Death and the Devil

AFTER MIDNIGHT

Jacob, dripping wet, was sitting on the fireside bench watching as Goddert’s arm was put in a makeshift splint. He felt wretched, tired, and useless.

Goddert moaned softly, but he bore his injury bravely, almost with a hint of pride. The neighbors had gotten the nearest surgeon out of bed. He was more familiar with bone setting than Jaspar and was examining Goddert with a professional air, while Jaspar dealt with the large cut on Richmodis’s forehead. It looked worse than it was. Apart from his bloody nose and an impressive bump, Jaspar was uninjured.

It was Jacob who was a minor miracle. He ought to have been dead, or at least had most of the bones in his body broken. He certainly felt half dead, and the fact that he had escaped with numerous bruises, grazes, and slight burns he owed solely to the state of Goddert’s shutters, which were more rotten than the bones of the Three Kings.

He put his head to one side and looked around. Where the window had been a gap yawned, through which the wind whistled. Even before the neighbors had appeared, Richmodis had managed to get water from the well in the backyard to put out the fires that were flaring up. The room looked like the aftermath of a Tartar attack, overturned furniture and scorch marks everywhere.

Kuno’s body was stretched out across the floor. Jacob tried to feel sorry for him but couldn’t. Everything had been too much. Only his immense relief that Richmodis was safe and sound told him that he was not completely burned out inside.

There was a throng gathered outside and inside the house. They all wanted to know what had happened and Jaspar never tired of repeating his story of the mysterious crossbow murderer who, as everyone knew, had been at large in the town during the last few days. And that Kuno, a friend, well, more of an acquaintance really, should have sought refuge from the storm on this night of all nights—no, he had no idea where Kuno had been before, hadn’t asked, and now it was too late, God have mercy on his soul.

Jacob didn’t understand why Jaspar didn’t tell the whole story, but for the moment he couldn’t really care. A bowl of hot soup appeared under his nose. Bewildered, he looked up. A middle-aged woman was regarding him with sympathetic concern. “You must be frozen stiff,” she said.

Jacob stared at her, uncomprehending. How long had he been sitting here? How long since—

“Are you all right?”

“What?”

“There’s some soup.”

“Oh—oh, thank you.” He managed a smile for her, took the bowl, and set it to his lips. It was hot and did him good. It tasted of beef and vegetables. Only now did he realize how hungry he was. Greedily he emptied the bowl and held it up for the woman to take, but she had disappeared.

There was a stir outside. “The magistrates are coming,” someone shouted. Magistrates? Oh, yes, Jaspar had sent someone to wake the magistrates. Had he not specifically said they should bring Bodo Schuif, the brewer?

Jacob’s head was spinning; he wasn’t sure of anything anymore. All he could think was that Urquhart had gotten away—he hadn’t been able to drown him.

He wondered how badly injured Urquhart was. When the murderer had picked him up and rammed him against the window, he had instinctively closed his eyes against the heat. Everything had happened so quickly. Perhaps Urquhart had gotten away with a fright and no more. Jacob wasn’t even convinced it was possible to frighten Urquhart at all. His every action, even when he was enveloped in flames, indicated the workings of a coldly rational mind. Jaspar and Richmodis he had knocked to the ground; Goddert’s arm was broken. When the oil blazed up he had immediately grabbed the only one who might present a danger and had used him as a battering ram to smash his way out.

And he appeared to have escaped with his crossbow. It was nowhere to be found.

He put down the empty bowl and went to join Jaspar and Richmodis. At that moment Bodo Schuif pushed his way through the bystanders and glanced around the room. He took in Goddert and the surgeon, Jaspar, Richmodis, and Jacob. Then his eye fell on Kuno. “Holy Mother of God,” he mumbled.

“We were attacked—” Jaspar began.

Bodo nodded toward the door. “Outside. We have to talk.”

Jaspar gave him a baffled look, shrugged his shoulders, and followed Bodo out into the street. Jacob hesitated a moment, then hurried after them.

“What’ve you been up to, for God’s sake?” he heard Bodo asking Jaspar in vehement tones. He looked around, saw Jacob approaching, and waved him away.

“It’s all right,” Jaspar said. “He can hear everything.”

Bodo scrutinized Jacob dubiously. “Let’s go somewhere a bit quieter,” he said. “Quick.”

They went far enough away so no one could hear them. The wind had died down. Now there was only the rain and Jacob had stopped noticing that.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” Bodo barked at Jaspar. “I really don’t. Tell me it’s not true.”

“None of us knew that monster, Bodo. He came over the roof. I’ve no idea what he was after, he—”

“That’s not what this is all about. Dammit, Jaspar, I ran here as fast as I could. They’re coming to arrest you, d’you hear? They’re going to throw you in the Tower.”

“Who?” Jaspar was flabbergasted.

“Theoderich Overstolz.”

For a moment even Jaspar was speechless.

“How do you know?” he gasped.

“How do you know, how do you know! Is that all you’re worried about? The constables had already gotten me out of bed before Goddert’s neighbors turned up. I was supposed to go and meet Theoderich Overstolz in Severinstraße. They said that, following information received, your house had been searched and a dead body found. They also said you were responsible, you’d slit open the poor bugger’s belly! Then these people turned up”—Bodo gestured in the general direction of the Brook—“and told me about all the fuss here, and again it was your name that was mentioned. For God’s sake, Jaspar, it won’t take Theoderich long to find out you’re here. Now tell me what’s been going on.”

“Listen, Bodo,” said Jaspar, as calmly as he could. “You’ve known me for ages. Am I the kind of man to go around slitting people’s bellies open?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Do you remember I hinted yesterday morning that Gerhard Morart’s death might not have been an accident?”

“What’s that got to do with all this?”

“It would take me so long to explain, I might as well go and present myself at the Tower. It’s got everything to do with it, take my word for it.”

Bodo looked around nervously. “You’ll have to tell me more if I’m to help you.”

“You’ll help us? Excellent!”

“I’ll help you,” said Bodo. “Who else?”

“Jacob here. Richmodis and Goddert. We need time.”

“And how do you think you’re going to get that?”

“Did Theoderich’s people say anything about Richmodis or Goddert being involved?”

“Nonsense. It’s just you they want. What would your relatives have to do with it?”

“All the better. Then you can do something for us. Jacob and I, we need somewhere to hide.”

“Somewhere to hide?” Bodo echoed in surprise. “Just a moment, I—”

“I was thinking of Keygasse. Your brewery.”

“But—”

“Now. Right away. No time to lose. Do we need a key or is somewhere open?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Bodo hissed. “When I said help, I meant I’d put in a good word for you.”

“Good words are no use to us.”

“Christ Almighty, Jaspar!” said Bodo despairingly. “Do you know what you’re asking? If it comes out that I hid a suspected murderer, I can say good-bye to my position as magistrate.”

“Yes, and you can say good-bye to your head, too. Do it anyway. Anything else would be a mistake.”

Bodo gasped and held his head, as if to make sure it stayed there. “Oh, damnation!” he said.

“The keys,” Jaspar repeated.

“Infernal damnation!”

“It won’t help, however often you repeat it. I give you my word I didn’t murder my servant. There’s a foul plot going on, people have died, and someone’s going to be the next if we don’t stop it.” He gave Bodo a meaningful look. “It might even be you.”

“Me? Saints preserve us, why me?”

“Because Gerhard Morart was murdered,” Jaspar whispered, “and because so far hardly anyone who knew has lived long enough to tell the tale. Now you know, too.”

Bodo shook his head in disbelief.

“Quick,” Jaspar urged. “Make up your mind what you’re going to do, but do it!”

Bodo looked at Jacob as if he could release him from the nightmare he had blundered into. Jacob shrugged his shoulders. “Jaspar’s right,” he said.

Bodo’s oath made the air turn blue. “I don’t believe it. Here I am and—oh, bugger it! The shed next to the brewery is open. There are no barrels in it at the moment, so the dogs won’t bite you. But Jaspar”—he held his fist under Jaspar’s nose—“you’re gone by tomorrow morning. I don’t care what you do then.”

Jaspar threw out his arms and, to his friend’s surprise, embraced the brewer.

“And if you’re having me on”—Bodo’s muffled voice came from the folds of Jaspar’s habit—“I’ll string you up with my own hands, and that carrot-top sidekick of yours.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

“Is that clear?”

Jaspar gave Jacob a quick glance. “What was that nice turn of phrase you had? Clear as the waters of the Rhine. Bodo, if anyone asks, we escaped just as you were about to arrest us. Keep an eye on Goddert and Richmodis, won’t you, and tell Richmodis we’re safe. Keep a good eye on them.”

“Of course.” Bodo sighed. “Of course. And I’ll carry the cathedral across the Rhine and find a wife for the pope. I must be out of my mind. You’d better clear off, before I change it.”

They trotted off, not looking around once.

Some time later, just after they had passed the convent of the White Sisters and were approaching Keygasse, Jaspar turned to Jacob and said, “Just while we get our breath back, what do you think the patricians are going to do, Fox-cub?”

Jacob looked at him. “Isn’t it obvious? Kill the archbishop.”

RHEINGASSE

Somewhere a cock crowed.

“Too soon,” muttered Johann.

