“You keep going on about this Abelard,” said Jacob.
“I model myself on him,” Jaspar replied. “Even though he’s been dead for over a hundred years now. Peter Abelard was one of the most outstanding minds France has produced. He was humble before God, yet bold enough, when at the height of his fame, to describe himself as the greatest of all philosophers. They call disputation the clerics’ joust—he was unbeaten in it. And he seemed to love making enemies. His belief that mankind possessed free will was diametrically opposed to the teachings of the Mystics. Eventually he fell in love with Heloise, a canon’s niece who was his pupil. Forbidden love. There was a series of scandals that concluded with a punitive expedition to his house one night. The canon had him castrated.” He gave a soft laugh. “But he could not cut off their love, nor could he stop them being buried beside each other in the end. Abelard never wished he could turn the clock back, and that was the basis of his greatness. Everything was of his own free will.”
“My father,” Jacob mused, “was always talking about how impotent sinful mankind was. That we had no choice to decide anything for ourselves.”
“And that’s what you believe, too?”
“No.”
“Goddert believes that.” Jaspar sighed. “And there are many like him, men who have no real convictions and confuse weakness with faith. He drifts from one view to another, picks up a bit of each, but never the real point, and patches together something out of them he likes to think of as his opinion. Oh, he enjoys an argument. We spend all the day in disputations on everything under the sun, but they never lead anywhere. It’s just good fun, concealing the sad fact that Goddert has no real opinion. I know I shouldn’t talk about him like that, but he’s typical of the unfortunate attitude prevailing today. When people stop forming their own opinions, when they take bits for a whole and don’t look for connections, then the world becomes a church with no mortar between the stones. One day it’ll collapse spectacularly and people will talk of the coming of the Antichrist, whom Saint Bernard conjured up in vivid words like no one before or since. But the Antichrist is no fiendish destroyer, no horned devil, nor a beast rising from the sea. The Antichrist is a product of the Christians. He is the emptiness behind a faith that knows only inertia and punishment. And he is also the emptiness behind the fatalism you have been sucked into, the emptiness in your life. One could say the Devil’s just waiting to take possession of you.”
Jacob found Jaspar’s words almost physically painful. “Hasn’t he already?” he asked. “At our house. Aren’t I lost for good?”
“No, you are not!” said Jaspar emphatically. “It’s your refusal to accept that life goes on, that you can’t change the past, just giving up and running away, that’s what the Devil is.”
“You mean he doesn’t exist?” Jacob shook his head. “Not as a—being?”
“What is devilish is to deny human nature, our ability to reason, our free will, just as the blind persecution of heretics is the work of the devil. There is nothing more arrogant than fanatical humility. But reason without faith is equally devilish and every man who is enslaved, whether to reason or to faith, is blind in his own way. Christendom is being consumed by a war waged by the blind. That is what the Cistercians, what Bernard and William of Saint-Thierry mean when they talk of the impotence of sinful mankind, that we cannot act because, they say, God does not want us to act; because every independent action represents a denial of God’s omnipotence and therefore heresy; and because anyone who cannot act can happily be blind, indeed must be, of necessity. But if one were to follow that idea through to its logical conclusion, the blind couldn’t undertake anything of their own volition, not send the sighted, or other blind men, to the stake, not wage war, not teach in public; from the point of view of pure logic, they could not even exist. But they do exist, they talk of impotence and exercise power, they preach humility and humiliate others. What weakness of intellect! That, Fox-cub, is the Devil I believe in.”
Jacob tried to digest all this. “If that’s what the Devil’s like,” he said slowly, “then who or what is God?”
Jaspar did not answer straightaway, but when he did there was a mild undertone of mockery in his voice. “How should I know who God is?”
“No, I mean—I always thought that God and the Devil, they were—” He was struggling for words.
“You think God and the Devil are persons, in a way?”
“Yes.”
