Matthew Skelton: Endymion Spring

"And a mute, too," said Fust, amused, smothering me in a foul-smelling laugh. "Tell me, Johann. Where did you find him?"

I willed my Master not to answer. I didn't want him mentioning the time I had reached for his purse in the crowded marketplace, only to encounter a pouch full of type and a firm hand fettered round my wrist.

Luckily, he chose to ignore the insult.

"I see you have an apprentice of your own," he said, glancing at the young man who had entered behind Fust. "Peter Schoeffer, if I'm not mistaken, back in Mainz at last."

I turned to stare at the newcomer, who stood at the top of the stairs, ill at ease. Dressed in rags that were hardly suited to the weather, Peter inched closer to the hearth, trying to steal whatever warmth he could from the room.

A furtive look from Fust warned him to remain still.

My Master, noticing the young man's discomfort, addressed him directly. "Tell me, Peter, where have you been?"

"Never you mind," snapped Fust, but Peter had already opened his mouth to speak.

"Paris," he mumbled, looking down at his soiled shoes. His leggings were patched with mud and holes gaped in his jacket. "The Library of St. Victor."

My Master's eyes widened with approval. "The Library of St. Victor! Why, move closer to the fire, boy, and tell me all about it! Is it as remarkable as they say?"

"It's wonderful," said Peter, his face brightening for the first time. "The library must contain a thousand volumes. I've read half the books in the world!"

Fust interrupted. "Peter, aren't you forgetting something? In fact, why don't you take this opportunity to fetch my things and get this" — he eyed me up and down — "…boy…to help you? There's no point delaying the purpose of our visit."

He pressed a hand to my back and shoved me towards the stairs. I checked with my Master to make sure I was not needed, but he was staring at the lens in his fingers, apparently under the impression that the meeting could not be avoided.

"Now then, let's talk business," I heard Fust say as I followed Peter down the stairs.

Snow had drifted against the side of the house, nearly obliterating the sledge Peter had dragged up to the door. White peaks crowned the surrounding roofs and reared against the neighboring buildings like a frozen sea, spangling timbers and frosting shutters.

I started bundling the heavy, snow-caked blankets into my hands, wondering how long our guests were planning to stay — it looked like a long time — when Peter stopped me.

"Not those," he grumbled. "This."

With a flourish, he ripped off the remaining covers to reveal a monstrous chest buried beneath the mound of blankets. I stared at it, appalled. The casket seemed to suck the very night into it: it was laden with shadow. A chill wind whipped the loose snow round my legs and I hugged myself to keep warm.

"Here, take that end," Peter bossed me, evidently in a hurry to return to the fireside, "and be careful not to drop it."

I took the iron handle in both hands and attempted to lift it. It was extremely heavy. Fortunately Peter bore the brunt of the weight in his strong arms and slowly, stopping every few steps, we managed to heave the chest into the house. The icy metal bit into my skin.

As we climbed the stairs, the light from the workshop began to pick out shapes from the sides of the box. Lumpy knobs revealed themselves as hideous beasts I had never seen before. Scaly monsters and frightening demons leered at me, as if from the pits of Hell. They had scabby cheeks and savage teeth and eyes like burnt umber. But it was only once we reentered the room, half-kicking and half-sliding the chest across the floor, that I noticed the two snakes coiled tightly round the lid, their heads interlocked. Peter eyed them with obvious distrust, but I was fascinated. They seemed to draw me towards them.

"I wouldn't touch those if I were you," Fust advised me suddenly, catching my hands straying closer to the snakes. "They just might bite."

My hands whipped back to my sides. Something about the way he said this made me believe him. Perhaps they were venomous? Fust was regarding me down the length of his nose, his dark eyes glinting. Obediently, I backed away.

Fust turned his attention to my Master, who was staring at the fire, as though the future were held in its flames. He seemed to have aged in the interval.

"So, Gutenberg, what do you say?"

There was a heap of gold and silver next to the discarded lens on the table — more gulden than I had seen since the start of the year.

"I fear," said my Master slowly, "I shall have to sleep on it."

"Pish! You know you cannot resist."

"Yes, but what you propose is—"

My Master paused, unable to come up with an appropriate word.

"Perfectly reasonable," suggested Fust.

"Preposterous," retorted my Master.

Fust spat with scorn. "Johann, you know not what you are saying! With your machine and my cunning, we can achieve…everything! There will be no end to our wealth or influence."

"Yes, but at what cost?" asked my Master warily, rubbing his eyes and smearing a daub of ink across his face. "It is not exactly the kind of influence I was hoping for. I will have none of it."

"Come, where is the merciless desire that once fired your spirit?"

Fust surveyed the room. Surrounding the press were numerous benches and ink-spattered tables, covered with crucibles, iron frames and padded ink balls — the tools of our trade. Folded sheets of paper hung from the rafters like birds.

"I have put those times behind me," said Herr Gutenberg moodily.

"Nonsense! I can see that even now you're engaged on some new enterprise." Fust patted the handle of the press like a pack animal. "What is it this time? Almanacs? Indulgences?"

Herr Gutenberg glanced up. "Well, I was thinking of printing a Bible," he said diffidently. "A huge and potentially lucrative undertaking."

Fust spotted his opportunity. He snaked his way behind my Master and laid a jeweled hand on his shoulder.

"Allow me, then, to fan the flames. Another eight hundred gulden, effective immediately, to help you launch this latest venture. Just think of what you'll achieve. Wealth befitting a patrician of the city! Books impressed with your name throughout the Empire! You will be spoken of with awe and adulation for generations to come!"

"And your demands!" said my Master, tasting temptation. He looked up into the other man's face like a captivated child.

"Why, an interest in your business, of course," responded Fust, rubbing his hands together. "And a right to use your equipment, if and when I see fit."

Once again his eyes landed on me, as though I were one more of my Master's possessions. I squirmed.

"And that chest?" My Master nodded towards the wooden box, which lay hidden, but not forgotten, near the hearth. In the firelight, I could see the ugly faces jeering and scowling at me. Drops of melted snow, tinted red by the fire, glinted on the snakes' fangs.

"A special kind of paper, that is all," said Fust, "part of my own invention. As you say, it need not concern you. Peter, I am sure, will safeguard it in my absence."

Peter and I exchanged looks.

"In fact, he may as well assist you by learning the tricks of your trade."

A downward curl to Peter's lips suggested he was not altogether thrilled to have his services volunteered in this way. No doubt he had been looking forward to more salubrious accommodation at his Master's house. He clenched his swollen fingers, as though gripping an imaginary sword.

"So, Gutenberg, what do you say?" said Fust, indicating the time had come for a decision.

My Master glanced at the heap of coins on the table and then at me. Wearily and with misgivings, he nodded.