He had crept up to Blithildis’s room, torn between the desire to wake her up and fear of what she would say. She was asleep. Or appeared to be. She hadn’t said a word nor moved when he came in, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Often she sat listening; she could hear things in the quietness that were hidden from others. She had the gift of going inside time and hearing things. The future became the past and the past the future.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could observe her face. It looked more like a death mask than ever. He felt no terror at this, only sadness that God let her suffer instead of taking her to Him.

He did not want to lose her, yet he would be happy for her to be reborn in Christ, to find peace.

Or was it his own peace he hoped to find when she was taken from them?

Their goal. The cause.

It was Blithildis’s idea. After Conrad had imposed stricter conditions on the imprisoned patricians it was obvious to everyone that he would never pardon them as long as he lived. And Conrad von Hochstaden was tough. His seal, showing him with God’s hand poised in blessing above his head, was a reflection of his inordinate self-esteem, and he had made no secret of his profound hatred of the patricians. He was not concerned with justice. He had made an example of them as a demonstration of his power, to show anyone who challenged his authority what they could expect.

That evening Blithildis had remonstrated with them for celebrating. “How can you celebrate,” she had said, “when our people go in fear of their lives, in exile or rotting away in cold, damp dungeons? How can these costly wines not turn to vinegar on your tongues when that ungodly archbishop is depriving the noble houses of their liberties, cheating them out of their privileges, plundering them, breaking his word, and dragging everyone’s honor through the mud? How can you let them numb your senses when the once proud city of Cologne is being turned into a sink of fawning and treachery, ruled by fear? How can you congratulate yourselves on your business deals when no one dare speak his mind openly anymore for fear Conrad might have him taken and executed on the spot?”

She had shamed them all, then pursued her reflections to their logical conclusion. If Conrad were to die, everything would change overnight. The exiles and prisoners could return home. A new, stable order would be set up in Cologne, a patrician order, in which everyone had their place and which a new archbishop would be powerless to prevent. Did people not say that Conrad, despite his show of authority, was the last hope of the Church in Cologne? If he did not succeed in restoring the old power of the archbishops, no successor would.

That evening the chance gathering had been molded by Blithildis into an alliance, whether they wanted it or not. They had all, apart from Gerhard, been carried away. The patricians would triumph! Yes, they had made mistakes, but you could learn from mistakes. It was a cause worth fighting for. It was even a cause worth killing an archbishop for.

At least it had been. But what was right?

“I can hear your breathing,” Blithildis whispered.

So she had been awake. Was it his imagination, or did her voice sound weaker than usual?

Johann tensed. “And what does it tell you?”

“That you’re still worrying.”

He nodded. It was strange. He always behaved as if she could see him.

“Things have happened, Mother,” he said. “You’ve been asleep. Matthias has been to see Urquhart. The hostage has escaped and it looks as if we have problems with Kuno as well.”

“Kuno is nothing,” replied Blithildis. “I know you’re worrying whether the cause—”

Johann corrected her. “You mean murdering Conrad.”

She paused and stuck her chin out. Her nostrils flared, as if she could smell his thoughts.

“—whether the justified execution of that whore of an archbishop will be successful. I have been praying, Johann, not sleeping, and the Lord has heard my prayer. Conrad will die, as we agreed.”

For a while Johann was silent.

“Mother,” he said hesitantly, “I’ve been thinking. Sometimes, when God wants to test our faith, he leads us astray. He clouds our thought and blinds us to the truth. We lose sight of our goal and fall victim to powers that would corrupt us. But we do not see the corruption, we take it for the expression of the Divine, just as the Israelites did when they asked Aaron to make them gods of gold. I believe it was not so much pride as uncertainty and fear that led them to make the Golden Calf. Sometimes I think they were not worthy to receive God’s Commandments. Even before that they were not really following the Lord, but another golden calf by the name of Moses. But this Moses was alive, he was—at least he was someone, a personality, and he had an inner flame. The calf, on the other hand, merely glittered and Moses was right to burn it. But who knows, perhaps even without Moses they would eventually have realized that the calf could not keep them together because it was only a hollow piece of metal, lacking meaning, lacking everything that can raise men, in humility and selflessness, up to the true God. They would have realized that as soon as they became disunited, and if they had been asked then who their god was, each would have given a different answer, the one that suited them best.”

He paused. Blithildis did not move.

“They would have seen that they were not following a common god,” he went on, “that each had his own idea of God, different from that of all the others. They would have seen that everything they had done in the name of that god was therefore wrong. Wrong and sinful.”

“You think what we are doing is wrong?” she asked bluntly.

“I don’t know. I mean, in whose interest are we acting? I have come to find out whether we are following God or a golden calf. Is there a common goal uniting us, a valid goal? I have never doubted you, Mother, but—”

“Then let us pray together,” she said in an almost voiceless tone. “Let us pray that Conrad will not survive the coming day. He has humiliated us before the whole of Christendom. Our house should shine in glory and splendor, not suffer exile and imprisonment. The fame of our holy city should be our fame, not that of priests and a brutal tyrant who has stolen our wealth and our property. I had hoped to end my life a proud woman able to show her pride but, thanks to Conrad, I sit here like a lost soul. He has cast me down and for that I pray that hell will devour him and that Satan and all his demons will torment him until the apocalypse. Then let him burn and his soul be consigned to oblivion.”

She paused, her chest heaving. Her bony fingers were clutching the arms of her chair like claws. Gradually she relaxed and turned to Johann. In the darkness he saw a faint smile cross her face, a face no longer made for smiling.

“Your father died so young,” she said.

Johann was silent.

There was a finality in her words that left no room for reply. He looked at her and suddenly realized that revenge was all Blithildis had lived for. She was the daughter of the founding father of the Overstolz dynasty. She had been part of the glorious rise of the house, had inherited boundless self-confidence, been the very image of good fortune. But then fortune had abandoned her. Thirty years ago the husband she loved had died. Her soul had withered, her eyes lost their sight, and now the house in Rheingasse, the magnificent symbol of Overstolz greatness, looked with empty windows out onto a different Cologne and a different glory that mocked her.

There had never been a common goal. Neither Matthias nor Daniel, Hermann nor Theoderich, certainly not Blithildis and not even Kuno had sought higher justice. Daniel wanted to kill Conrad out of personal resentment for the loss of the position of magistrate. Matthias had been a magistrate, too, but all he was interested in were his trading enterprises, which required different policies from Conrad’s. Theoderich was an opportunist who would jump on any bandwagon. Kuno’s interest was his brothers, and his brothers wanted to return, that was all. Heinrich von Mainz was interested in his business, like Matthias; Lorenzo had been bought and Blithildis was obsessed with revenge.

And behind it all was the secret bitterness of the Overstolzes that not they were the first among the leading houses of Cologne, but the Weises. That the Weises, having sold themselves to Conrad, still dominated the Richerzeche, the council of the richest families in the city, while the Overstolzes were facing total defeat.

It was not the patricians who were to triumph, it was the Overstolz family. Conrad’s end would be the end of the Weises, the end of the decades of conflict between the two houses.

Power at any price.

The alliance had not collapsed. It had never existed. What they had followed was the glitter of a golden calf; what had briefly united them was gold, the gold they had put together to hire a murderer, who was now teaching them a fearful lesson.

Too late to save anyone. Conrad would die, and Jacob the Fox, and Jaspar Rodenkirchen, and all those around them. Things would change, for the better for some, for the worse for others. Johann got up, went over to Blithildis, and put his arms around her. He held the frail body in his gentle embrace for a long time, surprised at how fragile and small it was, almost like a child’s.

He gave her a kiss on the forehead and straightened up. “I love you, Mother. You should try to get a little sleep.”

She shook her head vigorously. “I won’t sleep. I will wait until they come and tell me it is done. I will be happy.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Johann, with a heavy heart. “You will be. Certainly you will.” He closed the door softly behind him and went back to his study.

KEYGASSE

They should have taken a lantern, Jacob thought. In the shed you couldn’t see the hand in front of your face. After a certain amount of stumbling around Jaspar discovered a fair-size pile of sacks, presumably for barley, and they sat down on them. They were damp and cold, but that didn’t bother either of them particularly.

“Why didn’t we think of it sooner?” said Jaspar, his irritation audible.

Now, in the impenetrable darkness, it struck Jacob that Jaspar’s voice didn’t go with his physical appearance at all. It was powerful and mellifluous, the kind of voice you would have associated with a tall, broad-shouldered man. A man of Urquhart’s stature. Then it occurred to him that Jaspar matched Urquhart in stature, only it was a stature not visible to the eye.

“Perhaps we would have thought of it sooner if they hadn’t kept trying to kill us,” he replied.

“I’m starting to get fed up with this alliance,” Jaspar grumbled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Urquhart didn’t slit Rolof open for a reason. No one would think I went around shooting crossbows, but I could have stuck a knife in my servant. How convenient to have me thrown into the Tower.” He gave a contemptuous snort. “And how inept to make a mess of it. Theoderich is a numskull. Should have waited till he’d gotten his hands on me before telling the world about my supposed crimes.”

“That’s what I still don’t understand,” said Jacob. “Why get you taken to court? Surely that would ensure everything came out.”

“You think so?” Jaspar gave a humorless laugh. “There would have been no appearance in court. If Theoderich’s plan had succeeded, I’d be in the Tower now. Where I might well break my neck before another magistrate saw me. All sorts of things can happen going up the stairs. An unfortunate accident. Or I try to escape and one of the guards draws his knife. A natural reflex. And they do say the odd prisoner dies while being questioned under torture, if the executioner goes a bit too far. But before that I might have got fed up with the red-hot pincers and betrayed you and Goddert and Richmodis. I might even tell them that Bodo Schuif knows. I might betray everyone.”

