I wasn’t a skilled rider at the best of times and my pregnancy didn’t help. Even as we rode out of town, you didn’t stop trying to persuade me to head in a different direction. Three sets of horse tracks going in the same direction were easier to follow than two sets going in opposite directions, you argued. I refused to hear it and countered that the best thing we could do was put as much distance behind us as possible.
We rode until the horses were too exhausted to continue. My back ached, pain coursed my spine with every clop of the hooves, and there was agony in my lower stomach. But I refused to complain, because I was with you.
We found a small inn and I was sent to deal with the innkeep, because the less the two of you were seen, the better. Before we went to sleep that first night, I asked where we were headed. Brandeis answered, “It’s better not to have a destination. If we know where we’re going, the trackers will know too.” I didn’t understand how this could be true, but I was too tired to argue.
Over the next days, we would ride for as long as I could manage and then take a room, none of us venturing out except when I went in search of food. It did not take long before the traveling started exacting a toll on me. My breasts were aching and my leg cramps were growing worse, and the muscles at my ribs felt stretched and torn. I knew I was slowing us down, it was apparent to all of us, and this gave fuel to our constant arguments. You pointed out that my frequent stops to urinate not only slowed us, but made the trail easier to follow. You even threatened to leave me behind but, of course, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.
In towns we cut through back alleys and in the wilderness we forced the horses through icy streams and over rocky outcrops. They hated it, but no more than I did. The horses could not keep up the pace we needed, too much running and not enough rest. When they wore out, we traded them for new ones. The trackers would be forced to do the same or be left behind.
Despite constantly looking over my shoulder, I never saw the trackers. I wanted to believe we’d lost them. Honestly, I couldn’t see how they could possibly remain on our trail, with all the tricks that we were employing while riding. But then again, they’d found Brandeis in Mainz. I had no real idea of their capabilities but the two of you had lived with these sorts of men, so I had to trust your fear. You kept pushing us forward at a relentless pace.
Each day increased my worry about what the riding might be doing to our child—could it cause an unnatural birth? I had to keep convincing myself, hour after hour, that escaping the trackers was worth any risk. In the rare moments when I was not worrying about the baby, I strengthened my resolve by remembering how, when we first left Engelthal, you bought us a spot on a pig wagon. I tried to convince myself that our current situation was just one more test in our lives to be overcome, and at least there wasn’t the smell of pigs.
But after about a week, I simply could not go farther. You and Brandeis were still holding up, but I pleaded for rest. We’d traveled so many miles that surely we would be safe for a day. You agreed. Not because it was safe, but because it was time to make a plan. I didn’t care why. I would take the break for whatever reason.
We’d been riding in circles to confuse our followers and, as an unintentional result, we had not traveled that far from where we’d started. We found ourselves close to Nürnberg, which was an advantage because even if the trackers had managed to stay behind us, the city itself was large enough to hide us for a few extra hours.
We found an inn and the two of you sat around a table discussing the next move. Maybe we’d go north, to Hamburg, or maybe it would be safer to go east, into Bohemia or Carinthia. There was even talk about heading to Italy. You knew a few rudimentary phrases from the Italian archers, and I could act as translator for the rest. After a year or two, we could return to Germany. It was unlikely that our pursuers would guess this destination and even if they did, Kuonrat would have to devote significant long-term resources to continue the hunt in another country.
Our stay in Nürnberg was supposed to last only a day, but my body didn’t cooperate. For three days, I was in too much pain to continue. My heart raced constantly and I was short of breath. I craved food, but could not keep it down. I longed for sleep, but my mind outraced the closing of my eyes. My pregnancy was rebelling and finally, grudgingly, I accepted that you were correct: I was too weak to continue. It was decided that I’d be placed in the care of the Church. You’d hand me over with a fistful of coins, enough to pay for my care through the pregnancy, and when you were confident that you’d escaped, you’d come back for me. The plan was set; you’d allow me only one more night of sleep before it was put into action. I asked where you would go after leaving me, but you would not tell me even this. “It’s better not to have a destination….” I cried myself to sleep that night, with you stroking my hair and assuring me that everything would be all right.
Fate, however, had a different view. In the middle of the night there came a series of heavy thuds against our door, shaking the pile of furniture that you’d pushed up against it, and it was instantly clear that we’d been discovered. The only way out was through the window, even though we were on the second story, some fifteen feet up.
I struggled to lift myself out of bed but was unable, and you had to pull me out by the arms. While I recovered my breath, Brandeis gathered the bags; you craned your neck around the window frame to check whether anyone was outside, and threw up your hand in warning to stay back. “Crossbow,” you commanded.
Brandeis grabbed a crossbow and inserted an arrow into the channel. As soon as the string was set, he put the weapon into your hands and you pushed the front end through the window. There was the whiz of the arrow through the air and a thud as it hit something solid. You gave another hand signal indicating the way was now clear and went out the window first. It wasn’t that you were lacking manners, but someone had to catch me on the way down. Behind us, I heard the door splintering under an ax.
