DEATH AND THE Devil
FRANK SCHATZING
TRANSLATED BY MIKE MITCHELL
Language does not veil reality, but expresses it.
—PETER ABELARD
Contents
Epigraph
Prologue
10 September
11 September
12 September
13 September
14 September
Author’s Note
About the Author
Praise
Credits
Other Books by Frank Schatzing
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
The wolf stood on the height, its gaze fixed on the ring of the great wall bathed in the gold of the evening sun.
Its breathing was steady. Its powerful flanks quivered slightly. It had been running all day from the castles of Jülich over the hills and down to this spot where the trees ended, giving a clear view of the distant city. Despite that, it felt no tiredness. As the sun behind it slipped below the horizon in a ball of fire, it threw back its muzzle to take stock of its surroundings.
The odors were intense: the river water, the mud of the banks, the rotting wood of ships’ hulls. It sucked in the scent of animals mingling with the smells given off by humans and their artifacts: fragrant wines and excrement, incense, peat and flesh, the salt on sweaty bodies and the fragrance of expensive furs, blood, honey, herbs, ripe fruit, leprosy, and mold. It smelled love and fear, terror, weakness, hatred, and power. Everything down there spoke its own pungent language, telling the wolf of life inside the stone walls, and of death.
It turned its head.
Silence. The only sound the rustling of leaves.
It waited, motionless, until the gold had gone from the walls and all that was left was a shimmer on the topmost battlements of the gate towers. In a short while that would be gone as well, leaving the day to oblivion. Night would come, clothing the valley in new, dull colors until those too gave way to a darkness in which the gleam of its eyes was the only light.
The time was close when wolves would appear in the dreams of men, a time of change, a time of hunting.
With lithe steps the wolf padded down the slope and disappeared in the tall, dry grass.
Here and there a bird started singing again.
10 September
OUTSIDE THE GATES
“I’m cold.”
“You’re always cold. You’re an arrant coward, that’s your problem.”
Heinrich drew his cloak tighter around him and shot his companion an angry glance. “You don’t really mean that, Matthias. It is cold.”
Matthias shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, then. If you insist—it’s cold.”
“You don’t understand. I feel cold inside.” Heinrich threw his hands out in a theatrical gesture. “That we have to stoop to such means! As God’s my witness, there’s no man less inclined to violence, but—”
“God’s not your witness,” Matthias interrupted.
“What?”
“Why should God waste his precious time on your whining and moaning? To tell the truth, I’m surprised you managed to get on your horse at this time of the night.”
“Now you’re going too far,” Heinrich hissed. “Show a little respect, if you please.”
“I show everyone the respect they deserve.” Matthias steered his horse around an overturned oxcart that suddenly loomed up out of the darkness. The light was fading rapidly. It had been sunny, but it was September and the days were growing shorter, the evenings cooler. Mists rose, shrouding the world in enigmatic gloom. By now the walls of Cologne were almost half a mile behind them and all they had were their flickering torches. Matthias knew well that Heinrich was almost soiling himself with fear, and that fact gave him a grim satisfaction. Heinrich had his good points, but courage was not one of them.
He decided to ignore him and urged his horse forward.
In general no one would think of leaving the city at this hour, unless they had been thrown out. The area was unsafe. There were bands of thieves and robbers everywhere, despite the Pacification proclaimed by the archbishop of Cologne together with the lords of the surrounding district. That was in 1259, scarcely a year ago. It was all drawn up in a document plastered with seals. If you believed it, travelers and merchants could make their way across the Rhineland without being robbed and killed by brigands. But promises that were more or less kept by day, especially when the merchants’ contributions toward the rather sparse protection was due, did not extend to the night. Only recently the body of a girl had been found, raped and strangled, in the fields not many yards from the Frisian Gate. Her parents were reputable people from a family of armorers who had lived for generations at the sign of the helmet opposite the archbishop’s palace. One rumor had it that the Arch-fiend himself had cast a spell on the girl to lure her out, others suggested that the farmer in whose field she had been found should be broken on the wheel. It was not so much that they thought he was the murderer, but how did the daughter of respectable burghers come to be lying dead on his land? Especially since no one could explain what she was doing out there so late. Once the first wave of indignation had died down, however, it turned out that it was common knowledge she had been going around with minstrels and worse, lardmongers from Grease Lane and scum that should never have been allowed into the city in the first place. Her own fault, then. It was better not to rely on the Pacification.
“Wait!”
Heinrich was a long way behind. Matthias realized he had given his Arab steed his head and slowed it down to a walk until his companion caught up. They had passed several farms now since leaving the city and reached a small wood. The moon cast only a faint light on the land around.
“Shouldn’t we wait somewhere here?” Heinrich’s voice was trembling almost as much as his hands.
“No.” Matthias was peering through the first trees of the wood. The path disappeared into the darkness. “We have to go to the clearing. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go back?”
