Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“Forgive me if I was too entranced by your beauty.” His voice was soft and cultured. “Would you do me the pleasure of telling me your name?”

Richmodis bit her lip.

“That’s Richmodis.” Rolof grinned. “Didn’t I say she was sweet?”

“Truly, my son, you did.” He kept his eyes fixed on her. “Richmodis, an enchanting name, though the songs of the troubadours would better express such comeliness than any name. Are you a—relative of my old friend Jaspar?”

“Yes,” she said, putting her basket down on the table. A thousand thoughts flashed through her mind at once. Perhaps the best thing would be to behave naturally. “And no,” she added quickly. “More a kind of friend, if you like”—she paused—“reverend Father.”

“Nonsense.” Rolof laughed, snatching a pear before she could stop him. “She’s his niece, yes? Cheeky young hussy, but nice.”

“Rolof! Who asked your opinion?”

Rolof, who was already biting into the pear, froze, a puzzled look on his face. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered with a timid glance at the stranger. But the stranger’s eyes were for Richmodis alone, and an odd change came over them, as if a plan were forming behind them.

“His niece,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” She threw her head back, shaking her locks. With pounding heart, but her chin raised defiantly, now she went up to him, scrutinizing him. “Reverend Brother or not,” she said pointedly, “I still think it is impolite not to tell me your name, when I have revealed mine. Is it not good manners to introduce yourself when you enter a strange house?”

The man’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. “Quite right. I must apologize.”

“Your name, then,” she demanded.

The blow to her face came so quickly she was speechless with astonishment. The next lifted her off her feet. Arms wide, she flew over a stool, crashed into the wall, and sank to the ground.

Rolof bellowed. Through a haze, Richmodis saw him throw the pear away and fling himself on her attacker.

Then everything went black.

The cranes groaned under the weight, and in the tread wheels operating the cranes, the laborers groaned. It was the sixth ship to be unloaded that day. The goods consisted entirely of bales of cloth from Holland, heavy as lead.

Leaning against a stack of crates, Matthias checked the list of wares that had arrived, ticking off those he intended to purchase. The right of staple, he thought to himself with satisfaction, was rapidly becoming one of the pillars of the Cologne economy. It had been granted a little over a year ago, and now no merchant, whether from Hungary, Poland, Bohemia, Bavaria in the east, Flanders or Brabant in the north, or from the Upper Rhine, could take his goods through Cologne without first offering them for sale in the market for three days. The privilege also applied to goods that arrived by land.

To Matthias’s mind it was a privilege for which the city had had to wait far too long. They had been pursuing it, like the Devil a lost soul, for over a hundred years. Since the channel of the Middle Rhine, which started at Cologne, was relatively shallow, merchants taking their goods upstream had no option but to transfer them to smaller ships there. Was it not then logical to take the opportunity to offer them for sale? Far be it from the citizens to assume this natural feature gave them any rights. After all, it would be tantamount to blasphemy to think that God had made the channel shallower just to divert a stream of gold into the pockets of the merchants.

But then the Church, of all institutions, had promoted the worldly interests of the merchants and patricians. It was Conrad von Hochstaden, always mindful of the needs of his flock, to whom the city owed the privilege! A neat stroke that appealed not to their hearts, but to their purses. The good thing about the right of staple was that during those three days only Cologne merchants had the right to buy. What was more, they could inspect the goods and, if they were found unsatisfactory, tip them into the Rhine. The result was that only the freshest fish and best wines were served in Cologne and the most desirable wares never reached the southern German territories.

There was just one thing about it that stuck in Matthias’s throat. The feeling of being under an obligation to Conrad. It was a paradoxical situation that could only be dealt with by cold reason, cutting out the emotions. His ice-cold reason was one of the few things Matthias thanked the Creator for. At least now and then, when he had time.

His index finger slid smoothly down the list, stopping at one item, a consignment of brocade. “Inspect and buy,” he said.

His chief clerk beside him gave a respectful nod and hurried over to where the ships’ owners were shouting instructions to the stevedores and waiting to start negotiations. Matthias added up a few figures in his head and decided it was a good day. Good enough to consider the purchase of a few barrels of fine wine newly arrived from Spain.

“Matthias!”

He stared out at the river, feeling his good mood evaporate. “What do you want?” he asked coldly.

Kuno Kone came up from behind, slowly walked around, and planted himself in front of him. “I would like a word with you, if you would be so kind.”

Matthias hesitated, one eye still on the barrels of wine. Then he lost interest in them and shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t think what there is to talk about,” he said irritably.

“I can. You have excluded me from your discussions.”

“That was Johann, not me.”

“Yes, you, too,” Kuno insisted. “You agree with Johann that I might betray our plan. What an unworthy suspicion!”

“Unworthy? Oh, we’re unworthy now, are we?” The corners of Matthias’s mouth turned down in scorn. “You won’t get anywhere with me with hackneyed phrases like that. What would have been your reaction if I’d knocked, say, Johann or Theoderich down?”

“I—I would have taken a less heavy-handed approach.”

“Aha, less heavy-handed!” Matthias gave a harsh laugh. “You’re a sentimental clod, Kuno. I’m not suggesting you’re going to betray us, but your brain is softened by emotion, and that’s even worse. With the best of intentions you can produce the worst of results. That’s why you’ve been excluded. There’s no more to say.”

“There is!” Kuno shook his head vigorously. “I’m willing to ignore the hurt and the insults, but have you forgotten it’s my brothers who are living in exile, banished and outlawed?”

“Of course not.”

“They were magistrates too, just like—Daniel.” He had great difficulty pronouncing the name. “Bruno and Hermann would die for our alliance, they—”

“No one is going to die for an alliance whose sole function is to represent his interests.”

“But they believe in the alliance, and they believe in me. Who’s going to keep them informed, if not me?”

“You should have thought of that before.”

“It’s never too late for remorse, Matthias.”

Matthias, still staring at the river, slowly shook his head. “Too late for you,” he said.

“Matthias! Trust me. Please. I have to know how things stand. What about the redhead? Has Urquhart—”

“Leave me in peace.”

“And what shall I tell my brothers?”

Matthias stared at him from beneath furrowed brows. “As far as I’m concerned, you can tell them they have a weakling for a brother who lacks self-control. They can always complain to me, once they’re allowed back in Cologne. For the time being—”

He broke off. One of the servants he had assigned to Urquhart was coming into the customs yard.

“Matthias, I beg you—” Kuno pleaded.