“The cart went in there,” shouted a voice.
“And what if he’s not in it?” asked a second, out of breath.
“Where else would he be, stupid?”
They were coming and Jacob the Fox was lying in the street, gift-wrapped. If only he could think clearly. He scrambled to his feet and, half staggering, half running, caught up with the cart. Then he dropped to the ground and crawled underneath, only narrowly avoiding the iron-clad wheels, pulled himself onto the broad central shaft, drew up his legs, and stuck his fingers through the gaps between the planks above him. He was clinging to the underneath of the cart like a bat. As long as they didn’t check there, he was invisible.
The steps came around the corner and up to the cart. Turning his aching head to one side, he saw two pairs of legs.
“Hey, you! Carter! Stop!”
“Whaaat?”
“Stop, goddammit!”
The wagon came to an abrupt halt. Jacob held on even tighter so as not to be thrown off the shaft by the jolt.
“What d’you want?” he heard the carter demand gruffly.
“A look in your cart.”
“Why?”
“You’re hiding a thief in the back.”
“A thief?” The carter laughed uproariously. “Don’t you think I’d know if I was, you blockhead? It’s wine I’ve got.”
“If you’ve got nothing to hide, then let us check,” insisted the other.
“If you must,” grumbled the carter, jumping down. Jacob saw the legs of the three of them go right around the cart, then he heard the cover being pulled back. There was more clatter and the cart swayed as one of his pursuers jumped up and walked around on the planks, bent double.
“Anything?” his partner called up.
“Barrels,” came the surly reply. “What’s in the barrels?”
“Thieves,” cackled the carter. “Pickled thieves, one to a barrel.”
“Ha, ha, very funny,” snapped the one in the cart. The planks creaked under his feet. He was coming closer to the part above Jacob. Too late he remembered that his fingers were sticking out slightly through the gaps. The next moment the man trod on them. Everything went black and red. Jacob bit his tongue to stop himself crying out. Get off, he prayed, please get off.
“Come on, get down,” said the man on the ground. “He’s not there. I told you so.”
The other turned on his heel a little, scraping the skin off Jacob’s fingers. The sweat was pouring off him. Scarcely conscious, he gritted his teeth.
“There’s a stink of fish here.”
“You’re imagining it. We all stink of fish. Now won’t you get down?”
“All right then.”
Wonderful! The relief! The boot had gone. Trembling, Jacob slowly let out his breath.
“And what was it your thief stole?” asked the carter, now full of curiosity, as the man jumped down.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Now just a minute. If I stop and let you search my cart, the least you could do is tell me why.”
“He stole a guilder from our master, Matthias Overstolz,” the other explained. “Right there in the street! Right outside his house in Rheingasse!”
“Unbelievable.”
Jacob couldn’t believe his ears. Stolen a guilder? Him? When, for Christ’s sake?
“A redheaded bastard. Tell us if you see him. We’ll be keeping up our patrol around here for a while yet.”
“All that for just one guilder?”
“Herr Overstolz doesn’t like being robbed.”
“No, and he doesn’t like us shooting our mouths off either,” said the other, adding to the carter, “Off you go now.”
Muttering something incomprehensible, the carter climbed back into his seat.
“Matthias will be furious,” said one of the pursuers softly.
“Not to mention his odd friend,” replied the other.
“The long-haired Dominican?”
“Mmm.”
The cart started with a shudder, almost throwing Jacob off the shaft. He just managed to stop himself from falling. He heard something splatter onto the muddy ground, then another. Contorting his neck, he managed to look down.
Octopuses!
They were dropping off his habit. Christ Almighty, they must have stowed away when he landed on the fish stall. Now he was done for.
But this time fate was kind to him. No one shouted, “Hey, you! Stop!” No one looked under the cart, a glint of triumph in their eyes. The voices grew fainter. They were going away.
Jacob clung on as tightly as his throbbing fingers would allow. Better stay with the cart for a while before jumping off. It rumbled slowly along Pfaffenstraße, then turned into Minoritenstraße. Jacob was bumped and jolted until he felt none of his bones were left in their original place. Steeling himself against the pain, he put up with it all along Breite Straße with its stones and potholes, stops and starts, until they were opposite the Church of the Holy Apostles. There he decided to jump off.
He tried to pull his fingers out of the gaps between the planks.
He couldn’t.
He tried again. Still no luck. He was stuck. That’s impossible, he thought, I must be dreaming.
He gave a sharp tug to try to free his hands. The only result was a suppressed yelp of pain. He was stuck.
“Stop.”
Once more, swaying and creaking, the cart stopped. Jacob watched the iron-studded boots and leg-armor of soldiers go around the cart, heard the canvas being thrown back once more. They must have reached the city gate.
The soldiers muttered to each other. Jacob held his breath. Another pair of legs appeared in his field of vision. The shoes below the richly embroidered robe were decorated with buckles at the side. They were in the form of lilies and glistened purple in the sunlight.
After what seemed an eternity, the canvas cover was replaced.
“Nothing, Your Excellency.”
“Just barrels.”
A rumble of acquiescence came from the owner of the purple buckles. The soldiers stepped back and the carter barked his “Gee-up.” Totally bewildered, Jacob lay back on the shaft as the cart rattled through the Frisian Gate, taking him out of Cologne and into the unknown.
RICHMODIS
At the same time on the Brook Goddert was grumbling to Richmodis. “Huh, and that Jacob of yours will be lying in Little St. Martin’s bathhouse indulging in God knows what dissipation.” His gnarled fingers were having difficulty tying a knot.
“You just get on with your parcels,” Richmodis snapped.
They had left at the same time as Jaspar and Jacob to return to their house on the Brook. It was high time they got back to their dyeing. Goddert seemed a different person. He no longer complained about being unable to work because of his arthritis, but set to as in the old days, though with a somewhat morose doggedness. Richmodis knew why. He felt useless and stupid. His hands were deformed, his brain hopelessly condemned to defeat by Jaspar’s razor-sharp mind. She was all he had. But Richmodis needed him less and less, while he needed her more and more. There was no one left to look up to him.
They made up parcels of the blue cloth in silence. Goddert had decided to deliver them himself. He’d have to go around half the city, which meant he’d be late getting back, but he had obstinately refused all help. “You shut up,” he muttered. “If people knew how my daughter treats me.”
“No worse than the way you treat me.” She let the parcel she was doing sink to her lap and brushed the sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes. “Look, Father—”