Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“The long-haired Dominican?”

“Mmm.”

The cart started with a shudder, almost throwing Jacob off the shaft. He just managed to stop himself from falling. He heard something splatter onto the muddy ground, then another. Contorting his neck, he managed to look down.

Octopuses!

They were dropping off his habit. Christ Almighty, they must have stowed away when he landed on the fish stall. Now he was done for.

But this time fate was kind to him. No one shouted, “Hey, you! Stop!” No one looked under the cart, a glint of triumph in their eyes. The voices grew fainter. They were going away.

Jacob clung on as tightly as his throbbing fingers would allow. Better stay with the cart for a while before jumping off. It rumbled slowly along Pfaffenstraße, then turned into Minoritenstraße. Jacob was bumped and jolted until he felt none of his bones were left in their original place. Steeling himself against the pain, he put up with it all along Breite Straße with its stones and potholes, stops and starts, until they were opposite the Church of the Holy Apostles. There he decided to jump off.

He tried to pull his fingers out of the gaps between the planks.

He couldn’t.

He tried again. Still no luck. He was stuck. That’s impossible, he thought, I must be dreaming.

He gave a sharp tug to try to free his hands. The only result was a suppressed yelp of pain. He was stuck.

“Stop.”

Once more, swaying and creaking, the cart stopped. Jacob watched the iron-studded boots and leg-armor of soldiers go around the cart, heard the canvas being thrown back once more. They must have reached the city gate.

The soldiers muttered to each other. Jacob held his breath. Another pair of legs appeared in his field of vision. The shoes below the richly embroidered robe were decorated with buckles at the side. They were in the form of lilies and glistened purple in the sunlight.

After what seemed an eternity, the canvas cover was replaced.

“Nothing, Your Excellency.”

“Just barrels.”

A rumble of acquiescence came from the owner of the purple buckles. The soldiers stepped back and the carter barked his “Gee-up.” Totally bewildered, Jacob lay back on the shaft as the cart rattled through the Frisian Gate, taking him out of Cologne and into the unknown.

At the same time on the Brook Goddert was grumbling to Richmodis. “Huh, and that Jacob of yours will be lying in Little St. Martin’s bathhouse indulging in God knows what dissipation.” His gnarled fingers were having difficulty tying a knot.

“You just get on with your parcels,” Richmodis snapped.

They had left at the same time as Jaspar and Jacob to return to their house on the Brook. It was high time they got back to their dyeing. Goddert seemed a different person. He no longer complained about being unable to work because of his arthritis, but set to as in the old days, though with a somewhat morose doggedness. Richmodis knew why. He felt useless and stupid. His hands were deformed, his brain hopelessly condemned to defeat by Jaspar’s razor-sharp mind. She was all he had. But Richmodis needed him less and less, while he needed her more and more. There was no one left to look up to him.

They made up parcels of the blue cloth in silence. Goddert had decided to deliver them himself. He’d have to go around half the city, which meant he’d be late getting back, but he had obstinately refused all help. “You shut up,” he muttered. “If people knew how my daughter treats me.”

“No worse than the way you treat me.” She let the parcel she was doing sink to her lap and brushed the sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes. “Look, Father—”

“Other children treat their parents with respect.”

“I respect you.”

“No, you don’t.”

She went over to him and wrapped her arms around his tub of a body. “I respect you for every pound you weigh.” She laughed. “Can you imagine how much that adds up to?”

Goddert stiffened and turned his head away.

“Father,” said Richmodis, sighing.

“All right.”

“I don’t know what’s the matter with you. I like this Jacob, and that’s all. What’s wrong with that?”

Goddert scratched his beard. At last he turned and looked her in the eye. “Nothing. There are other lads I would have chosen for you, but—”

“Well?”

“Why can’t our family be like any other? The father chooses the husband, that’s the way things are.”

“For goodness sake!” Richmodis looked up to heaven. “What makes you think I see anything in that stray fox other than a creature who’s been done an injustice? I feel sorry for him. Did I ever say I felt anything more?”

“Hmmm.”

“Anyway,” she said, giving his beard a good tug with both hands, “I do what I want.”

“Yes, that’s what you keep on saying,” Goddert exclaimed. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“So? Where’s the problem?”

“The problem is, you can’t fool me.”

“You like him, too.”

“Yes, certainly—”

“And you married my mother against your father’s wishes.”

“I did what?” Goddert was taken by surprise.

Richmodis shrugged her shoulders. “At least you’re always bragging about not bowing and scraping to anyone and always getting your own way.”

“But that’s not the same thing,” he growled, without being able entirely to repress a grin.

“Oh, yes, it is.”

“You’re a girl.”

“Thanks for reminding me. I’d almost forgotten.”

“Little minx.”

“Pigheaded old jackass.”

Goddert gasped and wagged his finger at her. “I’ll teach you manners this evening.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Bah!”

She thumbed her nose at Goddert, then helped him finish tying up his parcels. “You’ll be back by dinnertime, won’t you?”

“Hard to say. There’s quite a pile of stuff.”

“Look, Father, please. If it’s too heavy, leave it. You’re not as young as you were.”

“It won’t be too heavy.”

“You don’t have anything to prove. Least of all to me.”

“But it won’t be too heavy for me.”

“Fine.” She shook her head and gave him a kiss. “Off we go, then.”

“What do you mean ‘we’?”

“I’m popping over to Jaspar’s. They might be back already. Anyway, I thought the old toper might like a bit of fruit.” She took a basket and filled it with pears. They left together. Goddert, small, bent under the weight of his burden, waddled off in the direction of Mauritiussteinweg. Richmodis watched him go, wondering how to get across to him that she preferred him as an arthritic lazybones.

She’d have to have a word with Jaspar about it.

Eventually she set off, strolling to Severinstraße with her basket on her arm. She was still a long way off when she saw the handcart leaned up against the wall of Jaspar’s house. Rolof had obviously been doing some work. Who would he have been cursing today?

She knocked and went in.

Rolof was on the bench by the fireside. His greedy eyes immediately fell on the pears. “For me?” he asked, smiling all over his face.

“Not for you, greedy guts, I—”

She halted and looked at the man at the other end of the bench, who stood up when she came in. He was unusually tall, and a torrent of silky blond hair fell down over his black monk’s habit to his waist. His forehead was high, his nose straight and slender, and his teeth, when he smiled, perfectly regular. His eyes, under brows the width of a man’s finger, glowed amber flecked with gold.

Behind them was something else. An abyss.

She looked at him and knew who he was.

Jacob’s description had been sketchy, but there was no possible doubt. For a moment she wondered whether it would be a good idea to run away. The Dominican, or rather, the man pretending to be a Dominican, came toward her. Involuntarily she took a step back. He stopped.