Death and the Devil

“Huh! You couldn’t even use your head for a tonsure! If this poor, oppressed soul here”—he pointed at Jacob with a dramatic gesture—“is being pursued by the Devil or one of his demons, then we must call on the Lord without delay, if not just for his sake, then for the sake of Gerhard Morart.”

“That is based on the assumption that the poor oppressed soul here is right. Who says it was the Devil? Or that Jacob is telling the truth? Were you there?”

“Were you there when they cut down poor Archbishop Engelbert? You still can’t deny he was murdered.”

“What I can’t deny is that you’re a stupid ass, Goddert. Gerhard Morart, God rest his soul, fell from a great height and broke every bone in his body, which does not prove conclusively it was the Devil. Engelbert’s body, on the other hand, had precisely forty-seven wounds—”

“More than three hundred it was!”

“—as Caesarius von Heisterbach wrote in his Vita, passio et miracula beati Engelberti Coloniensis Archiepiscopi. Wounds that he could hardly have inflicted on himself. And his murderer wasn’t the Devil, but Friedrich von Isenburg.”

“He was a devil!”

“He was Engelbert’s nephew, pea brain! I have to admit, though, that Engelbert wasn’t poor. He was a robber and bully, like our Conrad. It was not without reason that the pope excommunicated him.”

“That just shows your lack of respect toward your superiors in the Church. You’d also have to admit that Engelbert led the crusade against the Waldenses and Albigensians—”

“Because he liked fighting.”

“To do penance, you mudslinger!”

“Nonsense. He couldn’t tell the difference between a penance and a pig.”

“Better than you, he could!”

And so on and so on.

Like a herd of stampeding horses, the disputation was leaving the original topic farther and farther behind. Jacob’s brain was numb with exhaustion.

Richmodis stroked his hair. “Don’t let Jaspar fool you,” she said softly. “He argues for the fun of it, but when things get serious his mind’s as sharp as a razor.”

“I hope so.” Jacob sighed. “I can’t stand much more of that kind of conversation.”

She looked at him with a sympathetic, almost tender look in her eyes. Jacob felt a sudden fear she might go and he would never see her again.

“I’ll come and see you as soon as I can,” she said, as if she could read his thoughts. They were probably written all over his face.

“Do you believe me?” Jacob asked.

She thought for a moment. “Yes, I think I do.”

“Let’s have a drink,” Goddert shouted, the formula that brought their disputations to a conclusion.

Richmodis jumped up, before her uncle had the chance to give his standard response. “No! No more drinks. We’re going home, if you know where that is.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

Goddert accepted his lot, though with bad grace, muttering incomprehensibly to himself. He’d probably soon be sleeping off the drink. The way he waddled down the street reminded Jacob of the dancing bears you sometimes saw in Old Market Square. Beside him Richmodis looked like his trainer. The wind was toying with her brown hair.

“A pretty child, isn’t she?” Jaspar’s voice came from behind him.

“She has a pretty nose,” Jacob replied. He turned away from the window, went over to the tiled stove and slumped onto the bench. Maria had been pretty, too. She could have been beautiful. Could have become beautiful if she hadn’t—Jacob shook his head. He must put these thoughts out of his mind.

Jaspar observed him in silence.

“You don’t believe me,” Jacob said.

“Well, now.” Jaspar massaged his nose. “There are whole worlds between believing and disbelieving. I believe you when you say you saw something. But was it really there?”

“It was there.”

“Perhaps you got hold of the wrong end of the stick.”

“Then the wrong end of the stick killed Gerhard Morart. Killed Maria and Tilman. Almost killed me. What more do you want?”

Jaspar frowned. “The truth.”

“That is the truth.”

“Is it? I would say it’s what you saw. Nowadays the truth tends to be trumpeted abroad all too quickly, especially when it concerns the Devil. Was it the Devil?”

Jacob looked him up and down. “If you don’t believe me,” he said calmly, “why don’t you throw me out?”

Jaspar seemed both irritated and amused at the same time. “I don’t know.”

“Good.” Jacob stood up. “Or not good. Whatever. Thank you for your time.”

“You’re going?”

“Yes.”

“I think that would be unwise.”

“Why?”