Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

Jaspar put his head on one side. “I assume it ought to be obvious.”

“Clear as the waters of the Rhine. The patricians are going—”

There was a faint but unmistakable scratching sound from the front door.

“Shh,” ordered Jaspar.

They listened. All they could hear was the howling of the wind and the drumming of the rain. “It must have been the storm,” said Richmodis. Her voice quivered slightly.

“No,” whispered Jaspar, “that wasn’t the wind. He’s outside.”

Jacob closed his eyes and focused all his concentration on the spot outside the door. Over the years he had of necessity learned to register every noise, every minor detail.

There it was again. Scratching. Rustling.

Then something scraped along the wall of the house. Soft, cautious steps. More scratching on the wall, higher up this time.

Goddert put his hands over his mouth and looked at them one after the other, goggle-eyed. “Oh, God,” he said, half choked.

Jacob could feel his heart pounding somewhere just below his jaw. It was the same feeling as a few days ago when he was hiding in the little church watching through a tiny window the shadowy figure that was searching for him, that seemed to scent him, so that, on impulse, he had poured the holy water over himself. Figures appeared in his mind unbidden: Maria, Tilman, Rolof, and—He forced himself to stay calm. The others were looking at him expectantly, fear in their eyes, every one of them.

“Yes,” he said, “Urquhart’s outside.”

The night watchmen, their voices torn by the wind, had long since called eleven o’clock, but Johann was still sitting in his study, watching the candle burn down.

The group had originally intended to spend this night together. That decision seemed years ago now. Daniel had withdrawn, Theoderich, too, Heinrich von Mainz had ridden home, and Matthias had not returned. By now any idea that they were bound by a common cause seemed absurd to Johann.

“It is right,” he murmured.

But was it? The words seemed to mock him. What was right about killing people? What was right was the common goal, the sacrifices they had made. But what kind of goal was it?

He tried to recover his former clarity of vision, but he could not. He felt weary and confused, incapable of saying what they actually hoped to achieve. And yet there had been a time when it was clear to all. Each one of them had sworn an oath because each one believed in the justness of their cause.

The cause.

He realized that for days now they had just spoken of “the cause.” They never mentioned the actual purpose. There were certain words they avoided, as if they didn’t want to be associated with them. They were like naughty children who keep their eyes shut tight and think no one can see them.

The cause.

There had been a common goal. Such a clear, unmistakable goal they had all accepted it without regard for their own interests.

Johann could not repress a laugh, then pressed his knuckles to his lips. Had Matthias ever done anything that ran counter to his own interests? Or Daniel? Heinrich von Mainz, at least. And Kuno!

But no, Kuno was about to betray them all. If he hadn’t done so already.

Theoderich? Perhaps, but—

Johann jumped up and began to pace up and down feverishly. They had lost sight of their goal. He would never be able to sleep easily again, his peace of mind was gone. There must be some kind of justification, some absolution. What they were doing was not for themselves, but for some higher purpose.

He leaned his hands on his desk and looked inside himself.

All he saw was blackness.

“Has he gone?” asked Richmodis after a while.

“We should have put out the candle,” said Goddert. There were fine beads of sweat on his brow.

Jacob shook his head. “Too late. Pointless anyway.”

“I can’t hear anything at all.”

Jaspar placed his finger on the tip of his nose. “Does that mean he’s simply given up?”

“I don’t know,” said Jacob.

Richmodis looked at the door. “He doesn’t give up,” she said softly. “He’ll never give up.”

“Even so, nothing much can happen to us.” Goddert clenched his fists. “It’s a strong house, doors and shutters barred from inside. He’d need a battering ram.”

“Perhaps he’s brought one.”

“Nonsense.”

Jacob was still listening but could not hear anything apart from the storm. Still his feeling of unease was growing. It wasn’t like Urquhart to leave things undone.

“He doesn’t need a battering ram,” he whispered. “He’s much worse without one.”

“What could he do?” Jaspar wondered.

“The back door!” Richmodis exclaimed.

“What?”

“I heard it clearly. He’s at the back door.”

Goddert shook his head vigorously. “He can’t get in there. I barred it myself, even the Devil himself couldn’t get in.”

“How did he get around the back?” asked Jaspar. “Over the roof?”

“How else?” replied Jacob.

Goddert looked at him in dismay.

“I’ve escaped over the roofs once or twice myself,” Jacob explained. “If Urquhart climbed up the front—”

“It’s a very narrow, very sharp roof,” declared Goddert, as if that settled matters.

“So what? It would be no problem for me, even less for him.”

Goddert wiped the sweat from his brow. “Still,” he said, “there’s nowhere he can get in.”

Kuno gave a quiet groan.

There were no more sounds from the back door.

They waited.

After a while Jacob began to relax. “Looks as if he really has gone.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Jaspar scratched his chin and went into the kitchen. When he came back he looked less worried. “Everything secure.” He sat down beside Jacob and patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, Fox-cub, you were about to tell us something. The answer to the question from your very lips. I can’t wait to hear it.”

Jacob nodded, but his mind wasn’t really on it. There was something he’d forgotten, something important—

“Goddert?” he whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Very quietly now. You shut everything?”

“Of course! How often do I—”

“Is there a skylight?”

Goddert stared at him. The color drained from his face. “Oh, my God!”

Jacob seemed to feel the floor tremble beneath his feet. “Take it easy,” he whispered. “We’ve got to think of something. Urquhart’s in the house already.”

“But what?”

“Just keep talking as normal. Go on. About anything.”

“Oh, God! Oh, God!”

Jaspar cleared his throat noisily. “If you ask me, Goddert,” he said in a loud voice, his eyes fixed on Jacob, “the bastard won’t be back. He’ll have realized we know how to protect ourselves.”

“Perhaps he got afraid and ran away,” agreed Richmodis in firm tones.

Jacob wasn’t listening. He was thinking feverishly. Opposing Urquhart with sheer strength was pointless. He was stronger than all of them put together and he’d be armed. He was probably sitting in the loft now, his tiny crossbow ready.

At the top of the stairs, between the parlor and the kitchen, a black rectangle yawned in the ceiling. Was he up there, listening? Would he attack immediately or keep them in suspense, wearing them down? But they were at the end of their tethers already.

For a moment Jacob thought about creeping up the stairs and facing him.

In your dreams, he told himself. Urquhart will kill you the moment your fiery mane appears in the hatchway.

Fiery mane! An idea occurred to him. He gave Goddert’s sleeve a little tug. Goddert’s head swung around. He looked as if he was close to cracking up. Jacob placed a finger to his lips. “Have you any lamp oil?” he asked softly.