The display on the counter caught his eye. Chops within easy reach. And the butchers still staring at nothing.
He stretched out a hand, hesitated. Enough, enough, whispered a voice, time you were gone.
The temptation was too strong.
He grasped the nearest chop at the same moment as one of the butchers turned around. His look was as sharp as the executioner’s axe and his face flushed with indignation. “Villain!” the butcher bellowed.
“Thief! Thief!” squawked the old man. He rolled his eyes, gave a strangled croak, and collapsed between the stalls.
Without a moment’s hesitation Jacob threw the chop into the butcher’s face. The people around started shrieking and hands grasped his old jerkin, pulling his hood off. His red mop shone forth in all its glory. He kicked out, but they refused to let go. The butcher jumped over the counter with a cry of rage.
Already Jacob could see himself minus one hand, and he didn’t like what he saw.
Pulling all his strength together, he threw his arms up and leaped into the crowd. To his astonishment it was easier than he imagined. Then he realized he had jumped out of his jerkin, which the people were tearing to pieces as if the poor garment were the malefactor himself. He hit out in all directions, found he was free, and scampered across the square, the butcher in hot pursuit. And not only the butcher. To judge by the pounding of feet and the angry voices, half the people in Haymarket were after him, all determined to give the executioner the opportunity to try out his sword on Jacob’s hand.
He slithered through muddy ruts and gravel, just avoiding the hooves of a startled horse. People turned to watch him, attracted by the spectacle.
“A thief!” roared the others.
“What? Who?”
“Carrot-top there! The fox!”
Reinforcements joined the pursuing throng. They appeared from every street and alleyway. Even the churchgoers seemed to be pouring out of St. Mary’s with the sole intent of tearing him limb from limb.
Fear was starting to take over. The only escape route, past the malt mill and through Corn Gate to the Brook, was blocked. Someone had parked a cart in such a stupid fashion across the street that no one could get past.
But perhaps underneath?
Still running, Jacob then dropped to the ground, rolled under the shaft, bounced back onto his feet, and hurried off to the right, along the Brook. The butcher tried to copy him but got stuck and had to be pulled out to a chorus of angry shouts and yells. The bloodhounds had lost valuable seconds.
Finally three of them clambered over the cart and set off after Jacob again.
ON THE BROOK
But Jacob had disappeared.
They ran up and down a few times, then abandoned the chase. Although traffic on the Brook was light and, it being lunchtime, only a few dyers were at work outside, they had lost him. They had a look at the feltmakers’ row of houses on the left, but couldn’t see anyone suspicious.
“Red hair,” muttered one.
“What?”
“Red hair, goddammit! He can’t have given us the slip, we’d have seen him.”
“That cart held us up,” said the third. “Let’s go. He won’t escape on Judgment Day.”
“No!” The speaker had torn his sleeve climbing over the cart and there was an angry glint in his eyes. “Someone must have seen him.”
He strode up the Brook, a street that followed the course of the Duffes Brook along the old Roman wall, his reluctant companions in tow. They asked everyone they met until they came to the woad market, but none had seen the redhead.
“Let’s call it a day,” said one. “He didn’t steal anything from me.”
“No!” The man with the torn coat looked around desperately. His eye fell on a young woman kneeling down beside the stream rinsing out a large piece of cloth that had been dyed blue. She was pretty, in a rather singular way, with a slightly crooked nose and pouting lips. He planted himself in front of her, threw out his chest, and bellowed, “We’re looking for a thief. A serious felony’s just been committed.”
She glanced up at him, not particularly interested, then went back to her cloth.
“Are you going to help us?” he thundered. “Or do we have to assume good-for-nothings are welcome here?”
The woman glared at him, took a deep breath—which, given her ample chest measurement, made the self-appointed inquisitor forget all about thieves for a moment—put her hands on her hips, and bawled back at him, “What an insulting suggestion! If we’d seen a thief, he’d be in the stocks by now!”
“That’s where he belongs. He tore my doublet, stole half a horse—what, a whole one, and rode off on it, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t murdered the odd person on the way.”
“Incredible!” The woman shook her head in indignation, sending a mass of dark-brown locks flying to and fro. Her interrogator was finding it more and more difficult to concentrate on the matter at hand.
“What does he look like?” she asked.
“Mop of bright red hair.” The man pursed his lips. “Forgive my asking, but doesn’t it get a bit lonely here by the Brook?”
A delicious smile spread across the woman’s face. “Oh, it does.”
“Well—” He tapped his fingertips against each other.
“D’you know,” she went on, “I sometimes think it would be nice to have someone who would just sit here and listen to me. When my husband—he’s a preacher with the Dominicans, very highly thought of—is giving a sermon, I’m left all by myself. I’ve got seven children, but they’re always out somewhere. Probably looking for the other five.”
“The other five?” the man stammered. “I thought you had seven?”
“Seven from my first marriage. With the other five I had with the canon that makes twelve hungry mouths to feed and nothing to eat. You wouldn’t believe how little the dyeing brings in.” The smile became even more radiant. “I’ve been wondering whether it might not be time to tell the old Antonite to pack his bags.”
“Er—wasn’t it a Dominican, you said?”
“It was, but it’s my Antonite I’m talking about now. Limp as a dishrag. Now when I look at you—”
“Just a minute!”
“A man of your size, built like one of the saints, a fount of wisdom, not like that wine merchant I—”
“Yes, I’m sure. Well, I wish you good day.” The man hurried after his companions, who were making their way back to Corn Gate, shaking their heads. “And if you should happen to see the thief,” he shouted over his shoulder, “then tell him—well—ask him—”
“Yes?”
“That’s right. Exactly.”
She watched the three disappear.
Then she burst into a fit of laughter.
Her laughter was louder than the bells of St. George’s. She laughed until her sides hurt and the tears were running down her cheeks so that she didn’t see the blue cloth rise up and slip to one side to reveal a soaking wet Jacob the Fox gasping for breath.
RICHMODIS VON WEIDEN
“So you’re a thief?”
He was lying on the ground beside her, still giddy and trying to get the last of the water out of his lungs. It had a somewhat caustic taste. Upstream from the blue-dyers were the red-dyers and some of the substances that got into the stream were better not swallowed.
“Yes,” he said, his chest heaving. “One that’s just committed a serious felony.”
She pursed her lips in a pout. “And you told me it was you who were running away from thieves and murderers.”
“I had to think of something. Sorry.”
“That’s all right.” She tried unsuccessfully to repress a giggle. “Pontius Pilate only washed his hands, so I imagine total immersion will do for you.”