’t cooked enough currant porridge that morning before going to stay with her parents out in the country for a week. He cursed the fact that he was the one who had to chop firewood, do the shopping, and clean the house, all on his own, and finally he cursed Jaspar Rodenkirchen, because it had to be someone’s fault. And as he unloaded the big handcart and carried the tub of soused herrings, the sack of peas, the half ounce of ginger, the brown sugar, and the butter into the back, he cursed Jacob, who had eaten some of the porridge he had had to go without, then Richmodis and Goddert, adding, for good measure, the archbishop, the king, and the pope. After that, he couldn’t think of anyone else and he didn’t have the nerve to curse saints.

That didn’t mean that Rolof didn’t love them all, especially Jaspar, Richmodis, and Goddert. Cursing was just his natural reaction to work.

Exhausted by the unloading and the cursing, he wiped the sweat from his brow and rubbed his belly. His eye fell on the handcart, which he had tipped up and leaned against the wall. One of the wheels was squeaking. He wondered whether to do something about it. That would mean more work. More work would mean more cursing, but Rolof regarded the mouth as a place where things went in rather than came out. He looked up at the sun and thought long and hard about what he should do. After a while he came to the conclusion he should do nothing, at least for the moment. With a brief prayer of thanks to the Lord for vouchsafing this insight, he went indoors and sank onto the fireside bench.

Just a moment! Jaspar had mentioned the wood in the yard. Didn’t it need chopping?

Jacob hadn’t chopped any, even though he was supposed to. Surely if it had been that important, Jaspar would have insisted. But he hadn’t. So why should Rolof have to do it? Anyway, he thought it was a waste of fine wood to burn it while the sun was shining and filling the house with natural warmth. No need to bother, then.

But if there was?

You can’t chop wood in your sleep, Rolof thought. Hey, that was a good idea! Get some sleep. He stretched, yawned, and was about to head for the stairs, when there was a knock at the door.

“One thing after another,” he grumbled. Still yawning, he waddled over to the door and opened it.

“The Lord be with you,” said the man with a friendly smile. “Is Jaspar at home?”

Rolof blinked and looked the man up and down. Up meant putting his head right back. The man was tall. He was wearing the black habit of the Dominicans.

“Does he know you?” asked Rolof.

The man raised his bushy brows in astonishment. “But of course. Jaspar and I studied at college together. I haven’t seen him and his bald head for ages. May I come in?”

Rolof hesitated. “Jaspar’s not here, yes?”

“Oh, what a pity. No one at all at home?”

Rolof pondered this. “Yes, there is,” he said slowly. “Me. I think.”

“Perhaps I could wait, then? You see, I’m just passing through and I’m pretty weary. In a couple of hours I’ll have to be going, to say mass in a village outside. It’d be such a shame if I couldn’t at least say hello to the old rogue.”

He beamed at Rolof, who scratched his chin. Didn’t Jaspar say hospitality was an important duty? Perhaps because it was connected with drinking, and drinking was good. And the man was in holy orders, even if he didn’t appear to have a tonsure. But then what did Rolof know of holy orders?

Rolof shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, Father,” he said, with all the politeness he could muster, stepped aside, and lowered his head respectfully.

“I thank you.” The man stepped inside and looked around with interest.

“Er, there.” Rolof pointed to the fireplace, where the fire was crackling. “Sit by the fire. I’ll see if there’s any wine—”

“No, no.” The man sat down and folded his arms. “Please don’t go to any trouble, my son. Sit down here. We can enjoy a cozy chat.”

“A chat?” Rolof echoed with a skeptical look.

“Why not? I’ve heard there have been all sorts of goings-on in Cologne. I haven’t been able to get the exact details, unfortunately, but someone did say the architect in charge of the cathedral fell to his death. Is that true?”

Rolof stared at him and then at the fire. “Yes,” he replied.

“How dreadful. Such great plans and then this!” The stranger shook his head. “But the ways of the Lord are unfathomable. How did it happen?”

Rolof slumped back on the bench. A cozy chat was beyond him. That Gerhard had not fallen but had been pushed, that much he had understood; also that something terrible was going to happen. Strange, the way he’d heard himself say someone else was going to be murdered. That had exhausted him and he hadn’t said anything else. But what should he say now?

The stranger leaned forward and gave him an encouraging nod. “Speak, my son. It would do my heart good to hear you, even if what you have to say will also sadden it. I did hear”—he looked around then, coming closer and lowering his voice as if there were someone else in the room—“not everyone agrees about the way he came to die.”

“It was the Devil,” Rolof blurted out.

“Aha! The Devil. Who says that?”

“The—” Rolof halted. “The man,” he said cautiously.

“Which man?”

“Who was here.”

“Oh, him. I see. The redhead, you mean?”

Rolof looked at the stranger, racking his brains as to what he should say. If only Jaspar would come back. Slowly, his lips pressed tightly together, he nodded.

The stranger seemed very satisfied. “I thought so. I know that redhead. A very fertile imagination he’s got. A liar, did you know that? Who did he tell all this nonsense to, my dear—what was your name?”

“Rolof.”

“My dear Rolof, the Lord looks down on you and sees a devout servant. But the Lord looks down in anger on those who out of vanity would slander others. Unburden your heart and tell me what this redhead—is his name not Jacob? Jacob the Fox he calls himself in his presumptuous pride, as if he were cunning and wise—said to you about poor Gerhard Morart.”

“Yes, well—” Rolof shifted uneasily on the bench. “Came yesterday, yes? Just Jaspar and Goddert here, drinking as usual. And Richmodis. She’s sweet.” Rolof gave an ecstatic smile. “Nose like a tree in the wind.”

“Beautifully put, my friend. I hope it’s a compliment to the young lady.”

“Richmodis’s sweet. The redhead told us some strange things. Don’t know if I should—” He bit his lip and was silent. Keep your stupid trap shut, Rolof, he told himself.

The stranger was no longer smiling. “Who else did he tell?”

“Else?”

“Who else? Apart from those you’ve told me about?”

“Don’t know.”

“When is Jaspar coming back?”

“Don’t know.”

“And Jacob? Jacob the Fox?”

“Don’t know.”

The stranger looked at him appraisingly. Then he relaxed and leaned back, a beatific smile on his face. “Is not the world a fine place, Rolof? I think I will have that mug of wine, if you wouldn’t mind. Blessed are they that know nothing.”

“Blessed are they that know nothing,” muttered Rolof glumly.

JACOB

Their pursuers had obviously split up as well. When Jacob reached the meat stalls and looked around he could see only two. He skidded through the mud and headed for the maze of alleys behind the iron market. That was his only hope of getting away. He knew every nook and cranny there and would have the advantage over the men chasing him.

They were getting closer. It was incredibly cramped. Swearing under his breath, he jumped over a large dog and suddenly came face-to-face with a portly matron who completely filled the gap between the cheese and the vegetable stalls. She regarded him with a baleful gleam in her eye, obviously not intending to budge an inch. Behind him he heard furious barking that ended with a yelp before turning into a whimper. Then he heard the all-too-familiar cry, “Stop, thief! The one in the habit! Don’t let him get away.”

Jacob spun around. The two men and the dog were a tangle of limbs and black paws. The men were just getting up again, pointing at him.

“Thief!” The woman joined in, swung an immense radish, and hit Jacob over the head with it, setting off a magnificent display of stars. He pulled the radish out of her hand, threw it at his pursuers, at the same time performing a neat sidestep, which landed him among piles of yellow cheeses. For a moment he found himself staring into the horrified face of the cheesemonger, then he rolled over and pushed him out of the way.

“Thief!” screeched the woman behind him. “He took my radish. My lovely radish.”

Jacob didn’t wait to see if the two men were plowing through the cheeses after him, he zigzagged between the shiny wares of the ironmongers and into the tangle of narrow streets separating the market from the Rhine. He heard footsteps splatting through the mud behind. They were still on his trail. No point in hiding while they still had him in view. In front the street widened out. He would have to dive off to the left or the right. Then he saw a pile of empty barrels carefully stacked on top of each other, ready to be sent out. Behind them a man was checking them off against a scroll. Jacob dashed around the back of the pile just as his pursuers entered the street, faces twisted with rage.

“Sorry,” said Jacob. He gave the man with the scroll a firm push, sending him, arms flailing and with a despairing yell, staggering against the barrels and dislodging them. With a hollow rumble, the whole stack, at first slowly, then faster and faster, started to roll toward the two men. Jacob saw their eyes open wide with horror, then there was a sickening thud. One was felled immediately, the other was twirled around before he managed to escape back along the alley. Jacob didn’t stop to enjoy the spectacle, but took the opportunity to give them the slip. He dived into Salzgasse and sped along to the fish market.

There he stopped, panting.

Where now? Who were these people chasing him and Jaspar anyway? What had they to do with the man with the long hair? And where was he?

All a mistake. The idea flashed through his mind. They’ve nothing to do with it, nothing at all. A double murder in the bathhouse and two people who’d suddenly turned away. They’d drawn suspicion upon themselves. Maybe people even thought they were the murderers.

Who said the dead men were Justinius von Singen and Andreas von Helmerode? Jaspar had jumped to the wrong conclusion. And ruined their only chance.

“Thief! There he is!”

Or perhaps not? No time to think. One of the two had obviously managed to escape the avalanche of barrels and was running out of Salzgasse toward him. He was pointing at Jacob, but he was looking at something beyond him. Quickly Jacob turned around and saw three more men in similar dress staring at him.

“Curses,” he muttered.

They fanned out to the left and right. He couldn’t go back, and in front the fish stalls were packed close together. He couldn’t get away by running along them, the men were too near.

It had to be fish!

“I don’t like fish.” He moaned. Then, accepting the unavoidable, he dived into the crowd, elbowing people aside and heading straight for the biggest stall, setting off shouts of protest in his wake. The long table, piled high with eels, herring, mackerel, catfish, and crayfish loomed up, a menacing, stinking, slippery nightmare. The men and women behind it, busy selling their wares, stared at him in disbelief as it gradually dawned on them that he had no intention of stopping. Just in time, they dropped the fish they were holding and hastily jumped aside, putting their hands up to protect themselves.

Jacob leaped.

Beneath him he saw the pile of eels like a tangle of snakes, the jagged red sea of crayfish, the silvery waves of herring. The stall seemed to go on forever, as if some fiend kept adding on another bit, with different kinds of sea creatures waiting to enfold him in their slimy embrace. He stretched out his arms and prayed for wings, but it didn’t stop him dropping down toward an ocean without water, moist, twitching bodies, gaping mouths and claws, spidery legs, a sticky, shiny mass of slithering obscenity into which Jacob was falling, down and down, desperately flailing his arms, to land in a pile of octopuses.

At first all he could see was tentacles. They grabbed him, their suckers attaching themselves to his clothes. Then he saw the chaos his dash for freedom had created. The three pursuers, once they had overcome their initial amazement, had tried to follow him, but this time the stallholders had been ready and blocked their path. Two of the men couldn’t stop in time. They crashed into the furious fishmongers and all went sprawling across the counter in a welter of flying fish. The stall began to wobble dangerously. With shrieks and cries women leaped out of the way, trying to fend off the sea creatures flying toward them. The pile of eels turned into a whirlpool in which one of the pursuers disappeared head first, while the stall tilted more and more, raining crayfish on the other. Finally the great long counter toppled over, burying fishmongers, customers, and pursuers beneath it. Jacob saw several carp skimming across the ground toward him. He rolled out of the octopus tangle, went sprawling on the slippery surface, then managed to get to his feet. No one was paying him any attention, even though he was the one who had triggered off the mêlée. It all happened so quickly, and everyone was trying to get themselves to safety.

Then he saw his first two pursuers coming around the collapsed stall. He set off running again, retching from the smell of fish, past Great St. Martin’s and through the rest of the fish stalls. The others kept on his heels, but the distance between them was gradually increasing. He had to do something to shake them off before reinforcements appeared from the opposite direction again. Panting, he sped along between the city wall on the Rhine embankment and the cathedral building site and turned into Dranckgasse. That took him out of sight of his pursuers for a moment, even if it must be obvious to them which direction he had taken. Somehow he had to become invisible. He had to—

A covered wagon drawn by two shaggy oxen was rumbling along the street, the carter dozing in the sun. There was a slight gap between the two parts of the canvas cover, but it was impossible to tell what load the cart was carrying. Only one way to find out: jump in. Jacob gathered his strength for one more leap and dived into the blackness between the two sheets.

His head cracked against something hard. With a groan, he rolled onto his back then sat up.

Barrels!

Head throbbing, he crawled to the back of the cart and cautiously peeped out between the canvas sheets. The two men appeared by the Wall at the end of the street. They seemed confused and were jabbering and gesticulating at each other, clearly arguing about what to do next.

Then one pointed to the wagon.

“What has the Devil got against me?” Jacob sighed. Hurriedly he looked around for somewhere to hide. Nothing, apart from the barrels, and they filled the front of the cart with nowhere he could squeeze into between them.

Suddenly there was a terrible screech from the axles and Jacob was thrown to one side as the wagon slowly turned left, to the accompaniment of a bizarre series of noises. They must be going through Priest Gate. That meant they were out of sight of his pursuers, at least for a few seconds. Quickly Jacob crawled to the back and dropped out under the canvas, catching his foot on the planks and bashing his head again. He could dimly hear footsteps approaching. His head was spinning.

“The cart went in there,” shouted a voice.

“And what if he’s not in it?” asked a second, out of breath.

“Where else would he be, stupid?”

They were coming and Jacob the Fox was lying in the street, gift-wrapped. If only he could think clearly. He scrambled to his feet and, half staggering, half running, caught up with the cart. Then he dropped to the ground and crawled underneath, only narrowly avoiding the iron-clad wheels, pulled himself onto the broad central shaft, drew up his legs, and stuck his fingers through the gaps between the planks above him. He was clinging to the underneath of the cart like a bat. As long as they didn’t check there, he was invisible.

The steps came around the corner and up to the cart. Turning his aching head to one side, he saw two pairs of legs.

“Hey, you! Carter! Stop!”

“Whaaat?”

“Stop, goddammit!”

The wagon came to an abrupt halt. Jacob held on even tighter so as not to be thrown off the shaft by the jolt.

“What d’you want?” he heard the carter demand gruffly.

“A look in your cart.”

“Why?”

“You’re hiding a thief in the back.”

“A thief?” The carter laughed uproariously. “Don’t you think I’d know if I was, you blockhead? It’s wine I’ve got.”

“If you’ve got nothing to hide, then let us check,” insisted the other.

“If you must,” grumbled the carter, jumping down. Jacob saw the legs of the three of them go right around the cart, then he heard the cover being pulled back. There was more clatter and the cart swayed as one of his pursuers jumped up and walked around on the planks, bent double.

“Anything?” his partner called up.

“Barrels,” came the surly reply. “What’s in the barrels?”

“Thieves,” cackled the carter. “Pickled thieves, one to a barrel.”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” snapped the one in the cart. The planks creaked under his feet. He was coming closer to the part above Jacob. Too late he remembered that his fingers were sticking out slightly through the gaps. The next moment the man trod on them. Everything went black and red. Jacob bit his tongue to stop himself crying out. Get off, he prayed, please get off.

“Come on, get down,” said the man on the ground. “He’s not there. I told you so.”

The other turned on his heel a little, scraping the skin off Jacob’s fingers. The sweat was pouring off him. Scarcely conscious, he gritted his teeth.

“There’s a stink of fish here.”

“You’re imagining it. We all stink of fish. Now won’t you get down?”

“All right then.”

Wonderful! The relief! The boot had gone. Trembling, Jacob slowly let out his breath.

“And what was it your thief stole?” asked the carter, now full of curiosity, as the man jumped down.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Now just a minute. If I stop and let you search my cart, the least you could do is tell me why.”

“He stole a guilder from our master, Matthias Overstolz,” the other explained. “Right there in the street! Right outside his house in Rheingasse!”

“Unbelievable.”

Jacob couldn’t believe his ears. Stolen a guilder? Him? When, for Christ’s sake?

“A redheaded bastard. Tell us if you see him. We’ll be keeping up our patrol around here for a while yet.”

“All that for just one guilder?”

“Herr Overstolz doesn’t like being robbed.”

“No, and he doesn’t like us shooting our mouths off either,” said the other, adding to the carter, “Off you go now.”

Muttering something incomprehensible, the carter climbed back into his seat.

“Matthias will be furious,” said one of the pursuers softly.

“Not to mention his odd friend,” replied the other.

“The long-haired Dominican?”

“Mmm.”

The cart started with a shudder, almost throwing Jacob off the shaft. He just managed to stop himself from falling. He heard something splatter onto the muddy ground, then another. Contorting his neck, he managed to look down.

Octopuses!

They were dropping off his habit. Christ Almighty, they must have stowed away when he landed on the fish stall. Now he was done for.

But this time fate was kind to him. No one shouted, “Hey, you! Stop!” No one looked under the cart, a glint of triumph in their eyes. The voices grew fainter. They were going away.

Jacob clung on as tightly as his throbbing fingers would allow. Better stay with the cart for a while before jumping off. It rumbled slowly along Pfaffenstraße, then turned into Minoritenstraße. Jacob was bumped and jolted until he felt none of his bones were left in their original place. Steeling himself against the pain, he put up with it all along Breite Straße with its stones and potholes, stops and starts, until they were opposite the Church of the Holy Apostles. There he decided to jump off.

He tried to pull his fingers out of the gaps between the planks.

He couldn’t.

He tried again. Still no luck. He was stuck. That’s impossible, he thought, I must be dreaming.

He gave a sharp tug to try to free his hands. The only result was a suppressed yelp of pain. He was stuck.

“Stop.”

Once more, swaying and creaking, the cart stopped. Jacob watched the iron-studded boots and leg-armor of soldiers go around the cart, heard the canvas being thrown back once more. They must have reached the city gate.

The soldiers muttered to each other. Jacob held his breath. Another pair of legs appeared in his field of vision. The shoes below the richly embroidered robe were decorated with buckles at the side. They were in the form of lilies and glistened purple in the sunlight.

After what seemed an eternity, the canvas cover was replaced.

“Nothing, Your Excellency.”

“Just barrels.”

A rumble of acquiescence came from the owner of the purple buckles. The soldiers stepped back and the carter barked his “Gee-up.” Totally bewildered, Jacob lay back on the shaft as the cart rattled through the Frisian Gate, taking him out of Cologne and into the unknown.

RICHMODIS

At the same time on the Brook Goddert was grumbling to Richmodis. “Huh, and that Jacob of yours will be lying in Little St. Martin’s bathhouse indulging in God knows what dissipation.” His gnarled fingers were having difficulty tying a knot.

“You just get on with your parcels,” Richmodis snapped.

They had left at the same time as Jaspar and Jacob to return to their house on the Brook. It was high time they got back to their dyeing. Goddert seemed a different person. He no longer complained about being unable to work because of his arthritis, but set to as in the old days, though with a somewhat morose doggedness. Richmodis knew why. He felt useless and stupid. His hands were deformed, his brain hopelessly condemned to defeat by Jaspar’s razor-sharp mind. She was all he had. But Richmodis needed him less and less, while he needed her more and more. There was no one left to look up to him.

They made up parcels of the blue cloth in silence. Goddert had decided to deliver them himself. He’d have to go around half the city, which meant he’d be late getting back, but he had obstinately refused all help. “You shut up,” he muttered. “If people knew how my daughter treats me.”

“No worse than the way you treat me.” She let the parcel she was doing sink to her lap and brushed the sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes. “Look, Father—”

“Other children treat their parents with respect.”

“I respect you.”

“No, you don’t.”

She went over to him and wrapped her arms around his tub of a body. “I respect you for every pound you weigh.” She laughed. “Can you imagine how much that adds up to?”

Goddert stiffened and turned his head away.

“Father,” said Richmodis, sighing.

“All right.”

“I don’t know what’s the matter with you. I like this Jacob, and that’s all. What’s wrong with that?”

Goddert scratched his beard. At last he turned and looked her in the eye. “Nothing. There are other lads I would have chosen for you, but—”

“Well?”

“Why can’t our family be like any other? The father chooses the husband, that’s the way things are.”

“For goodness sake!” Richmodis looked up to heaven. “What makes you think I see anything in that stray fox other than a creature who’s been done an injustice? I feel sorry for him. Did I ever say I felt anything more?”

“Hmmm.”

“Anyway,” she said, giving his beard a good tug with both hands, “I do what I want.”

“Yes, that’s what you keep on saying,” Goddert exclaimed. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“So? Where’s the problem?”

“The problem is, you can’t fool me.”

“You like him, too.”

“Yes, certainly—”

“And you married my mother against your father’s wishes.”

“I did what?” Goddert was taken by surprise.

Richmodis shrugged her shoulders. “At least you’re always bragging about not bowing and scraping to anyone and always getting your own way.”

“But that’s not the same thing,” he growled, without being able entirely to repress a grin.

“Oh, yes, it is.”

“You’re a girl.”

“Thanks for reminding me. I’d almost forgotten.”

“Little minx.”

“Pigheaded old jackass.”

Goddert gasped and wagged his finger at her. “I’ll teach you manners this evening.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Bah!”

She thumbed her nose at Goddert, then helped him finish tying up his parcels. “You’ll be back by dinnertime, won’t you?”

“Hard to say. There’s quite a pile of stuff.”

“Look, Father, please. If it’s too heavy, leave it. You’re not as young as you were.”

“It won’t be too heavy.”

“You don’t have anything to prove. Least of all to me.”

“But it won’t be too heavy for me.”

“Fine.” She shook her head and gave him a kiss. “Off we go, then.”

“What do you mean ‘we’?”

“I’m popping over to Jaspar’s. They might be back already. Anyway, I thought the old toper might like a bit of fruit.” She took a basket and filled it with pears. They left together. Goddert, small, bent under the weight of his burden, waddled off in the direction of Mauritiussteinweg. Richmodis watched him go, wondering how to get across to him that she preferred him as an arthritic lazybones.

She’d have to have a word with Jaspar about it.

Eventually she set off, strolling to Severinstraße with her basket on her arm. She was still a long way off when she saw the handcart leaned up against the wall of Jaspar’s house. Rolof had obviously been doing some work. Who would he have been cursing today?

She knocked and went in.

Rolof was on the bench by the fireside. His greedy eyes immediately fell on the pears. “For me?” he asked, smiling all over his face.

“Not for you, greedy guts, I—”

She halted and looked at the man at the other end of the bench, who stood up when she came in. He was unusually tall, and a torrent of silky blond hair fell down over his black monk’s habit to his waist. His forehead was high, his nose straight and slender, and his teeth, when he smiled, perfectly regular. His eyes, under brows the width of a man’s finger, glowed amber flecked with gold.

Behind them was something else. An abyss.

She looked at him and knew who he was.

Jacob’s description had been sketchy, but there was no possible doubt. For a moment she wondered whether it would be a good idea to run away. The Dominican, or rather, the man pretending to be a Dominican, came toward her. Involuntarily she took a step back. He stopped.

“Forgive me if I was too entranced by your beauty.” His voice was soft and cultured. “Would you do me the pleasure of telling me your name?”

Richmodis bit her lip.

“That’s Richmodis.” Rolof grinned. “Didn’t I say she was sweet?”

“Truly, my son, you did.” He kept his eyes fixed on her. “Richmodis, an enchanting name, though the songs of the troubadours would better express such comeliness than any name. Are you a—relative of my old friend Jaspar?”

“Yes,” she said, putting her basket down on the table. A thousand thoughts flashed through her mind at once. Perhaps the best thing would be to behave naturally. “And no,” she added quickly. “More a kind of friend, if you like”—she paused—“reverend Father.”

“Nonsense.” Rolof laughed, snatching a pear before she could stop him. “She’s his niece, yes? Cheeky young hussy, but nice.”

“Rolof! Who asked your opinion?”

Rolof, who was already biting into the pear, froze, a puzzled look on his face. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered with a timid glance at the stranger. But the stranger’s eyes were for Richmodis alone, and an odd change came over them, as if a plan were forming behind them.

“His niece,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” She threw her head back, shaking her locks. With pounding heart, but her chin raised defiantly, now she went up to him, scrutinizing him. “Reverend Brother or not,” she said pointedly, “I still think it is impolite not to tell me your name, when I have revealed mine. Is it not good manners to introduce yourself when you enter a strange house?”

The man’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. “Quite right. I must apologize.”