Jaspar fell silent. For a while he might not have been there at all.

“So what now?” Jacob asked.

“Good question.”

“Still attack, attack?”

“What else?” It sounded as if Jaspar were getting more and more angry. “I’m trying to work out how Urquhart will have planned it all.”

“He’ll hardly go for a walk around the archbishop’s palace.”

“I don’t know. I’m coming to think that son of a whore’s capable of anything. The thing is, it’s almost impossible to get close to Conrad. He’s one person who’s learned from the past. The murder of Engelbert was only forty years ago. I can’t remember ever having seen Conrad in public except surrounded by men in armor.”

Jacob thought. “I can’t remember ever having seen him.”

“Of course. You’ve only been here a few months.”

“Still. When does he show himself?”

“He doesn’t.”

“And when’s the next time he won’t show himself?”

It was meant as a joke, and not a particularly good one at that, but Jacob literally heard Jaspar’s jaw drop. “You dunderhead, Rodenkirchen!” he exclaimed. “The Crusade! He’s going to say mass and then preach the Crusade against the Tartars from the pulpit, as the pope ordered.”

Jacob sat up. “When?”

“Tomorrow. No, in a few hours. No wonder Theoderich rushed everything like that. They’re worried we might spoil things at the last minute. Their nerves must be in tatters.”

Jacob swallowed. “To be honest, mine, too,” he said wearily. To crown it all he was to have the honor of saving the archbishop’s life. Why not the emperor’s? “You should have told Bodo everything,” he said. “Perhaps we could have gotten help.”

“Should, should! Perhaps you should have told us about the plot against the archbishop a bit sooner, since I’ve obviously got a turnip on my shoulders. But even then it wouldn’t have been a good idea. Theoderich would have gotten us one way or the other.”

“Not if we’d run away afterward.”

“What’d be the use of that? He’d just seize Richmodis and Goddert. What’s this? An attempt on Conrad’s life? And what does my fair lady know about it, or that old tub of lard with the twisted hands? To the Tower with them. For questioning. No, Fox-cub, as long as they are just the victims of some mysterious attack, Theoderich will have no excuse for taking them in. And we shouldn’t complain. We’re not in the Tower yet.”

Jacob sighed. “No, we’re in an ice-cold shed without the slightest idea where Urquhart will be in a few hours’ time.”

“Then we’ll just have to find out.”

“Sure. Any idea how?”

“No. You?”

Jacob lay back on the sacks with his hands behind his head. “I think Urquhart will lie in wait outside the church.”

“Not necessarily. Conrad’s going to say mass in the central chapel of the new cathedral. He’ll deliver his sermon there, too. There are thousands more convenient places he could have chosen, but that’s the chapel he wants to be buried in, so…And it’ll be the first time mass will be said in the new cathedral. A huge event, therefore. Beforehand there’ll be a procession from Priest Gate, along Spormacherstraße, Wappenstickerstraße, et cetera to St. Stephen’s, then left down Platea Gallica and past St. Mary’s-in-the-Capitol, across Haymarket, left again through Mars Gate and back to the cathedral. It’ll take about an hour.”

“You think Urquhart’ll be waiting somewhere along the route?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“If Conrad’s as cautious as you say, Urquhart won’t be able to get very close.”

Silence once more.

“What if he doesn’t have to?” said Jaspar slowly.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I would assume Urquhart is an excellent shot, even from a distance. The crossbow is a very accurate weapon, deadly accurate. At least that’s what Hieronymus said, and he ought to know. Perhaps distance is Urquhart’s big advantage. Something no one’s thought of. Just imagine: the archbishop falls to the ground during the procession. Result, chaos. It’ll be some time before anyone realizes what has happened, never mind where the bolt came from, even less that the assassin is a good way off—or, rather, was. Urquhart will be on his way before the archbishop hits the ground.”

Jacob tried to visualize where Urquhart could get sufficient distance. The narrow streets lined with people, the houses immediately behind them—if anywhere, it had to be Haymarket. But there’d still be too many people between the assassin and the archbishop. And a man with a crossbow would be noticed. Even if he managed—

“A house!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“A house?” Jaspar sounded bewildered. His thoughts had clearly been going in a different direction.

“Urquhart can only get Conrad from higher up. He has to shoot over the heads of the people. He’ll be in some building.”

“You’re probably right,” Jaspar agreed reflectively. “But in that case we’ve a problem. We can hardly search all the houses.”

“There is another way,” Jacob said hesitantly. He’d have preferred to have kept it to himself. It frightened him.

“Which is?”

It frightened him because he wouldn’t be able to run away. As he’d always done. As he did when—

“Come on, Fox-cub.”

He breathed out slowly and pulled himself together. “I got us into this mess, so I’ll go to the palace and warn Conrad.”

For a moment Jaspar was speechless. “Are you out of your mind?”

“No.”

“Slowly now. Of course you can try to warn Conrad, only I doubt whether he’ll even give you a hearing.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“For God’s sake, Fox-cub! Who says that by now the Overstolzes haven’t put the word around that you’re a thief? We’re both of us on the run. If they can pin a murder on me to keep me out of the way, what do you think they’ll accuse you of? You stole a guilder, Matthias said. How do you know it’s not a hundred, or a thousand by now? You’re going to hand yourself over to the archbishop’s guards voluntarily, in the hope that they’ll believe you? They might just arrest you and throw you in the Tower without further ado. Who’s going to trust someone like you?”

Jacob chewed his lower lip. “They’d believe you,” he said.

“Yes, they’d believe me. And I’d go if that idiot Theoderich hadn’t ruined everything.”

Suddenly Jacob was sure Jaspar was on the wrong track. “Jaspar,” he said slowly, “what would you be doing at this moment, if you were Theoderich?”

“Looking for us, probably.”

“You would? Well, I’d give myself a kick up the backside and do the exact opposite.”

“Why did we run aw—” Jaspar suddenly stopped and let out a soft whistle. “I see. Well, bugger me!”

“If Theoderich had got his hands on us, his plan would have worked. But he made a mess of it. His chances of finding us are minimal. If it’s made public that you’re wanted for Rolof ’s murder, then someone else is quite likely to arrest you, you’ll be taken before different magistrates and he’ll not be in control anymore, he’ll just have to sit and listen to you spilling the beans on him. Unlike me, you’re a respected citizen. They’d be all ears! What would you be doing now, in Theoderich’s place?”

Jaspar gave a quiet laugh. “I’d make sure the accusation laid against Jaspar Rodenkirchen was withdrawn as quickly as possible.”

“He’s probably already done so.”

“I’d say there’d been a mistake. Perhaps even that the real murderer had already been caught. Something like that. Damn it all, that’s his only chance of getting out of the mess he’s got himself into. You’re right. What the alliance wants is for no one to bother with us, at least not until Urquhart’s done his worst.”

“Exactly. For the same reason, I don’t think they’ll have spread rumors about me. So I can go to the palace and see if they’ll listen. If they don’t, then it’s their funeral—as you might say.”

He drew up his knees and tried to sound firm and resolute, but the urge to run away was almost unbearable. He felt the gray chill of fear creeping up his spine, and all at once he knew it wasn’t Urquhart or the Overstolzes he wanted to run away from but something quite different, something immensely greater, something that would catch up with him again, as it always had, and he would run away again, keep on running until he ran himself into the grave—

Urquhart was his personal demon. God had created a being for him alone, for his fear, and he had to face up to it if he ever wanted to be free.

“I have no choice,” he said. It sounded good. It sounded brave, almost dauntless.

Jaspar said nothing.

“I have no choice,” he repeated.

“Fox-cub.” Jaspar cleared his throat copiously. “Didn’t you tell me I had the choice of helping you or not? Fine words. You think they don’t apply to you, too? Of course you have a choice. Everyone has a choice, always. What is there to keep you in Cologne? What’s to stop you from simply walking away?”

Could that blasted dean read his thoughts? “And what’ll happen to you and Richmodis?”

“That’s not important,” said Jaspar calmly.

“Of course it’s important!”

“Why? Just tell yourself it was all a dream. You might find it a bit difficult at first, but if you try hard enough, Goddert, Richmodis, and I will disappear without a word of complaint into the realm of fiction. As if we were part of a story you’d heard. Delude yourself. Perhaps we are just clowns in a story. You as well! Be a figment of the imagination, Fox-cub. Figments don’t have to take responsibility.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“I’m getting you to save your life. Run away.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve had enough of running away,” Jacob heard himself say.

There was a rustle of cloth from where Jaspar was. He’d obviously stretched out. Jacob waited for him to say something, but there was no reaction to what he’d said. He gave up.

“All right, Jaspar,” he said wearily, “what is it you want to know?”

“Me?” said the dean innocently. “Nothing at all. I don’t want to know anything.”

They lay there in silence for a while. Jacob listened to his heartbeat. It seemed to get louder and louder until his chest resounded with hammer blows. He suddenly realized he was crying.

