Death and the Devil

  Who was this Tristan, dammit? Justinius von Singen was no monk, he was a swindler, a charlatan in a monk’s habit who could churn out standard portions of the Bible, usually mixing them up. What was it this bastard wanted of him?

  Suddenly he felt afraid. “I want you to stop,” he gabbled.

  As if he had not heard, the masseur continued to knead his flesh, digging the tips of his fingers into Justinius’s ribs.

  “And fair Isolde, promised to King Mark of Cornwall”—he continued his lecture—“where did love lead her? Did it protect her against the deceived king, who wondered whether to burn her or abandon her to the lepers? And when he finally relented and let her go, what was left for her? Brokenhearted for her Tristan, she lay beside a rotting carcass, Justinius. What an end to love!”

  “What do you want?” panted Justinius, trying to get up.

  The fingers flitted up and down his spine.

  “For there are no secrets on earth, everything comes to light, and in the light everything looks shabby, and the light is the punishment, and the punishment is—pain.”

  “Please, I—”

  Something cracked.

  Justinius gave a yelp of pain. His head was pressed down, then the hands continued their gentle, pleasant massaging.

  “And now we’ll see,” said that terribly familiar voice, “who can bear pain. And who can’t.”

  Again it was like a lance thrust between Justinius’s bones. He screamed and tried to get up, but the merciless iron grip forced him down onto the bed, his face in the towels.

  His tormentor laughed. “You see, Justinius, that’s the advantage of these bathhouses. The audible expressions of pleasure go unheard in such a discreet establishment. And all that music out there. You can scream as much as you like.”

  “What have I done to you?” Justinius whimpered.

  “Done?” The hands gently grasped his shoulders and massaged the muscles. “Betrayed me, that’s what you’ve done, reverend Brother. I paid you well to be witnesses, but you obviously prefer to collaborate with the dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s.”

  So that’s what it was. That was the voice. “Please—” Justinius begged.

  “Now, now. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want the truth.”

  The truth? “It was—it was nothing,” Justinius groaned. “This dean came along. I don’t know what he wanted, we talked about various things, but not about Gerhard—”

  The sentence ended in a further scream. Justinius’s fingers gripped the edge of the bed.

  “Interesting, human anatomy,” the voice went on calmly. “Didn’t you know how fragile a shoulder blade is?”

  The tears were running down Justinius’s cheeks. Tears of pain.

  “Will you tell me the truth now?”

  Justinius tried to speak, but all that came out was a moan. In a futile attempt to escape he tried to pull himself to the top of the bed. The hands gripped him and pulled him back.

  “Come now, Justinius, relax. How can two old friends have a sensible conversation if you’re all tensed up like that?”

  “He—” Justinius swallowed. “He knew about you. And he knew you killed Gerhard and that’s the truth, in the name of God I swear it.”

  “That’s more like it.” As if to reward him, the hands made soothing circular movements over his shoulders. “But he made you an offer, didn’t he?”

  “Double.”

  “Not more?”

  “No,” Justinius cried, “as God is my witness, no.”

  “And you accepted?”

  “No, of course not, we—”

  The sound of breaking bones was sickening. He almost fainted from the pain.

  “Justinius? Are you still there? Sorry, but a good massage can get a bit rough. Did you accept his offer?”

  Justinius let out an unintelligible babble. The saliva was running down his chin.

  “Clearer, please.”

  “Yes. Yes!”

  “When and where are you to meet the dean?”

  “Here,” Justinius whispered. “Please don’t hurt me anymore—Our Father, who art in heaven—”

  “Oh, you know a prayer? Your piety shames me. I asked you when.”

  “Soon—he should be here any minute. Please, I beg you, no more pain, please—”

  The other leaned down close. Justinius could feel something soft on his back. Hair. Long blond hair. “Don’t worry, Justinius,” said Urquhart softly, “you won’t feel any more pain.”

  The fingers reached his neck.

  Justinius couldn’t hear the last dull crack.

