Death and the Devil

“Many a man has been inspired when the soul is freed from the prison of the flesh. Saint Francis of Assisi even spoke in verse.” Goddert puffed himself up and declaimed,

“Praise be to Thee, my Lord, through our sister, the death of the body,

For no living man can escape her:

Woe unto those who die in mortal sin;

Blessed are those she finds in Thy most holy will.

For the second death cannot harm them.”

“My God, listen to Goddert! And I always thought he’d never learned anything,” exclaimed Jaspar in amazement. “You’re still wrong, though. The great man wrote those lines long before he died, but only revealed them on his deathbed. Very spiritual but not particularly spontaneous.”

“Then take Archbishop Anno. Didn’t he see the destruction of Cologne on his deathbed?”

“Anno had a fever, took several weeks to die. Plenty of time to rehearse his last words.”

“But he called on Peter and all the saints to protect Cologne.”

“Probably because he believed the Virgin had vouchsafed him such a terrible vision as a punishment for the way he’d treated the citizens.”

“Anno was a saint. He loved the people of Cologne with all his heart!”

“You’ll have known him, of course—he only died two hundred years ago, while all I’ve done is read his Life. As for being a saint, I don’t doubt his miracles, but if you ask me, I’d say he had more eyes put out than he healed. No wonder he prayed for the city on his deathbed, but more out of fear of purgatory than for the welfare of the city.”

“If I was a cleric, I’d accuse you of blasphemous talk. I sometimes wonder which of us follows the teachings of the Church more closely, you in your habit or a hardworking dyer like me.”

“You aren’t a hardworking dyer, you’re an old drunkard with a hardworking daughter. As to your mania for last words, let me remind you of Saint Clare of Assisi. She died just seven years ago saying, ‘Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit’—very pious, but not particularly original or mystical.”

“And what about all the saints who suffered and died for their faith,” cried Goddert, who had gone bright red, “and still found words of defiance for their tormentors or had visions of the future?”

“Were you there? Most of them will have said ‘ouch.’ Last words are bandied about like relics. Three months ago Conrad sent the king of France a casket supposedly containing the bones of Saint Berga. If it goes on like this, we’ll have to add another nought to the eleven thousand virgins to explain the miraculous appearance of holy bones.”

Goddert drew a deep breath to reply, but instead gave a muffled growl and emptied his mug of wine.

“And now we have another set of broken bones,” said Jaspar, looking around at them pensively. “What was going on inside Gerhard? He’s dying and he knows it. Would he say ‘It is wrong’ about his own death? No one would dream of calling God wrong when He decides to call someone to Him, even if a murderer does have a hand in it.”

“But what is it that’s wrong, then?” asked Jacob, confused. “If Gerhard wasn’t talking about himself, it’s beginning to sound like one of Goddert’s mystical utterances after all.”

Goddert nodded vigorously.

“Not mystical,” said Jaspar. He rested his long chin in his hands. “Peter Abelard said that words do not veil reality, but reveal it. What reality did Gerhard want to reveal? Or, to put it another way, why did he have to die?”

“A rival?” Goddert suggested tentatively. “There are many who would like to be in charge of building the cathedral.”

“Hmm. There’s a young man called Arnold. A good stonemason. I believe the cathedral chapter has had its eye on him for some time.”

“I certainly had no intention of accusing the chapter of anything untoward,” Goddert declared hastily. “I just thought—”

“Why not?”

Goddert stared at him, openmouthed. This time his horrified incredulity seemed genuine. “Jaspar! How could even the shadow of suspicion fall on the cathedral canons? After all, they are the ones who instigated this holy work.”

“You mean the cathedral? That’s not a holy work.”

Goddert went even redder. “What? How can you say something like that? You’re always carping and criticizing.”

“No, I’m not. I just happen to know that Conrad laid the foundation stone on the spot set aside for his tomb, which poses the question of whose glory is this temple being built to, the Lord’s or Conrad’s?”

Goddert slapped his hand on the table. “You just have to drag everything through the mud.”