He was amazed and happy at the same time. Had he ever shed a tear? He couldn’t remember. Overwhelmed with sorrow, flooded with sadness, he yet felt boundless relief. Puzzled and at the same time curious, he abandoned himself to this unknown emotion. And as he sobbed and sniffled, he felt as if his grief were feeding a bright, blazing fire that gradually consumed him, while a new, unknown strength began to throb in his veins. Scenes from an old story, too long repressed, rolled past his mind’s eye, and with every image, every sound, every sensation his fear shrank a little more, giving way to the desire for a home.

Jaspar left him to himself.

After what seemed like an eternity, the tears dried up. He stared into the darkness. His heartbeat had slowed down, his breathing was calm and steady. In fact, he didn’t feel bad at all.

“Jaspar?”

There was a quiver in his voice. Not a trace of firm resolution left. He didn’t care.

“Jaspar, that time I came back—I mean when I was a boy, to my father’s house—I told you there was nothing but a smoking ruin left.” He paused. “There was something else.”

“I know,” said Jaspar, unmoved.

“You know about it?” exclaimed Jacob in surprise.

“No, Fox-cub. I know nothing, really—except that you were able to remember everything that happened before that day. Or were willing to remember. Every detail. You were a bright lad. Still are. But then one day you saw the wreckage of a house and took flight. From then on your life seems rather hazy, almost as if it was that of another person. The day before yesterday, when we talked together for the first time, I thought, if he goes on pouring out his memories like this, I’ll end up pouring out the whole of my wine cellar. Then everything suddenly ended at a few smoldering timbers, and the rest was sketched in with a couple of strokes. You saw something, didn’t you? Something that’s been haunting you to this day? You started running away when you turned your back on the burned-down shack and you haven’t stopped since. Whatever you’ve run away from over the years—constables, women, responsibility—basically it’s that shack you’ve been running away from. Even now, if you run away, you’ll be running away from that shack.”

“How do you know all this? You hardly know me!”

“I know you quite well. I can see others in you, Fox-cub. What was it you saw?”

Jacob sat up slowly and stared at the darkness. But it was something else he saw: countryside, fields, a column of smoke—

“My father and my brother,” he said.

“Dead?”

“They were lying outside the shack. It looked as if they’d been cut down. I stood there, quite a way away. I felt unable to take even one step closer. I was too cowardly to go and look them in the face. I was afraid of having their deaths confirmed. I thought if I looked away, forgot everything as quickly as possible, then it wouldn’t have happened.” He swallowed hard. “I turned around. But just as I looked away, I thought I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. As if my father had waved to me.”

“And still you ran away.”

“Yes. I didn’t have the courage to go and look. I’ll never know whether I ran away from two dead bodies, or whether, in my fear, I left someone to die I could have helped. I didn’t want to see if they were dead, so I never saw if they were perhaps alive.”

“Do you sometimes have dreams about it?”

“Rarely. When I do, it’s the wave I see. Sometimes it’s the desperate wave of a dying man, sometimes a mocking farewell from the dead. That’s the truth, Jaspar. I left them in the lurch, and I keep on asking myself what would happen if I had the chance to go back and start again.”

“No one has that chance.”

“I know. But I can’t get it out of my mind. I wish I could turn the clock back.”

He heard Jaspar scratching his bald head.

“No,” said the dean, “that is not a good wish.”

“It is. Then it wouldn’t have happened.”

“You think so? When they wish for things like that people deny their hopes, their convictions, their whole being. It’s what indecisive and weak people wish for. Did you know that, for the whole of his life, Abelard never regretted his love for Heloise? He was cruelly punished for it, but given the chance he would always have made the same choice.”

“You keep going on about this Abelard,” said Jacob.

“I model myself on him,” Jaspar replied. “Even though he’s been dead for over a hundred years now. Peter Abelard was one of the most outstanding minds France has produced. He was humble before God, yet bold enough, when at the height of his fame, to describe himself as the greatest of all philosophers. They call disputation the clerics’ joust—he was unbeaten in it. And he seemed to love making enemies. His belief that mankind possessed free will was diametrically opposed to the teachings of the Mystics. Eventually he fell in love with Heloise, a canon’s niece who was his pupil. Forbidden love. There was a series of scandals that concluded with a punitive expedition to his house one night. The canon had him castrated.” He gave a soft laugh. “But he could not cut off their love, nor could he stop them being buried beside each other in the end. Abelard never wished he could turn the clock back, and that was the basis of his greatness. Everything was of his own free will.”

“My father,” Jacob mused, “was always talking about how impotent sinful mankind was. That we had no choice to decide anything for ourselves.”

“And that’s what you believe, too?”

“No.”

“Goddert believes that.” Jaspar sighed. “And there are many like him, men who have no real convictions and confuse weakness with faith. He drifts from one view to another, picks up a bit of each, but never the real point, and patches together something out of them he likes to think of as his opinion. Oh, he enjoys an argument. We spend all the day in disputations on everything under the sun, but they never lead anywhere. It’s just good fun, concealing the sad fact that Goddert has no real opinion. I know I shouldn’t talk about him like that, but he’s typical of the unfortunate attitude prevailing today. When people stop forming their own opinions, when they take bits for a whole and don’t look for connections, then the world becomes a church with no mortar between the stones. One day it’ll collapse spectacularly and people will talk of the coming of the Antichrist, whom Saint Bernard conjured up in vivid words like no one before or since. But the Antichrist is no fiendish destroyer, no horned devil, nor a beast rising from the sea. The Antichrist is a product of the Christians. He is the emptiness behind a faith that knows only inertia and punishment. And he is also the emptiness behind the fatalism you have been sucked into, the emptiness in your life. One could say the Devil’s just waiting to take possession of you.”

Jacob found Jaspar’s words almost physically painful. “Hasn’t he already?” he asked. “At our house. Aren’t I lost for good?”

“No, you are not!” said Jaspar emphatically. “It’s your refusal to accept that life goes on, that you can’t change the past, just giving up and running away, that’s what the Devil is.”

“You mean he doesn’t exist?” Jacob shook his head. “Not as a—being?”

“What is devilish is to deny human nature, our ability to reason, our free will, just as the blind persecution of heretics is the work of the devil. There is nothing more arrogant than fanatical humility. But reason without faith is equally devilish and every man who is enslaved, whether to reason or to faith, is blind in his own way. Christendom is being consumed by a war waged by the blind. That is what the Cistercians, what Bernard and William of Saint-Thierry mean when they talk of the impotence of sinful mankind, that we cannot act because, they say, God does not want us to act; because every independent action represents a denial of God’s omnipotence and therefore heresy; and because anyone who cannot act can happily be blind, indeed must be, of necessity. But if one were to follow that idea through to its logical conclusion, the blind couldn’t undertake anything of their own volition, not send the sighted, or other blind men, to the stake, not wage war, not teach in public; from the point of view of pure logic, they could not even exist. But they do exist, they talk of impotence and exercise power, they preach humility and humiliate others. What weakness of intellect! That, Fox-cub, is the Devil I believe in.”

Jacob tried to digest all this. “If that’s what the Devil’s like,” he said slowly, “then who or what is God?”

Jaspar did not answer straightaway, but when he did there was a mild undertone of mockery in his voice. “How should I know who God is?”

“No, I mean—I always thought that God and the Devil, they were—” He was struggling for words.

“You think God and the Devil are persons, in a way?”

“Yes.”

“To be honest, I don’t know. All I can do is tell you what God is for me, if that’s what you’re asking. Abelard was of the opinion that we can distinguish between what is sin and what is not. We have a choice. Of course we can’t, as you so touchingly put it, turn the clock back. But we can own up to our actions and accept responsibility for them. Do you see what that implies? Everything was made by God, but perhaps not everything is willed by God. Perhaps God’s will is that we should use our own willpower, that we should develop His ideas because we are His ideas. If God is in everything and we are therefore God, then our impotence would be God’s impotence, and that is something which, with the best will in the world, I simply can’t imagine. But if God is the creative principle, then, in order to carry out His will, we too must be creative, we must accept responsibility for what we do. God is the alliance between reason and the beauty of faith, what the scholars call reason illumined by faith. He is harmony; He is what connects, not separates, creation; He is creativity proceeding within time. But above all, God is the free will of the whole of creation, which is constantly re-creating itself; He is the free will of each individual. And that means you can still turn back, Jacob. You have faced up to the past. Sins can be forgiven. Forgive yourself. Stop running away, there are people who need you.”

There was a soft thrum of rain on the shed. Jacob listened to the sound as if he were hearing it for the first time. He had the feeling he should go out and discover the world anew. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Don’t mention it, Fox-cub. But if you don’t mind, I need to sleep for an hour or so.”

“Sleep?” Jacob exclaimed in surprise. “Now?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“We have to do something. Urquhart will be—”

“Urquhart will be licking his wounds. It’s the middle of the night. Do you want to get Conrad out of his bed? God knows, we need some rest. Don’t worry, I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

Uncertainly, Jacob lay down. “I won’t get to sleep,” he said.

“Pity.”

How can I sleep, he thought, after everything that’s happened? I’ll lie awake, and eventually Jaspar will start snoring and sleep will be even more impossible. We ought to be making use of the time.

His thoughts turned to Richmodis.

I won’t get any sleep, he thought.

JACOB

“Wake up!”

Someone was shaking him. For a moment he thought he was under his arch in the Wall, then he sat up. It was still dark, but he vaguely recognized Jaspar’s silhouette. He was laughing. “So this is the lad who can’t get to sleep?”

“What time is it?”