“Your name, then,” she demanded.

The blow to her face came so quickly she was speechless with astonishment. The next lifted her off her feet. Arms wide, she flew over a stool, crashed into the wall, and sank to the ground.

Rolof bellowed. Through a haze, Richmodis saw him throw the pear away and fling himself on her attacker.

Then everything went black.

THE RHINE WHARF

The cranes groaned under the weight, and in the tread wheels operating the cranes, the laborers groaned. It was the sixth ship to be unloaded that day. The goods consisted entirely of bales of cloth from Holland, heavy as lead.

Leaning against a stack of crates, Matthias checked the list of wares that had arrived, ticking off those he intended to purchase. The right of staple, he thought to himself with satisfaction, was rapidly becoming one of the pillars of the Cologne economy. It had been granted a little over a year ago, and now no merchant, whether from Hungary, Poland, Bohemia, Bavaria in the east, Flanders or Brabant in the north, or from the Upper Rhine, could take his goods through Cologne without first offering them for sale in the market for three days. The privilege also applied to goods that arrived by land.

To Matthias’s mind it was a privilege for which the city had had to wait far too long. They had been pursuing it, like the Devil a lost soul, for over a hundred years. Since the channel of the Middle Rhine, which started at Cologne, was relatively shallow, merchants taking their goods upstream had no option but to transfer them to smaller ships there. Was it not then logical to take the opportunity to offer them for sale? Far be it from the citizens to assume this natural feature gave them any rights. After all, it would be tantamount to blasphemy to think that God had made the channel shallower just to divert a stream of gold into the pockets of the merchants.

But then the Church, of all institutions, had promoted the worldly interests of the merchants and patricians. It was Conrad von Hochstaden, always mindful of the needs of his flock, to whom the city owed the privilege! A neat stroke that appealed not to their hearts, but to their purses. The good thing about the right of staple was that during those three days only Cologne merchants had the right to buy. What was more, they could inspect the goods and, if they were found unsatisfactory, tip them into the Rhine. The result was that only the freshest fish and best wines were served in Cologne and the most desirable wares never reached the southern German territories.

There was just one thing about it that stuck in Matthias’s throat. The feeling of being under an obligation to Conrad. It was a paradoxical situation that could only be dealt with by cold reason, cutting out the emotions. His ice-cold reason was one of the few things Matthias thanked the Creator for. At least now and then, when he had time.

His index finger slid smoothly down the list, stopping at one item, a consignment of brocade. “Inspect and buy,” he said.

His chief clerk beside him gave a respectful nod and hurried over to where the ships’ owners were shouting instructions to the stevedores and waiting to start negotiations. Matthias added up a few figures in his head and decided it was a good day. Good enough to consider the purchase of a few barrels of fine wine newly arrived from Spain.

“Matthias!”

He stared out at the river, feeling his good mood evaporate. “What do you want?” he asked coldly.

Kuno Kone came up from behind, slowly walked around, and planted himself in front of him. “I would like a word with you, if you would be so kind.”

Matthias hesitated, one eye still on the barrels of wine. Then he lost interest in them and shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t think what there is to talk about,” he said irritably.

“I can. You have excluded me from your discussions.”

“That was Johann, not me.”

“Yes, you, too,” Kuno insisted. “You agree with Johann that I might betray our plan. What an unworthy suspicion!”

“Unworthy? Oh, we’re unworthy now, are we?” The corners of Matthias’s mouth turned down in scorn. “You won’t get anywhere with me with hackneyed phrases like that. What would have been your reaction if I’d knocked, say, Johann or Theoderich down?”

“I—I would have taken a less heavy-handed approach.”

“Aha, less heavy-handed!” Matthias gave a harsh laugh. “You’re a sentimental clod, Kuno. I’m not suggesting you’re going to betray us, but your brain is softened by emotion, and that’s even worse. With the best of intentions you can produce the worst of results. That’s why you’ve been excluded. There’s no more to say.”

“There is!” Kuno shook his head vigorously. “I’m willing to ignore the hurt and the insults, but have you forgotten it’s my brothers who are living in exile, banished and outlawed?”

“Of course not.”

“They were magistrates too, just like—Daniel.” He had great difficulty pronouncing the name. “Bruno and Hermann would die for our alliance, they—”

“No one is going to die for an alliance whose sole function is to represent his interests.”

“But they believe in the alliance, and they believe in me. Who’s going to keep them informed, if not me?”

“You should have thought of that before.”

“It’s never too late for remorse, Matthias.”

Matthias, still staring at the river, slowly shook his head. “Too late for you,” he said.

“Matthias! Trust me. Please. I have to know how things stand. What about the redhead? Has Urquhart—”

“Leave me in peace.”

“And what shall I tell my brothers?”

Matthias stared at him from beneath furrowed brows. “As far as I’m concerned, you can tell them they have a weakling for a brother who lacks self-control. They can always complain to me, once they’re allowed back in Cologne. For the time being—”

He broke off. One of the servants he had assigned to Urquhart was coming into the customs yard.

“Matthias, I beg you—” Kuno pleaded.

Matthias silenced him with a gesture, tensely waiting for the messenger. The man was completely out of breath. Without a word, he took a parchment roll tied with a leather thong out of his doublet and handed it to Matthias.

“What’s this?”

“Your friend, the Dominican with the fair hair,” the servant panted.

“Yes? And? Out with it!”

“He gave it to me, sir.”

“Without saying anything? Pull yourself together, man. Where did you meet him?”

“He met me, sir. We were checking the area around St. Cecilia’s when he suddenly appeared. He was pushing a large handcart, fully loaded, with a blanket over it, all I know is—no, just a minute, I was to tell you the cart was full of life and that it was, was—how did he put it, for God’s sake?—oh yes, it was of the utmost importance that you read the letter, and, and—”

He halted. From the expression of despair on his face, it was clear he had lost the thread of Urquhart’s words.

“Remember,” Matthias barked at him, “or it’ll be the last thing you forget.”

“—and lose no time at all.” As the words came rushing out, the servant heaved a sigh of relief.

Impatiently Matthias tore the scroll out of his hand, untied the thong, and started to read. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kuno edging closer. Lowering the letter, he gave him an icy stare. “It’s about time you left.”

“You can’t simply send me away like that,” wailed Kuno. “I promise to make up for my mistake—”

“Go!”

Breathing heavily, Kuno stared at him for a moment, as if undecided whether to fall to his knees or strike Matthias down. Then he angrily gathered his cloak around him, turned on his heel without a further word, and stalked off. Matthias watched him until he had disappeared through the gate.

The servant was hopping nervously from one foot to the other. “There’s something else, sir—”

“Out with it, then.”

With a nervous start, the man began his tale, but went about it in such a stuttering, roundabout way, Matthias at first had no idea what he was trying to tell him. Finally he realized they had allowed the redhead and the dean to escape.

He stared at the parchment. “You all deserve a good thrashing,” he said. A thin smile appeared on his lips. “However, the news is not entirely bad and I’ve better things to do at the moment. Get back to your post before I change my mind.”

The servant made a clumsy bow and ran off.

Matthias waved his chief clerk over and gave him a series of instructions. Then he left the wharf and hurried up Rheingasse, past the Overstolz mansion to the modest building where Johann performed his miracles of accounting. He flew up the stairs, two at a time, and burst into Johann’s office.

“The dean and the redhead have got away,” he cried, slapping the scroll down on the table, right under Johann’s nose.

Johann looked up. He seemed worn out. “I know,” he said dully. “And I can add that we have two further deaths to—how shall I put it?—to cheer? To deplore?”

“What!? Who?”

“Urquhart’s witnesses. Things get around. Someone has disturbed the discreet activities at the Little St. Martin bathhouse. For the moment they’ve arrested the owner and his assistants. Some whores also fell under suspicion.” Johann snorted. “But they say the whores have been freed. No one could explain how they managed to break three ribs of one of their customers, plus his shoulder blade and neck.”

“And the other?” asked Matthias, fascinated.

Johann shrugged his shoulders. “They can’t decide whether he drowned or suffocated.”

“Well, well, well.”

Johann stood up and went to the window. “Matthias, I can’t say I feel happy about all this. I thought Urquhart was going to be our instrument, but I’m starting to feel like the butcher who took on a wolf as his assistant. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Of course.” Matthias went over and held up the scroll in front of his face. “But before you start worrying about Urquhart, you should read his message.”

With a dubious look, Johann took the scroll. He read it, read it again, then shook his head in disbelief. “He’s taken a hostage?”

“Yes. And we’ve got a safe hiding place.”

“Not in the house again!”

Matthias made a calming gesture. “No, not in the house. I was thinking of the old warehouse by the river. No one ever goes there. Everything will be over by tomorrow, God—or the Devil, if you prefer—willing. Then he can do what he likes with his hostage, and with all the foxes and deans he can find. The important thing is that they all hold their tongues until then.”

“Tomorrow,” whispered Johann.

Matthias grasped his arm, squeezing it hard. “We’re so close to success, Johann, we mustn’t lose heart now. Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow! Let’s keep our minds fixed on tomorrow.”

Johann kept looking out of the window. Life outside was so peaceful, so orderly, everything in its place. What would things be like after tomorrow?

“Send one of the servants to show him the way,” he said.

“The servants are too woolly headed,” Matthias snapped. “The one who came to tell me they’d lost Jaspar and the Fox, for example, forgot to mention the two dead bodies in the bathhouse. I’d prefer to see Urquhart myself.”

“Too risky. It was bad enough bringing him to the house.”

“I—”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have thought of a better idea. Send one of the servants to go with him, no, better get him just to tell Urquhart the way—and hand over a supply of leather straps,” he added with a humorless smile. “Hostages are best when they’re tightly tied to one’s interests.”

“He’ll make sure of that.” Matthias grinned.

“I hope so.” Johann ran his fingers through his hair, then went back to his desk. “With all this to worry about, the work’s just piling up,” he moaned.

“Perhaps. But it’s worth it.”

“Yes, you’re right, of course. See the necessary steps are taken. I’ll inform the others.”

In the doorway Matthias turned around. “By the way, Kuno wants to come back,” he said hesitantly.

Johann looked up. “Did he tell you that?”

“Yes. Just now.”

“And what did you say?”

“I sent him away. Although—” Matthias frowned. “Perhaps it would be better to send him straight to hell.”

“I didn’t hear that,” said Johann grimly.

“No? Oh, well,” said Matthias, “a time and place for everything, eh, Johann? A time and a place for everything.”

THE LIVING DEAD

Thrrummp!

A hole in the road. Full of water.

Jacob would have liked to be able to feel his body all over. He had the suspicion his breastbone had slipped down to somewhere near his pelvis. For the time being, however, he had to abandon his efforts to free his fingers from the grip of the planks above. As long as the cart was still moving, there was nothing for it but to wait patiently and pray to some saint or other who had been in a similar situation.

He was sopping wet. Windmills were whirling inside his head. No saint had ever been through anything like this. They were grilled over a low flame, boiled in extra-virgin olive oil, cut up with red-hot pincers, or pulled in all directions at once by four horses. None had ever gone to heaven via a cart shaft. It was ridiculous.

Jacob stared at the planks. By now he knew every line and curve of the grain. His imagination turned them into rivers through a dark forest, into unmade roads like this one, pitted and fissured; the panorama of wormholes became a hellish, crater-pocked landscape and the knothole a mysterious land beyond human knowledge. You didn’t realize what there was in a simple piece of wood until you were forced to stare at it from close proximity.

After what seemed like an eternity he heard the carter shout, “Whoa.” As far as he could tell from his admittedly restricted viewpoint, there was nothing around that suggested human habitation. He saw the carter’s legs as he jumped down. They moved away, parted. There was a splash as a stream of urine hit the ground.

Jacob tried once more to free his fingers from the planks. He went about it systematically this time, one by one, instead of trying to pull them all out at once. He began with the little finger of his left hand, twisting and jiggling it, freeing it little by little until it was released. One out of ten! At least it was a start. If he could get one out there was hope he might eventually be able to resume an upright posture.

He just had to keep on twisting and jiggling.

The relieved carter came back, climbed up into his seat, and urged the horses on. He would have to make do with just the little finger for the moment.

Some time later Jacob saw walls along the side of the road. Once he briefly heard voices. Then, with a repeat of the nerve-jangling noises, the cart turned off to the right onto a flat area, where it halted. Clearly it was likely to be a longer stop this time, since the carter had disappeared into a building a few yards away.

Patiently Jacob set to work. Now that he no longer had to brace himself against the swaying and shuddering of the cart, it turned out that things weren’t as bad as he thought. The remaining fingers of his left hand did cling rather obstinately to the planks, but once they were free, the right hand slipped out by itself and Jacob fell off the shaft onto the dusty ground.

With a sigh of relief, he lay there, trying to recover. Then he examined his hands. His knuckles hurt and were bleeding, but he didn’t care. He had escaped and that was the only thing that mattered.

Only—escaped to where?

Like a little mouse, silent and on all fours, he crept out from under the cart and surveyed the terrain. His first impression was of a spacious courtyard or, rather, a gently rising square ending a little way ahead in an ivy-covered wall with closely planted trees behind. On the right was a long row of low buildings, not dissimilar to a monastery dormitory, with a wide entrance leading into a still larger open space. Beyond it the squat tower of a small church could be seen, also surrounded by trees. From the closest building, where the carter had gone, Jacob could hear the faint sound of voices.

He walked around the cart and saw a wall with a gate, through which they had evidently come.

A gate that two men were just closing.

He quickly pulled the hood back over his head. He couldn’t make out what kind of building this was. It didn’t seem to be a monastery, nor a village or hamlet, and the walls were too low for a castle compound. The men wore cloaks and hoods, but they weren’t monks. His preferred option was to run away, but that was no longer possible. The two men could turn at any moment. Better to take the bull by the horns.

Assuming a dignified priestly posture, he went over to one of the cloaked figures and tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said.

The man turned around.

Jacob recoiled in horror. He was staring at a decaying skull without nose or lips. Where the left eye should have been was a hole gleaming with yellow pus. The other was regarding him expressionlessly.

Unable to repress his retching, he took another step back.

The being stretched out something toward him that had perhaps once been a hand and came closer. Unarticulated grunts came from its throat. Now the other man had joined them. A tangle of beard covered his face, which was unmarked, apart from a few weeping patches. With a suspicious look, he watched Jacob as he staggered back, unable to take his eyes off the horrifying figure. Then he burst out into harsh laughter.

Slowly they came toward him.

Jacob turned and ran toward the church, where a few men and women were standing, talking quietly among themselves. As he approached they looked up at him.

Ravaged faces. Missing limbs.

At that moment the door of the building where the carter had gone opened. A man whose legs ended at his knees crawled out to see what was going on. Laboriously he struggled in Jacob’s direction. The two from the gate were catching up with him while the group by the church prepared to encircle him. Desperately Jacob searched for an escape, but wherever he looked the place was bounded by walls. He was trapped. They had surrounded him, were ready to fall on him, tear him to pieces, transform him into one of them. Jacob’s head was ringing. He stumbled and fell to his knees.

One of the men opened a hole of a mouth with spittle dribbling out, and squatted down. “Can we help you?” he asked politely.

Help? Jacob blinked and looked around. Regarded dispassionately, one could hardly say they had surrounded him. On the contrary, they were observing him timidly and keeping their distance.

Again the bearded man from the gate laughed. “Hannes always gives them a fright the first time,” he roared. It didn’t sound at all threatening, just amused and friendly. The strange grunts were still coming from the faceless man’s chest, but now Jacob realized he was laughing, too, the laughter of a man with no mouth, probably no tongue.

The bell inside Jacob’s head stopped ringing. “Where am I?” he asked, getting back to his feet. He could feel his heart beating at the top of his chest, just below his throat.

The two men exchanged puzzled glances, then looked at Jacob again. “You’re in Melaten. How can you not know the leper colony, since you came here yourself?”

Melaten! The leper colony! The largest in Cologne, to the west of the city, on the road to Aachen. He had escaped—to a leper colony!

The living dead, they called them. To contract leprosy meant to be taken away from your family and friends, no longer be part of their lives. The laws were inexorable. There was even a rite, with obsequies, eulogy, and last blessing, in which the congregation said farewell to lepers as to someone who had died. After that they began their lives in the leper community, away from society. Any contact with healthy people—in church, at the market, the inn, the mill, the communal oven—was forbidden on pain of punishment. They were not allowed to wash in flowing water. If they wanted to buy something, they were not allowed to touch it until they had bought it. If they should happen to speak with a healthy person, they had to keep downwind of them. They were only allowed to go out of the colony with the permission of the hospice master, only allowed to visit the city on a few days of the year to beg, clearly identifiable in their jacket and breeches, white cloak down to their knees, white gloves, and large hat, and carrying their wooden rattle so people could hear them coming.

Lepers died twice. They were the dead who were still waiting for death. Excluded from society and left with nothing but their hope of heaven. Those who could afford it bought a place in a leper house like Melaten, one of the largest in the German Empire, others built primitive shacks on designated land or lived a vagrant life.

The immense pity everyone felt for them was only outweighed by their revulsion.

Jacob shivered. He pulled his habit around him and clasped his arms tightly. “Excuse me, but—” He shot a quick glance at the gate.

“Did you come with the cart?” asked the man.

“Yes, I—”

“Saint Dionysus be praised! You must be the priest they were going to send. Follow me, Father, he’s in the last house. Though whether he’s still alive or not, I don’t know.”

Now they thought he was a priest! Was he going to have to give someone the last rites? “I—I really ought to be going,” he stammered.

The man shook his head. “It won’t take long, Father. Who else is there to pray for him?”

“Pray? But I’m—no, wait.” Jacob rubbed his eyes and thought. He was wearing a habit, therefore he was a monk. Would they let him go if he admitted he wasn’t?

He’d think of a way out of the situation. Somehow. “Good,” he said, “let’s go.”

“No!” It was a well-known voice that rang out.

Jacob spun around. “Jaspar!” he exclaimed, as much in bewilderment as relief.

“I’ll do that,” said Jaspar, as if their meeting was expected. “Got here before me, did you? Have you been cadging a lift again? No matter. You wait here. My novice,” he explained to the man. “A bit timid, unfortunately, and not quite right in the head, either. Always forgetting things, sometimes even his own name.”

“A bit old for a novice, isn’t he?” said the man hesitantly, with a side glance at Jacob.

“Yes. It’s his low intelligence. He’ll never rise any higher.”

Jacob’s chin sank. “Hey, Jaspar, what’s all this?”

“You just keep your mouth shut and wait for me, d’you hear? Stay here till I get back, don’t run away and don’t talk to people.”

“But—”

“No buts. Sit over there by that wall.”

Speechless, Jacob watched him go with the man and a few others across to the buildings, entering the last one. The lepers remaining outside went about their business, leaving Jacob by himself. With a shake of the head, he sat down against the church wall and examined his scraped fingers again.

It was quite a long time before Jaspar returned. The man was still with him. “I’m glad his sufferings are at an end,” Jacob heard him say.

“The grace of the Lord is immeasurable and His ways a mystery to us” was Jaspar’s devout reply. “Peace be unto his soul. Spend the night in prayer for him. He partakes of eternal life, but his way will be hard and full of danger. The Powers of Darkness lie in wait for him on his way to heavenly bliss, like robbers trying to steal his soul.”

“We will pray, I promise. In the meantime may I invite you to a mug of wine in our inn?”

“Thank you for the kind thought, but my novice and I have a long walk ahead of us. To the leper house on Judenbüchel.” Jaspar put on a mournful expression. “The same story. It’s a tragedy.”

“The Lord is calling many to appear before Him at the moment.”

“He calls them to join the heavenly choirs in praising Him.”

“Surely. By the way, I heard there have been some strange deaths in the city.”

Jacob went over to join them. “I—” he said.

“Didn’t I tell you to keep your mouth shut?” snapped Jaspar, then went on to the man, “If you would like to do me a favor, you could let me have a couple of white cloaks, pairs of gloves, and hats. There was a fire in the washhouse and they’re a bit short of them in the Judenbüchel house at the moment. Some of them need to go into the city tomorrow. Oh, and two rattles. If you can spare them, of course.”

“Wait here,” said the man. “I’ll see what we can do.”

Jaspar, a self-satisfied smile on his face, watched him disappear between the buildings.

“What’s all this about me not being right in the head?” hissed Jacob.

In his inimitable way, Jaspar raised his brows. “Well, I had to find some way or other of extricating you from the mess you’d got yourself into. Or would you rather have given the dying man the last rites?”

“Of course not.”

“You see? It’s best if they think you’re a simpleton. After all, you did come here underneath the cart of the man who regularly delivers the wine to Melaten. He might be a bit annoyed when he hears about it.”

“More than annoyed,” said Jacob. “He was told I’m a thief.”

“Who told him? The men who stopped the cart?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Now that is interesting. What are you supposed to have stolen?”

“One guilder.”

“Oh, what a naughty fox-cub you are!”

“Forget the jokes. I’m supposed to have—”

Jaspar shook his head and put his finger to his lips. “We’ll talk later. Here’s our friend.”

The man, who turned out to be the hospice master himself, came carrying some clothes tied up in a bundle and two rattles.

“Too kind,” said Jaspar with an extravagant bow. His nose and chin looked as if they might get stuck in the ground. Jacob hesitated, then quickly followed his example.

“Not at all,” replied the man. “It’s we who have to thank you, Father.”

“You will get the clothes back.”

“No hurry. And they’ve just been washed, so you needn’t worry about touching them.”

“Once more, thank you.”

“God be with you in your difficult task.”

They said farewell and left the hospice through the orchard. There was a narrow gate there that was open all day. That was the way Jaspar had come in.

Jacob was relieved to be out of the leper colony, though at the same time he was ashamed of his fear and would gladly have stayed awhile. He somehow felt he had run away again instead of facing up to something important, bringing unhappy memories to the surface. He kept looking back as they made their way along the road to Cologne. He sensed he would not forget his involuntary visit that quickly. Then, suddenly, he felt strong and full of life again. The lepers had lost everything. He still had a chance of winning.

Jaspar seemed to have guessed his thoughts. “The disease bothers them less than it does healthy people,” he said. “If you’re incurably ill and dead for the world, what’s to stop you laughing at yourself? They have no hope or, to be more precise, one should say they are free from hope. A huge difference. Paradoxically, losing everything can mean you lose despondency and despair as well.”

“Have you been there before?” asked Jacob.

Jaspar nodded. “Several times.”

“Were you never afraid of becoming infected?”

“No. It’s all rather exaggerated. Although no one will admit it, in fact you have to have damn bad luck to catch it. You only saw the sick people, but there are two living in Melaten with their spouses, and they’re not infected.”

“I thought the lepers were forbidden to come into contact with healthy people.”

“They are, unless an uninfected person joins them of their own free will. Other people go to Melaten as well, the carter with the wine, for example, and the washerwomen. And you know the man with the bells who goes around begging for them, he’s dealing with them all the time. But you hardly ever hear of people like that catching the disease, and if they do, it’s only after many years. No, the lepers are not a real danger. They are a warning to the arrogant. Leprosy doesn’t distinguish between rich and poor; anyone can catch it. A just punishment God visited on those accursed crusaders, to bring back together with all the treasures they stole from the East.” He glanced at Jacob and grinned. “Good old Hannes gave you quite a fright, didn’t he?”

“Hannes is the one with no face?”

“The worst case in Melaten. It’s odd that he’s alive. Still alive, I mean.”

“Still laughing, too,” said Jacob. “But tell me, how did you find me? What happened to you after we split up?”

Jaspar made fluttering movements with his fingers. “I got away,” he laughed. “I think the men hadn’t actually been ordered to capture us, just to stick to us until our crazy crusader could dispatch us in some quiet corner. It’s probably a bit different with you, but they can’t just kidnap or even kill me in the middle of the street. What they hadn’t counted on was that we would smell a rat and run off. They were suddenly afraid they’d lose sight of us and be blamed for it later, so they dropped their pretense and took chase. They didn’t send the most intelligent specimens of humanity after us, thank God. Unseen by them, I went straight into St. Mary’s. It never occurred to the idiots I’d hide in the first church I came to. It was obvious they wouldn’t stop to think until they got to Highgate. Then they’d retrace their steps. So I went straight out by the side door and back to Haymarket, hoping I’d find you there. No problem! That clout on the head with the radish was quite spectacular. I couldn’t join up with you, but I saw everything from a distance. When I realized you were safe for the moment under the cart, I strolled along a good way behind. It wasn’t going that fast and I assumed it would have to stop somewhere. Then when I saw it turn into the gate at Melaten I had to get a move on, but I was too late, they’d already closed the door. Fortunately I know Melaten and I know the little gate at the back.” He nodded smugly. “So that’s how I saved you. You can write me a thank-you letter—oh, no, of course you can’t. And all the time I was trotting along behind, I kept wondering, why doesn’t the Fox jump off? To be honest, I still don’t understand.”

