Death and the Devil

“That’s all right.” Kuno stroked her cheek reassuringly and took out his dagger. Quickly he began to cut through the straps tying her to the pillar. “Don’t worry, I’ve come to get you out. I’m a friend.”

“A friend?”

Her knees gave way, but Kuno caught her in time. She was still tied up with straps. Working calmly with his knife, he freed her legs, then her arms. She immediately tried to get to her feet and gave a loud groan. Her limbs must be completely numb.

“Wait, I’ll help you.”

“No.”

Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself up by the pillar. “I have to do this myself. Who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Kuno.”

Quivering, she stood up and started to massage her wrists. She gave way at the knees again but managed to stop herself from falling.

“Did Jacob send you?” she asked, breathless. “Or Jaspar?”

“Jaspar?” Kuno echoed. Daniel had mentioned a dean and—“You mean the Fox?”

“Yes.” She staggered toward him and clutched him. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. I don’t even know your name.”

“Richmodis. But then—”

“Do you think you can walk?”

“Just about.”

“Wait.” There were some poles leaned against one of the walls. “You need something to support yourself with.”

She saw what he was looking at and shook her head. “They’re no use, Kuno. They’re too heavy. I’ll manage.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. But how did you—”

“Later. We must get away from here.”

He hurried to the door. She was stumbling, but determined to keep up with him. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“I’ll take you to my house,” he said with a grin of satisfaction. “It’s just a short walk and the weather’s perfect, quite delightful. Take my arm.”

She smiled and Kuno opened the door.

Daniel was standing outside.

GODDERT

Goddert von Weiden felt as though he had been chopped up into pieces, then roughly sewn back together again. He hadn’t worked so hard for years. The bells were about to ring nine and he still wasn’t home. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was sopping wet. True, you could object that for the last two hours he had not so much been working as sitting drinking dark beer with one of his more generous customers. But they’d talked business, oh, yes, indeed.

You’re an old fool, Goddert told himself as he splashed his way through the mud toward the Brook. Who goes out in weather like this? He didn’t even meet a pig or dog. With every new torrent that poured over him he felt his rheumatism get worse and thought longingly of a warm fire and the contents of Jaspar’s cellar. Even the sound of his steps, the squelch as he pulled his feet out of the mud, seemed to mock him. Left, right, left, right—old, fool, old, fool.

Then he remembered Jacob and shook his head. Richmodis was right. What was he trying to prove? That the world would come to a standstill without Goddert von Weiden? Even more stupid was to try to compete with the younger man. No one else was interested and, anyway, he could only lose and make himself look ridiculous. No fool like an old fool.

He decided to apologize to Richmodis. He felt a flush of pride. Where was there a man big enough to ask his own daughter to forgive him? Then she’d tell him all the latest news about the strange story Jacob had got himself involved in, and he’d stretch out his feet in front of a roaring fire and thank God for the roof over his head.

His footsteps had stopped beating out “old fool.”

With rasping breath he plodded up the Brook to his house. The shutters were closed, no light could be seen through the gaps. Was Richmodis asleep already?

He went in. It was dark inside. “Richmodis?” he shouted, then clapped his hand to his lips. What a peasant he was. To wake the poor child. Then he remembered how busy he’d been all day. He’d earned some supper. And the fire was cold. What kind of way to behave was that, going to bed before your father had come home from a hard day’s work? She could at least have put a jug of wine out for him.

“Richmodis?”

He lit an oil lamp, then, grunting and groaning, went up to the bedroom. He stared in astonishment. She wasn’t there! She wasn’t home at all.

Of course she isn’t, you nincompoop, he told himself. She said she was going to see Jaspar, though what she really meant was that redhead. She’d still be sitting there, unable to tear herself away, while Jaspar kept refilling the glasses.

A cozy little party. A party without Goddert von Weiden?

Never!

Nodding sagely, he went back down, put out the lamp, and set off again.

THE WAREHOUSE