Death and the Devil

Cautiously he peered out into the broad thoroughfare. Farther up he saw a few monks scuttle through the darkness into the provost’s quarters. There was garbage lying everywhere. Heavy rain, such as that during the night, swept everything the citizens threw into the street down through the steep east side of the city toward the Rhine. And there was nothing the good citizens did not throw into the street. The senses were assaulted by the mixture of the ubiquitous pig dung with an amalgam of rotting vegetable scraps and gnawed bones. Despite that, all appeals to throw everything in the cesspits were ignored, or dismissed with the irrefutable argument that the gold diggers—the local term for the unfortunates who were supposed to empty them—performed their function too rarely.

Jacob decided he had waited long enough. Making sure not a single red hair was sticking out from under his hood, he ran over to the door and knocked loudly.

Immediately a flap slid back and a pair of eyes scrutinized him. Jacob felt his hopes rise. “I have some important information for the archbishop,” he said breathlessly.

“What information?”

“A matter of life and death.”

“What?”

“For God’s sake, just let me in before it’s too late.”

The flap slid to, then one of the doors opened and Jacob found himself face to face with a man in armor and helmet. There were three more behind him, regarding him with curiosity.

“The Lord be—oh, why bother?” muttered Jacob as he sketched a blessing and hurried inside. The door snapped shut behind him.

He looked around. The entrance was lit by pairs of torches in elaborate holders. At one side a broad stone staircase with a massive stone balustrade led to the upper floor. Between the torches the wall was hung with tapestries representing chimeras and Titans, sphinxes, naiads, and centaurs, beings with snakes’ heads and bats’ wings, manticores baring their fangs and dwarves with the faces of dogs, cyclops, scaly devils and gorgons, birds with women’s heads and werewolves, forming a garland of merry horror around the ecstatic saints with eyes turned to heaven, bodies disfigured by the wounds of martyrdom, hands raised to the angels with their powerful gold-blue-and-turquoise wings and haloes. Above them all was Christ, His right hand raised, His earnest gaze directed straight ahead. The dark eyes appeared to see everything and at the same time into the heart of each and every individual. Jacob trembled. He saw the living God and felt strong, felt new courage well up inside him.

An iron-gloved hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned away from the comforting eyes of Christ and found himself looking into the soldier’s.

“What’s all this about, monk?” the guard barked.

Monk? Oh, of course.

“I have to speak to the archbishop,” Jacob said, against all reason.

The man stared at him, then roared with laughter. The others joined in. “It’s not that easy to get to speak to the archbishop, Friar Oaf. Has no one ever taught you to bow your head when you ask for audience?”

“And what have you been taught?” Jacob retorted. “Conrad von Hochstaden is in great danger and you make fun of the messenger who might save his life. Do you want to end up bowing your head on the executioner’s block?”

The laughter died away. The soldier scratched his beard, unsure what to do. “What’s this danger you’re talking about?” he asked.

“Mortal danger!” Jacob cried. “God wither your loins if you don’t take me to Conrad this instant.”

“I can’t take you to His Excellency,” the soldier shouted back. “The archbishop is occupied with the preparations for the procession.” He gave an indignant snort, then went on more calmly. “But I could call the archbishop’s secretary. Would that do?”

Success!

“All right,” he said with feigned sullenness, “if that’s the best you can do.”

The guard nodded and sent two of his comrades up the stairs. Jacob waited, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t know precisely what a secretary was, but it sounded important.

Surprisingly quickly a short, skinny man appeared with the two soldiers at the top of the stairs and descended with mincing steps. A gold chain lay resplendent on his lilac-and-black robe, his hands were in gloves of burgundy leather. A kindly face with watery blue eyes was framed by a fluffy white beard. He came up to Jacob and smiled. When he spoke, Jacob noticed the accent of some Latin country.

“The Lord be with you and with thy spirit.”

Jacob sniffed in embarrassment. “Yes. Of course. Definitely.”

The secretary put his head to one side. “What can I do for you, my son? I was told you had information for the archbishop, but are unwilling to say what.”

“I must talk to him,” said Jacob. “The archbishop is in great danger.”

“Danger?” The secretary came closer and lowered his voice. “Don’t speak so loudly in front of the soldiers, my son. They’re loyal, but you never know. Archbishops have occasionally been murdered by their own nephews. Whisper in my ear. Who wants to harm our archbishop?”