“Because the Fox was trapped,” said Jacob sourly. “He’d got his paws stuck in between the planks.”

“And couldn’t get them out?” Jaspar laughed out loud. “That story would get me a drink in any inn in Cologne.”

“I think I’d prefer it if you kept it to yourself.”

“If the men who were after you only knew! But they know nothing. I imagine they haven’t been told what it’s all about. They’ll have just been given some cock-and-bull story why we have to be caught.”

“They knew damn well why they were chasing me,” said Jacob.

“You? Oh, yes, you’ve stolen one guilder, you rascal. Who from, if I might inquire?”

“Matthias Overstolz.”

Jaspar stopped and stared. “From him? But why him, for God’s sake?”

“I didn’t steal it,” Jacob protested. “He gave it to me. Yesterday morning. And now I’m supposed to have stolen it.”

“One moment,” said Jaspar. He seemed confused. “Why would Matthias Overstolz give you a guilder?”

“I was standing outside their house in Rheingasse, trying to wrap my jerkin around my head. Haven’t I told you this?”

“No,” said Jaspar, frowning. “Who knows what else you’ve forgotten to tell me.”

They walked along in silence for a while. The sun was low in the sky, making the fields and meadows all around glow with an almost unnatural intensity.

“Fox-cub, are you telling me the truth?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Jacob,” he said, “we only met yesterday. I have great but not unbounded trust in you. So just reassure me. Is everything you have told me so far the truth?”

“Yes, dammit, it is.”

“Good.” Jaspar nodded. “Then presumably we know the name of at least one of those who ordered Gerhard’s death.”

“Matthias Overstolz?” asked Jacob, dumbfounded.

“And not only him,” Jaspar went on. “Suddenly everything’s clear. I’ve been racking my brains to think how our meeting with the witnesses could have got out. I’m afraid I let too much slip to Bodo, and of course he couldn’t wait to tell his fellow magistrates about it. And one of his fellow magistrates—”

“—is Theoderich Overstolz.” This is terrible, thought Jacob. One of the most powerful Cologne families wants me dead. “But what have the Overstolzes to do with all this?”

Jaspar shrugged his shoulders. “Didn’t you say yourself something big must be going on? Gerhard probably got wind of it. They won’t get their hands dirty themselves, even though Matthias Overstolz’s dislike of you may well be personal by now.”

“Why on earth should it be?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You’ve made him look a fool. How do you think he felt when he realized he’d given a guilder to you of all people, the man they’re desperately trying to find? Matthias has the reputation of relying on cold logic alone. Some people say he only goes to church because his calculations admit the possibility there might be a God after all. He could have thought up any crime he liked to tell his servants—I’m assuming they’re Overstolz servants—why they had to catch you. But no, he accuses you of having stolen one measly guilder. If there’s not a desire for vengeance behind that, I don’t know what vengeance is.”

Jacob took a deep breath. “In other words I’m dead.”

“You look alive and kicking to me,” replied Jaspar cheerfully.

“Yes. For the moment.”

Jaspar subjected the bridge of his nose to a good rubbing. “Let’s assume it’s all politics,” he said. “If a patrician family starts killing architects and liquidating everyone who happens to get a whisper of it, I hardly dare to think what they’re really up to. We should be proud, Fox-cub. We may all finish on the wrong end of a crossbow bolt, but at least we can’t complain we’ve fallen into the hands of some third-rate rogues. However, far be it from me to oppose the will of the Lord, but I prefer my body as it is, without an extra hole; yours, too, I might add. So let’s get down to some hard thinking about how to save our skins.”

“By putting pressure on the Overstolzes?” suggested Jacob.

“Good idea. Let’s play it through. You’ve got two names and a strong suspicion. Great. You yourself—forgive me for pointing this out—are a wily scoundrel and petty thief, but you present yourself, hand on heart, to the council of magistrates, to prove that the Overstolzes pushed Gerhard Morart off the scaffolding. Matthias Overstolz is a fiend, you say. He is guilty of the most heinous crimes, you say, though he didn’t actually commit one of them himself and you don’t actually know what the other one is. And then there’s this fellow with long hair. I don’t actually know who he is, but, all in all, I have this funny feeling in the pit of my stomach and I suggest that is reason enough for you, my noble lords, to pack Cologne’s leading merchant family off to prison.”

“Aren’t there a couple of them there already?”

“Yes, but it was the archbishop who put them in, not the dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s, not to mention some pilfering miscreant. And what if Matthias and Theoderich are only two of a much larger band, members of some powerful conspiracy? You might go and tell the burgomaster all you know and find he’s in on the plot!”

Jacob’s shoulders sagged. “What is there we can do, then?” he asked despondently.

“What I advised yesterday,” Jaspar replied. “Attack. We’ll never discover the truth if we limit ourselves to what we already know. Gilbert of Tournai said that before me, by the way. Our only chance is to find out what they plan to do so we can be one step ahead at the decisive moment. Yesterday that was my advice to you. Now we’re both involved.”

He looked up in the sky to watch a flight of geese on their way south for the winter. “If it’s not too late already,” he muttered.

RICHMODIS

It was the regular jolting and squeaking that brought her around. Her first feeling was that she was about to suffocate. She tried to move but couldn’t, even though she was painfully aware of some limbs while she couldn’t feel others at all. She tried to work out what was causing the pain and gradually realized someone had trussed her up from top to toe with straps that bit into her and forced her body into an unnatural position.

She tried to shout, but there was something large and soft stuck in her mouth. No wonder she was fighting for air. She could hear faint cries, horses whinnying, street noises. She was lying on something sloping in complete darkness. She felt the panic rising. Again she tried to move. Something was planted firmly on her shoulder.

“Keep still,” said a soft voice, “or I’ll have to kill you.”

She shuddered. She didn’t dare move again. The last thing she could remember was Rolof throwing himself at the tall stranger, a stranger she had recognized without ever having seen him before. Jacob had told them about him. He was the man who had murdered Gerhard. He had knocked her down.

Scarcely able to breathe, she lay there trying to conquer her fear. She was close to hysteria, but if she let herself go, he might carry out his threat.

At last the jolting stopped. She was pulled off the slope she was lying on and fell to the ground. She had a soft landing from the mass of blankets she was wrapped in, which were now unwound. She must have looked like a huge parcel, unrecognizable as a human being.

The man bent over her. His gleaming mane fell around her; she felt as if she were inside a weeping willow. Then he pulled her up and undid some of the straps. At last she could stretch, but it was agonizingly painful as the blood began to circulate through her numb limbs. The man pulled the gag from her mouth and she lay on her back panting, afraid and yet grateful for the fresh air. At least she wasn’t going to die of suffocation.

She lifted up her head and looked around, trying to work out where she was. Rough masonry walls, huge beams, and the ceiling black with soot. A little light came in through a narrow slit. She saw Jaspar’s handcart.

She’d been brought here in the handcart. Where on earth was Rolof, then?

Motionless, the stranger watched her. Cautiously she tried to stretch her arms, but she was still bound hand and foot, incapable of moving.

“Where am I?” she asked in a weak voice.

Without a word, he came over to her and lifted her up until she was standing on her feet, legs trembling. Then he picked her up effortlessly and carried her over to one of the massive pillars supporting the roof.

“Please tell me where you’ve brought me,” she begged.

He leaned her against the pillar and started to tie her up, so tight she was almost part of it.

She felt a glimmer of hope. If he was going to all this trouble, he couldn’t intend to kill her. At least not immediately. It looked as if he was going to leave her here and was making sure she couldn’t escape. He must have something else in mind for her. Whether it would be better or worse than being killed was another question entirely.

He pulled the straps tighter and Richmodis gave an involuntary groan. He calmly stood in front of her, scrutinizing his handiwork thoroughly. Again Richmodis was filled with nameless fear at the void behind his eyes. What she saw was an empty shell, a handsome mask. She wondered how God could have created such a being.

Jacob had not ruled out the possibility it was the Devil. Could he have been right?

That means you must be in hell, she thought. What nonsense. Whoever heard of someone being taken down to hell in a handcart?

She tried again to get him to speak. “Where is Rolof?” she asked. The stranger raised his eyebrows slightly, turned away with a shrug of the shoulders, and went to one of the heavy doors.

“Why have you brought me here?” she cried in desperation.

He stopped and turned to face her. “I’d given up hope of hearing an intelligent question from you,” he said, coming back to her. “It’s not a particularly intelligent age we live in, don’t you agree? With whom can an educated person discuss anything new nowadays? The scholars at the universities have let themselves be made into lackeys of the popes, who themselves just slavishly follow Saint Bernard’s decree that there can be nothing new and that life on earth is of no significance. Fine, if that’s what he thinks, we can always open up the way to a better world.”

His fingers stroked her cheek. With a shudder, she turned her head aside, the only movement she was capable of.

He smiled. “I am not going to tell you where you are, nor what I intend to do with you.”

“Who are you?”

“Now then.” He wagged his finger playfully at her. “You had promised to ask intelligent questions. That is not an intelligent question.”

“You killed Gerhard Morart.”

“I killed him?” The stranger raised his brows in mock amazement. “I can remember having given him a push. Is it my fault he had made the scaffolding so narrow?”

“And you killed that girl, the girl in Berlich,” she said. “Why do you do things like that?”

“She was in the way when I took aim.”

“Who will be the next one in your way?” she whispered.

“That’s enough questions, Richmodis.” He spread his hands wide. “I can’t know everything. Life’s little surprises come all unexpected. As far as I’m concerned, you can live to be a hundred.”

She couldn’t repress a cough. A stab of pain went through her lungs. “And what do I have to do to earn that?”

“Nothing.” He winked at her, as if they were old friends, and brought out the gag again. “You must excuse me if I can’t continue our little conversation. I have to go. I have important business to see to and need a little rest. A holy work”—he laughed—“as someone might put it who was foolish enough to believe in God.”

It was strange, but for all that she hated and loathed him, for all the fear she had of him, the idea that he might leave her alone in this cold, terrible place seemed even worse.

“Who says God does not exist?” she asked hastily.

He paused and gave her a thoughtful look. “An intelligent question. Prove He exists.”

“No. You prove He doesn’t exist.”

She had listened to enough of this kind of discussion between Goddert and Jaspar. Suddenly a disputation seemed the one possible bridge to the stranger.

He came closer. So close she could feel his breath on her face.

“Prove to me that God doesn’t exist,” Richmodis repeated, her voice quavering.

“I could do that,” he said quietly, “but you wouldn’t like it.”

“Just because I’m a woman?” she hissed. “Gerhard’s murderer is not usually so softhearted.”

A frown appeared on his forehead. “There’s nothing personal about this,” he said. Oddly enough, it sounded as if he meant it.

“There isn’t? That’s all right, then, I suppose.”

“What I am doing, I am doing for a purpose. I don’t take pleasure in killing people, but it doesn’t bother me either. I have accepted a commission in the course of which the deaths of several people became necessary, that’s all.”

“That’s not everything by a long shot, from what I hear.”

“Remember what killed the cat, Richmodis. I’m going now.”

“Why do you make people suffer so much?”

He shook his head. “It is not my fault if people suffer. I bear no responsibility for their deaths. How many people die in whatever manner doesn’t concern me. It doesn’t make any difference. The world is pointless and it will stay that way, with or without humans.”

Fury welled up inside her. “How can you be so cynical? Every human life is sacred; every human being was created by God for a purpose.”

“God does not exist.”

“Then prove it.”

“No.”

“Because you can’t.”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Prove it!”

“Why?” The look he gave her was almost pitying. “I know He doesn’t exist, but you have no right to demand I prove He doesn’t. If you insist on thinking I won’t because I can’t, I can live with that. You can believe what you like as far as I’m concerned.”

He lifted up the gag.

I’m losing him, thought Richmodis. I must learn as much as I can about him. There must be a spark of feeling somewhere inside him. “What did they do to you to make you like this?” she asked, surprised at her own question.

The expression froze on his face.

For a brief moment Richmodis thought she had managed to get through to him. Then suddenly he smiled again. “Nice try,” he said with a mixture of mockery and admiration, then quickly stuffed the gag between her teeth, turned, and headed for the door, his cloak swirling. “Unfortunately not quite good enough. Don’t worry, I’ll be back. I might even let you go. You’re safe here. Now neither the Fox nor your uncle will dare go around spreading stories about a supposed murder.”

The hinges creaked as he opened the door. Richmodis had a brief view of a courtyard with a wall beyond.

“Behave yourself, like a well-brought-up girl should.” In the fading light of the late afternoon he was just a shadow, a figment of the imagination, a bad dream. “And if you need proof of the complete absence of Divine Providence and the pointlessness of human existence, just think of me. One of millions.”

The door slammed shut behind him. She was alone with the rats.

Urquhart slumped back against the wall of the abandoned warehouse and closed his eyes. The images were threatening to return. He felt himself being dragged down into the red whirlpool of memories from which waves of sound rose up toward him, those strangely shrill tones he would never have thought a human being capable of producing.

No! That is not me, he told himself. They are someone else’s memories. I have no history.

His muscles relaxed.

The servant who had described the way to the old warehouse had also given him a message that told him that Jaspar and the Fox had es-caped from Little St. Martin’s. Urquhart had expected it. He congratulated himself on the success of his visit to Severinstraße. It didn’t matter that they had got away. Not in the least. They could call off the search for them.

He considered briefly whether it would not be better to kill the woman now. He was going to kill her anyway, when it was all over, so why not now? No, it made better sense to keep her alive for the moment. He would need her to entice Jaspar and the Fox into his trap. And anyone else who had heard their story. He would arrange to hand over the hostage tomorrow evening. Once he had them all there, he could kill them one by one and set the building on fire. A few charred skeletons would be found. An accident, that would be all.

Assuming it would be of any importance after what was due to happen on the morrow.

He observed the long shadows of the battlements in the courtyard. They were creeping toward the building as if they were about to grasp it. The black fingers of fate, quite poetic! Perhaps he should write poems. By now he had accumulated so much wealth that he could devote the rest of his life to the only worthwhile occupation—enjoyment. Without regret or remorse, without limits, without purpose or plan, without feelings of guilt, without a single thought for the past or future. His pleasures would be boundless, his indulgence endless, and the images would fade for good and never return. Perhaps he would set himself up as a scholar and build a palace of wisdom with a court that could become the Santiago de Compostella of philosophical inquiry, to which the greatest intellects of Christendom would make pilgrimage. He would encourage bold speculation and then amuse himself royally at the expense of the fools who sought the meaning of life. He would encourage them and then drop them at the decisive moment. He would prove that God did not exist, nor anything similar to Him, that the world was just a black abyss in which nothing was worth aiming for apart from the enjoyment of the moment, with no regard for morality, obligation, or virtue. He would even demonstrate the meaninglessness of this ridiculous nominalism since there was no reality at all behind general concepts, no good, no evil, nothing.

The ruler of nothingness! A delightful idea.

He had this one last commission to complete, here in Cologne, then he would give up killing and devote himself to enjoyment. His mind was made up.

Urquhart pushed himself away from the wall and left the tumbledown courtyard. Matthias and he had agreed to meet every two hours between now and the early morning, in case something unexpected should crop up. That would leave him plenty of opportunity to check on the girl. Perhaps he would even feel like a conversation.

THE MESSAGE

They put on the leper’s clothes before they reached the city wall, out of sight of the guards on the gate. Jacob was still afraid of infection, but Jaspar assured him there was no danger. They took up their rattles and approached the city gate. It was worth a try. Although lepers were only officially allowed in Cologne on certain days of the year, the regulation was not very strictly applied as long as the beggars had their distinctive dress and rattles.

Today the guards seemed to be in a charitable mood and let them pass. They went through Cock Gate, making plenty of noise. No one who saw them bothered to give them a second look, so no one noticed that the white cloaks covered habits instead of knee breeches, nor that the two fatally ill men were the picture of health.

Jacob had had his doubts. “A pretty conspicuous disguise.”

“And therefore an especially good one,” Jaspar had replied. “The best of all. The ideal way not to attract attention is to behave in as conspicuous a way as possible.”

“I don’t understand.”

“By all the saints! Have you been basking in the light of my wisdom for two whole days with no result at all? Anyone who is after us will assume we will be creeping around the city like thieves in the night. They’ll be on the lookout for two little mice scurrying along, heads bowed. That we might attract attention to ourselves would never occur to them.”

“Not to the servants, but perhaps to the Shadow.”

“Even he’s not omniscient.”

As they walked through the city, not particularly hurrying, the sun was going down and everything in the streets merging into a uniform gray. Jaspar kept having to grab Jacob’s coat. “Don’t run.”

“We’ve got plenty of time, have we?”

“Yes, but only one life. Lepers don’t run.”

An east wind came up, blowing leaves and rubbish along the street. They crossed New Market Square, where the cattle market was just finishing, strolled along to Sternengasse, and from there toward Highgate. Their only problem was trying to avoid the charitable attentions of a few good Christians who wanted to give them money or food. They muttered something about a vow that forbade them from accepting alms in the street. However nonsensical they were, vows were looked on as inviolable. No one questioned a vow.

As they turned into Severinstraße, the first raindrops began to fall and it became noticeably colder. “Can’t we go a bit quicker now?” Jacob urged. “There’s hardly anyone left out in the street.”

“This is precisely the place where we have to hobble along like two lepers with one foot in the grave,” said Jaspar, unmoved. “If they’re still looking for us, they’ll have posted someone near my house. No one will find anything odd about lepers begging at the door, but seeing them having a race would arouse suspicion in even the dullest mind.”

Sulkily Jacob bowed to fate and pulled his hat down over his face. The rain got heavier. By the time they reached Jaspar’s house, they were soaked through.

“What now?” asked Jacob.

“Now? We knock and beg for alms. Rolof opens the door and lets us in—”

“You of all people come up with a stupid idea like that?” Jacob broke in. “No sensible person would let a leper into his house.”

“But Rolof is not a sensible person, everyone knows that. Don’t try to beat me at my own game. At least we’ve made it this far. Once we’re inside we’ll get rid of these clothes, then I challenge anyone to prove they saw two lepers go in.”

He knocked loudly on the door several times.

“No one in,” said Jacob.

“Impossible.” Jaspar shook his head in bewilderment and thumped the door with his fist. The house echoed with the sound. “Rolof’s always in at this time.”

“Perhaps he’s asleep.”

“Not impossible,” agreed Jaspar, annoyed. “I think you’re right, Fox-cub, he’s taking a nap. Just you wait!” With that Jaspar hammered on the door with both fists, as if he were trying to make a hole in it. Jacob looked around nervously. That wasn’t the normal behavior of a leper anymore. Jaspar seemed suddenly to come to the same conclusion. He stopped hammering and started looking worried.

“What if they’re waiting for us inside?” whispered Jacob.

“That’s what I was trying to establish by knocking,” Jaspar growled.

“Without success.”

“Huh! Anyway, these servants are thick as two short planks. They won’t even give us a good look. They’ll be too scared.”

“But what if—”

“If your long-haired friend’s there, we run for it.”

Jacob was hopping nervously from one foot to the other. He swung his rattle a bit for good measure. Then he grabbed Jaspar by the arm. “I think we should get away while the going’s good.”

Jaspar raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, yes? And go where?”

“I—” That was the question. Where? “No idea. To Richmodis and Goddert’s place, perhaps?”

“Oh, brilliant!” Jaspar mocked. “What a genius! He’s too cowardly to go in himself, but he’s quite happy to put Richmodis in danger.”

“All right, all right.” Jacob turned away, his face red with shame. “A stupid idea, I agree.”

“It was. But we all say stupid things sometimes. Come on, let’s just go in and get it over with.”

Jaspar pushed open the door and they went in. It was dark in the room, just a few embers glowing in the fireplace.

“He hasn’t even kept the fire up, the useless lump!”

Jacob peered into the gloom. “You can’t see anything.”

“We’ll soon see something. Where’s the candlestick?”

Jaspar stomped across the room to a shelf opposite the fireplace, while Jacob tried to make something of the dark shapes. The table, a stool, the bench by the fire.

A shadow, massive, motionless.

“Jaspar—”

“Don’t interrupt. Now where’s that blasted candlestick?”

“There’s someone here.”

“What?” There was a clatter. A spark flared up, then another, and the room was gradually bathed in soft, golden candlelight. It fell on the fireside bench and on Rolof.

“God in heaven!” Jaspar whispered. Hesitantly they went over to him. Jacob felt he wanted to be sick. He also wanted to look away but found he couldn’t.

“Whatever have they done to him?”

Rolof’s eyes were staring at the ceiling. His nose had been smashed in. But that was a mere detail compared to the way the murderer had arranged the body. A long hank of thick dark hair cascaded down from his wide-open mouth onto his chest and curled up over his fat belly. Which had been—

“They’ve slit him open,” Jacob gasped.

Jaspar was grinding his teeth. “Yes.”

“But why? What had he done to them, goddammit? He was no danger to them. He…” His voice failed. With sudden realization, he pulled the hair out of Rolof’s mouth. “Richmodis,” he croaked.

Jaspar pointed to Rolof’s forehead. “Look.” It sounded almost matter-of-fact, as if he were drawing attention to some interesting object. Except that his finger was trembling.

Jacob leaned forward. “What on earth is that?”

There were smears on Rolof’s forehead. Symbols joining up to make a complicated pattern.

“Writing,” replied Jaspar. “That’s why he did that to him. The murderer needed blood to write.”

“And what—”

“A message.” He sank down on the bench beside Rolof and put his head in his hands.

Jacob shuddered. He was afraid to hear the truth, although by now he suspected it. “Out with it,” he said hoarsely. “What is the message?”

“She’s alive. Silence.”

RHEINGASSE

Johann rested his chin on his hand and stared across the table, uncertain what to reply.

After Matthias had sent the servant to tell Urquhart the way to the old warehouse, Johann had tried to call an immediate meeting of the group, a vain hope on a busy weekday. At least Theoderich, a somewhat tipsy Daniel, and Heinrich von Mainz had turned up. In a few short sentences he told them about the hostage. Their reactions varied. While Heinrich, as usual, had no clear opinion, Theoderich looked unhappy. Johann could understand that. They had set off an avalanche. The situation was beginning to get out of control. Now it was Urquhart who was making the rules, while the original purity of their goal was being increasingly tarnished by crude necessity. The means were becoming an end.

Daniel, on the other hand, was delighted; he could not praise Urqu hart’s astute move highly enough. Johann felt disgusted at his own son. Of course Daniel was right. Though only from a coldly rational standpoint. More and more, Johann was asking himself whether they had not in fact become slaves to a barbaric attitude that was pushing them in the wrong direction.

After that he had tried to work for an hour but couldn’t keep his mind on it. Eventually he gave up and went home to pray and to go up and see the old woman to let her know what was happening and to take reassurance from her steadfastness of purpose.

The old woman was asleep.

He had stood at the window for a long time, staring out into the rain that had started. Evening was approaching and with it the time of the family meal, but he did not feel in the least hungry. Feeling weary, he asked Hadewig to leave him to his own devices for a while and had withdrawn to his study, hoping the night would pass quickly, even though he viewed the coming day with horror.

He had not been alone for long.

It was Kuno. The young patrician begged to be allowed to attend their meetings again.

Johann was silent, trying to hide his uncertainty behind a blank expression. Deep down inside he could understand Kuno better than ever. But they had gone too far. They could not go back now, and that was Kuno’s fatal mistake. Wanting to reverse everything, even if he did claim to support the cause wholeheartedly again.

Johann clasped his hands and slowly shook his head. “No,” he declared.

“What are you afraid of?” asked Kuno.

“Your unwillingness to accept the logical consequences of your decisions,” Johann replied. “You volunteer to take part in a struggle, but you want to fight it without weapons. You want to defeat your enemy, but at the same time spare him. Wars are won on the field of battle, not inside your head. I wouldn’t put it past you to destroy us all just because you thought you could save someone else.”

