Death and the Devil

“I thought the Franciscans were poor and without worldly goods.”

“Yes. That means everything on their land belongs to the Lord alone. Of course, until He comes to fetch it, it has to be looked after.”

“Or eaten?”

“And drunk.”

“Have you two quite finished?” Heinrich kept his voice down but the irritation was audible. “Cock Gate closes at ten on the dot and a night under the stars is the last thing I want.”

“Yes, yes.” Matthias scrutinized Urquhart. “Work out your plan. We’ll meet at the convent of the Ursulines at five tomorrow to discuss any remaining details. I presume I can rely on you to keep low until then?”

“You’ve no need to worry about me,” said Urquhart with a smile. He stretched and looked up at the moon peeping shyly out between the clouds. “You two go now. Time’s getting short.”

“I see you carry no weapons.”

“As I said, you’ve no need to worry about me. I use my weapons, not wear them for public show. They’ll be there when I need them.” He gave Matthias a wink. “I even carry a quill and parchment with me.”

“Those aren’t weapons,” Matthias objected.

“Oh, yes, they are. The written word can be a very powerful weapon. Anything can be a weapon for those who know how to use it.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Now go.”

Heinrich turned away and stumped sulkily over to the horses. Matthias followed. He looked back once, but Urquhart had vanished.

“Did you notice his eyes?” Heinrich whispered.

“What?”

“Urquhart’s eyes!”

Matthias was trying to collect his thoughts. “What about his eyes?”

“A dead man’s eyes.”

Matthias stared at the spot where Urquhart had been standing. “You’re dreaming, Heinrich.”

“Eyes like a dead man’s. He frightens me.”

“Not me. Off we go.”

They rode as fast as the darkness and the tangle of roots in the wood allowed. Once out in the open countryside they spurred their horses on and reached the city ten minutes later. As they slipped into the safety of the great wall, the gate closed slowly behind them, shutting out the triumphant night.

11 September

HAYMARKET

Jacob the Fox was wandering around the markets assembling his lunch.

The nickname was inevitable. His head blazed like a house on fire. Short and slim, no one would have noticed him had it not been for the uncontrollable mop of red hair sticking out in all directions. Each wiry strand seemed to have a will of its own and yet, or perhaps for that very reason, it exerted a strange power over women. They seemed to feel an irresistible urge to run their fingers through it, to pat and pull at it, as if there were a competition to see who could teach it at least the rudiments of discipline. Up to now there had been no winner, for which Jacob gave heartfelt thanks to the Creator and made sure he kept his red thatch well tousled, maintaining its attraction to the fair sex. Once they had succumbed to the lure of the red mane they were in danger of losing themselves completely in the bright blue of his eyes.

Today, however, with his stomach rumbling angrily, Jacob had abandoned the prospect of further conquests, at least in the short term, and covered his red mane with an old rag that even in its better days would not have deserved the name of hood.

He caught the odor of expensive Dutch cheese and quickly moved away between the crowded stalls, doing his best to ignore it. A vivid picture was forming in his mind of the exposed slice glistening with fat as it melted in the midday sun. However much the Devil might waft the delicious smell under his nose, at the moment things at the cheese market were much too lively for a quick snatch.

There were better opportunities at the vegetable market opposite. The northern end of Haymarket was more attractive to the penniless customer anyway, offering as it did a variety of escape routes. One could slip between the coal merchants’ piled-up wares and the salt market and disappear into a thousand alleyways, for example past the hosiers’ shops and the bread hall, then up to the poulterers’ stands and into Judengasse. Another possibility was to head down toward the Rhine, by Salzgasse or, better still, past the basket weavers to where the fishmongers had their open stalls. There, in the shadow of the great monastery church of St. Martin’s, the fishmarket began and with it the stench of herring, eel, and catfish, so that there at the latest pursuers would give up the chase, sparing a sympathetic thought for the venerable brethren of St. Martin’s and thanking God that they didn’t have to set up their stalls on the banks of the Rhine.

But Jacob didn’t want fish. He hated the smell, the sight, in fact everything about it. The danger would have to be extreme before he would even cross the fishmarket.