“Let go of me,” said Kuno, barely able to control himself.
“Why? Suddenly decided we don’t like to be touched by men’s hands, have we?” Daniel wrinkled his nose in contempt and let go of Kuno’s arm as if he had the pox. “Huh, who cares about you and your sniveling? You make me sick. Still whining about the deaths?” He bared his teeth. “Better save a few tears, crybaby, they won’t be the last.”
Kuno turned away. They won’t be the last—“What do you mean?” he asked, still not looking at Daniel.
“What do I mean?” Daniel spat on the floor and stabbed him in the ribs with his index finger. “Wouldn’t that be too heavy a burden for such a sensitive flower that wilts at the slightest hard decision? I couldn’t do that to you, Kuno, I know how much it makes you suffer. Or should I?” He minced around Kuno until he was peering up at him. “Aaaah! A steely gaze! Have we a man after all? I’m impressed, Kuno. You put the fear of God into me, you really do.”
Suddenly he tripped and stumbled against the banister.
“You’re not even capable of supporting the burden of your own body,” said Kuno contemptuously, “never mind burdening me.”
“Oh, yes?” Daniel grinned. “Aren’t you burdened enough with your worm-eaten Gerhard Morart? Ooooh, poor Gerhard, poor, poor Gerhard. Fell off the scaffolding. What bad luck. And you’re to blame.” He staggered over to Kuno and stood in front of him, swaying. “That’s not the only thing you’re to blame for. You’re to blame for everything. You really want to know who’s next on the list? Go to the old warehouse.”
“What are you talking about, you beer-swilling Overstolz sot?”
“Hah!” Daniel made a theatrical gesture, almost losing his balance in the process. “I ought to kill you for that, on the spot. But then you wouldn’t suffer anymore. Yes, my dear, tenderhearted friend, Urquhart has taken a young thing away from her nearest and dearest. Now he’s got them all where he wants them, the Fox, the dean—”
“The dean? Who’s that?”
“No, no, Kunikins, you don’t have to know everything. Just enough to get your arse in a lather.”
“You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“A lovely girl, so I heard. Urquhart told Matthias she’s the niece of the dean the Fox holed up with—”
“What fox?”
“The one who saw how your beloved master Gerhard learned to fly, the one—”
“Yes? Go on.”
Daniel’s eyes focused. All at once he seemed almost sober. “What are you after, Kuno?” he asked, emphasizing each single word.
“What am I after?”
“There’s something wrong. Why are you suddenly all ears?”
“Just listening to you, my friend.”
“Get out, you loathsome—”
“You can save your breath,” said Kuno calmly, “I’m going.” He turned on his heel and hurried out of the house into Rheingasse.
“—loathsome worm, slimy beast, excrescence on the backside of humanity—” Daniel screamed as he left.
Kuno ignored him completely. At last he knew what he must do.
Daniel leaned against the newel post, breathing heavily, as the door closed behind Kuno. Above him the door to Johann’s study “What’s all the noise about, Daniel?”
He looked up and shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing. Kuno was being insolent, that’s all.”
Johann looked down at him angrily. “Kuno may be a fool and a danger, but never insolent.”
“Father—”
“No! I don’t want to hear your shouting here. Do it in your own home, where your wife’s been waiting far too long for you, but not here. Understood?”
Daniel ground his teeth. “Understood.”
“I didn’t hear. Louder.”
“All right! Understood. Understood!”
Daniel gave a howl of fury, strode unsteadily across the hall, and flung the door open. Outside the rain was splattering on the mud.
That was a mistake, he thought. You should have kept your mouth shut.
You’d better sort it out.
SEVERINSTRAßE
“We can’t stay here,” Jacob declared.
They had laid Rolof on the bench and closed his eyes. They couldn’t do any more for him at the moment. Jaspar’s usual affability had given way to seething anger. Despite being pursued himself, he had so far treated the affair with a kind of academic interest. Now he was directly involved. His house had been broken into, his family put under threat, his servant brutally murdered. And there was another change in him. Beneath his quivering fury was uncertainty. For the first time he seemed to feel fear.
