He dived in among the people thronging the market stalls.
SEVERINSTRAßE
Rolof swore.
He cursed Jaspar’s cook because she had been ill for days and there was no decent food to eat, and he cursed the maid because she hadn’t cooked enough currant porridge that morning before going to stay with her parents out in the country for a week. He cursed the fact that he was the one who had to chop firewood, do the shopping, and clean the house, all on his own, and finally he cursed Jaspar Rodenkirchen, because it had to be someone’s fault. And as he unloaded the big handcart and carried the tub of soused herrings, the sack of peas, the half ounce of ginger, the brown sugar, and the butter into the back, he cursed Jacob, who had eaten some of the porridge he had had to go without, then Richmodis and Goddert, adding, for good measure, the archbishop, the king, and the pope. After that, he couldn’t think of anyone else and he didn’t have the nerve to curse saints.
That didn’t mean that Rolof didn’t love them all, especially Jaspar, Richmodis, and Goddert. Cursing was just his natural reaction to work.
Exhausted by the unloading and the cursing, he wiped the sweat from his brow and rubbed his belly. His eye fell on the handcart, which he had tipped up and leaned against the wall. One of the wheels was squeaking. He wondered whether to do something about it. That would mean more work. More work would mean more cursing, but Rolof regarded the mouth as a place where things went in rather than came out. He looked up at the sun and thought long and hard about what he should do. After a while he came to the conclusion he should do nothing, at least for the moment. With a brief prayer of thanks to the Lord for vouchsafing this insight, he went indoors and sank onto the fireside bench.
Just a moment! Jaspar had mentioned the wood in the yard. Didn’t it need chopping?
Jacob hadn’t chopped any, even though he was supposed to. Surely if it had been that important, Jaspar would have insisted. But he hadn’t. So why should Rolof have to do it? Anyway, he thought it was a waste of fine wood to burn it while the sun was shining and filling the house with natural warmth. No need to bother, then.
But if there was?
You can’t chop wood in your sleep, Rolof thought. Hey, that was a good idea! Get some sleep. He stretched, yawned, and was about to head for the stairs, when there was a knock at the door.
“One thing after another,” he grumbled. Still yawning, he waddled over to the door and opened it.
“The Lord be with you,” said the man with a friendly smile. “Is Jaspar at home?”
Rolof blinked and looked the man up and down. Up meant putting his head right back. The man was tall. He was wearing the black habit of the Dominicans.
“Does he know you?” asked Rolof.
The man raised his bushy brows in astonishment. “But of course. Jaspar and I studied at college together. I haven’t seen him and his bald head for ages. May I come in?”
Rolof hesitated. “Jaspar’s not here, yes?”
“Oh, what a pity. No one at all at home?”
Rolof pondered this. “Yes, there is,” he said slowly. “Me. I think.”
“Perhaps I could wait, then? You see, I’m just passing through and I’m pretty weary. In a couple of hours I’ll have to be going, to say mass in a village outside. It’d be such a shame if I couldn’t at least say hello to the old rogue.”
He beamed at Rolof, who scratched his chin. Didn’t Jaspar say hospitality was an important duty? Perhaps because it was connected with drinking, and drinking was good. And the man was in holy orders, even if he didn’t appear to have a tonsure. But then what did Rolof know of holy orders?
Rolof shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, Father,” he said, with all the politeness he could muster, stepped aside, and lowered his head respectfully.
“I thank you.” The man stepped inside and looked around with interest.
“Er, there.” Rolof pointed to the fireplace, where the fire was crackling. “Sit by the fire. I’ll see if there’s any wine—”
“No, no.” The man sat down and folded his arms. “Please don’t go to any trouble, my son. Sit down here. We can enjoy a cozy chat.”
“A chat?” Rolof echoed with a skeptical look.
“Why not? I’ve heard there have been all sorts of goings-on in Cologne. I haven’t been able to get the exact details, unfortunately, but someone did say the architect in charge of the cathedral fell to his death. Is that true?”
Rolof stared at him and then at the fire. “Yes,” he replied.
“How dreadful. Such great plans and then this!” The stranger shook his head. “But the ways of the Lord are unfathomable. How did it happen?”
Rolof slumped back on the bench. A cozy chat was beyond him. That Gerhard had not fallen but had been pushed, that much he had understood; also that something terrible was going to happen. Strange, the way he’d heard himself say someone else was going to be murdered. That had exhausted him and he hadn’t said anything else. But what should he say now?
The stranger leaned forward and gave him an encouraging nod. “Speak, my son. It would do my heart good to hear you, even if what you have to say will also sadden it. I did hear”—he looked around then, coming closer and lowering his voice as if there were someone else in the room—“not everyone agrees about the way he came to die.”
“It was the Devil,” Rolof blurted out.
“Aha! The Devil. Who says that?”
“The—” Rolof halted. “The man,” he said cautiously.
“Which man?”
“Who was here.”
“Oh, him. I see. The redhead, you mean?”
Rolof looked at the stranger, racking his brains as to what he should say. If only Jaspar would come back. Slowly, his lips pressed tightly together, he nodded.
The stranger seemed very satisfied. “I thought so. I know that redhead. A very fertile imagination he’s got. A liar, did you know that? Who did he tell all this nonsense to, my dear—what was your name?”
“Rolof.”
“My dear Rolof, the Lord looks down on you and sees a devout servant. But the Lord looks down in anger on those who out of vanity would slander others. Unburden your heart and tell me what this redhead—is his name not Jacob? Jacob the Fox he calls himself in his presumptuous pride, as if he were cunning and wise—said to you about poor Gerhard Morart.”
“Yes, well—” Rolof shifted uneasily on the bench. “Came yesterday, yes? Just Jaspar and Goddert here, drinking as usual. And Richmodis. She’s sweet.” Rolof gave an ecstatic smile. “Nose like a tree in the wind.”
“Beautifully put, my friend. I hope it’s a compliment to the young lady.”
“Richmodis’s sweet. The redhead told us some strange things. Don’t know if I should—” He bit his lip and was silent. Keep your stupid trap shut, Rolof, he told himself.
The stranger was no longer smiling. “Who else did he tell?”
“Else?”
“Who else? Apart from those you’ve told me about?”
“Don’t know.”
“When is Jaspar coming back?”
“Don’t know.”
“And Jacob? Jacob the Fox?”
“Don’t know.”
The stranger looked at him appraisingly. Then he relaxed and leaned back, a beatific smile on his face. “Is not the world a fine place, Rolof? I think I will have that mug of wine, if you wouldn’t mind. Blessed are they that know nothing.”
“Blessed are they that know nothing,” muttered Rolof glumly.
JACOB
Their pursuers had obviously split up as well. When Jacob reached the meat stalls and looked around he could see only two. He skidded through the mud and headed for the maze of alleys behind the iron market. That was his only hope of getting away. He knew every nook and cranny there and would have the advantage over the men chasing him.