  Andreas von Helmerode leaned back in the water. He felt a profound disquiet. On the one hand, he wished he could take things as calmly as Justinius, who was at this moment doubtless lying on the bed in his cubicle and nothing would disturb him.

  On the other hand, he was the one who had had to get them out of a jam more than once. As soon as money was mentioned, Justinius threw caution to the winds.

  Perhaps it was time to turn respectable. The swindling and living on their wits had gone on for long enough, going around as false priests, exploiting the grief of simple people mourning their loved ones, the faith of those too eager to believe. The stranger’s offer had been a godsend, and one of the easiest things they’d had to do—just lie. Thanks to his own foresight they had not squandered everything. There was some money laid by, including some from the blond stranger. In fact, there was enough. Better to stop while they could.

  The harpist smiled at him. Her voice rose in a sweet trill that went right through him.

  It was high time that bald dean put in an appearance. Then take the money and run. To Aachen or anywhere. “Away from Cologne, that’s the main thing,” Andreas muttered to himself. He took hold of one of his feet and started to pull off some hard skin.

  Someone slipped into the water beside him.

  Andreas paid no attention. He studied his toes, then threw the harpist a winning smile, but she had turned to someone else. Serves you right, thought Andreas, if you go around with a long face all the time.

  He slid down until he was completely underwater. Warm. Pleasant. Invigorating. What a hopeless miseryguts he was. He should go and chat up that pretty girl playing the harp. He put his hands on the bottom to push himself up.

  He couldn’t.

  To his astonishment he realized someone was pushing him down. For a moment he thought it was just a joke. Then he was seized with panic and started to thrash his legs.

  A hand grasped his throat.

  It was all over very quickly.

  Urquhart closed Andreas’s eyes and mouth under the water, then pulled him up. Now he was sitting there as if he were sleeping. No one had noticed anything, they were all too preoccupied and the men in the gallery had eyes for the fair sex alone.

  Without a further glance at the dead body, Urquhart got out of the water. Despite his great height and physique, he went unnoticed. He had a slightly hunched gait he adopted on such occasions, the gait of the downtrodden and dispossessed. If he wanted, he could dominate a packed room with his physical presence alone. If not, he was almost invisible, a nobody.

  He picked up a towel, dried himself, went to the room where the bathers’ clothes were kept, dressed, and strolled out into the street.

  Bright light greeted him. The sun was shining.

  Unnaturally bright.

  He put his hand over his eyes, but the brightness remained. And in the brightness he saw the child again and the iron claw plunging into the twitching, writhing body—

  No! He could not allow these attacks to continue. Not now, not ever.

  Urquhart filled his lungs to the bursting point with air and let his breath out in a slow, controlled exhalation. Then he held his right hand out in front of him. After a few seconds it started to tremble slightly.

  Again he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This time his hand did not tremble.

  His eyes scoured the street. If they were keeping to his instruct
ions, two of Matthias’s servants ought to be somewhere nearby. After a while they came along the street, chattering away. He raised his hand in the agreed signal and went to meet them.

  Jacob the Fox might cover his red mop, but they would recognize the dean. According to the description Matthias had given him an hour ago, there could only be one face like that. Jaspar Rodenkirchen would come alone or with the Fox, not suspecting that he was expected. One way or another he would fall into the trap. Then they would stay hard on his heels, unobserved.

  The servants would, that is.

  He himself had other plans. If Jaspar brought the Fox with him, all the better. If the dean came alone, Jacob was sure to be where Urquhart was about to go.

  THE TRAP

  “I’ve been thinking about your friend a bit,” said Jaspar as they went down Severinstraße together.

  “What friend?” Jacob asked. He pulled the hood of Jaspar’s old habit farther down over his face. During the last couple of days he’d worn more coats and cloaks than in his whole life before. Despite the disguise, he felt horribly exposed.

  “The one who wants to get you,” replied Jaspar. “Word has got around that there is someone in Cologne using strange little arrows, and we two know who it is. But what kind of weapon is it?”