“To be honest, I don’t know. All I can do is tell you what God is for me, if that’s what you’re asking. Abelard was of the opinion that we can distinguish between what is sin and what is not. We have a choice. Of course we can’t, as you so touchingly put it, turn the clock back. But we can own up to our actions and accept responsibility for them. Do you see what that implies? Everything was made by God, but perhaps not everything is willed by God. Perhaps God’s will is that we should use our own willpower, that we should develop His ideas because we are His ideas. If God is in everything and we are therefore God, then our impotence would be God’s impotence, and that is something which, with the best will in the world, I simply can’t imagine. But if God is the creative principle, then, in order to carry out His will, we too must be creative, we must accept responsibility for what we do. God is the alliance between reason and the beauty of faith, what the scholars call reason illumined by faith. He is harmony; He is what connects, not separates, creation; He is creativity proceeding within time. But above all, God is the free will of the whole of creation, which is constantly re-creating itself; He is the free will of each individual. And that means you can still turn back, Jacob. You have faced up to the past. Sins can be forgiven. Forgive yourself. Stop running away, there are people who need you.”
There was a soft thrum of rain on the shed. Jacob listened to the sound as if he were hearing it for the first time. He had the feeling he should go out and discover the world anew. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“Don’t mention it, Fox-cub. But if you don’t mind, I need to sleep for an hour or so.”
“Sleep?” Jacob exclaimed in surprise. “Now?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“We have to do something. Urquhart will be—”
“Urquhart will be licking his wounds. It’s the middle of the night. Do you want to get Conrad out of his bed? God knows, we need some rest. Don’t worry, I’ll wake you when it’s time.”
Uncertainly, Jacob lay down. “I won’t get to sleep,” he said.
“Pity.”
How can I sleep, he thought, after everything that’s happened? I’ll lie awake, and eventually Jaspar will start snoring and sleep will be even more impossible. We ought to be making use of the time.
His thoughts turned to Richmodis.
I won’t get any sleep, he thought.
JACOB
“Wake up!”
Someone was shaking him. For a moment he thought he was under his arch in the Wall, then he sat up. It was still dark, but he vaguely recognized Jaspar’s silhouette. He was laughing. “So this is the lad who can’t get to sleep?”
“What time is it?”
“The watchman called three o’clock not long ago. The procession starts in two hours, so you have plenty of time to ask for an audience in the archbishop’s palace. Then we’ll meet between the fourth and fifth hour in Seidenmachergäßchen. It’s nice and quiet there on a Sunday morning. Let’s say by the city weighhouse.”
“Just a moment,” said Jacob, rubbing his eyes. “What’s all this about meeting? I thought we were going together.”
“So did I. But I had an idea while you were sleeping. It’s connected with your story. I’m going somewhere else.”
“To Goddert’s house, perhaps?”
“I’d like to.”
“So would I, dammit!”
“But we’d be fools to let ourselves be seen on the Brook at this juncture. Not now. Off you go, and make sure you keep that forest fire you have on your head well covered on your way to
the palace.”
Jacob stood up and stretched. Tried to, at least. His body was probably black and blue from being hammered against the shutters. “What do you have in mind?” he groaned.
“I’m—” Jaspar patted him on the shoulder. “Tell you later. You know where the weighhouse is?”
“Yes.”
“Good. If I don’t see you there, I’ll assume your mission has been successful and go along to the palace.”
“Why can’t you tell me where you’re going?”
“Because it won’t get us anywhere just now and would take too long to explain. Off you go, and keep out of Urquhart’s way. He’ll be blazing mad at you.”
Before Jacob could say anything, Jaspar had taken him by the shoulders and pushed him out into the street. The rain had stopped, but it was still cold. Jacob looked around. There was an oil lamp swinging to and fro outside Bodo’s house next to the brewery. Key House opposite was silent. There was no one about.
“Off you go,” said Jaspar.
