Death and the Devil

“—and will also result in the death of the redhead.” Johann could scarcely control his irritation. “We have to live with it, and we will have to atone for it. I pray the Lord no more deaths will prove necessary and that Urquhart can proceed to his main task without further damage. So much for the position at the moment.”

“Yes.” Heinrich von Mainz sighed. “Bad enough.”

Blithildis’s head shot up. “Bad? Oh, no.”

Those few words were enough to bring deathly silence to the room. The men stared at the table, unmoving.

“It was a bad day,” the old woman whispered, “when our men had to go down on their knees before Conrad, in front of twenty thousand people, to beg forgiveness for their just and godly deeds. It was bad when those among us who refused to serve a corrupt, criminal archbishop left the city as free men to be brought back and beheaded like common thieves. Twenty-four patricians in Conrad’s prison, at the mercy of his greed and hard heart, and so many outlawed and scattered abroad over the face of the earth, like the peoples after Babel, can there be worse? Bad, too, are the faintheartedness and shoddy doubts of the moralists, who look for any excuse not to act, the fear of the rabbits pretending to be lions who squeak and quail at the sight of a toothless cur. But worst of all are secret alliances where they raise their fists, shout out watchwords, and pledge their lives to a noble end, and then turn into a pack of whining women, ready to betray everything they swore to fight for body and soul. Men who wear a sword yet cannot kill a rat, those are the worst.”

She raised two bony hands in solemn entreaty.

“What we are doing is right. The deaths are regrettable. Every minute that is left to me will be a prayer for those unfortunate souls. How should I not suffer with them, I who have already tasted of death’s profound peace? The brother of sleep lies with me, one last, sweet lover before I enter into the glory of light and give back the gift of life to the Creator. And yet, my every heartbeat hammers out defiance of those who would destroy us, the whores of the Baphomet and the Great Beast, my every breath pants for justice and revenge for our dead and our exiles. Who among you will tell me my longing is vain, that I must depart this life grieving and unfulfilled, that I have hoped and prayed to no avail? If there is one among you who will tell me that, let him stand before me. I will see him. Blind old woman that I am, I will know him.”

Her hands sank limply to her lap. In their wake her words left the silence of the grave, the speechlessness of shame and self-knowledge.

She bowed her head and spoke no more.

Johann cleared his throat. “We will not abandon our plan,” he declared. “The oath is still valid. I think everyone knows the part he has to play. Kuno—”

Kuno continued staring into space.

“—I think it would be better if you did not take part in our future discussions. That is all, gentlemen.”

Without a further word, Johann stood up and left the room.

NOTTURNO

“I can’t get to sleep.”

Richmodis sighed. She turned over onto her side and peered through the darkness to Goddert’s bed. The blanket rose over his body like a miniature Ararat. All that was lacking was a tiny ark.

“What’s the matter?” she asked gently.

“I can’t stop thinking about that fellow,” Goddert muttered.

“Jacob?”

“He saw the Devil. I don’t like the idea of the Devil sitting up there on the cathedral spitting down on us.”

Richmodis thought for a moment. Then she got up, shuffled across the room on bare feet to Goddert, and took his hand. “What if it wasn’t the Devil?” she said.

“Not the Devil?” Goddert gave a growl. “It could only be the Devil, he must just’ve taken on human form. The way he often does. What times do we live in when Satan comes to fetch the soul of an architect building a cathedral?”

“Hmm. Father?”

“What?”

“Skip all this about the Devil, all right? Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

Goddert scratched his sparse beard. “Well,” he said cautiously.

“Well?”

“He told us a lot of things, didn’t he, that red-haired lad? We ought to help him, don’t you agree?”

“Certainly.”

“You don’t think he was lying? What I mean is, if he isn’t a liar, then Christian charity demands we should help him. But I’m still not sure whether we can trust him. He could be a rogue. I say that just for the sake of argument.”

“Correct. He could be.”

“How should I put it?” Goddert wheezed. “I’ve got a soft heart, and when you gave him something to keep him warm, you probably got that from me. There’s nothing wrong with that, as such—”

“But?”

Goddert put his hands behind his head. The bed frame creaked under his weight. “Well.”

Richmodis smiled and gave his beard a little tug. “You know what I think, Father? Your soft heart tells you to help him. But if you help him, that means you believe him, which means you trust him. And unfortunately there’s no good reason to tell someone you trust not to see your daughter. Only you don’t want to lose her. A nice dilemma, eh?”