Death and the Devil

The man bent over her. His gleaming mane fell around her; she felt as if she were inside a weeping willow. Then he pulled her up and undid some of the straps. At last she could stretch, but it was agonizingly painful as the blood began to circulate through her numb limbs. The man pulled the gag from her mouth and she lay on her back panting, afraid and yet grateful for the fresh air. At least she wasn’t going to die of suffocation.

She lifted up her head and looked around, trying to work out where she was. Rough masonry walls, huge beams, and the ceiling black with soot. A little light came in through a narrow slit. She saw Jaspar’s handcart.

She’d been brought here in the handcart. Where on earth was Rolof, then?

Motionless, the stranger watched her. Cautiously she tried to stretch her arms, but she was still bound hand and foot, incapable of moving.

“Where am I?” she asked in a weak voice.

Without a word, he came over to her and lifted her up until she was standing on her feet, legs trembling. Then he picked her up effortlessly and carried her over to one of the massive pillars supporting the roof.

“Please tell me where you’ve brought me,” she begged.

He leaned her against the pillar and started to tie her up, so tight she was almost part of it.

She felt a glimmer of hope. If he was going to all this trouble, he couldn’t intend to kill her. At least not immediately. It looked as if he was going to leave her here and was making sure she couldn’t escape. He must have something else in mind for her. Whether it would be better or worse than being killed was another question entirely.

He pulled the straps tighter and Richmodis gave an involuntary groan. He calmly stood in front of her, scrutinizing his handiwork thoroughly. Again Richmodis was filled with nameless fear at the void behind his eyes. What she saw was an empty shell, a handsome mask. She wondered how God could have created such a being.

Jacob had not ruled out the possibility it was the Devil. Could he have been right?

That means you must be in hell, she thought. What nonsense. Whoever heard of someone being taken down to hell in a handcart?

She tried again to get him to speak. “Where is Rolof?” she asked. The stranger raised his eyebrows slightly, turned away with a shrug of the shoulders, and went to one of the heavy doors.

“Why have you brought me here?” she cried in desperation.

He stopped and turned to face her. “I’d given up hope of hearing an intelligent question from you,” he said, coming back to her. “It’s not a particularly intelligent age we live in, don’t you agree? With whom can an educated person discuss anything new nowadays? The scholars at the universities have let themselves be made into lackeys of the popes, who themselves just slavishly follow Saint Bernard’s decree that there can be nothing new and that life on earth is of no significance. Fine, if that’s what he thinks, we can always open up the way to a better world.”

His fingers stroked her cheek. With a shudder, she turned her head aside, the only movement she was capable of.

He smiled. “I am not going to tell you where you are, nor what I intend to do with you.”

“Who are you?”

“Now then.” He wagged his finger playfully at her. “You had promised to ask intelligent questions. That is not an intelligent question.”

“You killed Gerhard Morart.”

“I killed him?” The stranger raised his brows in mock amazement. “I can remember having given him a push. Is it my fault he had made the scaffolding so narrow?”

“And you killed that girl, the girl in Berlich,” she said. “Why do you do things like that?”

“She was in the way when I took aim.”

“Who will be the next one in your way?” she whispered.

“That’s enough questions, Richmodis.” He spread his hands wide. “I can’t know everything. Life’s little surprises come all unexpected. As far as I’m concerned, you can live to be a hundred.”

She couldn’t repress a cough. A stab of pain went through her lungs. “And what do I have to do to earn that?”

“Nothing.” He winked at her, as if they were old friends, and brought out the gag again. “You must excuse me if I can’t continue our little conversation. I have to go. I have important business to see to and need a little rest. A holy work”—he laughed—“as someone might put it who was foolish enough to believe in God.”

It was strange, but for all that she hated and loathed him, for all the fear she had of him, the idea that he might leave her alone in this cold, terrible place seemed even worse.

“Who says God does not exist?” she asked hastily.

He paused and gave her a thoughtful look. “An intelligent question. Prove He exists.”

“No. You prove He doesn’t exist.”

She had listened to enough of this kind of discussion between Goddert and Jaspar. Suddenly a disputation seemed the one possible bridge to the stranger.

He came closer. So close she could feel his breath on her face.

“Prove to me that God doesn’t exist,” Richmodis repeated, her voice quavering.

“I could do that,” he said quietly, “but you wouldn’t like it.”