“Keep your hair on, Fox-cub. You’re not going at all. You’re going to be so good as to chop the firewood in my yard.”
“But—”
“No buts. I do something for you, you do something for me.”
“I’ll do anything for you, but you’ve got to take me with you, d’you hear? Disguised and in your company, I wouldn’t be in any danger. After all, it’s a magistrate we’ll be talking to.”
“I hear you.” Jaspar sighed. “And I can see you doing something silly behind my back. I’ll send Rolof to fetch Richmodis, to give you a good reason not to do something silly.”
“I—” Did Jaspar say Richmodis? “All right.”
“You see?” Jaspar rubbed his hands. “Aren’t you lucky? Old Uncle Jaspar does the spadework for you and scatters the seeds of reason. You may thank me. If it leads to anything, you can still come along.” He placed his finger on the end of his nose. “Just a minute. There was something else. Something I needed to know? Damn, we don’t get any younger. No matter. I’ll be away for an hour or two. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
Jacob was thinking of Richmodis. “Of course not.” Then something occurred to him. “Tell Richmodis to bring her whistle.”
Jaspar turned at the bottom of the stair, a severe expression on his face. “Didn’t I say something about chopping wood?”
“No problem. She’ll be the one playing.”
“But she doesn’t know how.”
“That’s why she needs to learn.”
Muttering something incomprehensible in Latin, Jaspar went to find Rolof.
JASPAR
That morning Bodo Schuif, master brewer, did not look like a man who meant to spend the day tending his tuns of mash. As Jaspar arrived he was wearing his best coat and about to leave.
“Nevertheless,” he said, putting his arm around Jaspar’s shoulders, “there’s still time for a jar, don’t you think, Rodenkirchen?”
“You would have to assure me that beer, consumed after large quantities of red wine, has a purgative effect, promotes the digestion, and will not impair the harmonious functioning of my organs and bodily fluids.”
“Consider yourself assured.”
“Then lead me to it.”
The brewer gave the maid a sign. Before long two foaming mugs were standing on the table and in no time at all the two men had white mustaches.
“And where is your good lady?” asked Jaspar casually.
Schuif gave a drawn-out, rumbling burp. “At the market. I told her I wanted crayfish pie today, no one makes a better. Do you fancy a bite yourself?”
Jaspar’s mouth watered. “I’m afraid not,” he said reluctantly. “It looks as if I’ll be occupied with urgent business.”
“Me too.” Schuif sighed. “There’s always urgent bloody business. Since I was elected magistrate I seem to be spending more time in the Town Hall than anywhere else. There’s another meeting this morning. Why, I don’t know, there’s nothing important to be dealt with. Recently it’s the wife who’s been looking after the business. She’s almost better at it than me, the Lord be praised.”
He laughed and took a deep pull at his beer. “D’you know,” he said when he’d wiped the foam from his mouth, “the ones who give us the most trouble are those louts who call themselves the noble houses. Instead of the council of magistrates doing what it’s supposed to do and administering justice, we spend all our time squabbling with the few patricians left on it. Conrad cleared out the cesspit that was the old council and replaced it with honest traders and craftsmen, but there’s still a few patricians among us. I ask you, what do they want, these noble gentlemen? Behave as if they’d lost all their influence when what really gets up their noses is seeing ordinary burghers getting their sweaty hands on their supposed privileges.”
“No, they can’t stand that.”
“You know how I feel about it. I’m not petty-minded. Each to his own, I say. But the magistrates are responsible for the administration of justice and the running of the city. That means for Cologne. The whole of Cologne. Where would we be if those who represent everyone, the poor and needy as well, only came from the patrician families?”
“‘Would we be’? That’s the way things used to be.”
“Yes, and praise and thanks be to Jesus Christ that our lord archbishop took the shovel to that pile of dung! A bloody scandal, the way things used to be done! The guilds weren’t entirely free of blame, I have to admit. We let the patricians infiltrate us, even elected some guildmasters, all for the sake of profit. But that was all. Was it our fault the noble families increased their influence along with their wealth? They got everywhere, like blasted mildew. Conrad was right to kick up a fuss about them using their positions to protect criminals and help them evade his jurisdiction.”
Jaspar grinned. Bodo was so proud of being a magistrate, he never tired of trotting out the well-known facts again and again. Since becoming a magistrate he had tried to moderate his rough language, not always with success. No wonder the patricians, who had studied and seen the world, reacted to people like Bodo as if they had the itch. Despite the fact that, according to the statutes, anyone who was sound of mind and body, born within wedlock, and not convicted of any crime could become a magistrate, previously only representatives of the noble houses had occupied the magistrates’ seats. If the patricians had had their way, people like Bodo would have got a kick in the seat of the pants rather than a seat on the council. A brewer as magistrate was a slap in the eye for the old families, especially as it came from Conrad von Hochstaden.
“Well?” asked Schuif with a frown.
“You’re right, as always, Bodo.”
“That’s not what I mean. Do you like my magic potion? You’re keeping so quiet about it I almost take it as an insult.”
“Sorry.” Jaspar emptied his mug demonstratively. The beer was sweet and stuck to his teeth, almost a meal in itself.
“That’s better.” Schuif smiled. He stood up and smoothed out his coat. “And now I must be off. That is—” He frowned and gave Jaspar a questioning look. “Did you come for a reason?”
“Oh, nothing special. I was interested in poor Gerhard’s tragic accident.”
Schuif nodded fiercely. “Yes. Terrible, now the building’s coming on so well. Could it be God didn’t want him to finish the perfect church? I have a theory of my own there.”
“Huh!” Jaspar made a dismissive gesture. “Gerhard could have lived to be a hundred and not seen it finished.”
“Don’t say that. There are miracles—”
“There are architects. I’ve nothing against miracles, but Gerhard Morart was a human being like you and me.”
Schuif rested his knuckles on the table and leaned down to Jaspar conspiratorially. “Yes, perhaps we need a different word for it. You’re right, miracles are generally attributed to saints. Perhaps we should be talking of the Devil?”
“Not again.” Jaspar groaned.
“What do you mean, not again? And why not, anyway? If you ask me, Gerhard had dealings with the Arch-fiend. My wife says he jumped off that scaffolding.”
Jaspar leaned back, shaking his head. “Your wife should stick to crayfish pie. Do you really believe that?”
“Anything’s possible,” said Schuif, wagging his finger at Jaspar.
“If anything’s possible,” Jaspar countered, “what do you think of another theory, namely that Gerhard didn’t jump, but—”
“But what?”
Jaspar bit his lip. Better keep quiet about that. Instead he asked, “Have you spoken to the witnesses?”
“Yes, we questioned them.”
“Reliable?”
“I’d say so. Two respectable monks, preachers who happened to be staying in Cologne. Benedictines, if I’m not mistaken.”