“What? By myself?!” Mortified, Heinrich bit his lip, but too late, it was out. For a moment anger overcame his cowardice. “You keep trying to provoke me. As if I’d turn back! As if the thought would even occur to me, here in the darkness with a puffed-up peacock at my side who’s always shooting his mouth off—”
“Talking of mouths,” Matthias hissed, reining in his horse and grabbing Heinrich by the shoulder, “you’d do better to keep yours shut. If I were the man we’ve come to meet and heard your wailing I’d have taken off long ago.”
Heinrich glared at him in a mixture of fury and humiliation, then pulled himself away and rode on through the trees, crouching low in the saddle. Matthias followed. The shadows of the branches danced in the light from their torches. A few minutes later they reached the clearing and stopped. Apart from the rustling of the wind through the leaves there was nothing to be heard but the monotonous hooting of an owl somewhere above.
They waited in silence.
After a while Heinrich began to twist and turn restlessly in his saddle. “And if he doesn’t come?”
“He’ll come.”
“How can you be so sure? People like that are nothing—here today, gone tomorrow.”
“He’ll come. William of Jülich recommended him, and that means he’ll come.”
“The count of Jülich knew nothing at all about him.”
“What one knows about these people is not important. It’s what they do that counts and this man served William well.”
“I hate not knowing who other people are.”
“Why? It’s easier like that.”
“Nevertheless. Perhaps we ought t
o go back and think everything over again.”
“And what will you tell the others? That you pissed your pants and your horse with fear?”
“You’ll apologize for that!”
“Just hold your tongue.”
“I’ve not reached my age to have you shut me up all the time!”
“I’m three years older, remember?” Matthias mocked. “The older, the wiser. And since I don’t think I’ve achieved wisdom myself yet, you can tell roughly where you stand. Now keep quiet.”
Before Heinrich could reply Matthias had dismounted and sat down in the grass. Nervously Heinrich surveyed the silhouettes of the pines and looked for the moon. It was hidden behind a thin bank of cloud; here and there a few stars peeped through. The night was not to his liking, though to be honest no night was to his liking if he wasn’t tucked up in bed or in the arms of a courtesan.
He looked back, screwing up his eyes to make sure no one had followed them.
A shadow flitted through the trees.
Heinrich gave such a start he almost spurred his horse. Suddenly his throat was unpleasantly dry.
“Matthias—”
“What?”
“There’s something. There.”
In a flash Matthias was on his feet and looking in the same direction.
“I can’t see anything.”
“But there was something.”
“Hmm. Perhaps your fervent desire to perform heroic deeds has conjured up an enemy. They say witches—”
“This is not the time for jokes. Look, there!”
Two faintly gleaming points of light appeared out of the darkness and slowly came nearer. A scarcely perceptible something could just be discerned against the darkness of the bushes, blacker than black, its massive head toward them. It was observing them.
“The Devil!” Heinrich exclaimed in horror. His hand groped wildly for his sword.
“Nonsense.” Matthias held up his torch and took a step toward the edge of the wood.
“Are you mad?! Come back, for God’s sake!”
Matthias squatted down to get a better view. The two points of light disappeared as quickly as they had come. “A wolf,” he declared.
“A wolf?” Heinrich gulped. “What are wolves doing this close to the city?”
“Hunting,” a voice said.
Both swung around. Where Matthias had been sitting stood a man. He was tall, and thick blond hair fell over his shoulders in locks that almost coiled down to his waist. His cloak was as black as the night. Neither had heard him approach.
Matthias peered into the darkness. “Urquhart?”
The man nodded.
Heinrich was frozen in the saddle like a pillar of salt, gaping openmouthed at the stranger. Matthias threw him a contemptuous glance. “You can get down now, O noble knight full of years and valor.”
Heinrich’s features twitched. He closed his mouth with an audible clack of teeth and slithered out of the saddle.
“Let’s sit down,” Matthias suggested.
By the time they had seated themselves a little way from the horses, Heinrich had recovered his voice and his dignified manner. “We didn’t hear you come,” he complained.
“Of course not.” Urquhart’s smile revealed two gleaming rows of perfect white teeth. “You were busy with your wolf. Wolves are quickly there when you call them. Didn’t you know that?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Matthias with a frown. “No one in his right mind would call wolves.”
Urquhart smiled. “You could be right. Anyway, it was probably only a dog that was more afraid of you than you of it. If that’s any comfort,” he added politely, turning toward Heinrich.
Heinrich stared at the ground and started tugging at bits of grass.
“Where’s your horse?” Matthias asked.
“Near enough,” Urquhart replied. “I won’t be needing it in the city.”
“Are you sure? Cologne’s bigger than most cities.”
“And I’m faster than most horses.”
Matthias gave him an appraising look. “If you say so. The count of Jülich told you how much we are prepared to pay?”
Urquhart nodded. “William mentioned a thousand silver marks. I’m happy with that.”
“We’re raising our offer. The requirements have increased. Say twice as much work.”
“Agreed. And my wages—say three times as much.”
“I’m not happy with that.”
“And I’m not happy with this chopping and changing. We’re not haggling over a piece of merchandise. Three thousand.”
Heinrich cut in sharply. “Are you worth that much?”
Urquhart surveyed him for a while, the corners of his mouth twitching in mild amusement. Then he raised his bushy eyebrows. “Yes.”