That did not stop him from kneeling down beside Rolof ’s body and accompanying him on his journey to a better world with silent prayers. Jacob stood there, not sure what he could say to the Lord. He hardly knew any prayers, so he asked Him to look mercifully on Rolof ’s soul, repeated the request several times, and then felt enough was enough.
“We’ve got to go,” he said urgently.
Jaspar continued to pray.
“Do you understand?”
“Why?” Jaspar growled.
“Why? God, they know everything about us.”
“So what?”
“Are we going to wait for them to come back and send us to join Rolof?”
“In the first place,” said Jaspar irritatedly, as he got up, “I presume it wasn’t a them but a him, that is, Gerhard’s murderer. In the second place, why should he come back? He’s got a hostage. He doesn’t need to bother with us anymore. None of us is going to say a blind word.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” asked Jacob uncertainly.
Jaspar was silent. Somehow his silence seemed to last too long.
“All right.” Jacob sat down on one of the stools. “I’m sorry I came to your house. I blame myself for what’s happened to Richmodis and I’m sad about Rolof. And I feel terrible that something might happen to you or Goddert. I’m very sorry, dammit! But it’s happened now and I can’t do anything to change it. It was your decision to help me. If you want, I’ll go and try to find Richmodis. If you never want to set eyes on me again, I can understand that. Only, however much I have to be grateful to you for, don’t blame me because you decided to help me.”
Jaspar frowned. “When did I ever blame you for anything?”
“Not out loud, Jaspar, but you thought it. You see me as responsible for all this. In a way I am. But you had a free choice. Nobody forced you. Don’t think I’m being ungrateful, I just want you to be open with me. Throw me out, if you like, but don’t pretend you want to help me, while inside you’re beginning to hate me.”
“Who’s saying I hate you?”
“No one is. But at the moment you’re thinking, if I hadn’t met this goddamn good-for-nothing—or, if you like, if I hadn’t helped him—Rolof would still be alive and no one would be in danger. You’re weighing my life against those of Rolof and Richmodis, and I come off worse. You don’t have to tell me, I know. But I also know this may be your last opportunity to decide, and I don’t want you deceiving yourself and me. I can live—and die—with anything, apart from the contempt of a Good Samaritan who’s standing by me, not for my sake, but for his own self-respect.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t need anyone to tell me my life is worth less than that of others. Send me away, if you want. But leave me my pride.”
Jaspar put his head on one side and squinted at Jacob. “You think this is the right moment to tell me all this?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm.” He sat down facing Jacob and massaged the bridge of his nose. For a while all that could be heard was the drumming of the raindrops on the shutters.
“You’re right, I did see you as responsible. I was thinking, what right has he to live, when my servant had to die for his sake and Richmodis is God-knows-where, assuming she’s still alive. He should be feeling so guilty he wished the earth would open and swallow him up. And he has the cheek to ask whether I’m sure
my suspicions are correct. He doesn’t deserve to live! How can God allow worthwhile people to suffer because of a piece of scum?”
He paused.
“But I had forgotten, just for a moment, that no life is worthless. What is worse, I was trying to wriggle out of the responsibility. It’s easier to condemn you than to admit I’m responsible for everything myself.”
Jaspar hesitated. Then he raised his head and looked Jacob in the eye. “I thank you for the lesson, Fox-cub. Will you continue to accept my help?”
Jacob looked at him and suddenly couldn’t repress a laugh.
“What now?” asked Jaspar indignantly.
“Nothing. It’s just that—you have an unusual expression when you apologize.”
“Unusual?”
“A bit like—”
“Like what?”
“There was this capon—”
“Impudent brat!” snorted Jaspar. “That’s what you get when for once in your life you admit a mistake.”
