“Yes.”
“Hmm.” The white fingers set off across the black velvet of her dress, sought out and clasped one another. “Gerhard Morart is dead. He had to die. Not because we are cruel—because I am cruel—but because our cause demanded it.” She paused. “But there are some in our company who do not seem to understand that. The fools think they can go through fire without getting their feet burned.”
“We all come to the fire,” said Johann softly. “Sometime or other.”
“Of course. But what is pleasing in the sight of God and what is not? Have you ever thought how arrogant it is to claim to know God’s will and dispense justice in His name? When not even the pope can prove he is truly a servant of God. If the ways of the Lord are beyond finding out, as the Bible teaches, then perhaps it is the pope who is an abomination in the sight of God. Who, then, is more likely to burn? The man who questions the authority of the holy Catholic Church or the so-called Holy Father?”
“That seems to me a question no mortal can answer.”
“Nor can we interpret God’s word to suit ourselves. Do not torment yourself unnecessarily, my son. You will not find the answers we are looking for in this world. But since we cannot know, does that mean we must not act?”
“We will act,” said Johann determinedly.
The parchment skin tautened around the old woman’s teeth. She was smiling.
“But I would be happier,” he went on, “if I had better troops at my command. I don’t share Matthias’s fears about Heinrich von Mainz—Matthias sees danger everywhere—but there are others.”
“Yes, I know.” She lifted up her head and jutted out her chin. Her nostrils quivered as if she were trying to identify some faint odor. “You’re worried about Daniel. He’s a hothead. He’ll kill someone one day.”
“Or get killed. Daniel is a risk to the family.”
“I’m more concerned about Kuno.”
“Yes.” Johann sighed wearily. “Kuno’s the other one I had in mind.”
“But we cannot condemn Kuno because it is his heart speaking. Gerhard Morart dandled him on his knee. Kuno wanted to become a stonemason like him. When Gerhard became a journeyman, Kuno pestered his father to be allowed to accompany him, even though he was only a little boy, a very little boy who had only just learned to speak, never mind think for himself. He loved Gerhard above all else.”
“All the worse.”
The old woman stretched out her hand, feeling her way to Johann’s head. The withered fingers patted his hair. “Kuno’s no fool,” she said soothingly. “He’ll come to his senses soon and stand by us and the oath we all swore.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
The old woman was silent.
Johann stood up and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Good night, Mother.” He took his candle and went to the door.
“Johann.”
“Mother?”
“You need to relax. Read the Psalms. I suggest you will find what you need in Psalm one hundred and nine. Verse eight.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Mother.”
He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, and went to a small English chest of drawers that stood underneath a tapestry showing a hunting scene from Greek mythology. Two candles as thick as a man’s arm on either side of the chest gave sufficient light to read. He took out the Bible from one of the drawers and opened the heavy tome.
He heard voices below. Theoderich and Daniel were playing some board game. Hadewig, Johann’s wife, was singing an old song with an incredible number of verses.
He smiled.
Now, as the days got shorter and the nights colder, they often sat around the fire together again, telling one another stories. The family was scattered throughout Cologne, but their favorite place was here, at the house in Rheingasse, where the old woman dreamed of days gone by and days to come, weaving her dreams around the whole house, so that they were caught up in them and forgot time and the coldness of the world outside.
He leafed quickly through the pages until he found the passage she had mentioned. Relaxation was not the point. She was well aware that with his knowledge of the Bible, he would have to look it up to understand what she was telling him.
He found the page. His index finger ran along the lines.
For a while he stood there, motionless. Then he closed the book, replaced it, and went downstairs to warm himself by the fire.
JACOB
Jacob flew straight at the Shadow. His pursuer obviously hadn’t reckoned on this sudden about-face. He was too close and too astonished to sidestep or stop. They were going to crash into each other like two billy goats. God alone knew which one would get up and leave the alley. But at least it was better than a crossbow bolt between the shoulder blades.
It was strangely satisfying to be able to see his opponent at last. He didn’t look as gigantic as he had on the scaffolding, but he was still impressively tall. The weapon in his hand did resemble a crossbow, only a lot smaller. His clothes were as black as a raven’s wing, his face hardly recognizable in the darkness. Broad cheekbones, thick eyebrows topped by a high forehead, and flowing hair three feet long. Jacob couldn’t have said whether the face was handsome or repulsive. He sensed something untamed, bestial in the way the other moved. The creature before him had killed Gerhard Morart, Tilman, and Maria. And if it was the Devil himself, Jacob did not even have time for one last prayer.
But if it was a man—whoever the witch was who had conceived and brought him up with Satan’s aid—then he could be outwitted. Even the Devil had been outwitted sometimes.
And if you’re an animal, thought Jacob grimly, then you’ll be no match for the Fox!
He waited for the collision.
It didn’t come.
His pursuer had spread his arms wide and pushed off the ground. Jacob saw the black cloak rise up in front of his eyes, higher and higher, and felt the roughness of the cloth on his face before the giant had sailed over him in one great leap.
No man could jump that high. No matter.
Breathless, he ran out of the cul-de-sac and around the next corner down toward the Rhine. He heard the other set off after him again. He glanced around, expecting to see him close behind, but he obviously had a greater lead than expected. His trick had worked.
Running as fast as he could, he turned right into a narrow lane he knew led to the cathedral. Trees and walls everywhere. On the left the monastery of St. Maximin was sleeping. The monks’ day began at one. He’d renounce the world, he swore, enter the monastery, spend his days in prayer, if he was still alive and breathing at one o’clock. Branches lashed his arms and legs, scratched his face. He didn’t notice.
A church appeared, small and nondescript. A man threw something into the lane and started to go back in. His habit billowed in the wind.
“Father!”
Jacob skidded to a halt in front of him and took hold of his sleeve. The monk started and tried to shake him off. He was bald and fat and wheezed.
“Let me in,” panted Jacob.
The monk’s piggy eyes glinted suspiciously at him. “It’s too late,” he snapped.
“Too late?”
“Mass finished long ago.”
“Let me in, I beg you. Just for a moment. Please.”
“But I’ve told you. It’s impossible, my son. Come back in the morn—”
“Your Reverence!” Jacob grasped the man’s hands and squeezed them. “Hear my confession. Now! At once! You know you may not refuse me. It is God’s will and law that confession should be freely available at all times.” Was it God’s will and law? Perhaps not, he wasn’t particularly well up in church matters. But it was worth a try, all the same.