Matthias nodded. “Agreed then. Three thousand.”
“What?” Heinrich objected. “But you yourself just—”
“Agreed!” Matthias turned to Urquhart. “Let’s get down to details.”
“As your lordship wishes.”
A strange fellow, thought Matthias, well mannered and polite. He started to talk, softly, insistently. Urquhart listened, motionless apart from the occasional nod. “Any questions?”
“No.”
“Good.” Matthias got up, brushing the grass and soil from his clothes. He produced a scroll from the folds of his cloak and handed it to Urquhart. “A letter of recommendation from the abbot of the Greyfriars. There’s no need to go and pay your respects; no one’s expecting you. I don’t think you’ll be stopped at the gate, but with a reference like this no town guard will refuse you entry.”
Urquhart gave a low whistle. “I don’t need papers to get in, but it would interest me to know how you got the abbot to put his seal to your service.”
Matthias gave a smug laugh. “Our mutual friend, William of Jülich, is the proud owner of a farm only a stone’s throw from the abbey and the abbot owes him various favors. William has made a number of valuable contributions to the sacristy, if you get my meaning.”
“I thought the Franciscans were poor and without worldly goods.”
“Yes. That means everything on their land belongs to the Lord alone. Of course, until He comes to fetch it, it has to be looked after.”
“Or eaten?”
“And drunk.”
“Have you two quite finished?” Heinrich kept his voice down but the irritation was audible. “Cock Gate closes at ten on the dot and a night under the stars is the last thing I want.”
“Yes, yes.” Matthias scrutinized Urquhart. “Work out your plan. We’ll meet at the convent of the Ursulines at five tomorrow to discuss any remaining details. I presume I can rely on you to keep low until then?”
“You’ve no need to worry about me,” said Urquhart with a smile. He stretched and looked up at the moon peeping shyly out between the clouds. “You two go now. Time’s getting short.”
“I see you carry no weapons.”
“As I said, you’ve no need to worry about me. I use my weapons, not wear them for public show. They’ll be there when I need them.” He gave Matthias a wink. “I even carry a quill and parchment with me.”
“Those aren’t weapons,” Matthias objected.
“Oh, yes, they are. The written word can be a very powerful weapon. Anything can be a weapon for those who know how to use it.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Now go.”
Heinrich turned away and stumped sulkily over to the horses. Matthias followed. He looked back once, but Urquhart had vanished.
“Did you notice his eyes?” Heinrich whispered.
“What?”
“Urquhart’s eyes!”
Matthias was trying to collect his thoughts. “What about his eyes?”
“A dead man’s eyes.”
Matthias stared at the spot where Urquhart had been standing. “You’re dreaming, Heinrich.”
“Eyes like a dead man’s. He frightens me.”
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“Not me. Off we go.”
They rode as fast as the darkness and the tangle of roots in the wood allowed. Once out in the open countryside they spurred their horses on and reached the city ten minutes later. As they slipped into the safety of the great wall, the gate closed slowly behind them, shutting out the triumphant night.
11 September
HAYMARKET
Jacob the Fox was wandering around the markets assembling his lunch.
The nickname was inevitable. His head blazed like a house on fire. Short and slim, no one would have noticed him had it not been for the uncontrollable mop of red hair sticking out in all directions. Each wiry strand seemed to have a will of its own and yet, or perhaps for that very reason, it exerted a strange power over women. They seemed to feel an irresistible urge to run their fingers through it, to pat and pull at it, as if there were a competition to see who could teach it at least the rudiments of discipline. Up to now there had been no winner, for which Jacob gave heartfelt thanks to the Creator and made sure he kept his red thatch well tousled, maintaining its attraction to the fair sex. Once they had succumbed to the lure of the red mane they were in danger of losing themselves completely in the bright blue of his eyes.
Today, however, with his stomach rumbling angrily, Jacob had abandoned the prospect of further conquests, at least in the short term, and covered his red mane with an old rag that even in its better days would not have deserved the name of hood.
He caught the odor of expensive Dutch cheese and quickly moved away between the crowded stalls, doing his best to ignore it. A vivid picture was forming in his mind of the exposed slice glistening with fat as it melted in the midday sun. However much the Devil might waft the delicious smell under his nose, at the moment things at the cheese market were much too lively for a quick snatch.
There were better opportunities at the vegetable market opposite. The northern end of Haymarket was more attractive to the penniless customer anyway, offering as it did a variety of escape routes. One could slip between the coal merchants’ piled-up wares and the salt market and disappear into a thousand alleyways, for example past the hosiers’ shops and the bread hall, then up to the poulterers’ stands and into Judengasse. Another possibility was to head down toward the Rhine, by Salzgasse or, better still, past the basket weavers to where the fishmongers had their open stalls. There, in the shadow of the great monastery church of St. Martin’s, the fishmarket began and with it the stench of herring, eel, and catfish, so that there at the latest pursuers would give up the chase, sparing a sympathetic thought for the venerable brethren of St. Martin’s and thanking God that they didn’t have to set up their stalls on the banks of the Rhine.