Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

Goddert von Weiden went even redder in the face, if that was possible, but instead of the expected lecture, he just cleared his throat and bit off a piece of his cake.

Jacob was totally baffled. “Weren’t you telling me he chased you all around the house crying blue murder?” he said in a low voice to Richmodis.

“I did,” she replied with an impenetrable smile.

“But he—”

She leaned down and said softly, “I was pulling your leg. He’s the most kindhearted of men. Only you must never tell him or he might start getting too full of himself.”

“Hey!” shouted Goddert, cheeks bulging. “Stop that whispering.”

“Why shouldn’t they?” Jaspar snapped. “Just because no woman wants to whisper in your ear anymore.”

“I have them whispering in my ear all the time, blockhead. The only whispers you’ll get will be in the confessional.”

“If I waited for women to come from you with something to confess, I might as well close my confessional down.”

“You’d never do that. You’d have nowhere left to indulge your lascivious desires.”

“Do not blaspheme the sacrament of confession, Waldensian!”

“Waldensian? Me a Waldensian?”

“And a lying one, too.”

“Ridiculous. Accusing an honest craftsman of heresy! Anyway, the Waldenses are—”

“I know, I know.”

“You know nothing. You’re just not interested in ecclesiastical matters. Though I can well understand your dislike of the Waldenses. They want to ban people like you from saying mass and accepting presents.”

“What do you mean, people like me?”

“Unworthy priests who commit fornication.”

“The Waldenses never said anything like that, you simpleton, and I wouldn’t care if they did. Have you got rheumatism of the brain or something, trying to argue about the Waldenses with a scholar? Don’t you know they deny purgatory and their lay brothers preach against the veneration of saints?”

“They do not.”

“Oh, yes, they do. You won’t be able to pray to St. Francis when your back hurts, and when you’re dead there won’t be any requiem mass for your soul, no prayers, nothing. That’s what your Waldenses want, only they don’t even stick to their own rules.”

“You’re joking! They unmarried, every one of them, and—”

“And?”

“And they do nothing that is not according to the pure teaching of Christ.”

“They don’t? Then why were three of them put on trial in Aachen this summer?”

“Certainly not for going to that house in Schemmergasse.”

“I did not go to that house in Schemmergasse.”

“Pull the other one.”

“And I’ll tell you another thing, you son of an aardvark sow. They are heretics and were quite rightly placed under ban at the Synod of Verona.”

“The Synod of Verona was a joke, a bad joke. It was only called because the pope was worried about losing his income from indulgences.”

“The ban was promulgated jointly by God’s representative on earth, Pope Lucius III, and the emperor, Frederick Barbarossa, because, as you seem to know, astonishingly enough, your tatterdemalion Waldenses in their sandals are against indulgences. But I ask you, what will happen if we have no more indulgences? Do you want to deprive people of the God-given opportunity of buying their way out of the consequences of their minor transgressions? And I have to tell you, Goddert, there’s a disturbing tendency to overemphasize the poverty of the clergy. I sometimes worry we are turning into a nation of Cathars and Albigensians. Do you realize that our magnificent cathedral, which will tower over the Christian world, was only possible through indulgences?”

“Oh, you can keep your indulgences. That may be all well and good, but it can’t be right to condemn to death preachers who are against the death penalty themselves.”

“The Waldenses are only against it so they can spread their heretical beliefs unpunished.”

“Not at all. It’s the pure Christian faith they preach. I would even go so far as to say Christ himself is speaking through them.”

“Don’t let anyone else hear you say that.”

“I don’t care who hears me. I’m not saying I’m a Waldensian myself, but their insistence on the sacraments of penance, communion, and baptism seems to me more in keeping with the teachings of Christ than the outrageously dissolute behavior of the mendicant orders—or your expensive wine cellar.”

“What have you against my wine cellar?”

“Nothing. Shall we have another?”

“Enough!” Richmodis brought the flat of her hand down on the table.

“And what’s your opinion on this subject?” Goddert, who was obviously looking for allies, inquired of Jacob.

“I’m not interested in politics,” said Jacob in a weak voice. He could not repress a groan as he felt another vicious stab of pain in his shoulder.

“See what you’re doing?” said Richmodis angrily. “He needs help and here you two are, arguing like a pair of tinkers. Nobody’s having another drink here. Not even you, Father.”

“What do you say to that?” Goddert wrung his hands in despair. “Other children talk respectfully to their parents. Well, then, Jaspar, you’re the physician, do something.”

Jaspar Rodenkirchen gave Jacob a severe look from under his knitted brows.

“Pain?” he asked.

Jacob nodded. “In my shoulder. It’s getting worse all the time.”

“What happened?”

“I ran into a wall.”

“Makes sense. Can you move your arm?”

Jacob tried, but the only result was a further wave of pain.

“Right.” Jaspar stood up. “Richmodis, help him get his coat and jerkin off. I need to take a look at it.”

“With pleasure.” Richmodis grinned and immediately started fiddling with Jacob’s clothes.

“Can I help?” asked Goddert, making an attempt to get up.

“Better not. We want to make him better, not kill him.”

Not kill him? thought Jacob as he took off the coat with Richmodis’s help. Don’t worry, there are others who want to take care of that. Laboriously he managed to peel off his jerkin.

Jaspar gave his shoulder and arm a close examination. “Hm,” he said. His fingers felt Jacob’s shoulder blade and explored the back of his neck and his collarbone. “Hm, hm.”

He examined his armpit, then the shoulder again. “Hm.”

“Is it serious?” asked Richmodis with concern.

“Leprosy’s serious. Come here a minute, Richmodis.”

Jacob saw him whisper something to her, but couldn’t hear anything. She nodded and went back to him. “Would you have any objection,” she asked with a coquettish smile, “if I embraced you?”

“Er—” Jacob gave Goddert a questioning look, but he just shrugged his shoulders. “No, of course not.”

Richmodis grinned. Jacob felt her soft arms around him. She held him tight and pressed him so close he could hardly breathe. She was warm. He felt the first stirrings of arousal and forgot the pain for a moment. He didn’t notice that his injured arm had been left out of the embrace, hardly noticed even when Jaspar grasped his hand.

Richmodis looked at him.

Her lips parted slightly and Jacob—

“Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!”

For a second everything went black. He felt like being sick. Without warning, Jaspar had almost torn his arm out, while Richmodis pulled with all her might in the opposite direction. Now she let go. His knees almost gave way, but he managed to stop himself and staggered over to the bench.

“What was all that about?” he panted.

“Move your arm,” said Jaspar calmly.

“I think I deserve some explan—What’s this?” Jacob rubbed his shoulder and stretched out his arm. It still hurt, but nothing like as much as before.