Death and the Devil

A dark bank assembled on the horizon.

Tilman coughed and turned toward Jacob, inspecting him from top to toe with his reddened eyes. “Suits you,” he said.

Jacob examined himself. In the clothes of his unwitting benefactor he looked more like a simple tradesman than a beggar, if you ignored the monstrosity of a hat. Remembering his bath in the Duffes Brook, he had to laugh.

“I was on the Brook,” he said.

“Really?” Tilman gave a weak grin. “Perhaps I should go on the Brook, too.”

“Don’t you dare! Or, yes, dare if you like. A man needs certain qualities to be given presents like these, if you get my meaning.”

“Oh, I do. What’s she called?”

“Richmodis,” said Jacob proudly. Only respectable girls were called Richmodis.

“What does she do?”

“Her father’s a dyer, though she’s the one who does the dyeing.” Jacob shook his head. “A piece of advice, Tilman. Keep your hands away from the butchers’ stalls. There’s a curse on all hams and sausages.”

“They caught you,” said Tilman, not particularly surprised.

“They chased me all around Haymarket. I escaped along the Brook. Into the Brook.”

“And Goodwife Richmodis fished you out?”

“She’s not a goodwife.”

“What then?”

“A divine creature.”

“Good Lord!”

Jacob pictured her with her crooked nose and her buxom figure under her modest dress. “And she’s still available,” he added, as if he were announcing his engagement.

“Don’t fool yourself, Jacob.”

“And why not, I ask?”

Tilman leaned forward. “If I can give you a piece of advice, keep away from Haymarket as well as the Brook and stuff your belly somewhere else in future. They can recognize that mop from here to Aachen.”

“You’re just jealous. I had to pay for these clothes.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

“Stop bragging. What have you got to pay with anyway?”

“Had. Three carrots and a beef sausage.”

Tilman sighed. “That is a lot.”

“Yes. And I almost got torn to pieces for it.” Jacob stretched and gave an immense yawn. “Anyway, how’s the world been treating you?”

“Very badly. I sat outside St. Mary’s Garden, but there were pilgrims there and they took all the pickings, God blast their eyes. The place was teeming with beggars from outside and tricksters faking deformities so that even the most softhearted put their purses away. What can a man do? There were others running around the town with rattles, collecting for the leper colony at Melaten. I left. I don’t want to catch leprosy and have my hand drop off when I hold it out for alms.”

“Quite right. Had anything to eat?”

“Well, naturally I was invited to the burgomaster’s. There were roast pears, wild boar, stuffed pigeons—”

“Nothing at all, then.”

“Brilliant. Do I look as if I’ve had anything to eat?”

Jacob shrugged his shoulders. “Just asking.”

“But I’m going to get a drink,” Tilman crowed. “Tonight in the Hen.”

“The inn?” Jacob asked skeptically.

“The very place.”

“Since when have you had money to drink at the inn?”

“I haven’t, have I? Otherwise I’d have spent it on food. But someone I know has. Don’t ask where he got it, I don’t want to know. But he wants to get rid of it. Says you can’t drink money, so he’s invited me and a couple of others to wet our whistles.”

“The man must have gone soft in the head. When?”

“Six o’clock. Why don’t you just come along? He’ll treat you, too.”

It was an attractive idea.

“Don’t know,” Jacob said, nevertheless. “I must get something solid down me first.”

“Aha! You’ve not eaten either?”

“Not a scrap’s passed my lips.”

“Why do you have to go for sausages? Why didn’t you pay Old Market Square a visit and persuade a few apples to jump into your pocket?”

“Why?” Jacob took a deep breath. “Because I had apples yesterday. Because I had apples the day before yesterday. Because I had apples before that. And before that. Because I’m starting to feel like an apple maggot.”

“You’re too choosy.”

“Oh, thanks very much.”

Once more they were silent for a while. The clouds were gathering. The afternoon was making its weary way toward evening.

“Not a bite to eat then.” Tilman’s summary was matter-of-fact. “As usual.”

He coughed.

It was the cough that did it. So casual and so terminal. Jacob jumped up and clenched his fists. “All right, you’ve persuaded me. Apples it is.”

Tilman gave him a long look. Then he smiled. “Apples it is.”

MATTHIAS

Matthias had strolled along the Rhine embankment, watching pepper, spices, and barrels of herring being unloaded from Dutch ships, past the Franks Tower and along the Old Bank before turning into Dranckgasse. This ran along the old Roman wall, part of which had been demolished to make way for the new cathedral. On the left in front of him the chapels surrounding the apse towered up into the sky and his heart was filled with misgivings.

He knew Gerhard’s plans. This—provided it was ever completed—would be the perfect church, the Holy City here on earth. The plans for the facade alone, with its two mountainous towers, had covered almost fifteen feet of parchment. Matthias had asked Gerhard whether he had forgotten he wouldn’t live forever.