“The watchman called three o’clock not long ago. The procession starts in two hours, so you have plenty of time to ask for an audience in the archbishop’s palace. Then we’ll meet between the fourth and fifth hour in Seidenmachergäßchen. It’s nice and quiet there on a Sunday morning. Let’s say by the city weighhouse.”

“Just a moment,” said Jacob, rubbing his eyes. “What’s all this about meeting? I thought we were going together.”

“So did I. But I had an idea while you were sleeping. It’s connected with your story. I’m going somewhere else.”

“To Goddert’s house, perhaps?”

“I’d like to.”

“So would I, dammit!”

“But we’d be fools to let ourselves be seen on the Brook at this juncture. Not now. Off you go, and make sure you keep that forest fire you have on your head well covered on your way to the palace.”

Jacob stood up and stretched. Tried to, at least. His body was probably black and blue from being hammered against the shutters. “What do you have in mind?” he groaned.

“I’m—” Jaspar patted him on the shoulder. “Tell you later. You know where the weighhouse is?”

“Yes.”

“Good. If I don’t see you there, I’ll assume your mission has been successful and go along to the palace.”

“Why can’t you tell me where you’re going?”

“Because it won’t get us anywhere just now and would take too long to explain. Off you go, and keep out of Urquhart’s way. He’ll be blazing mad at you.”

Before Jacob could say anything, Jaspar had taken him by the shoulders and pushed him out into the street. The rain had stopped, but it was still cold. Jacob looked around. There was an oil lamp swinging to and fro outside Bodo’s house next to the brewery. Key House opposite was silent. There was no one about.

“Off you go,” said Jaspar.

Jacob put his head back and pumped his lungs full of air till they were bursting. Although he was sore all over, he felt as if he had come alive again after a long time. Then he embraced Jaspar, pressing him so tight to his breast something cracked, and gave him a smacking kiss on his bald head. Jaspar stared at him, flabbergasted.

“Not like me.” He grinned, then turned and scurried away up Keygasse.

The archbishop’s palace, also known as the Hall, was on the southern side of the cathedral precinct, between Dragon Gate and Tollbooth Gate. Built a hundred years ago, it was an imposing, two-story castle with a row of arcades on double columns decorating the opulently furnished hall on the upper floor. That was where Conrad dispensed justice; it was also the place where he had outwitted the patricians when they had come for supposedly unarmed and peaceful discussions.

Conrad’s private apartments were to the rear, opposite the cathedral and not visible from the street. There was no point in trying to gain admittance there. Anyone who wanted something from the archbishop had to approach his soldiers and officials, which meant humbly begging audience at the front entrance.

Jacob had avoided the main streets, weaving his way through the narrow alleys like a salamander. There was a chance the patricians were still looking for him and Jaspar, but they couldn’t get into every nook and cranny, and that was where Jacob was at home.

He paused for a moment to draw breath. He was at the end of Pützgäßchen, which led into Am Hof, a broad, prestigious street with stately buildings such as the Crown House, where the dukes of Brabant held court when they were in Cologne, and the Klockring, the sheriffs’ headquarters. The archbishop’s palace was directly opposite. There were lights on in some of the ground-floor windows and the main door was open. A group of men in armor were talking with two night watchmen on horseback. Their muffled voices came to Jacob, but he could not tell what they were saying. With a burst of coarse laughter, the night watchmen spurred their horses and the soldiers withdrew into the building. The double doors screeched and slammed shut.

Cautiously he peered out into the broad thoroughfare. Farther up he saw a few monks scuttle through the darkness into the provost’s quarters. There was garbage lying everywhere. Heavy rain, such as that during the night, swept everything the citizens threw into the street down through the steep east side of the city toward the Rhine. And there was nothing the good citizens did not throw into the street. The senses were assaulted by the mixture of the ubiquitous pig dung with an amalgam of rotting vegetable scraps and gnawed bones. Despite that, all appeals to throw everything in the cesspits were ignored, or dismissed with the irrefutable argument that the gold diggers—the local term for the unfortunates who were supposed to empty them—performed their function too rarely.

Jacob decided he had waited long enough. Making sure not a single red hair was sticking out from under his hood, he ran over to the door and knocked loudly.

Immediately a flap slid back and a pair of eyes scrutinized him. Jacob felt his hopes rise. “I have some important information for the archbishop,” he said breathlessly.

“What information?”

“A matter of life and death.”

“What?”

“For God’s sake, just let me in before it’s too late.”

The flap slid to, then one of the doors opened and Jacob found himself face to face with a man in armor and helmet. There were three more behind him, regarding him with curiosity.

“The Lord be—oh, why bother?” muttered Jacob as he sketched a blessing and hurried inside. The door snapped shut behind him.

He looked around. The entrance was lit by pairs of torches in elaborate holders. At one side a broad stone staircase with a massive stone balustrade led to the upper floor. Between the torches the wall was hung with tapestries representing chimeras and Titans, sphinxes, naiads, and centaurs, beings with snakes’ heads and bats’ wings, manticores baring their fangs and dwarves with the faces of dogs, cyclops, scaly devils and gorgons, birds with women’s heads and werewolves, forming a garland of merry horror around the ecstatic saints with eyes turned to heaven, bodies disfigured by the wounds of martyrdom, hands raised to the angels with their powerful gold-blue-and-turquoise wings and haloes. Above them all was Christ, His right hand raised, His earnest gaze directed straight ahead. The dark eyes appeared to see everything and at the same time into the heart of each and every individual. Jacob trembled. He saw the living God and felt strong, felt new courage well up inside him.

An iron-gloved hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned away from the comforting eyes of Christ and found himself looking into the soldier’s.

“What’s all this about, monk?” the guard barked.

Monk? Oh, of course.

“I have to speak to the archbishop,” Jacob said, against all reason.

The man stared at him, then roared with laughter. The others joined in. “It’s not that easy to get to speak to the archbishop, Friar Oaf. Has no one ever taught you to bow your head when you ask for audience?”

“And what have you been taught?” Jacob retorted. “Conrad von Hochstaden is in great danger and you make fun of the messenger who might save his life. Do you want to end up bowing your head on the executioner’s block?”

The laughter died away. The soldier scratched his beard, unsure what to do. “What’s this danger you’re talking about?” he asked.

“Mortal danger!” Jacob cried. “God wither your loins if you don’t take me to Conrad this instant.”

“I can’t take you to His Excellency,” the soldier shouted back. “The archbishop is occupied with the preparations for the procession.” He gave an indignant snort, then went on more calmly. “But I could call the archbishop’s secretary. Would that do?”

Success!

“All right,” he said with feigned sullenness, “if that’s the best you can do.”

The guard nodded and sent two of his comrades up the stairs. Jacob waited, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t know precisely what a secretary was, but it sounded important.

Surprisingly quickly a short, skinny man appeared with the two soldiers at the top of the stairs and descended with mincing steps. A gold chain lay resplendent on his lilac-and-black robe, his hands were in gloves of burgundy leather. A kindly face with watery blue eyes was framed by a fluffy white beard. He came up to Jacob and smiled. When he spoke, Jacob noticed the accent of some Latin country.

“The Lord be with you and with thy spirit.”

Jacob sniffed in embarrassment. “Yes. Of course. Definitely.”

The secretary put his head to one side. “What can I do for you, my son? I was told you had information for the archbishop, but are unwilling to say what.”

“I must talk to him,” said Jacob. “The archbishop is in great danger.”

“Danger?” The secretary came closer and lowered his voice. “Don’t speak so loudly in front of the soldiers, my son. They’re loyal, but you never know. Archbishops have occasionally been murdered by their own nephews. Whisper in my ear. Who wants to harm our archbishop?”

Jacob leaned forward and whispered, “Conrad is to be killed today. I don’t know if it will be during the procession or the service, but they intend to kill him.”

A horrified expression appeared in the secretary’s blue eyes. He clapped both hands to his mouth and took a step back. “Who intends to do that?” he breathed.

“The patricians, I’m afraid. There’s a conspiracy—”

“Stop!” The secretary gave the guards a suspicious glance. “We can’t discuss this here. I am staggered by what you have told me, my son, profoundly shocked. I find it unbelievable. You must tell me everything you know, everything, do you hear?”

“Most willingly.”

“After that I will take you to Conrad. Follow me.”

He turned around and went up the stairs. Jacob followed. Somewhat amused, he observed the secretary’s affected walk. “Peacock” was the word that came to mind. Probably Italian. Bram had often told him how Italian nobles and clerics loved fine materials and had costly hats made of ermine and sable. His eye ran over the slim figure.

He almost fell down the stairs.

Trembling, he clutched the banister and wondered what to do. There must be many rich citizens in Cologne who wore expensive shoes, but so far he had only seen one pair with purple lilies on them.

Now he was seeing them again.

“Excuse me, Herr—er—” he said.

The secretary turned to face him, bathing him in a rosy glow. “My name is Lorenzo da Castellofiore, my son.”

Jacob forced a smile to his lips. “Well, Lorenzo da—well, I’ve just remembered I have to—I have to—”

Lorenzo’s eyes went on the alert. “Yes, my son? What is it?”

“My horse. I think I forgot to tether it. If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll just pop outside and—”

Lorenzo’s expression froze. “Guards,” he shouted, “arrest this man.”

