She raised two bony hands in solemn entreaty.
“What we are doing is right. The deaths are regrettable. Every minute that is left to me will be a prayer for those unfortunate souls. How should I not suffer with them, I who have already tasted of death’s profound peace? The brother of sleep lies with me, one last, sweet lover before I enter into the glory of light and give back the gift of life to the Creator. And yet, my every heartbeat hammers out defiance of those who would destroy us, the whores of the Baphomet and the Great Beast, my every breath pants for justice and revenge for our dead and our exiles. Who among you will tell me my longing is vain, that I must depart this life grieving and unfulfilled, that I have hoped and prayed to no avail? If there is one among you who will tell me that, let him stand before me. I will see him. Blind old woman that I am, I will know him.”
Her hands sank limply to her lap. In their wake her words left the silence of the grave, the speechlessness of shame and self-knowledge.
She bowed her head and spoke no more.
Johann cleared his throat. “We will not abandon our plan,” he declared. “The oath is still valid. I think everyone knows the part he has to play. Kuno—”
Kuno continued staring into space.
“—I think it would be better if you did not take part in our future discussions. That is all, gentlemen.”
Without a further word, Johann stood up and left the room.
NOTTURNO
“I can’t get to sleep.”
Richmodis sighed. She turned over onto her side and peered through the darkness to Goddert’s bed. The blanket rose over his body like a miniature Ararat. All that was lacking was a tiny ark.
“What’s the matter?” she asked gently.
“I can’t stop thinking about that fellow,” Goddert muttered.
“Jacob?”
“He saw the Devil. I don’t like the idea of the Devil sitting up there on the cathedral spitting down on us.”
Richmodis thought for a moment. Then she got up, shuffled across the room on bare feet to Goddert, and took his hand. “What if it wasn’t the Devil?” she said.
“Not the Devil?” Goddert gave a growl. “It could only be the Devil, he must just’ve taken on human form. The way he often does. What times do we live in when Satan comes to fetch the soul of an architect building a cathedral?”
“Hmm. Father?”
“What?”
“Skip all this about the Devil, all right? Just tell me what’s on your mind.”
Goddert scratched his sparse beard. “Well,” he said cautiously.
“Well?”
“He told us a lot of things, didn’t he, that red-haired lad? We ought to help him, don’t you agree?”
“Certainly.”
“You don’t think he was lying? What I mean is, if he isn’t a liar, then Christian charity demands we should help him. But I’m still not sure whether we can trust him. He could be a rogue. I say that just for the sake of argument.”
“Correct. He could be.”
“How should I put it?” Goddert wheezed. “I’ve got a soft heart, and when you gave him something to keep him warm, you probably got that from me. There’s nothing wrong with that, as such—”
“But?”
Goddert put his hands behind his head. The bed frame creaked under his weight. “Well.”
Richmodis smiled and gave his beard a little tug. “You know what I think, Father? Your soft heart tells you to help him. But if you help him, that means you believe him, which means you trust him. And unfortunately there’s no good reason to tell someone you trust not to see your daughter. Only you don’t want to lose her. A nice dilemma, eh?”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Goddert snorted. “Balderdash. Don’t get ideas above your head, missy. That’s neither here nor there. I didn’t say it and I didn’t think it. A beggar, a good-for-nothing, and you from a respectable family. The thought never entered my head.”
“Ha! You’re jealous, like all fathers.”
“Me? Jealous? Pull the other one. Why aren’t you sleeping? Off you go to your bed. Get a move on.”
“I will do what I think fit.”
Offended, Goddert pushed out his lower lip, pulled his blanket tighter around him, and turned to the wall. “Jealous!” he muttered. “Did you ever hear such childish prattle?”
Richmodis gave him a kiss and got back into her warm bed.
After a while the night watchman cried the tenth hour. She heard the clatter of hooves as he passed beneath their window. It was a comforting noise. She drew up her knees and snuggled deeper under the blanket.
“Richmodis?”
Aha.
“Do you like the lad?”
She giggled, thumbed her nose mentally at Goddert, and wrapped her arms tightly around her.
The tenth hour had passed.
Johann was kneeling at the little altar, trying to pray. He looked over to the wide bed where Hadewig would normally be sleeping. Today she was keeping the death watch with Guda Morart. His wife knew nothing of the alliance, none of their wives knew. She had no idea that he, who had received Gerhard in his house, as had the Kones and many other patrician families, had given his approval to his murder. She did not even know he had been murdered.
But for how long?
Johann suddenly realized that from the moment they had sealed their alliance, the men had distanced themselves more and more from their families. They had become outsiders in their own homes. He wished he could discuss the affair with Hadewig. He loved her, she loved him, and yet he was alone.
He asked himself what price they would have to pay. Not the price of earthly justice—if everything went well, they would never be found out—but the one their own self-respect would demand. Something inside them would die a little with every excuse they allowed themselves to get away with for their sin against life, the justifications with which they absolved themselves, at the same time recognizing them for the self-deceptions they were. What would be left of them when it was all over?
What would be left of him?
Johann thought of Urquhart out there. He knew as good as nothing about him, no more than the count of Jülich, who had sent him to them. He appeared like a deep red shadow against the gold-leaf background of an age in which things seemed nearer and more familiar the farther apart they were. Tears of courtly love beside streams of blood, the sophistication of the court side by side with the crudity of peasant life, dependent on each other, determining each other. The terrible and the beautiful, two sides of a magic mirror. People passed through from one world to the other—and were still in the same world.
In which world did Urquhart live? Was he hell or did he carry hell within him? People were familiar with death. The passion with which executions were carried out corresponded precisely to the passion that led to murder. But it was the coldness inside Urquhart that both fascinated and repelled Johann because he could find no reason for it, not even the blood money. How many had murdered and slaughtered in the name of their faith? But they did it out of religious fervor, others out of cruelty or the perverse pleasure they took in the sufferings of their victims; there were the robbers who did it for gain, those who hated, and those who loved too much.