“That is not—” Kuno objected.

Johann raised his hand and cut him short. “I’m saying this because I think you are far too sentimental. Not that I’ve anything against feelings, but we should never have let you join the alliance. We had no choice, I suppose. None of us had. Now, though, I do have a choice. To trust you or to exercise caution.”

“And you don’t trust me?”

“No. You’d be lying if you tried to tell me you’d gotten over Gerhard’s death and given it your approval.”

“I never claimed I did! It’s just that I believe in our cause, as I always have done.”

“No, you don’t.”

Kuno started to say something, then hesitated.

“Well?” asked Johann.

“All I do know,” said Kuno in deliberate tones, “is that people who have done us no harm have had to die. We feel an injustice has been done to the members of our families who have lost their lives or their freedom, not because they harmed anyone, simply because they wanted to protect their rights. Yes, it’s true I agreed to a plan, the consequences of which I reject, and I am well aware there is something contradictory in that.” He leaned forward, looking Johann calmly in the eye. “But you, too, Johann Overstolz, subscribed to that plan. Has it not occurred to you by now that you cannot combat injustice by acting unjustly yourself?”

Johann nodded. “It has. And I respect what you have to say, Kuno. But you have just provided conclusive proof that we cannot rely on you. My answer is no, we will not take you back.”

Kuno’s face was expressionless as he stared back at Johann. Then he stood up and left the room without a further word.

He was both unhappy and relieved. If Johann would not make peace with him, then none of the others would. Blinded by Blithildis’s hatred, Johann and Matthias had abandoned all their principles. But this final decision from Johann set him free. Not free from guilt for having voted for the alliance and thus unwittingly contributing to Gerhard’s death. No one could ever absolve him from that. But he no longer had any obligation toward the unholy alliance.

He had broken with them.

On the landing he turned to look back at the closed door to Johann’s study. He bore the old man no malice. Presumably Johann had to act as he had. It no longer interested him.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?”

Kuno looked down. Daniel was leaning against the wall at the foot of the stairs, grinning like the cat that had eaten the cream.

For a moment Kuno was tempted to hurl a few well-aimed insults at him in revenge for the shame Daniel had brought on him at Gerhard’s funeral. But his pride won the day. He was beyond that, too. Without hurrying, he went down the stairs until he was standing eye to eye with the young Overstolz. A cloud of alcohol fumes enveloped him. Daniel was roaring drunk.

“It’s the friend of bold young men.” The tip of Daniel’s tongue flickered in and out between his teeth. “Want to join in again, do we? Well, we won’t let you.”

Kuno looked at him, full of loathing. “You’re a disgrace to your family,” he said softly. He made to walk on, but Daniel grabbed him by the arm.

“Let go of me,” said Kuno, barely able to control himself.

“Why? Suddenly decided we don’t like to be touched by men’s hands, have we?” Daniel wrinkled his nose in contempt and let go of Kuno’s arm as if he had the pox. “Huh, who cares about you and your sniveling? You make me sick. Still whining about the deaths?” He bared his teeth. “Better save a few tears, crybaby, they won’t be the last.”

Kuno turned away. They won’t be the last—“What do you mean?” he asked, still not looking at Daniel.

“What do I mean?” Daniel spat on the floor and stabbed him in the ribs with his index finger. “Wouldn’t that be too heavy a burden for such a sensitive flower that wilts at the slightest hard decision? I couldn’t do that to you, Kuno, I know how much it makes you suffer. Or should I?” He minced around Kuno until he was peering up at him. “Aaaah! A steely gaze! Have we a man after all? I’m impressed, Kuno. You put the fear of God into me, you really do.”

Suddenly he tripped and stumbled against the banister.

“You’re not even capable of supporting the burden of your own body,” said Kuno contemptuously, “never mind burdening me.”

“Oh, yes?” Daniel grinned. “Aren’t you burdened enough with your worm-eaten Gerhard Morart? Ooooh, poor Gerhard, poor, poor Gerhard. Fell off the scaffolding. What bad luck. And you’re to blame.” He staggered over to Kuno and stood in front of him, swaying. “That’s not the only thing you’re to blame for. You’re to blame for everything. You really want to know who’s next on the list? Go to the old warehouse.”

“What are you talking about, you beer-swilling Overstolz sot?”

“Hah!” Daniel made a theatrical gesture, almost losing his balance in the process. “I ought to kill you for that, on the spot. But then you wouldn’t suffer anymore. Yes, my dear, tenderhearted friend, Urquhart has taken a young thing away from her nearest and dearest. Now he’s got them all where he wants them, the Fox, the dean—”

“The dean? Who’s that?”

“No, no, Kunikins, you don’t have to know everything. Just enough to get your arse in a lather.”

“You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“A lovely girl, so I heard. Urquhart told Matthias she’s the niece of the dean the Fox holed up with—”

“What fox?”

“The one who saw how your beloved master Gerhard learned to fly, the one—”

“Yes? Go on.”

Daniel’s eyes focused. All at once he seemed almost sober. “What are you after, Kuno?” he asked, emphasizing each single word.

“What am I after?”

“There’s something wrong. Why are you suddenly all ears?”

“Just listening to you, my friend.”

“Get out, you loathsome—”

“You can save your breath,” said Kuno calmly, “I’m going.” He turned on his heel and hurried out of the house into Rheingasse.

“—loathsome worm, slimy beast, excrescence on the backside of humanity—” Daniel screamed as he left.

Kuno ignored him completely. At last he knew what he must do.

Daniel leaned against the newel post, breathing heavily, as the door closed behind Kuno. Above him the door to Johann’s study “What’s all the noise about, Daniel?”

He looked up and shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing. Kuno was being insolent, that’s all.”

Johann looked down at him angrily. “Kuno may be a fool and a danger, but never insolent.”

“Father—”

“No! I don’t want to hear your shouting here. Do it in your own home, where your wife’s been waiting far too long for you, but not here. Understood?”

Daniel ground his teeth. “Understood.”

“I didn’t hear. Louder.”

“All right! Understood. Understood!”

Daniel gave a howl of fury, strode unsteadily across the hall, and flung the door open. Outside the rain was splattering on the mud.

That was a mistake, he thought. You should have kept your mouth shut.

You’d better sort it out.

SEVERINSTRAßE

“We can’t stay here,” Jacob declared.

They had laid Rolof on the bench and closed his eyes. They couldn’t do any more for him at the moment. Jaspar’s usual affability had given way to seething anger. Despite being pursued himself, he had so far treated the affair with a kind of academic interest. Now he was directly involved. His house had been broken into, his family put under threat, his servant brutally murdered. And there was another change in him. Beneath his quivering fury was uncertainty. For the first time he seemed to feel fear.

That did not stop him from kneeling down beside Rolof ’s body and accompanying him on his journey to a better world with silent prayers. Jacob stood there, not sure what he could say to the Lord. He hardly knew any prayers, so he asked Him to look mercifully on Rolof ’s soul, repeated the request several times, and then felt enough was enough.

“We’ve got to go,” he said urgently.

Jaspar continued to pray.

“Do you understand?”

“Why?” Jaspar growled.

“Why? God, they know everything about us.”

“So what?”

“Are we going to wait for them to come back and send us to join Rolof?”

“In the first place,” said Jaspar irritatedly, as he got up, “I presume it wasn’t a them but a him, that is, Gerhard’s murderer. In the second place, why should he come back? He’s got a hostage. He doesn’t need to bother with us anymore. None of us is going to say a blind word.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” asked Jacob uncertainly.

Jaspar was silent. Somehow his silence seemed to last too long.

“All right.” Jacob sat down on one of the stools. “I’m sorry I came to your house. I blame myself for what’s happened to Richmodis and I’m sad about Rolof. And I feel terrible that something might happen to you or Goddert. I’m very sorry, dammit! But it’s happened now and I can’t do anything to change it. It was your decision to help me. If you want, I’ll go and try to find Richmodis. If you never want to set eyes on me again, I can understand that. Only, however much I have to be grateful to you for, don’t blame me because you decided to help me.”

Jaspar frowned. “When did I ever blame you for anything?”

“Not out loud, Jaspar, but you thought it. You see me as responsible for all this. In a way I am. But you had a free choice. Nobody forced you. Don’t think I’m being ungrateful, I just want you to be open with me. Throw me out, if you like, but don’t pretend you want to help me, while inside you’re beginning to hate me.”

“Who’s saying I hate you?”

“No one is. But at the moment you’re thinking, if I hadn’t met this goddamn good-for-nothing—or, if you like, if I hadn’t helped him—Rolof would still be alive and no one would be in danger. You’re weighing my life against those of Rolof and Richmodis, and I come off worse. You don’t have to tell me, I know. But I also know this may be your last opportunity to decide, and I don’t want you deceiving yourself and me. I can live—and die—with anything, apart from the contempt of a Good Samaritan who’s standing by me, not for my sake, but for his own self-respect.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t need anyone to tell me my life is worth less than that of others. Send me away, if you want. But leave me my pride.”

Jaspar put his head on one side and squinted at Jacob. “You think this is the right moment to tell me all this?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm.” He sat down facing Jacob and massaged the bridge of his nose. For a while all that could be heard was the drumming of the raindrops on the shutters.

“You’re right, I did see you as responsible. I was thinking, what right has he to live, when my servant had to die for his sake and Richmodis is God-knows-where, assuming she’s still alive. He should be feeling so guilty he wished the earth would open and swallow him up. And he has the cheek to ask whether I’m sure my suspicions are correct. He doesn’t deserve to live! How can God allow worthwhile people to suffer because of a piece of scum?”

He paused.

“But I had forgotten, just for a moment, that no life is worthless. What is worse, I was trying to wriggle out of the responsibility. It’s easier to condemn you than to admit I’m responsible for everything myself.”

Jaspar hesitated. Then he raised his head and looked Jacob in the eye. “I thank you for the lesson, Fox-cub. Will you continue to accept my help?”

Jacob looked at him and suddenly couldn’t repress a laugh.

“What now?” asked Jaspar indignantly.

“Nothing. It’s just that—you have an unusual expression when you apologize.”

“Unusual?”

“A bit like—”

“Like what?”

“There was this capon—”

“Impudent brat!” snorted Jaspar. “That’s what you get when for once in your life you admit a mistake.”

“Perhaps that’s why. Once in your life.”

Jaspar stared at him angrily. Then he had to laugh and for a while they both cackled away. It was nervous, overwrought, hysterical laughter, but it did them good all the same.

“Poor Rolof,” said Jaspar at last.

Jacob nodded.

“Well?” Jaspar’s brow furrowed like a plowed field. “I still think we should go onto the attack.”

“Attack who? How? When Richmodis—”

Jaspar leaned forward. “Richmodis has disappeared. We won’t help her by sitting around doing nothing, and certainly not Rolof. I also don’t think we can trust the man who abducted her. He intends to kill us all. But do you know what I think? I think we’re already making things a bit awkward for him.”

“How?” Jacob asked skeptically. “So far people on our side have done nothing but get killed.”

“True. But why then did he take Richmodis hostage instead of just killing her? In that case I’m convinced he’s telling the truth. She’s alive. What I mean is, why did he take her hostage?”

“Because it suited him. He can do as he likes with us.”

“No, goddammit! Because he had no choice! Don’t you see? All his attempts to get those who know about Gerhard’s murder out of the way have failed. Even if he were to kill Richmodis and the two of us, and Goddert into the bargain, he still wouldn’t know who else we’d told. He’s losing already. He’s lost track of the number of people who might be in the know. So he’s had to find a way of silencing us all at once; he’s had to go on the defensive. He’s made mistakes. Perhaps we can get him to make another.”

“We can’t.” Jacob waved the suggestion away. “We don’t know his name, nor where to find him.”

“We know he was a crusader.”

“Thousands were. Thousands and thousands.”

“Yes, I know. But this one is special. Probably a noble, a former knight or cleric, since he can write. Though I’m not too keen on his taste in ink. Studied in Paris.”

“How do you make that out?”

Jaspar pulled a face. “From Rolof, unfortunately. I told you, our murderer is starting to make mistakes. Over the years each university developed its own style of writing. The Bolognese, the English, the Parisian, to name but a few. The letters on Rolof ’s forehead are pure Paris school.”

“So what? You’re forgetting the patricians. Whatever we find out about him, they’re the ones we’re up against.”

“Or not. Why did they hire a murderer, eh? To do the work they don’t want to—or can’t—do themselves. Including murder, abduction, and torture. I can even imagine they might have given him a free hand to a certain extent.”

“Still,” objected Jacob, “what does it help, knowing about him?”

“Know your opponent, you know his plan.”

“And who was it said that?”

“Me. Well, no, the Roman emperor Julius Caesar. But it could have been me. Doesn’t matter anyway.”

Jacob sighed. “That’s all well and good, but I can’t think of a way to find out anything about him.”

“Of course you can’t. You’re the Fox while I’m a—what did you call me?”

“Capon.”

“A capon, yes, a capon who’s wide awake and doesn’t intend to get slaughtered. A capon who intends to win this battle. And he will.”

“I suspect the capon’s got it wrong there,” said Jacob.

“No, that’s not what he’s got.”

“What has he got then?”

“An idea!”

KUNO

The old warehouse…

Kuno was sitting in his dining room, trying to work out which warehouse Daniel had been talking about. He may have been half drunk, but on that point he was presumably to be trusted. A woman was being held prisoner there. Who she was Kuno did not know. Much of what Daniel had thoughtlessly let slip was a mystery to him. The inference, however, was crystal clear. People were once more under threat because of the accursed alliance, the redhead they called the Fox and a woman, perhaps others.

The woman was in the old warehouse. But which warehouse?

He leaned back and feverishly racked his brains.

He knew quite a lot about the Overstolz’s properties. His parents had been frequent guests of Johann Overstolz. And of his mother, Blithildis, the old despot, as people called her behind her back, for she had come to dominate the Overstolz household more and more. There was something uncanny about the blind old woman. Years ago she had mistakenly been declared dead. For three days she had given no sign of life, then had woken up, helpless, tied to a chair. She, even more than old Gottschalk Overstolz, was the one who pulled the strings in the most powerful patrician family of Cologne, and Kuno knew that it was only hatred that kept her alive. Hatred of all who had harmed the house of Overstolz without having been made to pay for it.

Since the death of his father two years ago—long after his mother—Kuno had lived in the large family residence with his brothers, Bruno and Hermann, and their wives. It had been a short period of happiness before the fateful blow struck.

His brothers’ wives, Margarethe and Elizabeth, were now living with their relatives, out of fear of reprisals from the Cologne authorities. Bruno and Hermann were in hiding at the court of the count of Jülich, leaving Kuno alone in the family house.

He felt lonely. He suspected his initial enthusiasm for the alliance was a result of his loneliness. But then he remembered that he had always been alone. His father had not thought much of him; he felt his son was too soft and did not really understand him. His mother had died too early. He got on better with his brothers, but without there being any real warmth between them. His only genuine friends had been Gerhard Morart and his wife Guda, old friends of the family who, after the commission for the cathedral from Conrad von Hochstaden, had been welcome guests in the houses of all the great families. At some point or other Kuno had realized that Gerhard, probably without being aware of it, had supplanted his father and taken over his role. Kuno loved the old man, and suddenly strange rumors started to appear, the significance of which Kuno did not fully understand. Were they figments of a diseased imagination or did they correspond to a truth he refused to admit to himself? The rumors were spread by Daniel…

Kuno rubbed his eyes and forced his mind back to the question of the warehouse.

Why did nobody take him seriously? All his life he had never been more than an appendage. He lacked the determination of his brothers, who had become involved in political life from an early age, the business sense of his father, everything. Yet he was the only one left in Cologne.

The loneliest of all.

The warehouse! The warehouse!

He knew all the Overstolz warehouses. Most of them, anyway. Almost all were old, depending on how you defined old, of course. What did Daniel mean? Mean by “old,” that is?

Daniel was a rebel, a self-centered rebel without a cause. A late follower of the Goliards, with their love of wine, women, and song, but without their poverty, despising tradition simply because it was tradition. What would “old” mean to someone like that?

Old in the sense of a ruin?

Too old.

Old and abandoned!

Kuno clicked his fingers. That was it. It was an abandoned warehouse Daniel had been talking about, one that was no longer in use.

He couldn’t ask questions about it, but that probably wasn’t necessary. He knew of several old, abandoned warehouses belonging to the Overstolzes. They were all by the Wall, opposite the river island of Rheinau. Mournful, tumbledown sheds that were not even let out because the Overstolzes would rather allow them to decay than pay tax on the rent.

A good idea to have a look around there.

Kuno smiled. At last there was something meaningful he could do.

THE MADMAN

The impressive, if gloomy, shape of St. Pantaleon rose up before them as, leaning into the wind, they turned into Walengasse. The rain had gotten inside Jacob’s hood and was running down his neck. During the last hour it had become bitterly cold. He was looking forward to getting into the monastery as he would have looked forward to any dry place.

They had left the lepers’ outfits behind; they might do more harm than good now. If Jaspar was right and they were no longer being pursued, there was no point in disguise. Jacob insisted on covering his hair, so was still wearing Jaspar’s old habit. He had tucked his hands up the sleeves, which would have made him look as if he were wrapped in devout contemplation were it not for the unchristian pace they were hurrying along at. Jaspar, on the other hand, was striding along, fists pumping the air like a peasant. His hood had slipped down, leaving the rain to beat a tattoo on his bald pate, and with every step he seemed to be trying to stamp his way through the soft mud to hell.

They met no one. God knows, it was no fun being out in the city in the pouring rain.

On their way they had briefly looked in at the house on the Brook. Goddert wasn’t there. At first they had been worried, but there was no indication that anything had happened to him. If the murderer already had Richmodis, what was the point of taking Goddert, too?

So they had continued on their way to Walengasse, while Jaspar explained to Jacob what he hoped to learn there.

“You remember I mentioned a cripple who told me about the tiny crossbows? The man with no legs. St. Pantaleon has a large hospice and he’s been living there for several years. I’ve seen him two or three times without speaking to him. I’ve no idea if we’ll get any sense out of him; even when I talked to him before he wasn’t quite right in the head. If my theory’s correct and our murderer was a crusader, then they’ll have fought in the same battles. An educated man with hair down to his waist will have stood out among the dregs of humanity their armies were mostly made up of.”

“What? Among thousands of men?”

“The armies were always commanded by a small group of kings, counts, and bishops. I’m assuming he was one of them.”

“A bold assumption.”

“I know it sounds harebrained, but it’s worth a try all the same.”

“Anything’s better than sitting around doing nothing,” Jacob agreed. By now they had reached St. Pantaleon. Above the door in the solid wall an oil lamp was swinging in the wind, knocking against the stone at irregular intervals.

Shoulders hunched, they squeezed in under the narrow projecting roof and knocked. It wasn’t long before a tiny window was pushed up. Watery eyes twitched uneasily to and fro under bushy brows.

“It’s after vespers,” an old man’s voice croaked.

“True, reverend Brother,” said Jaspar. “I would not have been so bold as to ask for admittance at this late hour, if I and Brother Jacob here were not engaged on a mission of Christian charity to thwart a devilish attempt to ensnare innocent people body and soul.”

“And who are you?”

“Jaspar Rodenkirchen, dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s. Also physician and Master of Arts.”

The fluttering of the pupils became even more hectic. “I must ask the abbot.”

“We quite understand,” Jaspar assured him, “and respect the prudence of venerable old age. The only thing we would ask is that you do so as quickly as you can since it has pleased the Lord to make the heavens shed tears at the sins of the ungodly.”

“Wait here.” The flap slid down.

“Senile bloody half-wit,” growled Jaspar. “I know Saint Benedict, talking about monks, said, ‘Become a fool for Christ’s sake,’ but he didn’t mean they should ignore the gift of reason.” In fury he strode up and down along the wall. “‘I must ask the abbot, I must ask the abbot.’ And who’s the abbot to ask? Does God have to decide every time whether a door is to be opened or closed? Will these monks never learn to think?”

It was quite some time before the door creaked open and they hurried inside.

A monk who was indeed very old and bent indicated the tall man at his side who was regarding them with a benevolent gaze. He and Jaspar grasped each other by the shoulders and exchanged a brief kiss.

“What can I do for you at this late hour, Brother Jaspar?” the abbot asked.

“A small matter. It is very important I speak to someone in the hospice.” Jaspar smiled. “If it is no trouble, of course.”

Clasping his arms behind his back, the abbot assumed a lofty expression. He looked as if he were giving the matter earnest consideration. “You’re late,” he said skeptically.

“I know.”

“Did you not say something to Brother Laurence here about the machinations of the Devil? As you will know, the monks in this monastery fear the Devil at all times, but experience tells us that he is at his most dangerous after dark. That is why we have to subject guests who arrive this late to particular scrutiny. You must not interpret our cautiousness as suspicion, but—”

“Not in the least,” Jaspar broke in. “To be precise, the Devil I was talking about is the fiend that comes from the past to torment our innermost souls. Old wounds reopen. But often it is the old wounds that lead us to new weapons, if you get my meaning?”

The abbot clearly did not, but he nodded affably.

“Furthermore,” Jaspar went on, “this fiend manifests itself in madness and speaks out of the mouths of those whose spirits are confused. I do not mean to suggest you are housing this fiend here. The balm of your care, I have heard, soothes the sufferings of those poor souls whose minds rave in a confusion of tongues.”

“We have established a special section for that kind of case,” said the abbot, not without pride.

“Yes, it is praised far and wide. Your reputation for compassion is only exceeded by the fame of your learning. Or was it the other way around? I know that the brothers here have astonishing expertise in that area. But to get to the nub of my request, there is in that section a poor soul whose name, I believe, is Hieronymus and who may be able to help us track down this foul fiend.”

The abbot pricked up his ears. “What am I to understand by that?”

“The precise details,” said Jaspar mysteriously, “must remain a secret. It is an extremely delicate matter involving some very important personages.”

“Here in Cologne?” the abbot whispered.

“In this very city. The poor man I am looking for lost both his legs at Acre.”

“Yes, that’s Hieronymus.”

“Excellent. We have to speak to him.”

“Hmm, that will not be easy. He’ll be asleep. Hieronymus has been sleeping a lot recently. I think he will soon go to his eternal rest.”

“All the more important we speak to him before that,” declared Jaspar. “It will not take long, and if Hieronymus has nothing to tell us, he can go straight back to sleep.”

Jacob shivered. They were standing in the cloisters around the inner courtyard and the wind was blowing in through the narrow arched windows, tearing at the flames of the torches in the iron rings.

Again the abbot thought long and hard.

“Very well,” he said eventually, “I would not want to stand in the way of a holy work. Our reputation for good works has always imbued our monastery with a—let us say an aura of mystical greatness which gives it a radiance we must strive to keep shining untarnished.”

“It will shine ever more brightly, I promise you.”

“You would be willing, er, to bear witness to that?”

“Wherever I can.”

“So be it. We humbly praise Thee, Lord. Brother Laurence will take you to Hieronymus. But do not keep him from his divine repose for too long, I beg you. The grace of the Lord is about him.”

The abbot dismissed them with a wave of the hand and they followed the old monk as he shuffled around the cloisters. After a while they turned down an unlit corridor at the end of which Laurence pushed open a door.

In the semidark they saw a room full of wooden beds with men, or what was left of them, asleep on them. The abbey looked after the sick men without charge, solely for God’s mercy and grace, as long as they came with a recommendation from the city council. That kept the situation in St. Pantaleon within bounds. Really bad cases, those who were raving or dangerous, were locked up in the towers of the city walls, with windows facing out toward the countryside, so that those who lived nearby were not disturbed by the shouting and screaming. The worst were kept in chains. The straw in their cells was changed four times a year, when the barber also came to shave their beards and heads, generally with the help of strong men. Some families sold their lunatic members to showmen who made large wooden cages, known as loony boxes, for them outside the city gates. For a few coppers people could observe their drooling, grimacing, and frequent fits for as long as they could stand it.

Compared to these, the poor souls in St. Pantaleon were relatively well off, even if they were bound to their beds with leather straps and ate out of iron pans. The monks regarded them as material to study the boundary between madness and possession by the Devil, something that was of the greatest importance for the spiritual welfare of their patients. The treatment consisted of benedictions and other ecclesiastical rites; occasionally it was even successful.

A monk with a candle came hurrying up to them. He had obviously been sleeping. He was rubbing his eyes and stretching his neck.

