Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“Do you sometimes dream of the children?” came Jaspar’s voice, echoing across the roof.

Urquhart’s hand started to tremble. The next moment he was running along the planks away from Jacob. He leaped the gap to the next platform, ran to the edge and—staggered. He doubled up. The arm with the crossbow sank, his free hand went to his head.

Jacob held his breath.

Jaspar appeared on the rungs, directly in front of Urquhart. He looked tense. After a quick glance at Jacob, he clambered onto the platform. His eyes were flickering with fear, but his voice was steady, each word cutting like a sword.

“You are Urquhart, duke of Monadhliath,” he said.

Urquhart drew back a step.

“You came down from the Scottish Highlands to join Louis of France in the sixth Crusade. You wanted to serve the Lord your God and win back the Holy Land, but what you saw after you took Damietta was the face of Satan.”

Urquhart did not move.

“Remember Damietta.”

Jacob watched in disbelief as Jaspar went up to the huge figure and slowly stretched out his hand. He must be out of his mind!

“You butchered the Egyptians. First the men. Then Louis’s soldiers fell on the women. I know you were against it, Urquhart. You did not want God’s name dishonored, you used all your influence, but in vain. You arrived too late.” Jaspar paused. “And then Louis’s bully-boys herded the children together. You remember?”

“No,” Urquhart mumbled.

Now Jaspar’s hand was trembling. He tried to take the crossbow. Urquhart gave a groan and jumped back. They made a grotesque picture, as if the two disparate figures were performing some mysterious heathen dance on the edge of an abyss.

“Think of the children,” Jaspar insisted. “The soldiers—”

“No. No!”

“Listen to me. You’re going to listen to me.” Jaspar clenched his fist and came closer. “Just as you were forced to listen when the French king joked about their whimpering, when he said it reminded him of the mewing of seagulls, just as you were forced to look on as the swords descended, chopping them into pieces, just as you were forced to watch as their bellies were slit open while they were still alive, Urquhart, they were still alive, and it drove you mad, and—”

A scream came from Urquhart such as Jacob had never heard from a human throat before.

Jaspar tried to grab the crossbow.

And failed.

Jacob saw Urquhart straighten up. Everything seemed to happen excruciatingly slowly. His arm started to rise, the tip of the bolt came up, and the realization that he had lost showed in Jaspar’s eyes. The muscles of his face relaxed. With a smile he looked up to heaven.

Jaspar had given up. He was accepting his fate.

It was absurd.

Not a sound passed Jacob’s lips as he launched himself. He forgot his pain. He forgot his fear. He forgot Goddert and Richmodis, Maria, Tilman, Rolof, and Kuno. He forgot everything that had happened in the last few days.

Then he forgot the smoking ruins of the shack, forgot his father and his brother.

All he saw was Urquhart and Jaspar.

Long strides took him toward them. There seemed an eternity between each heartbeat. Centuries rolled past. As if in a dream, Jacob floated over the scaffolding while the crossbow still rose, higher and higher, until it came to a halt, pointing at Jaspar’s breast.

Somehow he managed to cross the gap to the next platform. He kept going.

Urquhart’s index finger tightened.

Time stood still.

Jacob stretched out his arms and put all the strength left in his body into one last leap. He felt a wonderful lightness. The impact, when he hit Urquhart, was almost soft. He grasped the arm of the duke of Monadhliath as if he were taking him home, pushed him over the edge of the scaffolding, and followed him readily.

Urquhart had been right. They had become one.

Perhaps they could rise up together. Without the hatred and the fear and the terrible memories.

Joy welled up inside him and he closed his eyes.

“It’s simply beyond belief,” said Jaspar.

Jacob blinked.

He was hanging over Dranckgasse. Far below a dog was sniffing at Urquhart’s corpse.

Nonplussed, he turned his head and found himself looking into Jaspar’s haggard face. The dean was grasping him firmly with both hands, his brow gleaming with sweat.

“This really is the most stupid fox I’ve ever caught.” He sniffed. “Genuinely thinks he can fly.”

No one ever heard what was agreed between Jaspar Rodenkirchen and Johann Overstolz on that morning of 14 September in the year of our Lord 1260. At the end of the discussion, however, the threat had disappeared and, in return, there had never been an alliance. Gerhard’s death was an accident and poor Rolof had been attacked by thieves. Once they’d agreed to each other’s lies, everything was right with the world again.

Conrad said mass at prime and preached another holy Crusade, without ever learning what a close escape he had had. The body of an unknown man, with burns to the face and chest, was found in Dranckgasse. The weapon beside him left no doubt that he was the crossbow murderer who had killed at least three people in the city. No one knew his name, where he came from, or what his motives for the killings were, so the knacker took him away on his cart and buried him in a common grave, where he was soon forgotten.

Goddert was bursting with pride. He displayed his splint as if it were a piece of knightly armor. Soon the whole district knew that he had crossed swords with a mighty opponent and, well, if not exactly driven the intruder out, still, he had given him something to think about.

Richmodis smiled and said not a word.

And Jacob disappeared.

It was early evening when Jaspar finally found him. He was up on the city wall, not far from his tumbledown shack under the arch, leaning on the parapet, gazing out over the fields. He looked as if a herd of cows had trampled over him, but his expression was one of almost serene calm.

Without a word, Jaspar stood beside him. Together they watched the sunset. After a while Jacob turned to face him. “Is Richmodis all right?”

Jaspar smiled. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Jacob was silent.

“Are you thinking of running away again?”

“No.”

“You’ve nothing to fear, Fox-cub. Johann rattled his saber, and so did I. We each promised the other we’d make his life hell on earth if there wasn’t peace immediately.” Jaspar smiled smugly. “I had to cheat a bit. But only a bit.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That’s water under the bridge. Better nobody knows. I believe in knowledge, but too much can sometimes cause trouble.”

“What you found out about Urquhart didn’t. Quite the opposite.”

“It was your story, Fox-cub,” Jaspar explained. “I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I kept asking myself what could have made such an intelligent and cultured man as Urquhart into what he was. Suddenly I had the idea he must be like you, with a curse on him that lay somewhere in his past. I went back to St. Pantaleon to talk to Hieronymus again. Now I knew the murderer’s name. It was only a vague hope and not without its tragic aspect, forcing a dying man to rack his brains for me.”

“That’s why you were late?”

“Hieronymus couldn’t remember a man with long blond hair because at that time Urquhart didn’t have long blond hair. But the name rang a bell. At the end I knew what Urquhart really was.”

“And what was he?”

Jaspar gazed reflectively over the fields gilded by the setting sun. “He was a victim,” he said after a while.

“A victim?” Jacob mused. “And did you find the culprit?”