Despite the immediate threat of the attack, I froze at the window. The drop was too much, too risky for the baby. Brandeis stood between me and the door, yelling at me to jump. But I remained immobilized, looking down at your open arms, until I heard Brandeis’ voice behind me—“Marianne, I’m sorry”—as he pushed me through the open window.
I went out with my arms wrapped around my belly and you took the full force of my fall by rolling backwards into the snow as you caught me. I heard shouting from above; a few moments later, Brandeis came tumbling out the window.
There was something strange about the way he fell, but most of my attention was focused on the dead tracker across the street. His face was pushed into a puddle of dirty snow, his neck twisted at an awkward angle because of the arrow sticking through it. Then I realized that the snow was not dirty, but red from the little geysers of blood still pulsing from his neck.
You jerked me in the direction of the horses and the next thing I knew, we were hurtling through the streets of Nürnberg. You and Brandeis were on either side of me, directing my horse and determining my path. Between my fatigue and the shock of the attack, I was pretty much useless.
I watched my horse snort out its steamy breath as it ran, all the while thinking about the man in the street who had no more breath. It was the way that he died that I found so unnerving, the way you’d killed him without a thought, without uncertainty. I’d watched your face as you sent that arrow flying, and it didn’t even cross my mind that the target might be a person. Your mouth had been clenched, your eyes had narrowed, and your finger did not hesitate. You took a quick breath before pulling the trigger but it was not to steady your soul, only your hands. It had all happened in—what? A second? Less? Could this really be all the time it took to kill a man?
We were just outside the city limits when I saw Brandeis’ steed rear. The horse didn’t exactly throw him off; rather, Brandeis just slumped to the side. The animal gave out a confused whinny and twisted around, as if it had lost its bearings without its rider. There was blood everyw
here, in the snow, on the horse’s flank, all down Brandeis’ leg. The cloth of his pants was ripped open and there was a huge gash in the upper part of his thigh where the skin was peeled back like a demon’s smile, spitting mouthfuls of blood. His face was pale, his lips quivering. “One of them threw an ax. It caught me on the way out of the window. I’m sorry.”
I pressed my hand to his forehead and it was so cold, so clammy. I didn’t know how he’d managed to stay on the horse as long as he had. You washed out the wound with a handful of snow, and a pink puddle collected around the steaming wound. You asked for fabric, so I pulled out the first thing I could find in my saddlebag. My nun’s habit. I should have found something different but I was in shock, I think, and it was on top. You shredded it into a makeshift binding and tied it above the wound.
You sent Brandeis’ horse in the opposite direction with a slap, hoping it might act as a decoy, and scooped Brandeis out of the snow. You reminded me that the trackers were still behind us, but now they were bound to be angry, and you pulled Brandeis up onto your horse and steadied him against your back. You looped his arms around you and tied his hands together in front of your waist. “We’re not far from Engelthal. Even mercenaries will respect a house of God.”
My stomach knotted because, of all the places in the entire world, Engelthal was the very last I wanted to visit. But I understood how dire the situation was and I swallowed any protest I might have had. Brandeis needed immediate attention, so we fled in the direction of the monastery.
He hung off your back like an overstuffed scarecrow being delivered to the field. Your horse struggled under the strain and we couldn’t travel quickly, but you pushed as hard as you could. We abandoned back paths and took the most direct route, because the time for stealth was past. We couldn’t stop to check Brandeis’ wounds and I had to fight my own racing heart. As we rode, I asked the question of you that I could no longer contain. “How could you shoot that man? Through his throat?”
“I was aiming for his chest.” It was so detached, the way you said it, and it was clear by your tone that the discussion was ended.
When I started to recognize the landscape, I pointed out the best paths. At the gates of Engelthal, I dismounted awkwardly and pounded on the door. It made more sense for me to make our plea and, besides, it would have been too time-consuming to unstrap Brandeis from your body.
Sister Constantia was the one to open the gate, and a look of confusion immediately crossed her face. “Sister Marianne?”
I explained our situation and I could see that she kept looking over to you, taking in the fact that you were the burned soldier she’d helped to tend years before. When Sister Constantia finally found her voice again, she said, “Normally…normally, I would let you in…but this is not normal.” Her eyes went down, almost with embarrassment, to my swollen stomach.
I couldn’t understand the hesitation. No matter what had been gossiped about my disappearance, we needed protection or Brandeis would die. I gestured towards him for emphasis. I saw Sister Constantia’s face register the fact that the bloody rags wrapped around his legs were the shredded remains of my nun’s habit.
“If you cannot invite us in,” I pleaded, “get Mother Christina. She will not allow this man to die.”
“The prioress is in Nürnberg and will not be back soon. Sister Agletrudis is acting in her absence. I will get her.” Before heading into the monastery, Sister Constantia added just one more thing. “But she has never forgiven your desecration of the scriptorium.”
I had no idea what Sister Constantia meant, but I could be certain that I’d find out when Agletrudis arrived.
XXVI.
