He was the quarry, not Tilman.
Perhaps the sensible thing would be to leave Cologne. He had been running away all his life, so why not now? And how many more times would he have to run away?
Jacob didn’t feel like running away. Not again.
The next gate was Wash Gate. Not hurrying, Jacob passed under the half-timbered portal, past the toll collectors with their bills of lading, drifting with the crowd. Shortly before Haymarket, he turned off down Rheingasse with the splendid stone-built house of the Overstolz family. Despite the exasperated noises his stomach was making, he decided to avoid the markets. They probably remembered his red hair all too well there, especially at the meat stalls.
His hair!
Could the Shadow have seen his hair? His hat had come off when he fell out of the tree and it hadn’t been too dark for someone to see the color of his hair. No problem finding him, then. His lurid mane was a direct invitation to his would-be assassin. And his hat had gone for good. Tilman was wearing it. What was left of Tilman, that is.
Dozens of creepy-crawlies seemed to be wriggling through his intestines. He slipped into the porch of the Overstolz house, took off his jerkin, and started to wind it around his head. Pain stabbed his right shoulder; he could hardly use his right arm. The cloth slid down over his eyes. Cursing, he pulled it off and tried again. It slid to the ground.
“What are you doing here?” a sharp voice behind him asked.
His heart missed a beat.
Slowly he turned around and breathed a sigh of relief. It was no long-haired giant aiming a crossbow at him. The man was wearing a brown coat trimmed with black fur over a pleated burgundy robe and an embroidered hat with earmuffs. His beard was flecked with gray and the eyes fixed on him had a cold gleam.
“Sorry,” whispered Jacob.
“This isn’t a place to be hanging around, d’you hear? I could set the dogs on you.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. Forgive me.” Jacob picked up his jerkin and squeezed past the man.
“Hey!”
He froze. There was a lump in his throat that even the most violent swallowing could not get down.
The man came up to him. Jacob saw his hand push back the coat to rest on the pommel of a slim sword hanging from his hip in a gold-mounted sheath.
“I—I was just taking a breather,” Jacob assured him.
The other frowned. “You’re a beggar,” he said. “Why aren’t you outside one of the churches begging?”
“I didn’t want to beg.” Just a moment, why ever not? “It’s the hunger, you see, that’s all.” Jacob assumed his most heartrending expression and pointed at his belly, which, indeed, did not have an ounce of spare fat. “My knees are like wax in the sun, the same sun that’s burning my brain. I don’t know if I’ll survive till the evening. My poor children! My poor wife! But forgive me, your honor, forgive me for having stood in your way, no harm intended. Forgive me, but all I want is a little of God’s grace and something in my stomach.”
It was a load of soft soap, really, but effective. The man scrutinized him from head to toe. Then he grinned. “What’s your name?”
“Jacob, sir. They call me the Fox.”
The man felt in his pocket and pressed a coin in Jacob’s hand. “Pray for me, Fox.”
Jacob nodded vigorously. “That I will, your honor. I promise.” Then, closing his fingers around his prize, he hurried off.
“And buy yourself something to eat, Fox, before you steal it,” the man shouted after him.
Jacob turned around and watched him go into the big house. A patrician! Jesus Christ! The man must be one of the Overstolzes, the most important family in the whole of Cologne and the surrounding area. That was what he called a piece of luck.
He had a look at the coin. A guilder! That was enough to keep the demons of the night at a distance for a while.
But not enough to make him forget them.
Clutching the cool metal, he turned left into Filzengraben and hurried on, trying at the same time to wrap the blasted jerkin around his head with his left hand so that it covered his hair. He had almost reached the end of the street before he managed it. He didn’t dare think what he looked like, even less what Richmodis would say.
Another stab of pain in his shoulder.
Just now she was the only person who could help him. He glanced along the Brook. There were more people there than yesterday.
He devoutly hoped that turning up there would not put Richmodis in danger. He was still alive, but two people had already been killed for something he had seen when he shouldn’t have. At least that was the assumption. So far he hadn’t had much leisure to think it over.
As he came nearer, he scanned the Duffes Brook. No sign of Richmodis.
He’d have to leave. Either that or knock at her door. But then he risked an earful from her father because he was wearing his jerkin and boots. He might even want them back and report him to the magistrate for theft.
Certainly, Jacob could hear himself saying, take back what is yours. For the hat and coat you’ll have to go to Plackgasse. See the man with a crossbow bolt through his neck; he won’t cause you any difficulty.
Oho! A crossbow bolt. And you’ll be the one who killed him?
Jacob could feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat. He sat down on the narrow strip of grass beside the stream and dipped his hands in the water. That hadn’t occurred to him.
It was just too much. He lay on his back, spread his arms wide, and stared up at the sky. The sheriffs, beadles, and magistrates were probably already after him. Plus Gerhard’s murderer and the odd butcher.
Great, great.
He closed his eyes. If only he could get some sleep.
“Wake up. Aren’t you going to teach me to play the flute?”
“Richmodis!”
Her face was upside down, her hair hanging down and appearing to reach out to him. He shot up and felt the stab of pain in his shoulder, worse than before.
She came around to face him and smiled. She was carrying a basket with a cover. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“I told you, I love your nose.” Jacob tried to struggle up.
She noticed his injured shoulder and frowned. “Oh, dear me, where did you do that?”
“Door was too narrow.”
He got to his feet, picked up the jerkin, and, with a guilty expression, shook off the dust. Her eyes darted from his shoulder to the jerkin, scrutinized him from head to toe, and returned to his shoulder. She stretched out and squeezed it.
“Ouch!”
“Oh, come on. Squealing like a little piglet.”
“Richmodis.” He grasped her by the shoulders, then thought better of it and took his hands away. “I know it’s asking a lot, but—” He looked around. People were staring at them again.
“What have you done this time?” She sighed.
“You said your uncle’s a physician?”
“Not only that, he’s dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s and knows important people. Why?”
“I need him to—I don’t know what I’ve done to my shoulder. They’re trying to get me because I saw everything, all because of that stupid tree, and I’m sorry about the clothes, but I just wanted to help Tilman and—”