Death and the Devil

He put the stick to his lips and blew. A strange, high-pitched tune was heard.

“A whistle!” she exclaimed in delight.

“Yes.” Quickly he swapped his devoted-spaniel look for the eyelid-flutter of the irresistible rogue. “I swear by Gabriel and all the archangels that I made up that tune just now for you and you alone. I’ve never played it to another woman, nor ever will, or may St. Peter send the spirits of the lions from the Circus Maximus to haunt me.”

“He knows Roman history, too! For the rest, I don’t believe a word of what you say.”

“Oh, dear. I’ll just have to go on to my next trick.” With that Jacob threw the whistle into the air and caught it in his right hand. When he opened his fingers it had disappeared.

Her eyes opened wider and wider until Jacob began to worry they might pop out of their sockets.

“How did you…?”

“Now watch.”

Quickly he put his hand to her ear, produced the whistle, took her left hand out of the water, and placed the tiny instrument in her palm.

“For you.” He beamed.

She blushed, shook her head, and laughed softly. A nice laugh, Jacob decided and beamed even more.

For a while she looked at her present, then fixed him with a thoughtful gaze, wrinkling her nose at the same time. “Are you really an arch criminal?”

“Of course. I’ve strangled dozens of men just with my little finger. They call me the Yoke.” As if to demonstrate his point he stretched out his little finger, then decided the spiel lacked the air of truth. More joke than yoke. He let his shoulders droop.

She shot him a disapproving look, but there was a twitch of merriment about her lips.

“All right, all right.” He threw some stones in the water. “I try to stay alive, that’s all. I like life, even if it’s not always easy, and I’m sure Him up there can understand that. It’s not as if I’m stealing the apples from the Garden of Eden.”

“But they’re still God’s apples.”

“Could be. But my hunger’s not God’s hunger.”

“Why am I wasting my time listening to all this? Help me with the cloth.”

Together they lifted out the linen, heavy with water, and carried it to the drying poles in front of the house, which was clearly where she lived. Others were already hanging out to dry. There was a smell of woad, the dye from Jülich without which the blue-dyers would not have been able to carry on their trade.

“How about telling me your name, seeing as I’ve just saved your life?” she asked as she pulled the cloth smooth along the poles and checked that it wasn’t touching the ground anywhere.

Jacob bared his teeth. “I’m the Fox!”

“I can see that. Do you have another name?”

“Jacob. And you?”

“Richmodis.”

“What a beautiful name!”

“What a corny compliment!”

Jacob had to laugh. “Do you live here alone?”

She shook her head. “No. You’re the second man to ask me that already today. How many more stories do I have to invent to get you good-for-nothings to leave me in peace?”

“So you live here with your husband?”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t give up, do you? I live with my father. He’s really the dyer, but his back’s getting worse and his fingers are bent with rheumatism.”

Rheumatism was the typical dyer’s disease. It came from having their hands in water all the time, whatever the season. In general the blue-dyers made a good living. The material they dyed was made into the smocks most people wore for work, so there was no shortage of commissions, but they paid for it with their health. But what could one do? Every craft ruined a person’s health; even the rich merchants, who earned their money by their wits, suffered from gout almost without exception.

Only recently, so people said, the king of France’s doctor had declared that gout came from overindulgence in pork, but the pope’s physicians replied that rich people had more opportunity to sin and so needed correspondingly more opportunity to do penance. It simply showed that the gout was one more example of God’s grace, encouraging the mortification of the flesh, just as, in His infinite goodness, He had given the gift of bloodletting to medicine. Anyway, they concluded, they could see no point in looking for causes—as if God’s will could be used to support arguments in ecclesiastical disputes or even the obduracy of recalcitrant, stiff-necked heretics!

“I feel sorry for your father,” said Jacob.

“We have a physician in the family.” Richmodis gave the cloth a close inspection and smoothed out a crease. “He’s gone to see him just now for some medicine, though I strongly suspect it’s medicine derived from the grape that my uncle also prescribes for himself quite a lot.”

“You should be glad your father can still hold his glass.”

“He can certainly do that. And the rheumatism hasn’t affected his throat.”

The conversation seemed to have reached a dead end. Each was waiting for the other to think of something to say but for a while all that could be heard was a dog barking.

“May I ask you something, Richmodis?” Jacob said at last.

“You may.”

“Why haven’t you got a husband?”

“Good question. Why haven’t you got a wife?”