“What’s this?” he mumbled. “Oh, it’s you, Brother Laurence.”

“What were you doing, Henricus?” the old monk asked irascibly.

“Preparing myself for compline.”

“You were sleeping.”

“I wasn’t. I was deep in meditation—”

“You were sleeping. I must report it to the abbot.”

The monk looked over the old monk’s shoulders at the two visitors and rolled his eyes. “Of course, Brother Laurence, you must tell the abbot. Is that why you’re here?”

“Take these two gentlemen to Hieronymus. They wish to talk to him.”

“He’s probably asleep.”

“Then wake him up.”

Jaspar gave the monk a friendly nod. The monk shrugged his shoulders and turned. “Come with me.”

They followed him between the beds. Most of the patients were sleeping or staring into space. One was muttering a litany of animal names. When Jacob looked back, he saw the old man disappear into the corridor, shaking his head.

Hieronymus was not asleep. He was sitting on his bed, his little finger boring into his left ear, an activity which seemed to demand his full attention, for he ignored the new arrivals. A threadbare jute blanket covered him up to his waist. Where the outlines of his legs should have been it lay flat on the bed.

“Hieronymus,” said the monk in a friendly voice, stroking his hair, “someone’s come to see you. Look.”

A toothless, twisted face covered in white stubble squinted up at them. “Not now,” he said.

“Why not? It’s a long time since you had a visitor.”

Hieronymus dug his finger farther into his ear. “Leave me in peace.”

“But Hieronymus, we haven’t prayed to Saint Paul yet today. Saint Paul won’t like that. And now you refuse to receive your visitors.”

“No! Wait! Wait!” Hieronymus suddenly shouted. “I’ve got him. He’s trapped. Think you can get away from me, do you? I’ve got you now.”

Henricus gave them a significant glance.

“What’s he doing?” whispered Jaspar.

“He’s convinced someone moved into his ear some time ago. With all his furniture and everything. And he makes a fire in the winter, Hieronymus says, and complains of earache.”

“Why doesn’t he just let him stay there?”

Henricus lowered his voice. “Because the creature in his ear keeps telling him evil things. So he says. We’ve checked up in various books. It’s obviously a manifestation of the Devil, any child could see that. On the other hand, the Devil taking up residence in someone’s ear is new.”

“He resides in hell, and that’s what I would call earache.” Jaspar bent down and gently pulled Hieronymus’s finger out of his ear. “We need your help,” he said softly.

“Help?” Hieronymus seemed so confused he forgot the squatter in his ear for the moment.

“You’re a brave man, Hieronymus. You fought for the Cross. Do you remember?”

Hieronymus gave Jaspar a suspicious look and pressed his lips together. Then he nodded vigorously.

“I knew it.” Jaspar grinned. “A hero. Fought with the bravest of the brave. Truly impressive.”

“Side by side,” declared Hieronymus.

“Do you remember all the proud knights?”

“Wasn’t a knight,” said Hieronymus in a tone of regret. “Had to go on foot. I like going on foot, even now. Not like the knights. Always up on some nag, loaded down with iron. But there’s nothing inside the iron.”

“What does he mean, he likes going on foot?” Jacob asked in surprise.

“Well”—Henricus shrugged—“he likes it.”

“But he hasn’t got—”

“Quiet back there,” Jaspar hissed. “My friend Hieronymus and I have matters to discuss.”

“There’s nothing inside the armor.” Hieronymus giggled. “I looked inside some. It was lying in the sand.”

“But you remember the knights, the noble lords?”

“Of course. I like going on foot.”

“Yes, I know. They all liked going on foot in those days, didn’t they. You got as far as Acre.”

Hieronymus twitched. “Acre,” he whispered. “As far as Acre. Cursed city.”

“Hieronymus can remember everything if he wants,” said Henricus proudly.

“That’s not the impression he gives me,” said Jacob doubtfully.

“That’s enough!” Jaspar stretched out his arm and pointed to the other side of the room. “Off you go and lie down, or dance or whatever, but get away from here. Off you go.”

Jacob didn’t dare object. Henricus even looked delighted, thanked Jaspar, and went to lie down. Soon he began snoring quietly. Jacob watched him enviously, leaned against the doorpost, and pondered.

After a while he saw Hieronymus start to gesticulate wildly. His fingers made the most bizarre shapes in the air. Some gave Jacob the uncomfortable feeling he was describing methods of torture.

Then he gave a whimpering cry and buried his head in his hands. Jaspar put his arm around his shoulders and talked comfortingly to him.

Hieronymus brayed with laughter and started gesticulating again.

Jacob listened to the wind moaning around the monastery walls.

After what seemed an eternity Jaspar came back and woke Henricus to let them out. In silence he led them around the cloisters to the main gate.

“Don’t forget compline,” said Jaspar with a smile.

“Huh!” Henricus snorted. “When did I ever forget it? What did the old loony tell you, by the way?”

“He told us the monks in this monastery are too inquisitive.”

“He did?” said Henricus in amazement. “Ah, well.”

They left him and hurried through the mud back to the Brook.

“And?” asked Jacob. With the wind whistling around his ears, he had to speak loudly. “Did you get anything out of him?”

“Yes and no.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Yes or no?”

“Hieronymus’s memory has its gaps, but he does remember the crossbows. And he remembered that they got hold of one or two. He mentioned the names of a surprising number of knights and counts, he even met King Louis—well, not met exactly, heard him speak. All in all he can remember quite a lot. Then he talked about the war and what they did with the infidels after the capture of Damietta.”

“What did they do?”

Jaspar shook his head. “Just be glad you don’t know. They gathered all the children together, and the young girls. It would be a huge exaggeration to say they simply killed them. They did other things it’s better not to talk about. A knight with hair down to his waist he couldn’t remember, however.”

“So we’ve been wasting our time?”

Jaspar gave him a disapproving look. “Nothing’s a waste of time, remember that.”

KUNO

Beneath the city walls, between Three Kings Gate in the south and Neckelskaulen Gate was an area of old stone buildings that had been originally used to store fish. The stone kept the heat out. Several of the buildings belonged to the Overstolz family, but were no longer in use. They backed onto the Wall and several had narrow passages through to the riverside.

Kuno scurried along the inside of the Wall. The wind came funneling down Bayenstraße while the water seemed to be coming from all sides, from above, below, behind, in front. Perhaps it was the start of a new flood. So far it had been fine, despite the advanced season, but this night was bringing a turn in the weather. It was no longer warm rain, a summer storm that cleared the sultry air for a few hours. There was the icy cold of northern seas on the wind, a harbinger of frosts to come. The Rhine would freeze over in the winter and they would be able to walk over to Deutz on the eastern bank again.

Odd, thought Kuno, why should that come into my mind just now? It would be nice to go across to Deutz once more. And I’d like to see the snow on the battlements and turrets again, on the walls and steep roofs of the churches, chapels, and abbeys, on the trees in the orchards and on Haymarket, with the people stepping gingerly between the stalls, so as not to slip and get laughed at.

He shook himself in the rain like a dog. On his left was the first of the dreary line of old warehouses. He had more important things to do than wallow in memories.

Some of the warehouses by Three Kings Gate had a courtyard in front and a surrounding wall, often with a rotting but heavy wooden gate almost impossible for one man to open on his own. Kuno decided to investigate the other buildings first. There were more than he had thought and the very first he came to turned out to be locked. He tried to look in through the windows, but they were too high and he had to climb. The walls were greasy from the rain and he slipped several times before he managed to get up to one. All he could see inside was impenetrable darkness.

“Anyone there?”

His echoing voice and the howling of the storm combined in a ghostly chorale. He pulled himself up through the opening, dropped down into the warehouse, and lit the torch he carried in his belt. He looked around. A few rats scattered in panic, but otherwise there was no sign of life.

The idea of climbing back up through the window did not appeal to him. The door was barred on the inside by a beam, but he pushed it aside and came out into Bayenstraße. Miserably he contemplated the row of mute, black facades. The rain sweeping across was so heavy he could not even see Bayen Tower. He still had them all to check and already he was soaked to the skin.

What if Daniel had been lying? He was probably sitting in the warmth, enjoying a glass of wine, and laughing himself silly.

If, if…

Head down, he ran to the next warehouse. It was easier getting in this time since there was no door, just some rusty hinges hanging down. But there was no one there either.

By the time he reached the first of the buildings with a wall and courtyard he had no idea how long he had been searching. He’d have to climb again. His fingers were aching, but there was nothing for it, the gate was shut tight. Finding a reasonable handhold, he clambered up another wall, but there was no one in the yard or the building. A ladder led to the upper floor. The rungs creaked ominously as he mounted it. The first thing he saw was more rats, but it was lighter there as the room had five wide windows looking out over the Rhine. At some point it must have been an office. All that was left were a few planks lying around. The water was dripping in through a hole in the roof. He pushed his sopping-wet hair out of his eyes and looked down at the river. It seemed like some gray, shaggy beast, swirling and writhing in its attempt to escape from its narrow bed, kept there by the force of Divine Providence alone.

If it kept raining like this, they’d have to hang him out to dry in the morning.

Back on the ground floor, he noticed the narrow door in the back wall leading to the riverbank. It, too, was barred on the inside. He opened it and went out onto the wharves. The wind whipped his coat around his legs. He saw the cargo ships, tugging at their moorings, bringing stone from the Drachenfels for the new cathedral. Between there and Three Kings Gate he could just make out two more entrances in the wall, but they were bound to be barred. Cursing, he went back in and climbed out of the yard in the same laborious manner he had come in. In Bayenstraße, panting and wheezing, he was close to giving up.

He looked around. The night watchmen patrolled here every hour. Their lantern was not to be seen. On to the next, then.

A pleasant surprise at last. Two worm-eaten planks were all that was left of the gate to the next yard. One wall less to climb over. Quickly he went in. Seeing nothing in the yard, he went to the door and pushed at it. It wasn’t barred and opened much more easily than he expected, so that he almost lost his balance and fell over. Steadying himself, he took out his torch as the door swung silently shut behind him. Once the tar was burning well he took a few steps forward.

In front of him was a large handcart. It didn’t look as if it belonged in this abandoned ruin and there were blankets strewn all over the floor. It made such a bizarre sight that he stood staring and it was a while before he sensed another noise apart from the howling of the wind. A faint whimpering, like a child or an injured animal. Hesitantly, he raised his torch higher and went around the cart. In the flickering light he saw a massive pillar. And another. And another.

The fourth pillar had eyes staring at him.

The girl had been tied to the stone with a large number of leather straps. She certainly wouldn’t be able to move a muscle. She had been gagged but not blindfolded. A mass of dark hair fell down over her forehead and onto her shoulders.

Despite the picture of misery she presented, Kuno let out a laugh of triumph. He rammed the torch firmly between the planks of the handcart, hurried back to the pillar, and untied the piece of cloth around her mouth. She spat out the gag herself.

“Oh, God!” she panted, then filled her lungs with air and coughed. “I thought I was going to suffocate.”

“What are you called?” Kuno asked in excitement.

“What?” She shook her head as if to clear it.

“That’s all right.” Kuno stroked her cheek reassuringly and took out his dagger. Quickly he began to cut through the straps tying her to the pillar. “Don’t worry, I’ve come to get you out. I’m a friend.”

“A friend?”

Her knees gave way, but Kuno caught her in time. She was still tied up with straps. Working calmly with his knife, he freed her legs, then her arms. She immediately tried to get to her feet and gave a loud groan. Her limbs must be completely numb.

“Wait, I’ll help you.”

“No.”

Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself up by the pillar. “I have to do this myself. Who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Kuno.”

Quivering, she stood up and started to massage her wrists. She gave way at the knees again but managed to stop herself from falling.

“Did Jacob send you?” she asked, breathless. “Or Jaspar?”

“Jaspar?” Kuno echoed. Daniel had mentioned a dean and—“You mean the Fox?”

“Yes.” She staggered toward him and clutched him. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. I don’t even know your name.”

“Richmodis. But then—”

“Do you think you can walk?”

“Just about.”

“Wait.” There were some poles leaned against one of the walls. “You need something to support yourself with.”

She saw what he was looking at and shook her head. “They’re no use, Kuno. They’re too heavy. I’ll manage.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. But how did you—”

“Later. We must get away from here.”

He hurried to the door. She was stumbling, but determined to keep up with him. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“I’ll take you to my house,” he said with a grin of satisfaction. “It’s just a short walk and the weather’s perfect, quite delightful. Take my arm.”

She smiled and Kuno opened the door.

Daniel was standing outside.

GODDERT

Goddert von Weiden felt as though he had been chopped up into pieces, then roughly sewn back together again. He hadn’t worked so hard for years. The bells were about to ring nine and he still wasn’t home. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was sopping wet. True, you could object that for the last two hours he had not so much been working as sitting drinking dark beer with one of his more generous customers. But they’d talked business, oh, yes, indeed.

You’re an old fool, Goddert told himself as he splashed his way through the mud toward the Brook. Who goes out in weather like this? He didn’t even meet a pig or dog. With every new torrent that poured over him he felt his rheumatism get worse and thought longingly of a warm fire and the contents of Jaspar’s cellar. Even the sound of his steps, the squelch as he pulled his feet out of the mud, seemed to mock him. Left, right, left, right—old, fool, old, fool.

Then he remembered Jacob and shook his head. Richmodis was right. What was he trying to prove? That the world would come to a standstill without Goddert von Weiden? Even more stupid was to try to compete with the younger man. No one else was interested and, anyway, he could only lose and make himself look ridiculous. No fool like an old fool.

He decided to apologize to Richmodis. He felt a flush of pride. Where was there a man big enough to ask his own daughter to forgive him? Then she’d tell him all the latest news about the strange story Jacob had got himself involved in, and he’d stretch out his feet in front of a roaring fire and thank God for the roof over his head.

His footsteps had stopped beating out “old fool.”

With rasping breath he plodded up the Brook to his house. The shutters were closed, no light could be seen through the gaps. Was Richmodis asleep already?

He went in. It was dark inside. “Richmodis?” he shouted, then clapped his hand to his lips. What a peasant he was. To wake the poor child. Then he remembered how busy he’d been all day. He’d earned some supper. And the fire was cold. What kind of way to behave was that, going to bed before your father had come home from a hard day’s work? She could at least have put a jug of wine out for him.

“Richmodis?”

He lit an oil lamp, then, grunting and groaning, went up to the bedroom. He stared in astonishment. She wasn’t there! She wasn’t home at all.

Of course she isn’t, you nincompoop, he told himself. She said she was going to see Jaspar, though what she really meant was that redhead. She’d still be sitting there, unable to tear herself away, while Jaspar kept refilling the glasses.

A cozy little party. A party without Goddert von Weiden?

Never!

Nodding sagely, he went back down, put out the lamp, and set off again.

THE WAREHOUSE

The man stood facing them with drawn sword. She had seen him before. His name was Daniel Overstolz. He had been a magistrate before Conrad von Hochstaden had broken the power of the patricians and redistributed the offices. Since then Daniel had the reputation in the city of being a philanderer who would chase after any skirt and was too fond of the bottle. He was seen often enough riding through the street with his cronies. The women liked him for his good looks and cheerful disposition, though he was also said to be heartless and not particularly intelligent.

He wasn’t good-looking at the moment. His hair was plastered all over his head and his face oddly puffy and twisted.

“Judas,” he hissed.

Kuno took her arm and stepped back. “Take it easy, Daniel. You’ve got it wrong.”

Daniel Overstolz followed them and they fell back again. “Oh, yes?” sneered Daniel. “I’ve got it wrong, have I? Where were you off to with your little tart, then?”

“Daniel, please, there’s no point in us fighting.”

“Oh. Please, is it? I’m flattered. Not long ago you were at my throat, now you’re dripping with politeness and respect. Who do you think you are, you bastard? You think yourself so superior, don’t you, you sanctimonious prig. Traitor! What gives you the right to destroy our alliance and send us all to the gallows?”

Kuno raised his hands in appeasement. “That’s not it,” he said urgently. “Don’t you see, the alliance is already broken. We’ve done too many things that are wrong. That wasn’t what we agreed. That wasn’t what we were supposed to be fighting for.”

Daniel stared at him, a grim look on his face, then at Richmodis. Without knowing what it was all about, she nodded. “Kuno’s right, we—”

“You’ll keep your mouth shut, you damn whore,” he screamed at her. With a couple of strides he was beside her and pulled her away from Kuno by the hair. She tried to resist, but her aching legs gave way and she fell to the ground. Horrified, Kuno jumped to her aid. The next moment the point of Daniel’s sword was at his chest.

“Not a step closer, rat.”

“Daniel,” said Kuno. His voice was trembling, but he kept himself under control. “We have to talk about this. You were a magistrate yourself—”

“Was a magistrate. Yes.”

“You dispensed justice. Have you forgotten? You were a good judge; people admired and respected you because you weren’t corrupt. You despised violence and sought the truth. You would never have shed the blood of innocent people.”

Richmodis stood up, trembling. Daniel was still holding her hair, but he didn’t move.

Cautiously, Kuno raised his hand and slowly pushed the sword to one side. Then he took a step toward them. His eyes were shining.

“Think back, Daniel. Think how important justice was to you. We all subscribed to a common goal because we believed in a higher justice. I still believe in it. Our goal was good, but it led to evil the moment innocent people were sacrificed for it. Look into your heart, Daniel. You lost your position, but not your self-respect. I know what loss means. I lost my parents and my only friend; in our blindness we sacrificed him. I blame myself as much as the rest of you. I know how you feel; I can understand the fury, the disappointment, the longing for revenge. Revenge is sweet, but forgiveness is sweeter, Daniel, far sweeter. Please help me to put an end to this madness.”

“Don’t move.”

“All right, Daniel, all right.”

Daniel twisted Richmodis’s head around so she was facing him. “A fine speech. What do you think? I’d like to hear your opinion.”

She looked into his eyes, fear tightening her throat. “Yes,” she whispered. “Kuno’s right. You should listen to him. I don’t know what this is all about, but I’m sure you’re not bad. I believe what you really want is peace.”

“Do you hear?” said Kuno, hope in his voice.

Daniel still had not moved. Then he nodded deliberately. “It’s nice that you believe in me. It’s truly wonderful to know.” He grinned. “That means it will be an even greater pleasure to send you both to hell.” He broke out into wild laughter and raised his sword. “Good-bye, fools. For your information, Kuno, I took whatever bribes I could. I wasn’t interested in justice, but I had power, d’you understand, Kuno, power. That’s what it was all about, power. And now I have the power to chop off your head, then rape this whore here before I send her after you and—urrrrgh!”

Like lightning, Richmodis had bent down and slammed her elbow into Daniel’s stomach. He doubled up. Kuno hit him on the back of the neck, sending him tumbling to the ground.

“Run!” Kuno shouted.

Daniel’s sword came up and stabbed Kuno in the leg. He groaned and staggered back, his hand feeling for his dagger.

When Daniel got to his feet, his face was twisted in a mask that had nothing human about it. He growled like a wolf. As his blade came slashing down, Kuno just managed to avoid it, but tripped and fell.

Richmodis looked around in desperation. Her eye fell on the heavy poles by the pillar.

“Run, for God’s sake,” Kuno shouted, rolling over to one side as Daniel’s sword came crashing down on the stones in a shower of sparks. The next moment he had his dagger in his hand.

“Bastard!” panted Daniel.

She couldn’t just run away. There seemed to be a thousand knives pricking at her as she hurried over to the pillar and grabbed one of the poles. It was heavy and splintery.

Kuno was defending himself desperately. He got back to his feet, warding off Daniel’s blows with his dagger. The blood was running down his thigh.

An angry hissing came from Daniel’s throat. He fell on his opponent again. The storeroom echoed with the clash of iron and Kuno’s dagger flew out of his hand in a high arc. Daniel laughed and plunged his sword in Kuno’s side. When he pulled it out, it was red with blood.

Kuno stared at him in disbelief. Then he fell to his knees.

“Farewell, Kuno dear,” Daniel panted, his sword uplifted for the final blow.

“Daniel!” Richmodis shouted, raising her improvised club.

Daniel turned and understood—too late. The club came swinging down and smashed into his face, the impact sending him flying over Kuno. He landed on his back with a thud and the sword fell out of his hand.

Richmodis dropped the pole, grabbed the sword, and raised it above her head.

“No!” Kuno groaned. “Don’t!”

He was holding one hand to his side. The other was stretched out toward Richmodis. “No. We must—get away. Leave him—”

Breathing heavily, the sword still raised, Richmodis stood over Daniel, who was covering his face with his hands and whimpering.

“Yes,” she said hoarsely.

“You’ll have to—support me. Give—give me the sword.” Kuno was deathly pale. Richmodis tried to pull him up. He pushed himself off the ground and managed to get his arm around her shoulders.

“Where’s your house?”

He shook his head. “We can’t go there. Not now. If Urquhart finds out—”

“Don’t talk,” said Richmodis grimly. “Try to keep going for a while.”

She grasped him firmly and together they staggered out into the storm.

GODDERT

Goddert pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders and walked as fast as his short legs would carry him. He had nothing against rain, but this was too much of a good thing. Was the time at hand? The apocalypse?

For a brief moment he thought he could see the night watchman’s lantern in the distance by St. Severin’s Gate; then another squall came, blurring everything.

“Urgghhh,” said Goddert, giving precise expression to his opinion of the meteorological situation as he shook himself and knocked on Jaspar’s door. “What are you up to in there? I need a drink.”

No answer. That really was the limit. His late wife’s brother was not inviting him in. He gave the door a vindictive thump. It swung open.

Goddert peered in. It was pitch dark in here as well, just a faint glow from the ashes in the fireplace. Where the hell were they all? And why hadn’t he brought a lantern? Just like an old fool.

He felt his way in and tried to think where Jaspar kept his candles. Since he was here, he might as well have a drink. Someone who had been out in this awful weather twice now could hardly be expected to go home unfortified. Jaspar surely wouldn’t object to him having one for the road, however much he kept saying he preferred to be asked.

Throwing his wet cloak into a corner, he felt his way along the table to the bench by the fire. He needed to sit down. By this time his eyes had become more used to the darkness. Was that a candlestick on the table? He grasped it, carried it over to the fireplace, and tried to light the wick from the embers. After a couple of attempts, he succeeded. Pleased with himself, he took the candlestick back to the table to leave it there while he went to look for something to drink.

He saw Rolof.

He froze.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” he whispered.

He began to tremble uncontrollably. The candlestick fell to the floor and the candle went out. Stumbling, he backed toward the door. “Richmodis,” he moaned, “Jaspar, Rolof. Oh, God, what shall I do, oh, Lord, what—”

A heavy hand was placed on his shoulder. “Nothing,” said a voice.

THE WAREHOUSE

Daniel was crawling nowhere on all fours. Every direction was the same. There was a flicker of light in front of his eyes, but the light came from inside his head. Otherwise he couldn’t see anything at all.

He felt his face. His nose and forehead hurt horribly. His fingers touched something wet and sticky. A terrible thought came into his head.

The whore had knocked his eyes out.

It brought him to his feet. With a howl of rage he set off running blindly, tripped over something, and fell flat on his face. Once more he pulled himself up. Someone was whimpering. He tried to work out where the noise was coming from until he realized he was making it himself. Both hands stretched out in front; he cautiously stepped forward without the slightest idea where he was heading. His fingers encountered masonry. After a while they came to a corner. He would keep feeling his way, he decided, until he found the door. Then across the courtyard and along the house walls—

Suddenly his fingers felt a different texture. Cloth.

Cloth that was moving.

Daniel shrank back against the wall. “Kuno?” he whispered.

Someone took a step toward him.

“Can’t you see I’m defenseless?” Daniel panted. “You wouldn’t—I mean—that witch blinded me, Kuno, look, she smashed my eyeballs. Oh, God, Kuno, I’m begging for mercy. I’m begging you now. I’m blind, do you hear, blind—”

“Don’t exaggerate. You’re not blind. It would help if you opened your eyes.”

Daniel froze. Then he blinked. His lids were stuck together with blood, but suddenly he could see again. In the gloom of the warehouse he could make out the silhouette of a very tall man in front of him. “You’re not Kuno.”

“No. I am your obedient servant. I see that my charming guest has flown the coop. I presume you didn’t help her on her way?”

“Urquhart?” Daniel exclaimed in surprise.