Jacob’s eyes darted to the bottom of the stairs. The soldiers came on the double, swords unsheathed. For a moment he was completely at a loss. Impossible to get past the guards, and even if he did, he’d have to unbolt the door, and by the time he’d—

He swung around and slammed his elbow into Lorenzo’s stomach. With a strangled cry, the secretary doubled up. Jacob grabbed him and pushed him at the soldiers. Then, without waiting to see the result, he took the last steps two at a time as the staircase echoed to the crash and clank of armor and Lorenzo’s high-pitched screams.

In front of him was a corridor that ended in a wall some way ahead. On the left were two openings. Jacob hesitated for a moment, clearly long enough for the guards to get back to their feet, for he could hear them clattering up the stairs.

Without further thought he ran through one of the openings.

“Catch him,” Lorenzo roared with all his might. “That bloody gang, that bunch of misbegotten layabouts! Your mother should have drowned the lot of you at birth. He mustn’t escape.”

Jacob did a pirouette and his eyes popped. He was in an immense, magnificent room with carved beams and pillars. The far end was entirely taken up with huge stalls of polished black wood. The floor was covered with an elaborate maze of inlay work, while the opposite wall was broken by a long balcony with trefoil windows, the middle part of which was open.

The arcades. He was in the Hall.

The soldiers appeared in the doorways, brandishing their swords menacingly, followed by a very-red-in-the-face Lorenzo. Jacob desperately looked for another way out, but there was none, only the arcade windows, and they were too high to jump down into the street. He fell back and saw the triumph in Lorenzo’s eyes.

“The man who stole a guilder from Matthias Overstolz,” he hissed. “How nice of you to come to see us. Better surrender if you don’t want us to spread your stinking corpse all over the room. What do you think?”

The guards approached. Jacob stumbled and looked down. A jump after all? But it was too high. He’d only break his legs.

There was something rising up outside the arcades, branching out.

A tree.

He let his shoulders droop and nodded resignedly. “You’ve won, Lorenzo. I’ll come with you.”

The soldiers relaxed. Their swords sank. Lorenzo grinned. “A wise decision, my son.”

“Yes,” said Jacob, “I hope so.” He spun around and was at the window in one leap. Lorenzo shrieked. Jacob jumped up onto the balustrade. The street yawned below. The tree was farther away than he had thought.

Too far. He wouldn’t make it.

“Go on,” Lorenzo shouted, “get him. You’re letting him escape.”

Will it never end? Jacob groaned to himself.

He bent his knees and sprang. He sailed out of the arcades and over the street. For one wonderful moment he felt light as a feather, free as a bird, as free from gravity as an angel. Then he crashed into the boughs with a snapping of twigs.

Branches tore at his face and limbs. He tried to find something to hold on to, to arrest his fall, but he just kept falling down, the tree giving him the worst thrashing he’d ever had. Something struck him a painful blow across the back and the world turned upside down. He scrabbled for the nearest branch, like a cat, and hung there for a moment, kicking his legs. Then he dropped to the ground, got to his feet, and shot down the nearest alleyway.

By the time the guards in their heavy armor had unbolted the door and dashed out into the street, he was well away.

RHEINGASSE

“You did what?” said Johann angrily.

Theoderich looked embarrassed.

Matthias tried to calm him down. “Urquhart told me he had made sure he left the servant looking as if the dean could have done it. That gave me the idea of increasing the pressure on this Jaspar Rodenkirchen.”

Johann shook his head in disbelief. “Increasing the pressure! The last thing we need is the sheriffs hunting high and low for Rodenkirchen, and you go and increase the pressure! Why didn’t you at least wait until you’d gotten him?”

“That’s what I meant to do,” Theoderich insisted.

“Meant to? But you’d no idea where he was.”

“I thought I did.”

“You thought you did. But you didn’t know?”

“We assumed he was hiding with his relations. Which turned out to be the case,” Matthias explained.

“Oh, well, that’s different,” said Johann, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You assumed. You probably got some old witch to tell you the future from your palms. Fools!”

“We were right,” Theoderich cried in fury. “How should I know he’d clear off before we got there? Someone must have warned him.”

“Who, then?”

“Obvious. Bodo Schuif, of course.”

“So what do you propose to do about Bodo Schuif?”

Theoderich hesitated.

“You can’t do anything about him,” Johann declared. “You can’t do anything about anyone. Nothing we’ve tried has worked out. Everything’s gone wrong from the word go. Marvelous! Congratulations, gentlemen.”

Matthias waved Johann’s objections aside. “We didn’t tell anyone else Jaspar had killed his servant.” He went to the window and looked out into the dark street. “Nor will we. All right, it was a mistake. So what? Urquhart’s killed Kuno. That should stop them letting their tongues wag.”

Johann gritted his teeth together so hard it hurt. He could not remember ever having been so angry before. “Yes, killed. Nothing but killing,” he said through his clenched teeth. “We’ve turned into a miserable gang of butchers. You promised me—”

“What do you want me to do, for God’s sake?” Matthias shouted. “You do nothing but whine on and on about your moral scruples. I’m sick of it! I’m fed up with your ‘We’ve burdened ourselves with guilt, there’s blood on our hands, blah, blah, blah.’” He thumped the windowsill with his fist. “Kuno would have betrayed us. He had to be gotten rid of. If I had my way, I’d eliminate the lot of them this very night. I’d send a few lads around to the Brook to slit the throat of that Goddert and his filly. That would be two fewer who know about it. And we’ll get the others, you mark my words.”

“You will not get anyone else. Enough is enough, Matthias.”

“Yes, enough is enough. Just think, Johann. I’m willing to bet they’ve not told anyone else. They haven’t had time. Let Theoderich lock up Goddert and Richmodis von Weiden in the Tower. The pretext doesn’t matter. We’ll invent one.”

“No.”

Matthias wrung his hands. “We must protect ourselves, Johann.”

“I said no. Where is Urquhart?”

“What?” Matthias seemed confused. “Why? I don’t know where he is. It doesn’t look as if he was so badly burned he won’t be able to carry out his commission. Otherwise he’d have sent word.”

“And where will he be when the time comes?”

Matthias gave him a suspicious look. His lips twisted in a faint smile. “Are you thinking of—”

“Where, goddammit?!”

“In a good position.”

Johann stood right in front of him. “I suppose I will not be able to stop Conrad being killed”—his voice was trembling with rage—“even though I have come to the conclusion that I have never agreed to anything more evil, more sinful than this alliance. That must take its course. But I can stop more people being killed in the name of this unholy alliance, the aim of which is nothing more than a cowardly murder to allow each of us to satisfy his personal desires. For too long I have stood idly by while each of you does what he wants. From now on every decision is in my hands. Did you hear, Matthias? Every decision. No more killings.”

“You’re crazy,” Matthias sneered.

“Yes, I’m crazy to have listened to my mother at all. From the outset I should have—”

There was a knocking below. They fell silent and looked at each other. Further knocking, then the shuffle of footsteps as one of the maids went to see who was demanding entry at that time of the night. They heard the sound of quiet voices, then the maid came. “It’s the archbishop’s secretary, His Excellency Lorenzo da Castellofiore, sir.”

Theoderich’s jaw dropped. “What can he want?”

“Bring him up,” Johann ordered brusquely. The maid gave a respectful nod and disappeared. Johann frowned, wondering what could have happened now. Theoderich was right. Lorenzo ought to be in the palace. It was irresponsible of him to be seen here.

The secretary rushed in, completely out of breath. “Wine.”

“What?”

Lorenzo collapsed onto a stool. “Give me something to drink. Quickly, I can’t stay long.”

Matthias gave the others a bewildered look, went to the sideboard, and filled a gold goblet, which he handed to Lorenzo. The secretary tossed it down as if he were dying of thirst.

“Johann has just observed that we are a band of fools,” Matthias remarked pointedly.

Lorenzo wiped his lips and stared at him. “Yes,” he panted, “you can say that again.”

THE SEARCH

Jaspar seemed engrossed in meditation as he crossed Haymarket with measured tread, his face in the shadow of his hood, his hands in his sleeves. At the entrance to Seidenmachergäßchen he stopped, his eyes scanning the buildings on either side. It was close to the fifth hour. People were still asleep. The furriers’ and saddlers’ stalls were as empty as the shops opposite. They wouldn’t be selling their wares today anyway. It was the Lord’s day.

To the left was the outline of the city weighhouse. Nothing moved.

He took a few steps into the alley and felt his nervousness increase. If Jacob wasn’t there he’d have to go to the Hall. His absence could be a good sign. It could just as well mean he hadn’t managed to get as far as the palace.

He strolled along past the crowstepped facades of the little shops, murmuring the Lord’s Prayer. Immediately Jacob peered out from an entrance and waved him over. Jaspar’s heart missed a beat. He forced himself to keep walking slowly, although it felt like torture, until he was standing beside Jacob.

“Persons in holy orders don’t wave their arms about,” he said with a note of censure, “at least not in public.”

Jacob growled and looked all around. “You’re bloody late.”

Jaspar shrugged his shoulders. “We agreed between the fourth and fifth hour. I preferred to take it at a pace that is pleasing to the Lord. God does not like to see His servants running.”

“How saintly!”

“No, just cautious. Did you get anywhere at the palace?”

“I had a go at flying.”

“What?”

Jacob told him.

“Curses and double curses!” Jaspar exclaimed. “Another conspirator.”

“Who is this Lorenzo?”

