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 un
til 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.