“That remains to be seen.” There was a note of caution in the voice. “More important is, who are you? What I do with you depends on who you are, so your answer had better be good. One I find convincing.”

“Is Daniel Overstolz convincing enough?”

“Worth considering. If you’re telling the truth, I will be Urquhart. If not, then your executioner.”

“This is outrageous!” Daniel felt his old arrogance return. “My father is Johann Overstolz, one of the most powerful men in Cologne. We pay you for your services, not for your insolence.”

There was a brief silence, broken by the sound of a slap as Daniel’s head jerked to one side.

“What—?” he gasped.

“The next will come from the other side,” said Urquhart calmly. “Then from this side again. We can keep it up until dawn, if you like. I have time until then, as you well know. It’s obvious you’re an Overstolz. Only rich merchant scum that bought its patent of nobility and never held a scholarly book in its hand would show itself up with such empty-headed yapping. What are you doing here?”

“When I tell my father—”

“No, I will tell your father. I will tell your father that my bargaining counter has escaped, leaving behind his son, who appears to have taken a beating. From the young lady herself? Do you think he’ll enjoy hearing that? Will he be proud? Or perhaps you aren’t his son at all? We can easily find that out.”

Daniel felt the other grasp his collar and pull him toward him. “Quickly now. I need to speak with Matthias.”

“But Matthias was going to meet you every two hours—”

“That would be too late, blockhead. Where is he now?”

“I don’t know,” wailed Daniel.

“Then your father will know. If he is your father.”

He let go of Daniel, shoving him back against the wall. Daniel coughed and spluttered. “It’s not my fault,” he muttered.

“No, of course not.” Urquhart smiled. “Nothing’s ever anyone’s fault, is it? Now tell me what happened. And get on with it.”

WAITING

Goddert yelped. He shook the hand off and took a leap he would not have believed himself capable of.

“Good Lord above!” he exclaimed. “Did you give me a surprise!”

“Sorry.” Jaspar regarded his hand as if it were a poisonous spider. With a shrug of the shoulders he picked up the candlestick and disappeared into the darkness. They heard him rummaging around for a while, then saw him again as the candle lit up.

“Where have you been?” Goddert was babbling and Jacob could see that his nerves were in tatters. Rolof was still stretched out on the bench as if he were sleeping through everything as usual.

“Goddert, there’s something we have to tell you—” Jacob said.

“Tell me? And what about that?” Goddert’s trembling finger pointed at Rolof.

“He’s dead.”

“Christ almighty, I can see that!”

“That’s not important for the moment, Goddert—”

“Not important?” Distraught, Goddert ran over to Rolof and back again. He dug his fingers into his shaggy beard and looked around wildly. “And where’s Richmodis?” he croaked.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Do me a favor and sit down, will you?”

Goddert went paler than he already was and sank down on a stool. Jacob felt like simply running away. It was his fault everything had turned out like this. He brought misfortune to everyone. What could they say to Goddert?

“You, too, Fox-cub,” ordered Jaspar.

Abashed, he sat down opposite Goddert and tried to look him in the face.

“Nothing’s happened to Richmodis?” Goddert asked, like a child.

“I don’t know.” Jaspar shook his head. “I don’t know. No idea, Goddert. She’s been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?”

“Gerhard’s murderer, at least that’s what we suspect, has taken her away somewhere. If we can believe him, she’s alive, and at the moment I believe him.”

“Kidnapped,” whispered Goddert, with a blank stare.

“We have to—”

“What’s been happening?” whined Goddert. “Everything was fine yesterday. Who would want to kidnap my child? She’s never done anyone any harm, she—”

Jaspar and Jacob exchanged glances. Then, gently, they told him what had happened since they had last seen him. But Goddert only seemed to be taking half of it in. His eyes kept being drawn to Rolof’s body. Eventually it became clear he wasn’t listening at all. He just kept moaning, “Richmodis.”

“There’s no point,” Jaspar said quietly to Jacob. “The shock’s been too much for him.”

“What are we to do with him?” whispered Jacob.

“With whom? With Goddert or Rolof?”

“Both.”

“Goddert we’ll take home—at least there he won’t have to see poor Rolof all the time. That’s the best we can do for him for the moment. As for Rolof? I don’t like having a body that’s been slit open and written on with his own blood lying about the house. Looks suspiciously like heathen rites. I think for the time being we should get him out of the way, however much it pains me not to give poor Rolof a proper burial. Let’s get Goddert home first. You’ll stay with him and I’ll come back and”—he cleared his throat—“clear up.”

They took Goddert by the arm and led him out unresisting. His eyes were blinded by tears. The fury of the storm had increased and several times they almost ended up together in the mire. It was something of a miracle that Goddert was able to put one foot in front of the other. He was rapidly succumbing to apathy. Jacob remembered how he himself had staggered along the Duck Ponds two days ago after he had found Maria’s body, ready to accept any lie, provided it was better than the reality, shattered and yet strangely uninvolved, an interested observer of his own wretchedness.

He felt immensely sorry for the old man.

At last the houses on the Brook appeared through the slanting curtain of rain. They hurried on, heads well down between their shoulders. Goddert was whimpering to himself.

Jacob clenched his teeth. Then he saw something and stopped in his tracks.

There was a jerk as Jaspar took another stride. Goddert slipped out of their grasp and went sprawling, splashing mud in all directions.

“For God’s sake, Fox-cub, what’s all that about?”

“Look.” Jacob pointed.

Jaspar squinted. There was a faint gleam of light between the shutters of Goddert’s house.

Light.

“Goddert,” said Jacob, speaking slowly and clearly, “did you leave anything burning when you went out?”

From the ground Goddert gave Jacob an uncomprehending look. “No.”

“Not a candle, an oil lamp, fire in the grate?”

“Definitely not. Why do you ask?”

“Sorry, I’d forgotten the Lord didn’t bless you with the gift of long sight. It looks as if you have visitors. Were you expecting any?”

“I’m not expecting anyone at all. You must be wrong.” Then his face was transformed. “But perhaps—perhaps Richmodis is back!”

He scrambled to his feet and set off for the house. Jaspar grabbed hold of him. “Nonsense, Goddert. Face up to the facts. She’s been kidnapped.”

“No,” Goddert shouted. “It’s Richmodis! She’s come back. My little girl! Don’t you see, Jaspar, it’s all been a terrible mistake and she’s back. Let go of me!”

“For Christ’s sake, Goddert.”

“No. Let go.” His strength suddenly seemed to have returned. He pulled himself free and set off running toward the house.

“The fool!” Jaspar swore. “Goddert, stay here. You’ve no idea who’s in there,” he shouted.

“Richmodis!”

They slithered along behind him, but Goddert was too quick for them. They saw him fling open the door and disappear inside, then heard his cry.

“Oh, Lord,” groaned Jaspar.

A few steps brought them to the house. They clattered into the room and came to an abrupt halt. Jaspar’s chin dropped. “Richmodis,” he gasped.

Goddert was pressing her to him, as if he could hold her so close nothing in the world would ever take her away again. The tears were running down his cheeks. Richmodis was patting his rounded back. Her hair was disheveled and dripping wet. She gently prized his arms away from her and stroked his face. “Are you all right, Father?”

Goddert was laughing and crying at the same time. “Who cares how I am? Holy Virgin, I thank you. Oh, God, I thought I’d never see you again!” His head swung around to Jaspar and Jacob. “Ha! Didn’t I tell you? My little girl!”

Jaspar grinned. He went over and, throwing his arms wide, hugged the pair of them. “Goddert,” he said solemnly, “you can say what you like about your mental capacity, but that of your stomach is far superior to mine.”

They laughed and held one another tight. Jacob stood by the door observing a happiness that, for a moment, blotted out everything else. Then he felt sadness welling up inside him and turned away.

“That’s enough,” said Richmodis. “Come and look in the back room.”

They followed her. A man was lying on the massive kitchen table. His face was terribly pale, his clothes soaked in blood in several places. As they entered he laboriously raised his head.

Jaspar was beside him immediately. “What happened?”

“Sword wounds. One in the leg, the other in the side. I was just going to bandage them.”

“We must wash them first. Get me some wine, vinegar, and water. Cloths as well. Quickly.”

“I’ll fetch the wine,” said Goddert.

“I want it to wash him with, Goddert, to wash him! Understood?”

Goddert gave him a withering look and hurried off. Richmodis brought some cloths. With an expressionless look on his face, Jasper examined the man, felt his body, checked his pulse, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

The man groaned and tried to sit up. Jaspar gently pushed him back down. “Don’t move. We have to bandage your ribs first. Tell me your name.”

“Kuno Kone,” the man whispered.

Jaspar paused for a second. “Kone? The merchant house?”

Kuno nodded.

“Well, well, well. Curiouser and curiouser.”

Jacob looked down at the man, feeling superfluous. He was about to say something, but Goddert shoved him to one side and put a brimming pail of water and two jugs on the floor beside the table. Jaspar sniffed them.

“That smells of vinegar,” he declared and picked up the other. “This’s probably wine. But it’s best to be sure.” He put the jug to his lips and took a long draught.

“Hey,” Goddert protested. “To wash him, you said.”

“Firstly,” said Jaspar, licking his lips, “anything I use to wash our friend here must have my specific approval, and secondly you can let me have a knife instead of stupid comments. I’ll have to cut his clothes away.”

Grumbling to himself, Goddert went to find a knife as Richmodis returned with another pile of rags. They all ignored Jacob.

“Can I do anything?” he asked hesitantly.

Jaspar looked up for a moment. “Play your whistle,” he said.

Jacob stared in astonishment. “Do what?”

“Don’t you understand German? Play your whistle. Until we’ve got him bandaged up.”

Breathing heavily, Kuno seemed about to protest.

“And you can keep your trap shut,” Jaspar commanded. “We’ll talk later. Goddert, the knife. Richmodis, soak that cloth in vinegar. Well, Jacob? Haven’t you any whistles left? I thought they grew on you, like monkeys on a tree. Come on. I want music if I’ve got to work at this hour of the night.”

Jacob felt inside the habit. The last thing he would have thought of was his whistle. It was still there. It had survived the fishmarket and the horrific journey under the cart. He took it out from his belt, twisting and turning it in his fingers, at a loss for what to play.

At that moment Richmodis looked up at him. And smiled.

It was that brief, warm smile.

Jacob started with the merriest tune he knew. And as Jaspar silently cut away Kuno’s clothes and then, with Richmodis’s help, washed him, carefully cleaning the wounds, and Goddert obediently brought fresh water and wrung out the cloths, the music gradually seemed to bring warmth to the room. With each silvery note peace and strength came flooding in, each arpeggio, each refrain drove the specter of fear a little further away. The faces of the others lost their careworn look and Jacob was fired with the joy of making music as he had not been for a long time. His whistle was a weapon combating despair; it rang out in their hopeless situation as if they had reason to celebrate, scorned danger with mocking trills, dismissed their terrors with a wave of its magic wand, rejoicing and pouring out the song of creation in cascade after cascade, calling up images of glittering stars and showers of pearls, exotic cities with minarets and slim towers of jasper, stories of fantasy and adventure, just as old Bram had taught him, Bram who, though perhaps not a crusader, had been a sorcerer who could conjure joy out of thin air. Jacob helped them recover something of the vitality they felt they had lost in the storm, smoothed the turbulent waves of confusion and revived their spirits until the blood surged through their veins and Goddert broke out into cheerful laughter.

With a guilty start, he let the whistle sink from his lips. The mood immediately cooled a little, but the icy despair had gone.

A satisfied look on his face, Jaspar washed his hands. “Good. He’s sleeping. I could do with a drink. What do you say, Goddert”—he looked at Richmodis and then Jacob—“What does everyone say, shall we have a mug of wine?”

“A mug of wine!”

They filled the mugs and went into the front room, telling one another what had happened. Jaspar pretended he was too exhausted to talk and left it to Jacob to put the others in the picture. But Jacob was well aware of the real purpose behind it. Jaspar had sensed his feeling of isolation and, like a good friend, was drawing him into the group.

When they had finished, they sat in silence for a while, each occupied with their own thoughts.

“Let’s be under no illusion,” said Jaspar eventually. “The situation’s worse than ever.”

“Why?” asked Goddert in astonishment. “Richmodis is here and we can’t bring poor Rolof back to life. It was God’s will.”

“Do stop prattling on about God’s will, for God’s sake,” Jaspar snapped. “I find it remarkable the way God is made responsible for everything.”

“Jaspar’s right,” said Jacob. “If the man who kidnapped Richmodis—and he’s obviously the same man that I saw on the cathedral—if he finds out she’s escaped, he’ll come looking for us. He’s got nothing that gives him a hold over us anymore. It’s back to square one. He has to kill us if he wants to make sure we won’t talk. Sooner or later—”

“Sooner or later he’ll come here,” said Jaspar.

“But he doesn’t know where we live,” said Goddert, a quiver in his voice.

“He found my house, even though I didn’t send a written invitation with a map. Anyway, he talked to Rolof and it’s easy to squeeze things out of him.”

“Was easy,” said Richmodis quietly.

“Yes.” Jaspar’s face was filled with remorse. “Stupid of me. Which reminds me, I really ought to go back and do something about the body. You never know, my housekeeper might take it into her head to get better and do some tidying up. I can already hear her shrieks rousing all the neighbors. And with these women’s imagination the next thing you’ll hear will be: Jaspar Rodenkirchen’s put the evil eye on his servant.”

“Then be quick about it,” said Goddert.

“I can’t, you dimwit.”

“Huh! Coward. I’ll go.” He emptied his mug and struck the table with his fist.

Jaspar looked at him in exasperation. “And what would be the point of that? Do you always think with your belly? What’s the first place the murderer will look for us? He might imagine we’re stupid enough to meet at my place, but I certainly don’t intend to prove him right.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps he’ll go to Kuno’s house first. If Daniel’s told him everything, he’ll be in danger as much as we are. I would have suggested we hide in my church, but I’m afraid Kuno wouldn’t make it that far. Like it or not, we’ve got to stay here.”

“We could carry him,” suggested Jacob.

“Not even if we carry him.”

“It would be pointless anyway,” said Richmodis. “If he knows your house, he’ll know your church.”

“True. Have you any weapons in the house, Goddert?”

Goddert started. “You mean to fight?” he asked, horrified.

“I might have to, mean to or not. Or Jacob might, or Richmodis. Or”—Jaspar bared his teeth in a fearsome grin—“you might! Coward indeed!”

“Just the usual, the armor and two spears.”

“No sword?”

“Yes,” said Richmodis. “We’ve got one. It’s under the chest by the window. We took it off Daniel.”

“Well, that’s something at least.”

“No, it’s nothing. How do you think you’re going to fight such a superior opponent?” asked Goddert.

“Didn’t Richmodis put up a fight?” asked Jacob angrily.

Jaspar grinned. “Listen to our fox bark, Goddert. Do you mean to do nothing to save your fat skin? Has the woad got to your brain, that you’ve forgotten how to fight? Even Abelard could handle a sword, and he was a cleric.”

“Abelard was a philanderer. He became a cleric when his philandering was cut off.”

“Go on, joke about it. He was still more of a man than fat Goddert who won’t fight to save his life. A superior opponent! Perhaps that’s what David should have said when the Philistines pitched their camp in Ephesdammim. Six cubits and a span was Goliath’s height, and he had a helmet of brass on his head and was armed with a coat of mail, the weight of which was five thousand shekels of brass. And David? No armor, just five smooth stones and a sling.”

“That was man against man,” growled Goddert. “Everything was open and aboveboard. The Philistines had no secrets. David knew his opponent, while we’re fighting against a shadow, a phantom with powerful forces behind him.”

“Yes, yes, Goddert, times have changed. Isn’t the Evil One cunning?” He massaged the bridge of his nose. “But what he does not know is the size of the reception party, if he does in fact find us. They’ve lost sight of Jacob and me. I suspect he’ll be looking for Kuno, first and foremost. He seems to be the only one who really knows something and is clearly prepared to spill the beans. Assuming he wakes up again, that is,” he added, lowering his voice.

He stood up. “Goddert,” he said in resolute tones, “you go and shut up the house. Make sure the fiend can’t get in anywhere. Bolt and bar everything, as if you were shutting out the whole world. Then he’s welcome to come.”

Richmodis rested her chin on her hands and gave him a doubtful look. “I saw his eyes,” she said.

Jaspar frowned. “Uh-huh. And what did they say?”

“That there are no closed doors for him.” She hesitated. “Apart from one.”

“Which one?”

“The one inside him.”

RHEINGASSE

“The plan has failed,” said Johann firmly. “We must abandon it.”

“No!” Matthias replied sharply.

The argument had been going back and forth for some time now. After Daniel had returned, wounded and scarcely able to stand, they had hastily called a meeting. None of them could get to sleep that night anyway. They agreed to meet in Rheingasse, on the first floor, where it had all begun. Only Blithildis was absent. It was not that she objected to being carried there in her chair at that time of night; she simply could not understand the fuss. For her there was no doubt that everything would go ahead as she had planned.

Johann, on the other hand, was having more and more doubts.

“Everything’s getting out of hand,” Theoderich agreed. “When I heard we had a hostage, I thought for a moment Urquhart had things back under control. Now we’re up the creek without a paddle.”

“We’ve not achieved anything,” said Heinrich von Mainz gloomily, “not a single thing.”

Matthias leaped up. “That is not true. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Are you suggesting we give up now, so close to success? We’re almost there.”

“And what are these great achievements, pray?” asked Johann with bitter scorn.

“We—”

“We got rid of Gerhard Morart,” said Theoderich, “that’s all. The rest has been a shambles. It would have been better if Urquhart had simply left the redhead alone.”

“If he’d left him alone half the city would know by now.” Matthias started to pace up and down angrily.

“Nobody would have believed a good-for-nothing like that.”

“That isn’t true. We don’t know what Gerhard whispered to him. We had no choice.”

“Correct me if my arithmetic is wrong,” said Johann deliberately, “but with the Fox, the dean, and his niece, that’s at least three who represent a danger to us. Plus all those we don’t know about. Each one of them had—still has—plenty of opportunity to hawk their knowledge around the city. Then there’s that Bodo Schuif. The dean let slip something that made him think.”

“Bodo’s an imbecile,” Theoderich declared.

“Not enough of an imbecile to dismiss it as the ramblings of a drunken priest. Are we going to kill Bodo as well?”

“If it’s unavoidable,” said Matthias.

“But that still wouldn’t solve the problem, Matthias. It’s too late to silence people. We must give up. Go and tell Urquhart to clear out of the city. With any luck that’ll be the end of it. No one knows we were behind the murders. They can’t prove we had anything to do with it and with Urquhart gone there’s no murderer. We must abandon the plan as long as there’s still time.”

“Abandon it?” Matthias snorted. “The same whining and wailing all the time. What difference would that make? You can’t undo Gerhard’s murder, but you can create the risk they might be able to prove we ordered it. All honor to your high-mindedness, Johann, but in the light of what we have already done, what happens tomorrow is completely irrelevant.”

“It has nothing to do with high-mindedness. I’m just trying to stop the worst from happening.”

“The worst has already happened. You can call off the whole thing, but that won’t stop a few morons from running around the city saying the patricians killed Gerhard.”

Johann started to speak, then breathed out slowly and shook his head.

“I agree with you,” Matthias assured him. “We can’t let it come to a bloodbath. But we’ve gone too far. There was a point when we could have turned back, but we passed that long ago.”

“With Gerhard.”

“Precisely. With Gerhard. Gerhard is dead. There was a witness. Agreed, not everything has gone as planned, but if we give up now, everything will have been in vain. The people will have died in vain. Gerhard will have died in vain.”

Johann remained silent.

Matthias sat down and looked at them one after the other. “I think there is one chance. If we can show that the redhead is a liar and a thief, then people won’t believe those he’s told either. That leaves just one person who’s a real danger to us.”

“Kuno,” Daniel murmured.

All eyes turned toward him.

“You will keep quiet,” growled Johann. “You’ve done enough damage already.”

Daniel leaned forward. He looked terrible. His face was swollen and partly covered in blue bruises, his nose just a shapeless lump. But the gleam of hatred in his eyes was unchanged.

“I know what I’ve done,” he said calmly. “Nevertheless, if Matthias goes to see Urquhart, he should impress on him the need to get rid of Kuno.”

“We’re not going to sacrifice another person just to please you!” Johann shouted. “Once and for all, there have been enough—”

“That is precisely what we will do,” Matthias interrupted. “For once I agree with Daniel. If Kuno decides to give evidence against us, we really do have a problem, a bloody big problem.”

“Why should Kuno do that?” asked Heinrich.

Daniel gave a hoarse laugh. “Why? Because I damn near killed him, that’s why.”

“As long as I preside over this alliance—” Johann began to say.

Matthias shot up. “But you no longer preside over it.”

“I don’t? Who says so?”

“I do. If there’s anyone to whom we owe responsibility, it’s your mother, Blithildis.”

“As if that meant anything to you! I wonder now whether you ever believed in our common goal. You’re not doing any of this for my mother—don’t try to fool me—and even less for those who are imprisoned or banned. Everything you’ve done was serving your own interests and your own balance sheet.”

“And whose interests are served by your sudden withdrawal, your ridiculous scruples?”

Heinrich von Mainz stood up. “I’m leaving. We’re not going to come to any decision.”

“No! You stay!” Matthias barked.

“I will not be—”

“Sit down!”

There was an embarrassed silence. Heinrich stared at Matthias, seething with fury. Then he lowered his eyes and sat back down on the gold-embroidered cushion.

Matthias waited a moment, but no one said anything. Then he went and stood at the farther end of the table, leaning on his knuckles, his eyes fixed on Johann.

“What we are doing is right,” he insisted. “I’m not looking for a quarrel, Johann. Forgive me if I was lacking in due respect. We’re in a difficult situation and I can understand if some of us feel the pressure of the last few days has been too much. But don’t you agree that we have all come too far together to turn back now? One last time I beg you to vote for our plan, to trust me one last time. I beg you! Tomorrow will be a day of rejoicing, our enemies will wail and gnash their teeth, and no one will be interested in a few nobodies trying to draw attention to themselves by claiming Gerhard was pushed. Tomorrow we’ll have a new world. And nothing will happen to Kuno, I promise. I will just get Urquhart to keep him quiet until it’s all over. As God is my witness, there will be no more killings. Believe me! Believe in our cause, Johann, I beg you. We will triumph. We will triumph.”

Johann rubbed his eyes and slumped back in his chair. “Where do you think Kuno and that woman will have gone to hide?” he asked.

“I don’t know. His house? The dean’s? Or perhaps to her house?”

“Where does she live?”

“I will find out.”

“Now? It’s the middle of the night. You’re due to meet Urquhart.”

Matthias gave a grim smile. “I have found out other things in much shorter time.”

POWER

Goddert was sitting by the fire, his chin on his chest, snoring quietly. Beside him was Daniel’s sword. Kuno lay unconscious on the chest between the front and back rooms. They had carefully carried him there because it was the warmest place in the house. Jaspar had managed to staunch the blood, but the young man was in a bad way.

They held out their hands to the fire, waiting for him to regain consciousness and tell them why the world was so terribly different since Gerhard’s death. Outside, the wind was rattling at the shutters with undiminished violence.

“Will he pull through?” Jacob asked after a while.

“Hmm,” said Jaspar.

Jacob looked up. “What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

“He’s lost a lot of blood, but I’ve managed to close his wounds and it looks as if no vital organs are damaged. Otherwise he’d be dead already. Now he’s in a fever. All we can do is wait.”

“I hope he comes round.” Richmodis sighed. “He knows the truth.”

“Don’t bank on it. We have to work out what’s going to happen ourselves.” He stroked his bald head. “What I’m asking myself is, who else is involved?”

Goddert’s stomach rumbled in his sleep and he smacked his lips.

“The Devil,” suggested Richmodis.

“How unimaginative,” said Jaspar reproachfully. “Please think of something helpful. The Devil’s behind every piece of villainy, that’s nothing new.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I was facing him in the old warehouse today, the stranger, I mean—the Devil seemed to be inside him. It was odd. He filled me with fear, but at the same time I had a feeling of great closeness, as if it would take almost nothing, a mere trifle to make him quite different, the complete opposite. I suddenly felt the urge—”

“Yes?” Jaspar asked, alert. “To do what?”

“Better not say. You’ll be having me exorcised.”

“You felt the urge to touch him.”

