Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“This isn’t a place to be hanging around, d’you hear? I could set the dogs on you.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Forgive me.” Jacob picked up his jerkin and squeezed past the man.

“Hey!”

He froze. There was a lump in his throat that even the most violent swallowing could not get down.

The man came up to him. Jacob saw his hand push back the coat to rest on the pommel of a slim sword hanging from his hip in a gold-mounted sheath.

“I—I was just taking a breather,” Jacob assured him.

The other frowned. “You’re a beggar,” he said. “Why aren’t you outside one of the churches begging?”

“I didn’t want to beg.” Just a moment, why ever not? “It’s the hunger, you see, that’s all.” Jacob assumed his most heartrending expression and pointed at his belly, which, indeed, did not have an ounce of spare fat. “My knees are like wax in the sun, the same sun that’s burning my brain. I don’t know if I’ll survive till the evening. My poor children! My poor wife! But forgive me, your honor, forgive me for having stood in your way, no harm intended. Forgive me, but all I want is a little of God’s grace and something in my stomach.”

It was a load of soft soap, really, but effective. The man scrutinized him from head to toe. Then he grinned. “What’s your name?”

“Jacob, sir. They call me the Fox.”

The man felt in his pocket and pressed a coin in Jacob’s hand. “Pray for me, Fox.”

Jacob nodded vigorously. “That I will, your honor. I promise.” Then, closing his fingers around his prize, he hurried off.

“And buy yourself something to eat, Fox, before you steal it,” the man shouted after him.

Jacob turned around and watched him go into the big house. A patrician! Jesus Christ! The man must be one of the Overstolzes, the most important family in the whole of Cologne and the surrounding area. That was what he called a piece of luck.

He had a look at the coin. A guilder! That was enough to keep the demons of the night at a distance for a while.

But not enough to make him forget them.

Clutching the cool metal, he turned left into Filzengraben and hurried on, trying at the same time to wrap the blasted jerkin around his head with his left hand so that it covered his hair. He had almost reached the end of the street before he managed it. He didn’t dare think what he looked like, even less what Richmodis would say.

Another stab of pain in his shoulder.

Just now she was the only person who could help him. He glanced along the Brook. There were more people there than yesterday.

He devoutly hoped that turning up there would not put Richmodis in danger. He was still alive, but two people had already been killed for something he had seen when he shouldn’t have. At least that was the assumption. So far he hadn’t had much leisure to think it over.

As he came nearer, he scanned the Duffes Brook. No sign of Richmodis.

He’d have to leave. Either that or knock at her door. But then he risked an earful from her father because he was wearing his jerkin and boots. He might even want them back and report him to the magistrate for theft.

Certainly, Jacob could hear himself saying, take back what is yours. For the hat and coat you’ll have to go to Plackgasse. See the man with a crossbow bolt through his neck; he won’t cause you any difficulty.

Oho! A crossbow bolt. And you’ll be the one who killed him?

Jacob could feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat. He sat down on the narrow strip of grass beside the stream and dipped his hands in the water. That hadn’t occurred to him.

It was just too much. He lay on his back, spread his arms wide, and stared up at the sky. The sheriffs, beadles, and magistrates were probably already after him. Plus Gerhard’s murderer and the odd butcher.

Great, great.

He closed his eyes. If only he could get some sleep.

“Wake up. Aren’t you going to teach me to play the flute?”

“Richmodis!”

Her face was upside down, her hair hanging down and appearing to reach out to him. He shot up and felt the stab of pain in his shoulder, worse than before.

She came around to face him and smiled. She was carrying a basket with a cover. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“I told you, I love your nose.” Jacob tried to struggle up.

She noticed his injured shoulder and frowned. “Oh, dear me, where did you do that?”

“Door was too narrow.”

He got to his feet, picked up the jerkin, and, with a guilty expression, shook off the dust. Her eyes darted from his shoulder to the jerkin, scrutinized him from head to toe, and returned to his shoulder. She stretched out and squeezed it.

“Ouch!”

“Oh, come on. Squealing like a little piglet.”

“Richmodis.” He grasped her by the shoulders, then thought better of it and took his hands away. “I know it’s asking a lot, but—” He looked around. People were staring at them again.

“What have you done this time?” She sighed.

“You said your uncle’s a physician?”

“Not only that, he’s dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s and knows important people. Why?”

“I need him to—I don’t know what I’ve done to my shoulder. They’re trying to get me because I saw everything, all because of that stupid tree, and I’m sorry about the clothes, but I just wanted to help Tilman and—”

Richmodis shook her head and raised her hands. “Stop! Who’s trying to get you? What did you see? Who’s Tilman? I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“Me neither,” admitted Jacob.

“Then you’d better come with me.” She took his arm and led him to the house. “I don’t want to have to drown you under the cloths again, or to invent a story about my dozens of lovers for any would-be ladies’ man who happens to turn up.” She opened the door and pointed inside. “In you go.”

“Won’t you get into trouble with your father?” asked Jacob in a low voice.

“You can be a bore with your conscience. Sit down there.” She pointed to a bench beside the fireplace. There was a fire crackling in it. The room was simply but comfortably furnished.

Jacob shook his head. “No. I may not exactly be a wealthy burgher, but I do know that respectable young ladies do not take young men into their parlor when the whole neighborhood is watching. I think I’d better go.”

“Out of the question.”

“I’m serious.”

“And so am I,” she said emphatically. “You think you can come here handing out pretty little whistles in return for jerkins, and my father’s coat and hat—I can’t wait to hear what happened to them—and then simply disappear? I’m warning you….” She gave him a stern look, tried a pout, but couldn’t stop herself bursting out laughing. “And not a word about my nose.”

Jacob spread out his arms in submission and sank down onto the bench. She wagged a finger at him. “And don’t you move. I’ll be back right away.”

He nodded and breathed deeply. It was irresponsible of him to come to see Richmodis, but what else could he have done? He was injured, and there was always the danger Clemens would think he had killed Maria. Running off like that was the stupidest thing he could have done. Running away meant you were guilty. To be accused of her murder, and of Tilman’s, was all he needed. Next they would be saying he’d pushed Gerhard off the scaffolding! No, that was one thing they wouldn’t suspect him of. There were witnesses to say it had been an accident. Witnesses who hadn’t been there to witness it.

Richmodis returned with a pail of water. She came from the back room, which led into the yard. The von Weidens must have their own well. Not everyone did. Most people shared the wells at crossroads or street corners.