“He’s from Milan. In Conrad’s service, though he only arrived a few months ago. As far as I know, he’s responsible for the correspondence. An inscrutable type, vain and unpopular, slimy, sticks to you like porridge. The patricians probably bribed him to get the details of the procession and the placement of the guards.” Jaspar stamped his foot in fury. “These corrupt clerics! No wonder Christendom’s in such a state when everyone can be bought.”

“They must have paid him a tidy sum.”

“Huh!” Jaspar snorted contemptuously. “Some’ll do it for a mess of pottage. Rome’s become a whore, what else can you expect?”

Jacob was downcast. “Well, we can forget about warning Conrad,” he said.

“Yes,” Jaspar agreed. “Probably about finding Urquhart, too. I guess they’ll be gathering in the cathedral courtyard for the procession about now.” He frowned. “We haven’t much time.”

“Let’s look for him all the same,” said Jacob, determination in his voice.

Jaspar nodded gloomily. “We’ll start here. You take the right side of the street, I’ll take the left. Head for Mars Gate in the first instance, the procession will pass through it. We’ll go over the route ahead of them.”

“And what are we looking for?”

“If only I knew! Open windows. Movements. Anything.”

“Brilliant.”

“Have you a better idea?”

“No.”

“Off we go, then.”

They scanned the house fronts. There wasn’t much to see. The tops of the hills in the east gleamed with a pale foretoken of dawn, but it was still dark in the narrow streets. At least the clouds had dispersed. All that remained of the storm were the puddles and the churned-up mud.

“Where have you been?” Jacob asked as they went through Mars Gate.

“What?” Jaspar blinked. “Oh, I see. St. Pantaleon.”

“You went back there?” Jacob cried in amazement. “Why?”

“Because—” Jaspar gave an irritated sigh. “I’ll tell you later. This really isn’t the moment.”

“Why all the secrecy?”

“Not now.”

“Is it important?”

Jaspar shook his head. He had observed a suspiciously dark opening in the upper floor of a house standing somewhat back from the street and was craning his neck.

Not an opening. Black shutters.

“Is it important?” Jacob asked again.

“It all depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Whether we find Urquhart.”

“Then what?”

“Later, later.” Jaspar suddenly felt at a complete loss. He stopped and looked at Jacob. “So far I’ve seen nowhere he might be hiding. I mean, nowhere obvious. You agree?”

“I think what we’re doing is stupid,” said Jacob. “He could be hiding anywhere. All the houses are high enough.”

“But too near.”

“Too near for what? For a crossbow shot?”

“Yes, you’re right.” Jaspar gave a heartfelt sigh. “Still. Let us rely on Divine Providence. If it’s God’s will, we’ll find the murderer.” He bowed his head in humble prayer. “Lord, two sinners beg your aid. Keep us in Thy favor for all eternity, but especially now. Yes, especially now, in the hour of our need, O Lord, Almighty God. Be with us and grant us a sign, amen.”

He backed up his prayer with a vigorous nod and set off again.

Jacob stopped. He was looking up at the sky, obviously filled with reverence.

“What is it now?” asked Jaspar impatiently.

Jacob started. “I thought—”

“Forget it. Don’t stand around. God’s a very busy man.”

The first people were beginning to appear in the streets, on their way to church. Nobody paid any attention to them, though Jaspar felt the way they were constantly craning their necks must make them extremely conspicuous.

With every step his hopes fell. Urquhart could be anywhere. They were behaving like children. If they did find him, then his second visit to Hieronymus would perhaps have been worthwhile. Perhaps—assuming, that is, Hieronymus hadn’t simply made it all up.

But Urquhart would make sure he couldn’t be found.

After a while the palace appeared in front of them again.

“Wait.”

Massaging the bridge of his nose, Jaspar turned toward Jacob. “You think they might recognize you?”

“Possibly.”

“I imagine they’ll hardly expect you to turn up here again. Remember, you’re just a monk, one of thousands. A monk has no face.”

Jacob looked dubious. “You might know that, but”—he pointed at the palace—“do they?”

“You’d rather go back?”

“No,” said Jacob irascibly, stepping past Jaspar out into Am Hof. Diagonally opposite was the tree through the branches of which he had come crashing down.

“Slowly,” hissed Jaspar. He took Jacob’s arm and drew him past the palace up toward Pfaffenstraße. They saw priests, bishops, and monks from various orders gathering in a long procession outside the cathedral cloisters. Novices were dashing to and fro, bringing crucifixes and reliquaries. Jaspar could see the top of a tall, wide baldachin. Presumably Conrad would be riding underneath it. The archbishop was not keen on going on foot.

Suddenly Jaspar had misgivings. The baldachin was huge. It would hide Conrad completely. How could Urquhart even see his target from an elevated standpoint, never mind hit it?

Or did Urquhart have something else in mind?

“But what?” he muttered to himself.

Then he had an idea, an idea that made him abandon caution and hurry along the street.

Jacob would have preferred to stride out as he followed the route of the procession, but Jaspar was right. As long as they were within the palace, it was best to remain as inconspicuous as possible. And most inconspicuous of all was a monk plodding slowly past.

He was starting to get hot under his habit. It couldn’t be the weather. Was it fear making him sweat?

Pull yourself together, he told himself. You’ve been through worse than this.

His eye was caught by the gathering in front. Patches of purple, blue, and gold were picked out by the dawn light. A group of riders appeared from behind the provost’s house, impressive in their gleaming armor, which shone like molten pewter in the first light of morning. For a brief moment they parted and Jacob saw another figure on horseback: slim, stiffly upright in the saddle, with a sharp, clean-shaven profile and curly gray hair. Then he was gone and a baldachin was raised. He heard the faint sound of music. The great processions were always preceded by an organ on a cart.

Jacob had seen many of these processions and the music always reminded him of the marvelous ships that had sailed across the land in honor of the fair Isabella. He felt a brief stab of melancholy.

Another time. Another man.

Jacob suddenly realized he was dog weary. It was the weariness that comes from not knowing what to do. What did they hope to achieve? Ridiculous, looking at all the houses, as if Urquhart would be leaning out of the window to give them a friendly wave. Here I am, look, up here. Great you could make it. Come up and stop me from murdering Conrad.

Too many streets. Too many buildings. If Urquhart had survived the fire in anything like one piece, the archbishop would die. They couldn’t stop the murderer carrying out his commission because they couldn’t find him.

He looked over at the cathedral. That was where everything had started. With a few apples. Damn the apples. They’d caused nothing but trouble since Adam and Eve.

As he surveyed the forest of spars forming the scaffolding, in his mind’s eye he saw again Gerhard walking along, on the top level, and then Urquhart’s black shadow—

The Shadow.

Bewildered, Jacob screwed up his eyes and looked again. For a moment it had seemed as if history were repeating itself. But that was nonsense. Nothing about the building was different from usual.

He looked away and turned his attention back to the procession.

At that moment Jaspar muttered something incomprehensible and dashed off. Jacob stared at him, openmouthed, swore softly, and hurried after him.

“Jaspar,” he hissed.

The dean didn’t hear. He had obviously discovered something that made him ignore his own advice. He was heading straight for the procession.

“Jas—”

The bells rang out. At once the procession began to move. Jacob ran on for a few more steps, then stopped. Jaspar had vanished among the people standing around. He probably assumed Jacob was following him.

But something rooted Jacob to the spot and forced him to turn around to look at the cathedral again.

It was the same as ever. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it. Nothing at all. The light-colored stone of the chancel. The scaffolding. No one on it. Of course not, it was too early. And, anyway, it was Sunday. Nobody would be up there today.

The sound of a hymn came from the procession, but Jacob wasn’t listening. A feeling of apprehension had taken hold of him. What was wrong with the church?

Gerhard on the scaffolding. Then suddenly the Shadow. The Shadow that had appeared out of nowhere. But the Shadow had not been the Devil, it had been Urquhart, and he was a man.

Out of nowhere—

A man did not appear out of nowhere.

Undecided about what to do, Jacob looked across at the procession, trying to find Jaspar, but he had vanished. More and more people were coming out of the nearby houses, gentlemen and their wives, many in fine clothes, while others came riding up singly or in small groups to follow the procession. There were simple tradesmen there as well, maids and servants, pilgrims and peasants who had arrived in the city the previous day to take part in the celebration, sick people, layabouts, beggars, everyone.

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

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

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

All at once he knew.

All at once he knew.

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

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

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

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

“The choir,” the girl repeated.

The choir—

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

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

THE CATHEDRAL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One hour.

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

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

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

His life. Was that where it was all heading?

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

Like the Tower of Babel.

Why not run away after all?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was breathtaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a minute. It’s so beautiful here.

Quick!

In a minute.

Quick!!

Yes, in a minute. I just want to—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You thought wrong.”

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

“Nobody gets rid of me.”

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

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

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

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

The next moment Urquhart was there, leaning in.

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” he panted.

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

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

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

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

The world around started to grow colder.

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

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

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

“I was too slow.”

“You’re not slow.”

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

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

Jacob turned his head away.

A voice rang out. “Urquhart of Monadhliath!”

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

Jaspar’s voice!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jacob held his breath.

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

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

Urquhart drew back a step.

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

Urquhart did not move.

“Remember Damietta.”

Jacob watched in disbelief as Jaspar went up to the huge figure and slowly stretched out his hand. He must be out of his mind!