November ended with the completion of statue 21, bringing the month’s total to seven.
Statues 20 and 19 were completed in the first week of December. Statue 18 arrived in the second week. Marianne Engel’s preparation periods on the stone were becoming longer, but her bed had remained unvisited since the night she told me about Brandeis. Our lives now consisted of only three actions. She carved and forgot, and I watched.
I watched her ignore Bougatsa; she forgot to help me bathe. I watched her push aside every plate of food I prepared; she forgot to put a gift into my St. Nick’s shoes on the windowsill. I watched her smoke a hundred cigarettes a day; she forgot to change whatever album was on the stereo. I watched her eat jars of instant coffee; she forgot to clean the blood from her fingers. I watched the flesh of her body waste away, I watched her cheeks becoming shrunken, I watched her eyes becoming ever darker; she forgot how to string words into a coherent sentence.
YOU’RE I am not USELESS.
I pleaded with her to take a break, but she insisted that she was running out of time. It was now not only the statues but also her Three Masters who were urging her to work faster.
I called Gregor and Sayuri because I didn’t know what else to do. They tried to talk some sense into her, but they might as well have been talking to the walls. I’m not even sure that Marianne Engel registered that they were in the room with her. When I tried to enlist Jack’s help, she turned the conversation to how the situation was affecting her. “I’ve got no more room at the gallery and she keeps sending over all these statues. It’s not like they’re big Christmas sellers, you know.” I slammed down the phone and headed directly to my morphine kit for comfort.
I had to hire workers to move the extra statues out of the basement and into the backyard. I was against this, hoping the crammed workshop would force Marianne Engel to stop, but she insisted. When I protested she started screaming at me in a language I didn’t recognize, and I crumbled. It was obvious that something terrible was going to happen.
“You can’t keep working like this.”
“Monsters are divine portents.”
“You’re covered in blood. Let me give you a bath.”
“The blood of life.”
“Why don’t you eat something?” I coaxed. “You’re wasting away.”
“I’m becoming pure nothingness. It’s glorious.”
“If you get sick, you won’t be able to help the grotesques.”
“If I get sick, I will rejoice because God has remembered me.”
She refused to come upstairs, to bathe, or to sleep, so when she was stretched out over the stone in preparation, I would bring down a bucket with warm water and soap. If she would not go to the cleaning, I would bring the cleaning to her.
The sponge over her ribs was like a car over speed bumps. Gray liquid dripped off her body, falling to the workshop floor to create patterns in the dust. Bougatsa yelped in the corner. When I turned her onto her side so that I could clean her back, her angel wing tattoos seemed to sag with the loose skin.
Jack was doing nothing to help me, but she could hardly have been unaware of the frantic carving, given her overflowing gallery. The longer Jack did not offer the help for which I refused to ask, the more my resentment grew. When I could no longer contain it, I stormed her shop and demanded, without so much as a hello, that she do something.
“What do you expect me to do?” Jack said. “She cares more about you than she ever did about me, and you can’t get her to stop. So just try to make her eat and drink water, and wait until she collapses.”
“That’s it?” I said. “You’re making your fat commission, and that’s all you’ve got to say?”
“Christ, you’re a prick.” Jack jabbed me in the shoulder with the pen she was holding. “Is she taking her medicine?”
I explained that I had tried to mix it into her coffee crystals but she had figured out the deceit. She had marched up to the belfry and launched the jar past my head, shattering it against the wall. “Do you know how hard it is to get coffee crystals out of a bookshelf?”
Jack nodded. “The one time I tried to sneak her medicine into her, she wouldn’t speak to me for three months. Thought I was part of the plot against her.”
It calmed me somewhat to hear that Jack had tried the same trick that I had. We ended o
ur conversation with moderate civility, and Jack promised to come by the fortress that evening.
She brought food that Marianne Engel would be able to see was not stuffed with drugs—bread, fruit, cheese, and so on—and tried to engage her in conversation. It didn’t work. Marianne Engel was angry at us for interrupting her; she stood breaking the bread into little pieces that she dropped among the rock chips on the floor, then turned up the stereo until it drove us away. Climbing the stairs, we could hear her talking to herself excitedly in Latin.
Though we’d accomplished absolutely nothing, the effort had drained us. Jack and I sat silently in the living room for a quarter hour, barely looking up from the floor. I finally realized it was not that Jack didn’t care, but simply that she—having been through this before—really did know that there was nothing either of us could do. Still, as she left, Jack said, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
In the morning, I found Marianne Engel sprawled over newly completed statue 17. I hooked an arm around her and she didn’t have the strength to pull away from me despite her best efforts. “No, I have to prepare for the next one.” She meant it but she simply couldn’t resist me, and I helped her up the stairs.
Once again I rinsed the dust, sweat, and blood from her body, while her head lolled around the tub’s porcelain rim as if she were a marionette whose puppet master was on a break. She kept telling me, all through the washing and even as I was putting her into bed, that she needed to return to her workshop. But within seconds of hitting the sheets, she fell asleep.