Jacob put his head back and pumped his lungs full of air till they were bursting. Although he was sore all over, he felt as if he had come alive again after a long time. Then he embraced Jaspar, pressing him so tight to his breast something cracked, and gave him a smacking kiss on his bald head. Jaspar stared at him, flabbergasted.
“Not like me.” He grinned, then turned and scurried away up Keygasse.
The archbishop’s palace, also known as the Hall, was on the southern side of the cathedral precinct, between Dragon Gate and Tollbooth Gate. Built a hundred years ago, it was an imposing, two-story castle with a row of arcades on double columns decorating the opulently furnished hall on the upper floor. That was where Conrad dispensed justice; it was also the place where he had outwitted the patricians when they had come for supposedly unarmed and peaceful discussions.
Conrad’s private apartments were to the rear, opposite the cathedral and not visible from the street. There was no point in trying to gain admittance there. Anyone who wanted something from the archbishop had to approach his soldiers and officials, which meant humbly begging audience at the front entrance.
Jacob had avoided the main streets, weaving his way through the narrow alleys like a salamander. There was a chance the patricians were still looking for him and Jaspar, but they couldn’t get into every nook and cranny, and that was where Jacob was at home.
He paused for a moment to draw breath. He was at the end of Pützgäßchen, which led into Am Hof, a broad, prestigious street with stately buildings such as the Crown House, where the dukes of Brabant held court when they were in Cologne, and the Klockring, the sheriffs’ headquarters. The archbishop’s palace was directly opposite. There were lights on in some of the ground-floor windows and the main door was open. A group of men in armor were talking with two night watchmen on horseback. Their muffled voices came to Jacob, but he could not tell what they were saying. With a burst of coarse laughter, the night watchmen spurred their horses and the soldiers withdrew into the building. The double doors screeched and slammed shut.
Cautiously he peered out into the broad thoroughfare. Farther up he saw a few monks scuttle through the darkness into the provost’s quarters. There was garbage lying everywhere. Heavy rain, such as that during the night, swept everything the citizens threw into the street down through the steep east side of the city toward the Rhine. And there was nothing the good citizens did not throw into the street. The senses were assaulted by the mixture of the ubiquitous pig dung with an amalgam of rotting vegetable scraps and gnawed bones. Despite that, all appeals to throw everything in the cesspits were ignored, or dismissed with the irrefutable argument that the gold diggers—the local term for the unfortunates who were supposed to empty them—performed their function too rarely.
Jacob decided he had waited long enough. Making sure not a single red hair was sticking out from under his hood, he ran over to the door and knocked loudly.
Immediately a flap slid back and a pair of eyes scrutinized him. Jacob felt his hopes rise. “I have some important information for the archbishop,” he said breathlessly.
“What information?”
“A matter of life and death.”
“What?”
“For God’s sake, just let me in before it’s too late.”
The flap slid to, then one of the doors opened and Jacob found himself face to face with a man in armor and helmet. There were three more behind him, regarding him with curiosity.
“The Lord be—oh, why bother?” muttered Jacob as he sketched a blessing and hurried inside. The door snapped shut behind him.
He looked around. The entrance was lit by pairs of torches in elaborate holders. At one side a broad stone staircase with a massive stone balustrade led to the upper floor. Between the torches the wall was hung with tapestries representing chimeras and Titans, sphinxes, naiads, and centaurs, beings with snakes’ heads and bats’ wings, manticores baring their fangs and dwarves with the faces of dogs, cyclops, scaly devils and gorgons, birds with women’s heads and werewolves, forming a garland of merry horror around the ecstatic saints with eyes turned to heaven, bodies disfigured by the wounds of martyrdom, hands raised to the angels with their powerful gold-blue-and-turquoise wings and haloes. Above them all was Christ, His right hand raised, His earnest gaze directed straight ahead. The dark eyes appeared to see everything and at the same time into the heart of each and every individual. Jacob trembled. He saw the living God and felt strong, felt new courage well up inside him.