She gave him a look of surprise and blushed.

“That’s all right,” said Jaspar. “Christ and Antichrist, one and the same. Do you know what makes evil so fascinating? Its tragic nature. The Devil is a fallen angel. Look at Kuno. He seems to have decided to get out of hell and become an angel again. That means it can work the other way around as well and that gives me hope. Our enemies are not only ranged against us—they’re against one another, too.”

“But there is a difference between fighting against men of flesh and blood and against the Devil,” said Jacob. “I’m not sure who or what I saw on the scaffolding. As I said, it could have been a man, but the way he came after me was simply too fast for a man. He jumped down like a cat. It could have been a tail streaming out behind him.”

“That’s enough of that!” Jaspar was angry. “You’re coming out with the same nonsense as all the credulous folk who go goggle-eyed as soon as the magician says Casisa, hasisa, mesisa medantor, or some such rigmarole. Good God, you’re about as stupid as the peasant who won’t slaughter a pig on Saint Gall’s day for fear the meat will taste of gall. Did he have a tail, Richmodis?”

“No. His hair came down to his waist. That was the tail.”

“There you are.”

“But the Devil was in his eyes.”

“More peasant nonsense.” Jaspar groaned. “Why this relapse into ignorance? Surely you’ve heard me trying to demonstrate the power of reason to your father often enough. Has nothing rubbed off?”

“All right. But if you’d just let me finish—”

“And you, Jacob, you heathen. Have you ever bothered with religion, with heaven and hell? You don’t even know a prayer and suddenly you start wittering on about the Devil. Do you really believe you saw the Devil up there? Or is that what you want to believe because it’s nice and simple?”

Jacob and Richmodis exchanged looks. They shrugged their shoulders uncertainly. He’s right, thought Jacob. It’s easy to make the Devil responsible for everything. I don’t really think I saw the Devil on the scaffolding. So why did I say I had?

“However,” Jaspar went on in milder tones now that he saw his words were having an effect, “what we do know is that at least four members of patrician families have a finger in this particular pie. That doesn’t sound like the Devil to me, more like a conspiracy.”

He got up and started striding around the room, his nostrils quivering. “We have to find out what they’re plotting. Find their weak spot.”

Richmodis nodded slowly. “Kuno said something to Daniel about an alliance being broken, whatever he meant by that. It sounded as if they had originally been on the same side, then fallen out.”

Jaspar stopped. “There you are. Just as I said.”

“But it was unclear to me what he meant.”

“Perhaps not to me. Think back!”

“I don’t know. Everything happened so quickly. I was just terribly afraid. I think I was praying, without daring to make a sound, while Kuno kept trying to persuade Daniel of something.”

“What did he say?”

“Something about a common goal and higher justice, that kind of thing. And that they had done something that was wrong.”

“What?”

“They sacrificed someone—Kuno’s only friend—”

“Gerhard,” Jaspar cried triumphantly. “I knew it. Gerhard knew their secret, and that’s why he had to die. Kuno has broken with them. He’s changed sides. I knew it. I knew it.”

“Wait.” Her frown cleared. “There was something else. Kuno reminded Daniel of his past, of how important justice had been to him.” She puckered her lips in distaste. “Strange. I can’t imagine that bastard ever being concerned about justice.”

“He wasn’t,” growled Jaspar. “Daniel was one of the youngest magistrates, a corrupt bigmouth with money but no brains. A trick Kuno tried to talk him around. Without success.” He paused and slapped his forehead. “And Daniel is the son of Johann Overstolz! My God! If he’s in it, too, that means we have almost all the senior members of the Overstolz clan against us. An alliance between the Overstolzes and the Kones. What could that mean? A patrician revolt?”

“Why should they plan a revolt?” Jacob asked.

“They’ve got reason enough.”

“Why?”

“To regain their old supremacy.”

Jacob glanced at Kuno. Had the man moved or was he just imagining it? “What’s the point of all this, Jaspar?” he said in desperation. “It’s all beyond me. I know nothing of power and politics, nothing about the patricians. I know nothing at all. How am I supposed to defend myself against something that’s a complete mystery to me?”

“But you live here, in the city,” said Jaspar. It didn’t sound reproachful, only surprised.

“Only for the last few months. I’ve been away too long. Since I came back I haven’t concerned myself with what’s going on in Cologne. I just wanted to get on with my life.”

“Have you ever really concerned yourself with anything?” asked Richmodis.

Her remark cut him to the quick. “Perhaps,” he said coolly.

Jaspar came over and squatted down in front of him. “Am I wrong, or could you be running away from something?”

“You know already.”

“No, I don’t know. I mean something you can’t escape. Always keeping your eyes closed, not facing up to things, not being interested in things, not even in your music, really, even though you play your whistle exceptionally well. There’s something wrong there.”

Jacob looked at him. The palms of his hands were sore. He realized he had been boring his fingernails into them and forced a grin to his lips. “Blessed are the poor in spirit. Isn’t that what it says?”

“Not in Abelard.”

“Oh, to hell with your Abelard.”

“Fox-cub!”

“Why should the patricians plan a revolt?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Yes, I’m changing the subject,” Jacob snapped. “And if I am, then it’s my business alone. You said we should attack, so please enlighten me. If you can.”

“Oh, I can enlighten you. Given your eagerness to learn, the basic principles will probably take a lifetime, though I wouldn’t guarantee you’d understand them even then.”

“Jaspar,” said Jacob softly, “before I met you I may well have been stupid, but I never had the feeling I was.”

“Oh, I see.” Jaspar scratched the back of his head. “Sir is sorry for himself. It’s certainly easier to be stupid.”

“I’m not listening to this.”

“Oh, we’re not listening to this, are we? That’s because you don’t want to. You always choose the easy option. If things get hard, you give up and take to your heels. You don’t want to learn, you don’t want to know, not even now.”

“I want the truth.”

“You can’t take the truth.”

Jacob breathed in deeply, trying to calm himself down. Most of all he felt like ramming his fist between Jaspar’s mocking eyes. Suddenly he felt Richmodis’s hand ruffling his hair. “Stop that,” he snapped.

“Jacob.”

He tried to shake her off.

“Jacob, your hair gets even redder when you’re angry. Did you know that?”

He stared at the fire in silence.

“And it sticks up like a hedgehog’s.” She giggled. “No, more like a cock. A little angry cock. A cockerel.”

He felt his anger subside and chewed his lips. He was unhappy, and his unhappiness had nothing to do with the events of the last couple of days. “I’m the Fox,” he said weakly.

“And the Fox is cunning,” she said with a smile. “I’m just a silly goose, but this goose has its claws in your hair, so be careful.”

Jaspar went back to sit by the fire. Jacob had the feeling he was both irritated and amused at the same time. His face was glowing with the reflection of the fire. He poked the logs, sending up a crackling shower of sparks.

“All right,” said Jacob, “I know nothing. I know nothing about the emperor and the pope and what the point of an archbishop is and so on and so forth. Happy now?”

“No,” said Jaspar, staring into the flames. “You’ve told us too much for that to be true. You know a lot. You can remember astonishing details. Up to the day you ran away from home.” He turned toward him, a grin on his face. “But don’t worry, Fox-cub, we’re stuck in here for the next few hours, so I might as well give you the benefit of my historical knowledge in the hope of filling that hollow skull of yours to overflowing with wisdom. Interested?”

Jacob sighed. “Of course.”

“Good. Basically, it all comes down to who’s the boss. After the collapse of Rome the empire was split up. There followed a dark period of conflict and confusion, before it was reunited under the spiritual authority of the popes and the secular power of the emperors and kings. To general rejoicing, of course. But the immense empire proved too much for them, especially since the pope only actually rules the Vatican. People were needed to administer specific local territories, and among these were some I would call—just as a joke, God forgive me my vanity—secular clerics, representatives of the powers of the pope and of the king in the same person. These were the prince bishops and archbishops.”

He paused, then went on. “Now it is in the nature of things that the powerful are constantly at each others’ throats. The pope wanted to turn the empire into an ecclesiastical state under the authority of the Church. The emperor, for his part, also claimed to be God’s representative—naturally, since God is the authority—and denied the pope any jurisdiction in political and territorial matters. Each tried to clip the other’s powers and increase his own. Thus the Crusades, for example, were not holy wars, but a conflict between the secular and spiritual authorities. They agreed on a common enemy, and had a common army, but one or the other of them always came out on top, depending on circumstances. The dilemma only became public, however, when the emperor and the pope began to attack each other openly. The archbishops, being servants of two masters, couldn’t really fight against themselves. They were in danger of being crushed between two stones. You’re still with me?”

“Conrad von Hochstaden,” Richmodis interjected, “doesn’t look particularly crushed to me.”

“Clever girl. That’s the way things were going. The archbishops had to become more powerful. And they did so to the point where they could side with one of their masters and leave the other in dire straits. Loyalty didn’t have much to do with it. Basically, the archbishops don’t care one bit about the emperor or pope. They’re interested in politics, not in saving souls. But their strategy worked. Over the centuries they became powerful enough to grant their support as a favor. But that led to a further dilemma. Whom does the city serve?”

“The archbishop?”

“On the one hand. He is its overlord. On the other, it also serves the emperor. It’s part of the empire and the citizens are his subjects.”

Jacob risked a deduction. “So if the archbishop and the pope combined against the emperor, then the city would have to oppose the emperor, willy-nilly.”

“Exactly! Willy-nilly. To decide for themselves, the citizens would have to make themselves independent of the archbishop. The archbishop needs them and their money. If he is to go to war, in whoever’s name, he needs well-filled coffers. So what did the archbishops do? Tried to get the cities on their side. Buttered them up. Granted privileges and promised the moon. In general they succeeded in getting absolute control over the cities. Except in Cologne.”

“Why not here?”

“Why?” Jaspar raised his eyebrows. “Just look around. A rich city. Wine and textiles, goldsmiths, metalworkers, armorers. Trading to the farthest boundaries of the known world and a magnet for pilgrims. Nowhere in Christendom is there such a perfect combination of religious fervor and cold calculation. A religious center and the strongest economic power in the empire. No wonder the citizens began to question the archbishops’ rule. They supported them now and again, but only when the archbishops’ aims coincided with their own interests.”

“I still don’t understand. The archbishop rules over people who don’t obey his rule. Does he rule or not?”

“Well.” Jaspar leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “People here have problems recognizing either the pope or the emperor when they’ve not been involved in the election. In 1198 there was a contest for the crown that Otto IV won. Why? The decisive factor was the Cologne leadership that supported England as Otto’s proposer. And why did they do that? To promote Cologne’s interests in the English trade. There you have it in a nutshell. The citizens of Cologne are interested in profit, and their main concern is to get rid of the archbishops, who bleed them dry and dictate to them. But what should an archbishop do if not bleed his subjects dry and dictate to them? If he doesn’t rule, he’s superfluous. That’s the root of the eternal conflict, even though there were times when the archbishop was quite popular with the citizens.”

“When they were more Christian?” Richmodis mocked.

“Huh! The people of Cologne have always been pious, not Christian. But an archbishop like Reinhard von Dassel, who brought the bones of the Three Kings to Cologne a hundred years ago, strengthened both his own position and that of the city. Lots of pilgrims, lots of new inns, lots of money coming in. And his successor, Philip von Heinsberg, used this as a base to acquire castles, estates, and privileges. He soon became one of the most powerful princes in the empire, and everything he did increased the importance of Cologne. And once they had got that far on their archbishops’ coattails, the good citizens began to think of ways of getting rid of them. So they built the walls—partly out of fear of Philip’s enemies, since he was always waging war, but also because they knew there was bound to be armed conflict between the archbishop and the city eventually.”

“But if Philip was so powerful,” Richmodis commented, “why couldn’t he impose his will on them?”

“Because his power was based on money, money he had borrowed from the Cologne merchants. As everyone knew. The emperor would never have given his blessing to a subjugation of the city by force. He wanted the foremost economic power in his empire to flourish. Philip would have risked being taken to court.”

“He could have gotten the pope to support him.”

“Not a hope. He had even more debts in Rome. There was nothing he could do and Cologne was quietly preparing for self-government. Then it happened. The emperor decided in favor of the city—which shows just what economic strength can do. They did have to pay a kind of fine, but they were allowed to continue building the walls. From then on the archbishops lost more and more influence, leaving the city folk facing a different problem. Namely which of them was to be boss.”

Jacob thought. “You said money is power.”

“Precisely. In the main, the independence movement had been driven by the patricians. But then they controlled most of the city’s trade. You’ll know that the two burgomasters came from their ranks. What you perhaps didn’t know is that until recently one of them also had to be a magistrate. At some point it became established that every magistrate had to come from the great merchant houses, who were trying to occupy all official positions in the city. The magistrates, originally impartial judges, became the mouthpiece of the patricians, who started to raise taxes to pay for the administration, for example, the burgomasters.”

“Isn’t that quite reasonable?” objected Jacob.

“Perhaps. But the burgomasters naturally wanted to put on as imposing a show as possible. Latterly they took to giving glittering parties, which they claimed were essential for the work of the authorities. The authorities being the patricians, of course. This all made a big hole in the finances, so they increased the taxes. It had less and less to do with representing the interests of the inhabitants of Cologne, and the noble families, as they like to call themselves, did less and less to conceal their contempt for tradesmen and excluded them from all official positions. Though that didn’t stop them from dipping into everyone’s pockets and even getting themselves elected masters of the guilds.”

“But why did the craftsmen put up with it?”

“Ask the opposite question. Why would patricians want to be elected guildmasters?”

“To represent the interests of the trades?”

“And weaken them politically. They promised them protection against the archbishop’s jurisdiction, but then they controlled all appointments to the judiciary. Another step toward depriving the archbishop completely of power. Favors given and received, an incredible sink of corruption.” Jaspar sighed. “At least, that was the situation when Conrad von Hochstaden was made archbishop.”

“And he wants the old power back?”

Jaspar nodded.

“I see,” said Jacob thoughtfully. It was beginning to get interesting. “But now only a few patricians are magistrates.”

“They have been deposed, more or less.”

“By whom?”

Jaspar looked at him. “Can’t you guess?”

“Conrad?”

“Who else? Conrad’s ultimate aim was to reestablish the absolute power of the archbishop, but he went about it in a roundabout way, initially cooperating with the citizens and confirming their privileges. This lasted until he opposed the emperor and, in agreement with the pope, arranged the election of an anti-king. Cologne had always been loyal to the emperor, hardly surprising since he guaranteed its economic privileges and stability. Then, although he had recognized the city’s right to mint its own currency, Conrad suddenly brought out a coin of his own. It wasn’t worth much, but it bore his image, the vain bastard. Not content with that, he set up new customs barriers, although it didn’t lie within his powers and hit Cologne’s trade where it hurt. The city protested. Conrad, unimpressed, gathered an army and besieged it. To no avail, however, since it now had its splendid walls. He had to agree to a court of arbitration under Albertus Magnus, who found against Conrad on all counts.”

“The Lesser Adjudication,” Richmodis murmured.

“Yes! Conrad had to cancel all the disputed measures. A farce! Five years later he started a new dispute when he accused the citizens of Cologne of having planned to assassinate him—”

“And had they?” Jacob asked.

Jaspar grinned. “Who knows? Three years ago the Kleingedancks attacked one of his relatives. Right outside his palace! While he was inside dispensing justice. It was a private feud, but Conrad presented it as an attempt on his life. So we had another war, which the patricians won, and another defeat for the archbishop. Then—”

“Richmodis!” It was Kuno whispering. All heads swung around. With great effort Kuno had raised himself a little. He was deathly pale.

Richmodis jumped up and went to support him.

“He should be lying down,” said Jaspar.

Goddert smacked his lips a few times, cleared his throat, and opened his eyes. “What’s going on?” he asked.

No one took any notice. They were standing around Kuno as Jaspar wiped the sweat from his brow. “Relax,” he said. “You’re safe here.”

Kuno shook his head feebly. “No one’s safe.” His eyelids fluttered.

“Water,” Jaspar commanded. He gently slapped Kuno’s cheeks. “We don’t want to lose him again.”

“The alliance—” Kuno breathed.

Richmodis hurried over with a damp cloth and Jaspar wiped Kuno’s face. He was seized with a fit of coughing, then sank back, breathing heavily.

“Tell us about the alliance,” said Jaspar urgently.

“It’s too late.”

“It can’t be too late as long as your lot are trying to kill us.”

“Not me.” Kuno’s chest was heaving, as if he couldn’t get his breath. “I’ve broken with them. I want the alliance to end. It—it is wrong.”

“Gerhard’s words!” exclaimed Jacob.

“It is wrong.”

“Who was in the alliance?” Jaspar asked.

They waited. For a while it seemed as if Kuno had fallen asleep again. Then they heard his hoarse voice. “Heinrich von Mainz—”

“Married to Sophia Overstolz,” Jaspar added. “The Overstolzes again.”

“My brothers, Bruno and Hermann.”

“Both in exile.”

“Johann and Daniel—and Matthias Overstolz—and… and Theoderich—”

“So we were right. Anyone else?”

“Leave me alone. I’m tired. I—”

“Who?” Jaspar shouted. He took Kuno by the shoulders and started to shake him. Kuno groaned. Jacob grabbed Jaspar’s wrists and pulled him away.

“Sorry.” Jaspar rubbed his eyes.

“The witch,” Kuno panted.

“Witch?”

“Blithildis. The witch. The blind witch.”

Jaspar looked around, dumbfounded. “Blithildis Overstolz,” he whispered. “My God, what on earth do you intend to do?”

“It was her idea.” Kuno was having difficulty getting the words out. “All her idea. Cursed be that evening when we were sitting together in Rheingasse. We were going to celebrate. Enjoy ourselves—oh, God—water, I’m thirsty—so thirsty.”

They handed him a mug and waited until he had drunk. It was a long time.

“We had concluded a couple of good deals,” Kuno went on, his voice stronger, “the Overstolzes, the von Mainzes, and—”

“Yes? Go on.”

“—and me. Deals with the English. And Johann—it was for Blithildis, to cheer her up. He said it was so long since she had been in company, sitting in her room all the time like the living dead, since God had taken her sight. I asked if I might bring Gerhard, he—he was my only friend. We were sitting there, drinking our wine when—when Blithildis suddenly sent the servants away and started to speak, full of hatred, laughing, crying, sobbing until she put a spell on us and blinded us too with bloody thoughts, and it was the evil from her lips that made us join in and—and Gerhard said—”

“What, for God’s sake? He said it was wrong, didn’t he?”

Kuno’s features contorted, as if he wanted to cry but couldn’t. “It was so sad. He tried to make us change our minds and we begged him to join us. Johann said he would respect Gerhard’s honest opinion as long as he would swear to remain silent.”

“And Gerhard. Could he do that?”

Kuno shook his head disconsolately. “He didn’t know what to do. He owed everything to the Church, but he would have had to betray his friends to—can’t you see, he had no choice?” Kuno held Jaspar tight, looking at him beseechingly, as if he could turn back the clock. “Whatever he did, in his own eyes it would have been betrayal. His honesty killed him. I pleaded with the others to trust him, without even knowing myself whether we could. He knew everything. What could have come over Blithildis, to imagine she could persuade Gerhard, the cathedral architect, to join in her plan?”

“What plan, Kuno?” asked Jaspar breathlessly.

Kuno seemed not to hear. He stared vacantly into space. Then his grasp loosed, he let go of Jaspar and sank back. “Finally we brought in Urquhart,” he whispered. “We clubbed together and brought the Devil to the city.”

“Urquhart?”

“He costs a pretty penny, does the Devil.” Kuno gave a coarse laugh. “William of Jülich recommended someone who’d been recommended to him. A man who kills for money. That’s all anyone knew about him. We assumed Urquhart was a hired killer, but—”

“Who killed Gerhard? Was it Urquhart?”

Kuno nodded. “Urquhart. Slaughters whatever’s in his way. A butcher. A fiend. The Berlich whore, the beggar, the two monks—”

“Monks?”

“His—witnesses.”

Jaspar threw Jacob a quick glance. “Kuno,” he said, “what is Urquhart going to do? What is the aim of the alliance? Answer me, for pity’s sake, answer me.”

But Kuno had fallen asleep.

Goddert looked around helplessly. “Should I—”

“No,” said Jaspar, “we’ll let him rest awhile. He needs sleep, there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“What time is it?” asked Richmodis.

“I don’t know. At a guess, shortly after midnight.”

“I’m bloody cold,” moaned Goddert.

“Don’t worry,” said Jaspar, “I imagine things will heat up in the course of the night.”

MATTHIAS

Johann was getting weak. None of the old Overstolz spirit there.

Matthias wrinkled his nose in disgust as he fought his way through the storm. He despised weakness and he despised Johann. That odor of sentimentality he had hated all his life! Like a mold you just couldn’t get rid of. There was always someone ready with sniveling comments on his plans. It’s wrong. It’s a sin. It’s against the law of God.

It was enough to make you want to spew.

Matthias stole quietly through the alleyways around Haymarket. A man of his rank should have been on horseback, but a rider would attract attention to himself. Even in weather like this the night watchmen would be going about their business. It was not the best moment to be seen.

He had spent the last two hours finding out everything Urquhart needed to know to put an end to this mess once and for all. Matthias was under no illusion that they could silence everyone who had heard of Gerhard’s violent death. All the better if they could, of course. He didn’t imagine the Fox and Jaspar Rodenkirchen would have gone around telling everybody and anybody, but that was pure speculation on his part. The important thing was to eliminate Kuno. If Kuno talked, then he and his new friends had time before daybreak to ruin everything. Any influential person in Cologne would believe Kuno, and he could count on leniency from his judges if he gave evidence against them. A prattling beggar or a drunken priest, on the other hand, did not represent a serious danger to the Overstolzes.

Or, to be precise, a danger to me, thought Matthias. What are the others to me? They can lead the Kones or Heinrich, Daniel or Theoderich to the block for all I care.

In a few hours it would all be over anyway.

But first there was this night to get through. Urquhart had one more task before he could carry out the deed Matthias was longing to see. It gave him grim satisfaction to think that, however much what he was about to do ran counter to Johann’s wishes, it would receive Blithildis’s approval. She was the only person he really admired. She was an Overstolz, she was strength, power, even if she was blind and tied to her chair. She should have been his mother, not Johann’s.

He quickly went over what he had found out. Urquhart’s hostage was a Richmodis von Weiden. She lived on the Brook, together with her father. He knew the house. Jaspar von Rodenkirchen had no other relatives, only a servant, a cook, and a cleaning woman. Where the two women were, he had no idea. The servant was dead.

They were doomed. Urquhart would find them.

Suddenly Matthias felt the confidence well up inside him. Looking around to see that no one was watching, he slipped into a doorway. Beyond it yawned the emptiness of a huge courtyard. The howling storm was not so bad in the protection of its walls. By day flax and candles were sold here; now it was deserted. Heavy curtains of rain billowed before him.

He blinked and rubbed the water out of his eyes. Then he saw the immense shadow coming toward him through the downpour.

“I expected you sooner,” said Urquhart. His voice was as calm as ever, almost friendly, but a hint of sharpness was still audible.

“I came as quickly as I could.”

“Of course.”

“Have you gotten anywhere?”

Urquhart made a dismissive gesture. “I’ve been to the dean’s. Nobody there. They’re not that stupid.”

“Then go to Kuno’s. No, wait, leave that till last. There are too many other people there, servants and the like.”

“I wouldn’t bother with Kuno’s. Little Kuno escaped with the woman. Daniel—your noble family can be proud of him—was kind enough to poke a few holes in him.” Urquhart gave a mocking smile and threw his head back, letting the water run down over his face. “Women are such caring creatures. Softhearted. If they find a rabbit that’s been hurt they take it home and look after it.”

Matthias returned his smile. “I’ll tell you where to find her. Do what you can. Kill them all, if you like.”

“All? I couldn’t say who they all are anymore. Can you?”

“No. It’s enough if you eliminate one.”

“Who?” Urquhart said in the tone of a man who already knows.

Matthias spat on the ground. “The weakling.”

ON THE BROOK

“And the end of the story?” asked Jacob.

“Is quickly told,” said Jaspar.

Goddert gave them a disgruntled look and put a couple of logs on the fire. There was a crackling and whistling as air and moisture escaped.

“We ought to be doing something instead of philosophizing about history,” he muttered.

