Death and the Devil

He felt lonely. He suspected his initial enthusiasm for the alliance was a result of his loneliness. But then he remembered that he had always been alone. His father had not thought much of him; he felt his son was too soft and did not really understand him. His mother had died too early. He got on better with his brothers, but without there being any real warmth between them. His only genuine friends had been Gerhard Morart and his wife Guda, old friends of the family who, after the commission for the cathedral from Conrad von Hochstaden, had been welcome guests in the houses of all the great families. At some point or other Kuno had realized that Gerhard, probably without being aware of it, had supplanted his father and taken over his role. Kuno loved the old man, and suddenly strange rumors started to appear, the significance of which Kuno did not fully understand. Were they figments of a diseased imagination or did they correspond to a truth he refused to admit to himself? The rumors were spread by Daniel…

Kuno rubbed his eyes and forced his mind back to the question of the warehouse.

Why did nobody take him seriously? All his life he had never been more than an appendage. He lacked the determination of his brothers, who had become involved in political life from an early age, the business sense of his father, everything. Yet he was the only one left in Cologne.

The loneliest of all.

The warehouse! The warehouse!

He knew all the Overstolz warehouses. Most of them, anyway. Almost all were old, depending on how you defined old, of course. What did Daniel mean? Mean by “old,” that is?

Daniel was a rebel, a self-centered rebel without a cause. A late follower of the Goliards, with their love of wine, women, and song, but without their poverty, despising tradition simply because it was tradition. What would “old” mean to someone like that?

Old in the sense of a ruin?

Too old.

Old and abandoned!

Kuno clicked his fingers. That was it. It was an abandoned warehouse Daniel had been talking about, one that was no longer in use.

He couldn’t ask questions about it, but that probably wasn’t necessary. He knew of several old, abandoned warehouses belonging to the Overstolzes. They were all by the Wall, opposite the river island of Rheinau. Mournful, tumbledown sheds that were not even let out because the Overstolzes would rather allow them to decay than pay tax on the rent.

A good idea to have a look around there.

Kuno smiled. At last there was something meaningful he could do.

THE MADMAN

The impressive, if gloomy, shape of St. Pantaleon rose up before them as, leaning into the wind, they turned into Walengasse. The rain had gotten inside Jacob’s hood and was running down his neck. During the last hour it had become bitterly cold. He was looking forward to getting into the monastery as he would have looked forward to any dry place.

They had left the lepers’ outfits behind; they might do more harm than good now. If Jaspar was right and they were no longer being pursued, there was no point in disguise. Jacob insisted on covering his hair, so was still wearing Jaspar’s old habit. He had tucked his hands up the sleeves, which would have made him look as if he were wrapped in devout contemplation were it not for the unchristian pace they were hurrying along at. Jaspar, on the other hand, was striding along, fists pumping the air like a peasant. His hood had slipped down, leaving the rain to beat a tattoo on his bald pate, and with every step he seemed to be trying to stamp his way through the soft mud to hell.

They met no one. God knows, it was no fun being out in the city in the pouring rain.

On their way they had briefly looked in at the house on the Brook. Goddert wasn’t there. At first they had been worried, but there was no indication that anything had happened to him. If the murderer already had Richmodis, what was the point of taking Goddert, too?

So they had continued on their way to Walengasse, while Jaspar explained to Jacob what he hoped to learn there.

“You remember I mentioned a cripple who told me about the tiny crossbows? The man with no legs. St. Pantaleon has a large hospice and he’s been living there for several years. I’ve seen him two or three times without speaking to him. I’ve no idea if we’ll get any sense out of him; even when I talked to him before he wasn’t quite right in the head. If my theory’s correct and our murderer was a crusader, then they’ll have fought in the same battles. An educated man with hair down to his waist will have stood out among the dregs of humanity their armies were mostly made up of.”

“What? Among thousands of men?”

“The armies were always commanded by a small group of kings, counts, and bishops. I’m assuming he was one of them.”

“A bold assumption.”

“I know it sounds harebrained, but it’s worth a try all the same.”