Death and the Devil

Laboriously he rolled over onto his stomach. The blazing figure was hurtling straight toward the stream in the middle of the street. There was a splash and it disappeared.

Jacob crawled on all fours through the mud, got to his feet, and stumbled on. He’d drown him. Hold him underwater until he was dead. If it was possible to kill the monster, he would.

He knelt down where the human torch had been extinguished by the water. Dipping his hands into the dirty brown current, he felt everywhere.

“Where are you?” he panted. “Where are you?”

Nothing.

He searched like a man possessed, pulling himself this way and that on his elbows. He didn’t see the doors open, a crowd appear, shouting curious questions, waving candles. He didn’t see Jaspar come out, unsteady on his feet and with a bloody nose, to reassure them. He didn’t see Richmodis, her arm around the trembling Goddert. All he saw was the water.

Even when it had become clear Urquhart had escaped, he kept blundering angrily on until exhaustion brought him to a halt.

Breathing heavily, he raised his hands and howled up at the heavens.

His cry was lost in the raging storm.

14 September

AFTER MIDNIGHT

Jacob, dripping wet, was sitting on the fireside bench watching as Goddert’s arm was put in a makeshift splint. He felt wretched, tired, and useless.

Goddert moaned softly, but he bore his injury bravely, almost with a hint of pride. The neighbors had gotten the nearest surgeon out of bed. He was more familiar with bone setting than Jaspar and was examining Goddert with a professional air, while Jaspar dealt with the large cut on Richmodis’s forehead. It looked worse than it was. Apart from his bloody nose and an impressive bump, Jaspar was uninjured.

It was Jacob who was a minor miracle. He ought to have been dead, or at least had most of the bones in his body broken. He certainly felt half dead, and the fact that he had escaped with numerous bruises, grazes, and slight burns he owed solely to the state of Goddert’s shutters, which were more rotten than the bones of the Three Kings.

He put his head to one side and looked around. Where the window had been a gap yawned, through which the wind whistled. Even before the neighbors had appeared, Richmodis had managed to get water from the well in the backyard to put out the fires that were flaring up. The room looked like the aftermath of a Tartar attack, overturned furniture and scorch marks everywhere.

Kuno’s body was stretched out across the floor. Jacob tried to feel sorry for him but couldn’t. Everything had been too much. Only his immense relief that Richmodis was safe and sound told him that he was not completely burned out inside.

There was a throng gathered outside and inside the house. They all wanted to know what had happened and Jaspar never tired of repeating his story of the mysterious crossbow murderer who, as everyone knew, had been at large in the town during the last few days. And that Kuno, a friend, well, more of an acquaintance really, should have sought refuge from the storm on this night of all nights—no, he had no idea where Kuno had been before, hadn’t asked, and now it was too late, God have mercy on his soul.

Jacob didn’t understand why Jaspar didn’t tell the whole story, but for the moment he couldn’t really care. A bowl of hot soup appeared under his nose. Bewildered, he looked up. A middle-aged woman was regarding him with sympathetic concern. “You must be frozen stiff,” she said.

Jacob stared at her, uncomprehending. How long had he been sitting here? How long since—

“Are you all right?”

“What?”

“There’s some soup.”

“Oh—oh, thank you.” He managed a smile for her, took the bowl, and set it to his lips. It was hot and did him good. It tasted of beef and vegetables. Only now did he realize how hungry he was. Greedily he emptied the bowl and held it up for the woman to take, but she had disappeared.

There was a stir outside. “The magistrates are coming,” someone shouted. Magistrates? Oh, yes, Jaspar had sent someone to wake the magistrates. Had he not specifically said they should bring Bodo Schuif, the brewer?

Jacob’s head was spinning; he wasn’t sure of anything anymore. All he could think was that Urquhart had gotten away—he hadn’t been able to drown him.

He wondered how badly injured Urquhart was. When the murderer had picked him up and rammed him against the window, he had instinctively closed his eyes against the heat. Everything had happened so quickly. Perhaps Urquhart had gotten away with a fright and no more. Jacob wasn’t even convinced it was possible to frighten Urquhart at all. His every action, even when he was enveloped in flames, indicated the workings of a coldly rational mind. Jaspar and Richmodis he had knocked to the ground; Goddert’s arm was broken. When the oil blazed up he had immediately grabbed the only one who might present a danger and had used him as a battering ram to smash his way out.

And he appeared to have escaped with his crossbow. It was nowhere to be found.