“Perhaps that’s why. Once in your life.”
Jaspar stared at him angrily. Then he had to laugh and for a while they both cackled away. It was nervous, overwrought, hysterical laughter, but it did them good all the same.
“Poor Rolof,” said Jaspar at last.
Jacob nodded.
“Well?” Jaspar’s brow furrowed like a plowed field. “I still think we should go onto the attack.”
“Attack who? How? When Richmodis—”
Jaspar leaned forward. “Richmodis has disappeared. We won’t help her by sitting around doing nothing, and certainly not Rolof. I also don’t think we can trust the man who abducted her. He intends to kill us all. But do you know what I think? I think we’re already making things a bit awkward for him.”
“How?” Jacob asked skeptically. “So far people on our side have done nothing but get killed.”
“True. But why then did he take Richmodis hostage instead of just killing her? In that case I’m convinced he’s telling the truth. She’s alive. What I mean is, why did he take her hostage?”
“Because it suited him. He can do as he likes with us.”
“No, goddammit! Because he had no choice! Don’t you see? All his attempts to get those who know about Gerhard’s murder out of the way have failed. Even if he were to kill Richmodis and the two of us, and Goddert into the bargain, he still wouldn’t know who else we’d told. He’s losing already. He’s lost track of the number of people who might be in the know. So he’s had to find a way of silencing us all at once; he’s had to go on the defensive. He’s made mistakes. Perhaps we can get him to make another.”
“We can’t.” Jacob waved the suggestion away. “We don’t know his name, nor where to find him.”
“We know he was a crusader.”
“Thousands were. Thousands and thousands.”
“Yes, I know. But this one is special. Probably a noble, a former knight or cleric, since he can write. Though I’m not too keen on his taste in ink. Studied in Paris.”
“How do you make that out?”
Jaspar pulled a face. “From Rolof, unfortunately. I told you, our murderer is starting to make mistakes. Over the years each university developed its own style of writing. The Bolognese, the English, the Parisian, to name but a few. The letters on Rolof ’s forehead are pure Paris school.”
“So what? You’re forgetting the patricians. Whatever we find out about him, they’re the ones we’re up against.”
“Or not. Why did they hire a murderer, eh? To do the work they don’t want to—or can’t—do themselves. Including murder, abduction, and torture. I can even imagine they might have given him a free hand to a certain extent.”
“Still,” objected Jacob, “what does it help, knowing about him?”
“Know your opponent, you know his plan.”
“And who was it said that?”
“Me. Well, no, the Roman emperor Julius Caesar. But it could have been me. Doesn’t matter anyway.”
Jacob sighed. “That’s all well and good, but I can’t think of a way to find out anything about him.”
“Of course you can’t. You’re the Fox while I’m a—what did you call me?”
“Capon.”
“A capon, yes, a capon who’s wide awake and doesn’t intend to get slaughtered. A capon who intends to win this battle. And he will.”
“I suspect the capon’s got it wrong there,” said Jacob.
“No, that’s not what he’s got.”
“What has he got then?”
“An idea!”
KUNO
The old warehouse…
Kuno was sitting in his dining room, trying to work out which warehouse Daniel had been talking about. He may have been half drunk, but on that point he was presumably to be trusted. A woman was being held prisoner there. Who she was Kuno did not know. Much of what Daniel had thoughtlessly let slip was a mystery to him. The inference, however, was crystal clear. People were once more under threat because of the accursed alliance, the redhead they called the Fox and a woman, perhaps others.
The woman was in the old warehouse. But which warehouse?
He leaned back and feverishly racked his brains.
He knew quite a lot about the Overstolz’s properties. His parents had been frequent guests of Johann Overstolz. And of his mother, Blithildis, the old despot, as people called her behind her back, for she had come to dominate the Overstolz household more and more. There was something uncanny about the blind old woman. Years ago she had mistakenly been declared dead. For three days she had given no sign of life, then had woken up, helpless, tied to a chair. She, even more than old Gottschalk Overstolz, was the one who pulled the strings in the most powerful patrician family of Cologne, and Kuno knew that it was only hatred that kept her alive. Hatred of all who had harmed the house of Overstolz without having been made to pay for it.
