The Book of Secrets

VIII

Cologne, 1420

‘Is everything satisfactory?’

I sat at the workbench and tried to concentrate on the sheet of paper laid in front of me. I wanted to impress my new master with my diligence, but everywhere my surroundings seduced my attention away. It was as though all the dreams of my imagination had exploded into this one room. Tools beyond number hung from nails on the walls: burins and polishers, scrapers and chisels, and many whose names I did not know but would learn. One whole beam was given over to a set of hammers, ranging in size from a sturdy mallet to a gem hammer so small it could have beaten angel hair. A rack on the opposite wall held more treasures: glass and silver beads dangling on long strings, fragments of crystal and lead, vials of antimony and quicksilver for alloying the gold, pink coral that forked like antlers, long iron fingers loaded with rings. In a lattice-fronted cabinet by the window, gold cups and plates awaited their owners. Even the scorch marks on the table by my elbow seemed to speak of wonders. Outside the shopfront, across the square, buttresses and scaffolding rose around the unfinished cathedral.

Konrad Schmidt, master goldsmith and now also my master, sighed to draw my attention back.

‘For seven years I undertake to school you in the ways, crafts and mysteries of the goldsmith’s guild. You will live under my roof, eat with my family, and do all the work I command you in accordance with the laws of the guild. I will not demand anything below your dignity as an apprentice. You will draw water for quenching iron but not for drinking; you will fetch wood for the forge but not for my wife’s oven. In return, you will pay me ten gulden now, and another gulden each three months for your food and lodgings. You will conduct yourself as befits a member of this noble guild. You will not divulge the secrets of our craft to any man. You will not steal from my shop or my family. You will moderate your appetites and bring no shame on my household. You will not commit any immoral or heinous act under my roof, nor insult my family. Is this satisfactory?’

I snatched the reed pen from the inkpot and scrawled my name large across the bottom of the page. Flush with the desire to impress my new master with my learning, I signed in Latin. Johannes de Maguntia – Johann of Mainz. Henchen Gensfleisch, the boy I had been, was gone, abandoned on the wharf at Mainz six days earlier.

Konrad Schmidt was not a man susceptible to enthusiasm. He took the paper, sanded the wet ink and left it to dry.

I took a moment to examine the man who now owned my future. He was about fifty, his eyes dark and deep, his cheeks hollowed out by age. He wore a high-necked wine-coloured gown with a fur-trimmed jerkin over it, and a fat ring on his left hand which was rich but not gaudy. Grey curls poked out from under the velvet cap he wore; sobriety seemed written on every line of his face. When he smiled, which was rarely, it only made him seem sad.

And what did he have in return? I saw myself over his shoulder in a silver mirror on the wall. Surely I was the model of a young apprentice. I wore the fresh white shirt I had bought in Mainz and kept wrapped for a week while the barge brought me downriver. My hair was brushed and trimmed under my cloth cap, my skin scrubbed in the bathhouse, my cheeks freshly shaved. All my belongings were gathered in a sack by my feet. From the moment I had set foot on the dock at Cologne and seen the cathedral on its hill like a blade of glass, I had felt free, beyond my father’s reach at last and released from the suffocation of my family. This, I knew, was where I would make my mark.

Schmidt saw me staring but did not comment. ‘I will show you the rest of the house.’

I picked up my sack and followed. A door at the back led into a small yard which contained a privy, a storeroom, a woodshed and a large furnace set against the back wall. A man in a leather apron worked a pair of wheezing bellows by the furnace. He turned as he heard us approach.

‘This is Gerhard,’ said Schmidt. ‘He finished his apprenticeship this past summer. Now he works here as a journeyman.’

I disliked him at once. His big hands looked far too clumsy to have created any of the delicate pieces in the shop. His face was fat and red, sweaty from the forge, with puffy skin around his narrow eyes. He reminded me of my father, though he could not have been more than five years my senior. He nodded at me and grunted, then turned back to his task.

‘Gerhard will supervise you while I tend the shop.’

My shining mood dimmed. Konrad Schmidt was everything I had expected from my master: solemn, authoritative, easy to obey. Gerhard, I knew instantly, was an oaf who would teach me nothing. It was with a sullen face that I followed Schmidt up the wooden staircase on the outside of the house to the next storey.

‘This is where my wife and I live.’

This level was divided into two rooms, a hall and a bedchamber. Green hangings covered the stone walls, and three dark chests lined the edges of the room. Sitting on one of them, next to a cradle, a fair-haired woman in an unlaced dress suckled an infant.

‘My wife,’ said Schmidt gruffly. Just before he pulled me back to the staircase I saw her shoot me a welcoming smile. She must have been closer in age to me than to her husband, and time had been kind to her figure. I understood now why Schmidt had put such emphasis on my moral obligations.

‘Do you have other children?’ I asked as we climbed to the attic chamber. We were high up now: rooftops, chimneys and spires stretched away all around us. Down in the courtyard, even Gerhard looked small.

‘A daughter, apprenticed to a weaver, and a son. You will meet him soon enough. The guild has just approved his enrolment as my apprentice. You will share the room.’

We reached the platform at the top of the stairs and ducked into the attic. A window in the gable admitted a cool autumn light. Otherwise the room was bare save for a lamp, a chest and a single bed.

‘This is where you and Pieter sleep.’

I crossed to the window and looked out. Directly opposite rose the half-built cathedral – the needle-thin chapel the only part rising to its full height. The city stretched away from it in a broad crescent, mirroring the bend in the river which ribboned away to the south, back to Mainz. The view reassured me. Perhaps Gerhard’s tutelage would not be such an ordeal.

The door banged open and I turned, thinking the wind had blown it in. A youth, not much more than a boy, stood on the stair outside and peered in curiously. He had soft white skin, unmarked by any line or flaw, and a cap of golden curls. For a moment I thought he must be an angel. Then I saw the resemblance with Konrad. They were as alike as two clay vessels moulded by the same potter’s hand, one fired and cracked, the other moist and smooth, untouched by the kiln. He smiled at me.

Schmidt made a gesture between us. ‘This is my son, Pieter.’

That moment, I felt the demon enter my soul.