Jaspar disagreed. “We are doing something by philosophizing about history,” he said. “We know the conspirators and we know they have something planned. We still don’t know what or when. The answer must lie in the recent past.” He massaged the bridge of his nose. “After the Great Adjudication.”

“The ‘Great’?” asked Jacob.

“Yes,” said Richmodis, “there was another. Two years ago, when Conrad claimed there was a plot on his life.”

“Conrad would have lost that war, too,” Jaspar continued. “He was forced to make peace with the patricians. But he was still dangerous. And the conflict between patricians and tradesmen had reached the point where there were frequent armed clashes. On top of that there was the threat of civil war among the patricians, since they were split between the Overstolzes and their allies and the Weises. The Weises are the oldest merchant family in Cologne; compared to them the Overstolzes are nouveaux riches. The two groups had never been particularly fond of each other, but as long as there was a common enemy, the archbishop, they pulled together, more or less. But as the Overstolzes’ influence grew, the Weises looked for an ally. They found one in the archbishop.”

“Not really,” objected Goddert. “They supported the authorities. They behaved with dignity.”

“With dignity? They sold themselves. Not very wise, despite their name, to trust Conrad, if you ask me.”

“He’s our lord and master,” Goddert declared, “and it is not the place of his subjects to question his authority. Apart from his perhaps overly secular approach—”

“You’re talking like a priest.”

“And you are one.”

“Dean, if you please. Anyway, the Weises got nothing out of their treachery.”

“But—”

“Let me finish. Trusting Conrad is like holding out your hand to a mad dog. Everyone knows what happened in Neuss in 1255.”

“That was never proved.”

“What? It wasn’t proved that Conrad set fire to the tent of the King of Holland and the papal legate when they were trying to persuade him to release the bishop of Paderborn? It wouldn’t be the first time Conrad had used violence to get his way. Changing from Saul to Paul after his second big defeat was merely a tactical move. He had a trial before the Curia because of his debts and while that was taking its course he could sit back and watch the patricians falling out among themselves and with the guilds.”

Jaspar paused to see if Goddert would reply, but he had obviously lost interest in the argument.

“Anyway,” he went on, “the conflict between the city and Conrad about their rights and privileges wasn’t over. Once more a court of arbitration was set up, once more under Albertus Magnus. To demonstrate his impartiality, he even appointed some of Conrad’s supporters to it, but that didn’t stop Conrad’s demands on the city from being rejected once more. He must have been furious, but he had to be patient again. Albertus also criticized the sleaze and corruption among the patricians, and that gave the guilds hope. The Great Adjudication only calmed things superficially.”

Jacob rested his chin on his hand. “And not for long, I assume?”

“No. Last year Conrad removed all the mint officials from office, overnight, so to speak, allegedly for exceeding their powers. That meant the city could issue no more coins. The patricians screamed bloody murder, but the guilds saw their opportunity and made an official complaint against the burgomasters and magistrates, at which Conrad removed all the magistrates but one from office. He kept on emphasizing that it did not infringe on the terms of the Great Adjudication, but then he would, wouldn’t he? He decreed that in the future he would make all appointments to the council of magistrates himself. The patricians were sidelined. Only yesterday they had practically ruled the city; now they were banned from office. Conrad accused them of serious crimes and summoned them to a hearing, then outlawed twenty-five who refused to attend, including Kuno’s brothers. They had to flee the city, otherwise the populace would have torn them to pieces. Then Conrad appointed new magistrates, one or two patricians among them, but mostly craftsmen and guildmasters like Bodo Schuif.”

“The brewer who gave us away?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

“And what is all that supposed to mean?” Goddert joined in the argument again, his voice quivering with rage. “What Conrad did was quite right. The patricians looked down on the guilds as if they were a herd of pigs. They taxed us till we bled. The burgomasters were corrupt through and through, the magistrates were guzzling and whoring at the expense of honest people and they twisted the laws to suit themselves. Profiteering, taking bribes, and abusing their office, that’s what the patricians were good at. And some were made magistrates when they were scarcely out of their nappies, like that little thug Daniel. Conrad sat in judgment on them and a good thing, too. I support our archbishop, however much you may say he’s a liar and a murderer.”

“He is a liar and a murderer.”

“So what?” Goddert jumped up, his face bright red. “What are your patricians? Look at me. When did I ever get anything out of my work the patricians didn’t steal?”

“Father—” said Richmodis, trying to calm him down.

“No. Now it’s my turn. They bled us white and they got what was coming to them. I tell you, the time will come when Cologne is run by the guilds. One day we’ll get rid of all those villains on horseback in their expensive robes and furs. We’ll throw them out. Conrad will throw them out so that the guilds can get what they deserve.”

“What they deserve is a kick up the backside,” Jaspar barked back. “Because they’ve sold out.”

“They have not sold out.”

“They haven’t? Damn it all, Goddert, for once you’re right. Yes, the magistrates were corrupt. Yes, they fleeced the people. Yes, yes, yes, it serves the patricians right that they’re getting kicked in the teeth. But don’t you see that the guilds are just an instrument in Conrad’s hand? He doesn’t care who helps him extend his power. Last year he was still trying to reach an accommodation with the patricians. Even after he’d dismissed them from office he promised he would allow the exiles back and God knows what else if they’d sell the city’s privileges. It was only when the patricians dug their heels in that he allied himself with the weavers and other guilds against them. Open your eyes. Conrad’s not the guardian angel of the guilds. He’ll cheat you just as he tricked the patricians.”

“He will dispense justice,” Goddert stated, turning away from Jaspar.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Jaspar groaned. “Here we are, likely to get murdered any minute and I’m arguing about politics with a driveling old soak.”

“Old soak yourself.”

“Yes, but at least from my own wine.”

“You can keep your goddamn wine,” growled Goddert. “I’ve got plenty of my own.”

“Really? Not that I’ve noticed.”

Goddert took a deep breath, thought for a moment, then let it out slowly. “Errrm,” he said.

Jaspar furrowed his brow. “You’re surely not going to suggest we have a drink?”

“All right. Shall we have a drink?”

“Let’s have a drink.”

“No,” said Jacob.

Jaspar stared at him in amazement. “Why ever not?”

“Because you haven’t gotten to the end.”

“Near enough.”

“Nothing you’ve said tells us what the patricians have planned. I’m—I’m still afraid.”

Jaspar blinked, but said nothing for a while. “So am I.” He glanced at Kuno, who was lying on the bench by the fire, his chest faintly rising and falling. “Richmodis,” he said quietly, “you looked into this Urquhart’s eyes. Will he come?”

Richmodis nodded.

“Well, then. Everything bolted and barred, Goddert?”

“With these very hands.”

“Good. We ought to be fairly safe until the morning and then there’ll be enough people out in the streets.” He paused.

“So. The end. At the beginning of the year all hell was let loose in the city. In the church of the White Sisters a butcher mocked a patrician, Bruno Hardefust, because Conrad had removed him from the council of magistrates. There was an argument; Bruno drew his dagger and killed the butcher. It was a spark to a powder keg. The butchers’ guild screamed for vengeance. Hordes gathered at the Hardefust house and set it on fire. Riot, pillage, you name it. Hardefust drummed up a posse of patrician friends and they laid into the craftsmen. Countless wounded, some dead. The magistrates took their time, giving the patricians plenty of opportunity to commit more murders, presumably hoping to increase the seriousness of the charges against them. They only stepped in toward evening and asked Conrad to adjudicate. He had cleverly kept out of it.”

Jaspar gave a grim laugh. “His hour had come. He fined both sides, but in addition he decreed that the patricians were to kneel before him barefoot and beg forgiveness with the whole city looking on. Ha! What a humiliation! Most submitted, if reluctantly, and paraded to the howls of delight of twenty thousand people. Some fled the city; three were captured the same day, dragged back, and beheaded on the spot.”

“I remember,” Goddert almost purred. “It was a day of rejoicing.”

“Then, Fox-cub,” Jaspar went on, unmoved, “in May, shortly before you came back, the patricians brought charges against the new magistrates, demanding they be removed from office. Conrad was diplomatic. He promised justice, convened a hearing, and tried to reach a compromise. But the patricians insisted on a clear verdict. In the meantime the guilds had gathered, armed to the teeth. The patricians responded immediately. Banners unfurled, they marched to the archbishop’s palace because they suspected Conrad—possibly with justification—of inciting the craftsmen against them. They set up two barricades, one in Rheingasse and another outside St. Columba’s. Conrad called out his armed guard and it almost came to a pitched battle. Thank God it didn’t. Conrad sent envoys to the Rheingasse barricade offering an unarmed meeting in the palace to discuss terms and claiming those at the St. Columba barricade had accepted. They used the same ploy at St. Columba’s.”

“Not exactly honest.”

“But it worked. Conrad promised the patricians safe conduct. The patricians, in good faith, appeared unarmed and were immediately fallen upon by Conrad’s men. Twenty-four were arrested and imprisoned, others fled the city. Conrad invited them to a meeting, but of course they weren’t so stupid as to believe him a second time. Nor did he want them to. It gave him a good reason to outlaw them. Which he did, with the pope’s blessing. And that is the situation at the moment.”

Jacob went through it in his mind. A thought occurred to him. “Can the patricians expect Conrad to pardon them?”

Jaspar shook his head. “Unlikely. A few weeks ago I heard that the prisoners in Godesberg Castle had laid their distress before him and begged him to free them. His response was to impose stricter conditions of imprisonment. I believe Conrad receives almost daily pleas from the patricians to pardon those banished or imprisoned, but the failure of the request from those in Godesberg seems to have disheartened them.”

“Or not, as the case may be,” said Jacob deliberately.

Jaspar’s head came up and he gave him a keen look. “The alliance?”

“Yes. Kuno didn’t say when the meeting at which they formed the alliance was, but it must have been soon after the failure of the appeal from Godesberg.”

“Well, well, well, is this my Fox-cub who knows nothing?”

Jacob shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve been going on about history so much, you’ve missed the answer to the question. I’ve just seen it.”

“What do you mean?”

Jacob couldn’t repress a smug grin. His little triumph of having beaten Jaspar to the solution was all he had at the moment, but he was determined to make the most of it. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked.

Jaspar put his head on one side. “I assume it ought to be obvious.”

“Clear as the waters of the Rhine. The patricians are going—”

There was a faint but unmistakable scratching sound from the front door.

“Shh,” ordered Jaspar.

They listened. All they could hear was the howling of the wind and the drumming of the rain. “It must have been the storm,” said Richmodis. Her voice quivered slightly.

“No,” whispered Jaspar, “that wasn’t the wind. He’s outside.”

Jacob closed his eyes and focused all his concentration on the spot outside the door. Over the years he had of necessity learned to register every noise, every minor detail.

There it was again. Scratching. Rustling.

Then something scraped along the wall of the house. Soft, cautious steps. More scratching on the wall, higher up this time.

Goddert put his hands over his mouth and looked at them one after the other, goggle-eyed. “Oh, God,” he said, half choked.

Jacob could feel his heart pounding somewhere just below his jaw. It was the same feeling as a few days ago when he was hiding in the little church watching through a tiny window the shadowy figure that was searching for him, that seemed to scent him, so that, on impulse, he had poured the holy water over himself. Figures appeared in his mind unbidden: Maria, Tilman, Rolof, and—He forced himself to stay calm. The others were looking at him expectantly, fear in their eyes, every one of them.

“Yes,” he said, “Urquhart’s outside.”

JOHANN

The night watchmen, their voices torn by the wind, had long since called eleven o’clock, but Johann was still sitting in his study, watching the candle burn down.

The group had originally intended to spend this night together. That decision seemed years ago now. Daniel had withdrawn, Theoderich, too, Heinrich von Mainz had ridden home, and Matthias had not returned. By now any idea that they were bound by a common cause seemed absurd to Johann.

“It is right,” he murmured.

But was it? The words seemed to mock him. What was right about killing people? What was right was the common goal, the sacrifices they had made. But what kind of goal was it?

He tried to recover his former clarity of vision, but he could not. He felt weary and confused, incapable of saying what they actually hoped to achieve. And yet there had been a time when it was clear to all. Each one of them had sworn an oath because each one believed in the justness of their cause.

The cause.

He realized that for days now they had just spoken of “the cause.” They never mentioned the actual purpose. There were certain words they avoided, as if they didn’t want to be associated with them. They were like naughty children who keep their eyes shut tight and think no one can see them.

The cause.

There had been a common goal. Such a clear, unmistakable goal they had all accepted it without regard for their own interests.

Johann could not repress a laugh, then pressed his knuckles to his lips. Had Matthias ever done anything that ran counter to his own interests? Or Daniel? Heinrich von Mainz, at least. And Kuno!

But no, Kuno was about to betray them all. If he hadn’t done so already.

Theoderich? Perhaps, but—

Johann jumped up and began to pace up and down feverishly. They had lost sight of their goal. He would never be able to sleep easily again, his peace of mind was gone. There must be some kind of justification, some absolution. What they were doing was not for themselves, but for some higher purpose.

He leaned his hands on his desk and looked inside himself.

All he saw was blackness.

THE ATTACK

“Has he gone?” asked Richmodis after a while.

“We should have put out the candle,” said Goddert. There were fine beads of sweat on his brow.

Jacob shook his head. “Too late. Pointless anyway.”

“I can’t hear anything at all.”

Jaspar placed his finger on the tip of his nose. “Does that mean he’s simply given up?”

“I don’t know,” said Jacob.

Richmodis looked at the door. “He doesn’t give up,” she said softly. “He’ll never give up.”

“Even so, nothing much can happen to us.” Goddert clenched his fists. “It’s a strong house, doors and shutters barred from inside. He’d need a battering ram.”

“Perhaps he’s brought one.”

“Nonsense.”

Jacob was still listening but could not hear anything apart from the storm. Still his feeling of unease was growing. It wasn’t like Urquhart to leave things undone.

“He doesn’t need a battering ram,” he whispered. “He’s much worse without one.”

“What could he do?” Jaspar wondered.

“The back door!” Richmodis exclaimed.

“What?”

“I heard it clearly. He’s at the back door.”

Goddert shook his head vigorously. “He can’t get in there. I barred it myself, even the Devil himself couldn’t get in.”

“How did he get around the back?” asked Jaspar. “Over the roof?”

“How else?” replied Jacob.

Goddert looked at him in dismay.

“I’ve escaped over the roofs once or twice myself,” Jacob explained. “If Urquhart climbed up the front—”

“It’s a very narrow, very sharp roof,” declared Goddert, as if that settled matters.

“So what? It would be no problem for me, even less for him.”

Goddert wiped the sweat from his brow. “Still,” he said, “there’s nowhere he can get in.”

Kuno gave a quiet groan.

There were no more sounds from the back door.

They waited.

After a while Jacob began to relax. “Looks as if he really has gone.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Jaspar scratched his chin and went into the kitchen. When he came back he looked less worried. “Everything secure.” He sat down beside Jacob and patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, Fox-cub, you were about to tell us something. The answer to the question from your very lips. I can’t wait to hear it.”

Jacob nodded, but his mind wasn’t really on it. There was something he’d forgotten, something important—

“Goddert?” he whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Very quietly now. You shut everything?”

“Of course! How often do I—”

“Is there a skylight?”

Goddert stared at him. The color drained from his face. “Oh, my God!”

Jacob seemed to feel the floor tremble beneath his feet. “Take it easy,” he whispered. “We’ve got to think of something. Urquhart’s in the house already.”

“But what?”

“Just keep talking as normal. Go on. About anything.”

“Oh, God! Oh, God!”

Jaspar cleared his throat noisily. “If you ask me, Goddert,” he said in a loud voice, his eyes fixed on Jacob, “the bastard won’t be back. He’ll have realized we know how to protect ourselves.”

“Perhaps he got afraid and ran away,” agreed Richmodis in firm tones.

Jacob wasn’t listening. He was thinking feverishly. Opposing Urquhart with sheer strength was pointless. He was stronger than all of them put together and he’d be armed. He was probably sitting in the loft now, his tiny crossbow ready.

At the top of the stairs, between the parlor and the kitchen, a black rectangle yawned in the ceiling. Was he up there, listening? Would he attack immediately or keep them in suspense, wearing them down? But they were at the end of their tethers already.

For a moment Jacob thought about creeping up the stairs and facing him.

In your dreams, he told himself. Urquhart will kill you the moment your fiery mane appears in the hatchway.

Fiery mane! An idea occurred to him. He gave Goddert’s sleeve a little tug. Goddert’s head swung around. He looked as if he was close to cracking up. Jacob placed a finger to his lips. “Have you any lamp oil?” he asked softly.

“Whaaat?”

“Lamp oil, dammit. Or any oil. A jugful.”

In bewilderment Goddert looked from Jacob to Jaspar. The dean and Richmodis were desperately trying to make normal conversation.

“Y-yes, there’s a jug under the kitchen seat.”

“Fetch it.”

Goddert went even whiter and looked up toward the open hatch at the top of the steps. Jacob rolled his eyes and patted him on the cheek. “That’s all right.”

It was all a matter of luck now. He fervently hoped God would grant him just a few seconds, nothing really, just the few seconds he needed to fetch the jug. He had to pass underneath the opening in the ceiling. If Urquhart put a bolt through him, then it was all over. Jaspar was a powerful intellect, but physically he was no more a match for Urquhart than Goddert. And Richmodis might put one over on a drunken patrician, but that was all.

Lord, he thought, I don’t pray to you as often as I should. Thank you for all the apples I managed to steal. Have mercy on me. Just one more time.

Have mercy on Richmodis.

“I’ll get us something to drink,” he said, loud and clear.

“Good idea,” Jaspar cried.

He threw his shoulders back and went to the kitchen, forcing himself not to look up. Fear sent shivers of ice down his spine. There was no candle burning in the back room; it was pretty dark. He gave himself a painful knock on the edge of the table. The bench was by the window.

Jacob bent down and felt for the jug. His fingers touched something round and cool. He brought it out and smelled it. Oily. Just what he was looking for.

“I’ve got the wine,” he shouted to those in the front room. “Was under the bench. Empty those mugs, here I come.”

“They’re empty already,” squawked Richmodis. Her voice was too shrill.

He’s noticed, thought Jacob in panic. He knows we know—

With an effort he stopped his hand trembling and strolled back, deliberately taking his time. The hatch yawned above him like the gate to hell. When he passed underneath it for the second time, his legs almost gave way, but he made it. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth by the time he sat down beside Jaspar, put the jug in his hands, and whispered a few words to him. Then he picked up a piece of firewood, went over, and held it to the flames.

Richmodis and Goddert watched him, baffled. Jacob pointed silently to the ceiling and tried to work out the likelihood of his plan succeeding. Richmodis and Goddert were on the street side, therefore not in the way. Jaspar, opposite him, had stood up, clutching the jug and still chatting away. Kuno was on the fireside bench, next to the doorway to the back room and therefore closest to the hatch, but he was asleep.

It might work.

Come on, thought Jacob, where are you? Don’t keep us waiting. Show yourself.

“What if he didn’t—” Goddert said timidly. His hand was on the hilt of the sword, but his fingers were trembling so much that he wouldn’t be able to hold it for a second.

“Shut up,” hissed Jaspar.

Jacob frowned.

He suddenly felt unsure. What if Goddert was right and they were standing here like idiots for no reason? Perhaps Urquhart had decided to leave them to stew in their own juice until he’d carried out the main plan. He knew they wouldn’t leave the house before it was light. Did he really know that? And who said he knew where they were hiding anyway? Even that wasn’t certain. Richmodis had heard something at the back door, but it could have been the wind. And the steps outside the house? What had made him so certain it was Urquhart? Perhaps it was one of the night watchmen. Or just a dog.

Time passed at a snail’s pace.

Kuno mumbled something and opened his eyes. They were unnaturally bright. The fever must have risen considerably. He leaned on his elbows.

Jacob signaled to him not to move, but Kuno didn’t seem to see him. He slowly sat up and stretched out his hand as if trying to grasp something. His face was gleaming with sweat.

“Gerhard?” he asked.

“Keep down,” Jacob whispered.

“Gerhard!”

With surprising nimbleness Kuno slipped off the bench and staggered to his feet. He was right in the doorway. His gaze was unfocused.

“Gerhard!” he howled.

“Away from there!” Jacob shouted. He ran over to Kuno and grabbed him by the arm to drag him away. Kuno’s head whirled around. His eyes and mouth were wide open. His hands shot out and grabbed Jacob’s shoulders in a viselike grip. Jacob desperately tried to free himself, but Kuno seemed not to recognize him. With the strength of madness, he held him in a grip of steel, all the time bellowing Gerhard’s name until his voice cracked.

It all happened very quickly.

Jacob saw something large and black emerge from the opening and heard a snapping noise. An expression of immense astonishment appeared on Kuno’s face and it was a moment before Jacob realized where the arrowhead came from that suddenly stuck out of Kuno’s wide-open mouth. Then Kuno sagged, slumped into him, and pulled him to the floor.

The blazing brand slipped out of his grip and rolled away over the floorboards.

“Jaspar!” he shouted.

Urquhart appeared in his field of vision. He had a brief view of the murderer’s face.

It was completely expressionless.

With a whoop, Jaspar swung the jug. The oil poured over Urquhart, who spun around and hit Jaspar with a blow that sent him flying across the room like a doll, crashing into Richmodis. Jacob had to use all his strength to push Kuno’s body to one side and saw Goddert, in what must have been the bravest moment of his life, hurl himself at Urquhart, brandishing the sword in his right hand. His arthritic fingers were clenching the hilt as if no power on earth could loosen them.

Urquhart grabbed his wrist.

Goddert was panting. They stood, face-to-face, motionless as statues, while Richmodis tried in vain to push Jaspar’s body off her and Jacob feverishly looked for the brand.

Goddert’s eyes had a strange expression, a mixture of fury, determination, and pain. His panting turned into a groan.

“Father,” Richmodis shouted. “Let go of the sword.”

Urquhart’s features did not register the slightest emotion. Goddert gradually slumped.

Where was that blasted brand?

There! Under the bench. In a trice Jacob was there, pulled it out, and rolled over on his back.

“Father!” Richmodis screamed again.

She had struggled free of Jaspar and now threw herself at Urquhart. Jacob saw the crossbow raised and felt his heart freeze to ice.

“No,” he gasped.

Then he remembered there couldn’t be a bolt in it. The next moment the bow hit Richmodis on the forehead and flung her back. Urquhart was standing like a tree trunk in the middle of the room, his fingers still locked around Goddert’s wrist.

“Jaspar,” Goddert whimpered. The sword slowly fell from his grip.

Jacob heard the crack of Goddert’s bone at the same moment as he flung the burning brand. As it flew through the air, it hit the falling sword, which sent it spinning against Urquhart’s cloak.

The oil blazed up straightaway.

Stunned, Urquhart stared at Jacob, as the flames began to envelop him. Not a sound came from his lips. The next moment he was a pillar of fire.

A pillar of fire that was rushing toward him.

Jacob’s heart missed a beat. Two burning arms were stretched out. He felt them grasp him and lift him up. His own clothes started to burn. Jacob screamed, then his back was smashed against the closed window, again and again and again. He felt as if everything inside him were shattering into tiny pieces, but it was just the shutters he could hear bursting as the wood gave way under the violence of the onslaught. He shot through in a cloud of sparks and splinters, plummeting into the mud of the street.

The rain lashed at his face. He gasped for breath and looked up into a sky shot with lightning as Urquhart jumped over him.

Laboriously he rolled over onto his stomach. The blazing figure was hurtling straight toward the stream in the middle of the street. There was a splash and it disappeared.

Jacob crawled on all fours through the mud, got to his feet, and stumbled on. He’d drown him. Hold him underwater until he was dead. If it was possible to kill the monster, he would.

He knelt down where the human torch had been extinguished by the water. Dipping his hands into the dirty brown current, he felt everywhere.

“Where are you?” he panted. “Where are you?”

Nothing.

He searched like a man possessed, pulling himself this way and that on his elbows. He didn’t see the doors open, a crowd appear, shouting curious questions, waving candles. He didn’t see Jaspar come out, unsteady on his feet and with a bloody nose, to reassure them. He didn’t see Richmodis, her arm around the trembling Goddert. All he saw was the water.

Even when it had become clear Urquhart had escaped, he kept blundering angrily on until exhaustion brought him to a halt.

Breathing heavily, he raised his hands and howled up at the heavens.

His cry was lost in the raging storm.