Since the death of his father two years ago—long after his mother—Kuno had lived in the large family residence with his brothers, Bruno and Hermann, and their wives. It had been a short period of happiness before the fateful blow struck.
His brothers’ wives, Margarethe and Elizabeth, were now living with their relatives, out of fear of reprisals from the Cologne authorities. Bruno and Hermann were in hiding at the court of the count of Jülich, leaving Kuno alone in the family house.
He felt lonely. He suspected his initial enthusiasm for the alliance was a result of his loneliness. But then he remembered that he had always been alone. His father had not thought much of him; he felt his son was too soft and did not really understand him. His mother had died too early. He got on better with his brothers, but without there being any real warmth between them. His only genuine friends had been Gerhard Morart and his wife Guda, old friends of the family who, after the commission for the cathedral from Conrad von Hochstaden, had been welcome guests in the houses of all the great families. At some point or other Kuno had realized that Gerhard, probably without being aware of it, had supplanted his father and taken over his role. Kuno loved the old man, and suddenly strange rumors started to appear, the significance of which Kuno did not fully understand. Were they figments of a diseased imagination or did they correspond to a truth he refused to admit to himself? The rumors were spread by Daniel…
Kuno rubbed his eyes and forced his mind back to the question of the warehouse.
Why did nobody take him seriously? All his life he had never been more than an appendage. He lacked the determination of his brothers, who had become involved in political life from an early age, the business sense of his father, everything. Yet he was the only one left in Cologne.
The loneliest of all.
The warehouse! The warehouse!
He knew all the Overstolz warehouses. Most of them, anyway. Almost all were old, depending on how you defined old, of course. What did Daniel mean? Mean by “old,” that is?
Daniel was a rebel, a self-centered rebel without a cause. A late follower of the Goliards, with their love o
f wine, women, and song, but without their poverty, despising tradition simply because it was tradition. What would “old” mean to someone like that?
Old in the sense of a ruin?
Too old.
Old and abandoned!
Kuno clicked his fingers. That was it. It was an abandoned warehouse Daniel had been talking about, one that was no longer in use.
He couldn’t ask questions about it, but that probably wasn’t necessary. He knew of several old, abandoned warehouses belonging to the Overstolzes. They were all by the Wall, opposite the river island of Rheinau. Mournful, tumbledown sheds that were not even let out because the Overstolzes would rather allow them to decay than pay tax on the rent.
A good idea to have a look around there.
Kuno smiled. At last there was something meaningful he could do.
THE MADMAN
The impressive, if gloomy, shape of St. Pantaleon rose up before them as, leaning into the wind, they turned into Walengasse. The rain had gotten inside Jacob’s hood and was running down his neck. During the last hour it had become bitterly cold. He was looking forward to getting into the monastery as he would have looked forward to any dry place.
They had left the lepers’ outfits behind; they might do more harm than good now. If Jaspar was right and they were no longer being pursued, there was no point in disguise. Jacob insisted on covering his hair, so was still wearing Jaspar’s old habit. He had tucked his hands up the sleeves, which would have made him look as if he were wrapped in devout contemplation were it not for the unchristian pace they were hurrying along at. Jaspar, on the other hand, was striding along, fists pumping the air like a peasant. His hood had slipped down, leaving the rain to beat a tattoo on his bald pate, and with every step he seemed to be trying to stamp his way through the soft mud to hell.
They met no one. God knows, it was no fun being out in the city in the pouring rain.
On their way they had briefly looked in at the house on the Brook. Goddert wasn’t there. At first they had been worried, but there was no indication that anything had happened to him. If the murderer already had Richmodis, what was the point of taking Goddert, too?