An iron-gloved hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned away from the comforting eyes of Christ and found himself looking into the soldier’s.
“What’s all this about, monk?” the guard barked.
Monk? Oh, of course.
“I have to speak to the archbishop,” Jacob said, against all reason.
The man stared at him, then roared with laughter. The others joined in. “It’s not that easy to get to speak to the archbishop, Friar Oaf. Has no one ever taught you to bow your head when you ask for audience?”
“And what have you been taught?” Jacob retorted. “Conrad von Hochstaden is in great danger and you make fun of the messenger who might save his life. Do you want to end up bowing your head on the executioner’s block?”
The laughter died away. The soldier scratched his beard, unsure what to do. “What’s this danger you’re talking about?” he asked.
“Mortal danger!” Jacob cried. “God wither your loins if you don’t take me to Conrad this instant.”
“I can’t take you to His Excellency,” the soldier shouted back. “The archbishop is occupied with the preparations for the procession.” He gave an indignant snort, then went on more calmly. “But I could call the archbishop’s secretary. Would that do?”
Success!
“All right,” he said with feigned sullenness, “if that’s the best you can do.”
The guard nodded and sent two of his comrades up the stairs. Jacob waited, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t know precisely what a secretary was, but it sounded important.
Surprisingly quickly a short, skinny man appeared with the two soldiers at the top of the stairs and descended with mincing steps. A gold chain lay resplendent on his lilac-and-black robe, his hands were in gloves of burgundy leather. A kindly face with watery blue eyes was framed by a fluffy white beard. He came up to Jacob and smiled. When he spoke, Jacob noticed the accent of some Latin country.
“The Lord be with you and with thy spirit.”
Jacob sniffed in embarrassment. “Yes. Of course. Definitely.”
The secretary put his head to one side. “What can I do for you, my son? I was told you had information for the archbishop, but are unwilling to say what.”
“I must talk to him,” said Jacob. “The archbishop is in great danger.”
“Danger?” The secretary came closer and lowered his voice. “Don’t speak so loudly in front of the soldiers, my son. They’re loyal, but you never know. Archbishops have o
ccasionally been murdered by their own nephews. Whisper in my ear. Who wants to harm our archbishop?”
Jacob leaned forward and whispered, “Conrad is to be killed today. I don’t know if it will be during the procession or the service, but they intend to kill him.”
A horrified expression appeared in the secretary’s blue eyes. He clapped both hands to his mouth and took a step back. “Who intends to do that?” he breathed.
“The patricians, I’m afraid. There’s a conspiracy—”
“Stop!” The secretary gave the guards a suspicious glance. “We can’t discuss this here. I am staggered by what you have told me, my son, profoundly shocked. I find it unbelievable. You must tell me everything you know, everything, do you hear?”
“Most willingly.”
“After that I will take you to Conrad. Follow me.”
He turned around and went up the stairs. Jacob followed. Somewhat amused, he observed the secretary’s affected walk. “Peacock” was the word that came to mind. Probably Italian. Bram had often told him how Italian nobles and clerics loved fine materials and had costly hats made of ermine and sable. His eye ran over the slim figure.
He almost fell down the stairs.
Trembling, he clutched the banister and wondered what to do. There must be many rich citizens in Cologne who wore expensive shoes, but so far he had only seen one pair with purple lilies on them.
Now he was seeing them again.
“Excuse me, Herr—er—” he said.
The secretary turned to face him, bathing him in a rosy glow. “My name is Lorenzo da Castellofiore, my son.”
Jacob forced a smile to his lips. “Well, Lorenzo da—well, I’ve just remembered I have to—I have to—”
Lorenzo’s eyes went on the alert. “Yes, my son? What is it?”
“My horse. I think I forgot to tether it. If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll just pop outside and—”
Lorenzo’s expression froze. “Guards,” he shouted, “arrest this man.”