  “A crossbow. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “You did. With that power of penetration it has to be a crossbow. Only the bolts are too small for every known type of crossbow.”

  Too small? Jacob thought. True, the bolts were too small. But he knew nothing about weapons.

  “Tell me again, Fox-cub, what he was carrying while he was chasing you.”

  “What we’ve been talking about all the time.”

  “Yes, but how was he holding it?”

  “Holding it?”

  “God in heaven! Just describe how he was holding it.”

  Jacob frowned, then stretched out his right hand. “Like that, I think. More or less.”

  “In his right hand?” Jaspar clicked his tongue. “Not with both hands?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Jacob tried to picture in his mind again what he had seen when he had turned around in the narrow alley and looked his pursuer in the face. “Yes,” he said, “absolutely sure.”

  “Interesting.” Jaspar smiled. “There is no crossbow you can hold in one hand while running after someone at the same time.”

  “But it was a crossbow,” Jacob insisted.

  “Of course it was.” Jaspar seemed very pleased with himself.

  “All right, you fount of knowledge,” said Jacob, sighing, “what is it you know this time that no one else knows?”

  “Oh,” said Jaspar, putting on a humble expression, “I know that I know nothing. A man in ancient Greece said that. It appeals to me. Now Platonic forms, would you like to hear—”

  “Oh, no, not another of your lectures!” Jacob protested.

  “You’re not interested in learning? Your loss. But I know a lot about the Crusades as well. You may have noticed. I’ve read eyewitness accounts and heard the stories of various poor wretches who made it back home. I know the odd secret of the Orient—Al Khwarizmi’s algebra, Rhazes’s medical writings, Avicenna’s Canon medicinae, Alfarabius’s powerful philosophy—although I can’t remember as much as I should and I’d like to know more. But the key secret of the Muslims is well known to me. It’s called progress. In many ways they’re a good bit ahead of us.”

  In unison, the bells of St. George’s, St Jacob’s, and the church of the Carmelites struck the first hour of the afternoon. Jaspar quickened his step. “Come on, we’d better hurry up before those scoundrels change their minds. Now: weapons. The crusaders discovered that the infidels were decidedly inventive in that respect. Rolling siege towers, castles bristling with lances on the backs of elephants, and catapults that not only send their projectiles into the enemy camp, but actually hit what they’re meant to hit. And among all these reports there was one I heard years ago about single-handed crossbows. Very light, a work of art almost, and extremely elastic. With small bolts. You can’t shoot as far with them as with the big ones, but you’re quicker on the draw and can keep the other hand free for your sword. The Saracens’ sharpshooters, the man told me, are incredibly accurate with them, even when they’re charging the enemy on horseback or on foot. Before you know it, you have one of those little bolts sticking out of your chest. Not a pleasant experience.”

  It certainly made Jacob think as he trotted along beside Jaspar. “So the murderer’s a crusader,” he said. “How does that help us?”

  “Was.” Jaspar corrected him. “Was a crusader. If he was, then he’ll have brought it back with him. A fairly recent invention, by all accounts. As far as I know, the first examples appeared during the last Crusade under Louis IX. He started out from France in 1248 and went via Cyprus to Egypt, where he took Damietta at the mouth of the Nile. I’ll spare you the horrors of the campaign. Suffice it to say that Louis was captured, but, incredibly, released for a large ransom. The Crusade ended in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, but not the city, and the army was wiped out at Acre on the coast. A total disaster. Most of those who did make it home never got over the experience. They felt they had failed, felt guilty for not having managed to carry out God’s will, whatever they thought that was, not to mention the constant massacres, less an expression of Christian liberation than a perversion of human nature.”

  He paused for breath. “I have to say that some of the crusaders, however much I condemn their deeds, were motivated by a vision. But most of them were unscrupulous adventurers and they had no idea of what actually awaited them. They wallowed in dreams of immeasurable riches and generous remission of sins. Others, brave knights, experienced in warfare but blinded by the legends of the Holy Grail, probably imagined it would be like a grand tournament.”