“You butchered the Egyptians. First the men. Then Louis’s soldiers fell on the women. I know you were against it, Urquhart. You did not want God’s name dishonored, you used all your influence, but in vain. You arrived too late.” Jaspar paused. “And then Louis’s bully-boys herded the children together. You remember?”

“No,” Urquhart mumbled.

Now Jaspar’s hand was trembling. He tried to take the crossbow. Urquhart gave a groan and jumped back. They made a grotesque picture, as if the two disparate figures were performing some mysterious heathen dance on the edge of an abyss.

“Think of the children,” Jaspar insisted. “The soldiers—”

“No. No!”

“Listen to me. You’re going to listen to me.” Jaspar clenched his fist and came closer. “Just as you were forced to listen when the French king joked about their whimpering, when he said it reminded him of the mewing of seagulls, just as you were forced to look on as the swords descended, chopping them into pieces, just as you were forced to watch as their bellies were slit open while they were still alive, Urquhart, they were still alive, and it drove you mad, and—”

A scream came from Urquhart such as Jacob had never heard from a human throat before.

Jaspar tried to grab the crossbow.

And failed.

Jacob saw Urquhart straighten up. Everything seemed to happen excruciatingly slowly. His arm started to rise, the tip of the bolt came up, and the realization that he had lost showed in Jaspar’s eyes. The muscles of his face relaxed. With a smile he looked up to heaven.

Jaspar had given up. He was accepting his fate.

It was absurd.

Not a sound passed Jacob’s lips as he launched himself. He forgot his pain. He forgot his fear. He forgot Goddert and Richmodis, Maria, Tilman, Rolof, and Kuno. He forgot everything that had happened in the last few days.

Then he forgot the smoking ruins of the shack, forgot his father and his brother.

All he saw was Urquhart and Jaspar.

Long strides took him toward them. There seemed an eternity between each heartbeat. Centuries rolled past. As if in a dream, Jacob floated over the scaffolding while the crossbow still rose, higher and higher, until it came to a halt, pointing at Jaspar’s breast.

Somehow he managed to cross the gap to the next platform. He kept going.

Urquhart’s index finger tightened.

Time stood still.

Jacob stretched out his arms and put all the strength left in his body into one last leap. He felt a wonderful lightness. The impact, when he hit Urquhart, was almost soft. He grasped the arm of the duke of Monadhliath as if he were taking him home, pushed him over the edge of the scaffolding, and followed him readily.

Urquhart had been right. They had become one.

Perhaps they could rise up together. Without the hatred and the fear and the terrible memories.

Joy welled up inside him and he closed his eyes.

“It’s simply beyond belief,” said Jaspar.

Jacob blinked.

He was hanging over Dranckgasse. Far below a dog was sniffing at Urquhart’s corpse.

Nonplussed, he turned his head and found himself looking into Jaspar’s haggard face. The dean was grasping him firmly with both hands, his brow gleaming with sweat.

“This really is the most stupid fox I’ve ever caught.” He sniffed. “Genuinely thinks he can fly.”

THE CITY WALL

No one ever heard what was agreed between Jaspar Rodenkirchen and Johann Overstolz on that morning of 14 September in the year of our Lord 1260. At the end of the discussion, however, the threat had disappeared and, in return, there had never been an alliance. Gerhard’s death was an accident and poor Rolof had been attacked by thieves. Once they’d agreed to each other’s lies, everything was right with the world again.

Conrad said mass at prime and preached another holy Crusade, without ever learning what a close escape he had had. The body of an unknown man, with burns to the face and chest, was found in Dranckgasse. The weapon beside him left no doubt that he was the crossbow murderer who had killed at least three people in the city. No one knew his name, where he came from, or what his motives for the killings were, so the knacker took him away on his cart and buried him in a common grave, where he was soon forgotten.

Goddert was bursting with pride. He displayed his splint as if it were a piece of knightly armor. Soon the whole district knew that he had crossed swords with a mighty opponent and, well, if not exactly driven the intruder out, still, he had given him something to think about.

Richmodis smiled and said not a word.

And Jacob disappeared.

It was early evening when Jaspar finally found him. He was up on the city wall, not far from his tumbledown shack under the arch, leaning on the parapet, gazing out over the fields. He looked as if a herd of cows had trampled over him, but his expression was one of almost serene calm.

Without a word, Jaspar stood beside him. Together they watched the sunset. After a while Jacob turned to face him. “Is Richmodis all right?”

Jaspar smiled. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Jacob was silent.

“Are you thinking of running away again?”

“No.”

“You’ve nothing to fear, Fox-cub. Johann rattled his saber, and so did I. We each promised the other we’d make his life hell on earth if there wasn’t peace immediately.” Jaspar smiled smugly. “I had to cheat a bit. But only a bit.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That’s water under the bridge. Better nobody knows. I believe in knowledge, but too much can sometimes cause trouble.”

“What you found out about Urquhart didn’t. Quite the opposite.”

“It was your story, Fox-cub,” Jaspar explained. “I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I kept asking myself what could have made such an intelligent and cultured man as Urquhart into what he was. Suddenly I had the idea he must be like you, with a curse on him that lay somewhere in his past. I went back to St. Pantaleon to talk to Hieronymus again. Now I knew the murderer’s name. It was only a vague hope and not without its tragic aspect, forcing a dying man to rack his brains for me.”

“That’s why you were late?”

“Hieronymus couldn’t remember a man with long blond hair because at that time Urquhart didn’t have long blond hair. But the name rang a bell. At the end I knew what Urquhart really was.”

“And what was he?”

Jaspar gazed reflectively over the fields gilded by the setting sun. “He was a victim,” he said after a while.

“A victim?” Jacob mused. “And did you find the culprit?”

“War, Fox-cub. The thing that kills us at the moment when we kill. Urquhart was duke of Monadhliath in Scotland. His castle rises above Loch Ness. But he was not one of those clan chiefs who was a crude butcher. He had been to Paris and well taught there. Hieronymus described him as a man both noble and bold. Quick to take up his sword, but just as quick with words. A man who loved duels, but not slaughter. Among the nobles who led the Crusade, he was counted as one of the most honorable, although like so many he had succumbed to the mistaken belief that God’s seed can flourish in blood-soaked soil. Then Louis’s troops captured Damietta. And something happened he could not understand. Slaughter. Louis had hundreds of children herded together to demonstrate once and for all what he thought of the infidel. They were tortured and butchered, so that many of the men, even the toughest and cruelest among them, turned away in horror.”

Jaspar sighed.

“The mighty ignore condemnations of war with contempt, intellectuals with a shrug of the shoulders, because they say nothing new or original. But they will remain true as long as we continue to wage war. We will have dominion over the whole of creation in a way God never dreamed of. We will not be dwarves on the shoulders of giants, but a race of giants, each outgrowing the other much too quickly—but when it comes to the crunch, we’ll still smash one another’s skulls in as in the darkest of dark ages. When they slaughtered the children in Damietta, something changed inside Urquhart. War has more subtle methods of destroying people than just killing them. He fell into a fit of demented rage. And his heart began to freeze to ice. Eventually they were all afraid of him, even Louis. He sent a dozen of his best men to Urquhart’s tent. They crept in at night to kill him while he slept.”

“What happened?”

“Only one came out. Crawled out on his belly. His last words were that it wasn’t a man they’d found in the tent, but a beast, and that beast had been the Devil. The next morning Urquhart was gone. He had run away, just like you. From himself, from what could not be altered. And unlike you, who eventually managed to come to terms with it, Urquhart gave himself up to the dark side. The evil, that he believed he was fighting against, became his nature. Urquhart no longer recognized himself, otherwise he would have realized that one can always turn back.”

For a while Jacob said nothing. Then, “No,” he said, “I don’t think he could turn back.”

“But you did.”

“I had help.”

“Hmm.” Jaspar massaged the bridge of his nose. For a long time there was silence.

“What are you going to do now?” he eventually asked.

“Don’t know. Think. Play my whistle. Not run away, that’s for sure.”

“Very worthy. Now I’m not trying to talk you into anything you don’t want, but—well, as far as dyeing’s concerned, Goddert will have to call it a day, and Richmodis—well, I think I can say she quite likes you…”

“I more than quite like Richmodis.”

“Well, there you are!” Jaspar slapped the stone parapet. “What are we waiting for?”

“Jaspar.” Jacob shook his head and smiled for the first time. “You can run away by staying where you are. I need to be alone with myself for a while. It isn’t all over for me yet. What I mean is, saying Urquhart’s dead and the alliance dissolved is not the end of the story. I’m still the man who looked away too quickly. Once. Give me time.”

Jaspar looked at him for a long time. “Will you go away?”

Jacob shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps. In a way we were similar. Urquhart no longer knew who he was, and I’ve been running away for so long that over the years I’ve lost myself. Do you think Richmodis could be happy with a man who doesn’t know who he is?”

Jaspar thought about it. “No,” he admitted quietly. Suddenly he felt sad. And at the same time a little proud of his Fox.

The sky was turning pink. A flight of swallows skimmed over their heads. Soon they would be gone, too.

“But if you go searching—”

Jacob looked at him.

“—and find what you’re looking for—” Jaspar spread his arms wide. “I mean, you have a choice.”

Jacob nodded. “Abelard,” he said, smiling.

Jaspar’s grin was broad. Dammit, another reason to be proud.

“Yes,” he said. “Abelard.”