  Jaspar shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m going on like this, we haven’t the time. The point is, it was in connection with that Crusade that I heard about the tiny crossbow. Some poor devil who had lost his legs at the siege of Acre rambled on about it during confession. And I didn’t know whether to believe him. He was already a bit—” Jaspar tapped his forehead.

  “When did this Crusade end?” Jacob asked.

  “Six years ago. So it would fit in with this monster going about his business in Cologne. We know a little more about him.”

  “So? What help is it to know him?”

  “Knowledge always helps. Can’t you get that into that empty water-tub you have for a brain?” said Jaspar as they walked along by the Brook. “He is a former crusader who has committed murders. And will commit a further murder, if we assume that the main action is still to come. The basic question, it seems to me, is: is he acting on his own initiative or on someone else’s behalf? Gerhard’s death shocked Cologne. If that’s only the prelude, then it’s more than just an old crusader running amok, especially considering how well planned the whole thing was. So we assume the man’s being paid. Well paid, probably. They’ll have chosen him carefully.”

  “Who’re they?”

  “How should I know? Someone with money and influence, I suspect. Someone willing to pay for a silent, invisible executioner, who probably still has an exceptionally difficult task to perform. He buys himself witnesses and on the same evening as the murder manages to get rid of the only two people you told about it. So we have a mind capable of logical planning, rare enough nowadays with the followers of Saint Bernard railing against reason and trying to stop the wheel of time. He’s intelligent, quick, and skillful, probably very strong physically, and an expert shot into the bargain. Now most crusaders were complete blockheads, ergo our murderer must have belonged to the elite.”

  “So why does he go around murdering? The Crusade is over. If he’s so clever, why doesn’t he just go home?”

  “That,” said Jaspar, “is a good question.”

  They had reached the street of Little St. Martin’s. The
church was some way down on the left and opposite it, according to Jaspar, the bathhouse where they were to meet Justinius von Singen and Andreas von Helmerode. Jacob had never been in a bathhouse, but at the moment all that interested him was the false witnesses. If he and Jaspar managed to persuade them to change sides, as he fervently hoped they would, and make a statement to the council, then his nightmare might be over and the long-haired monster consigned to the jaws of hell out of which it had crawled. If only—

  “Wait,” Jaspar said softly and stopped.

  Jacob stumbled on for a step, then turned to face him. “What is it? Why are we stopping?”

  Silently Jaspar pointed to an obviously excited gathering outside the bathhouse. A gang of children came running from that direction. As they went past, Jaspar grabbed one by the sleeve.

  “Lemme go,” the urchin shouted. Jaspar’s bald pate and long nose seemed to fill him with fear.

  “Right away, my son, if you tell us what’s happening down there.”

  “Two men’s been done in. Lemme go, I didn’t do nothin’. Lemme go.”

  “Stop shouting,” hissed Jaspar and let go of his sleeve. The boy chased after the others as if the Devil were at his heels.

  Grasping Jacob by the arm, Jaspar swung around. “We’ve got to get away.”

  “But—” Away? Jacob felt his heart sink and looked back.

  “Keep walking,” Jaspar commanded. “Behave normally. Don’t hurry.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jacob, already filled with dread.

  “Once again our murderer has been quicker. We stroll along discussing how clever he is, idiots that we are, like lambs to the slaughter, my bald head shining in the sun for all to see.”

  Jacob looked back again. Four men, burly types in the dress of house servants, had emerged from the throng and were following them.

  “We’re being followed?” asked Jaspar, not turning his head.

  “Four,” said Jacob dully.

  “Perhaps we’re in luck,” said Jaspar. Jacob took another quick glance behind and saw the men quicken their step. Now they were almost running. “They didn’t count on us turning back like that. Once we’re past the malt mill we’ll split up. You go off to the left, get among the crowds in Haymarket. I’ll take the opposite direction.”