In unison, the bells of St. George’s, St Jacob’s, and the church of the Carmelites struck the first hour of the afternoon. Jaspar quickened his step. “Come on, we’d better hurry up before those scoundrels change their minds. Now: weapons. The crusaders discovered that the infidels were decidedly inventive in that respect. Rolling siege towers, castles bristling with lances on the backs of elephants, and catapults that not only send their projectiles into the enemy camp, but actually hit what they’re meant to hit. And among all these reports there was one I heard years ago about single-handed crossbows. Very light, a work of art almost, and extremely elastic. With small bolts. You can’t shoot as far with them as with the big ones, but you’re quicker on the draw and can keep the other hand free for your sword. The Saracens’ sharpshooters, the man told me, are incredibly accurate with them, even when they’re charging the enemy on horseback or on foot. Before you know it, you have one of those little bolts sticking out of your chest. Not a pleasant experience.”
It certainly made Jacob think as he trotted along beside Jaspar. “So the murderer’s a crusader,” he said. “How does that help us?”
“Was.” Jaspar corrected him. “Was a crusader. If he was, then he’ll have brought it back with him. A fairly recent invention, by all accounts. As far as I know, the first examples appeared during the last Crusade under Louis IX. He started out from France in 1248 and went via Cyprus to Egypt, where he took Damietta at the mouth of the Nile. I’ll spare you the horrors of the campaign. Suffice it to say that Louis was captured, but, incredibly, released for a large ransom. The Crusade ended in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, but not the city, and the army was wiped out at Acre on the coast. A total disaster. Most of those who did make it home never got over the experience. They felt they had failed, felt guilty for not having managed to carry out God’s will, whatever they thought that was, not to mention the constant massacres, less an expression of Christian liberation than a perversion of human nature.”
He paused for breath. “I have to say that some of the crusaders, however much I condemn their deeds, were motivated by a vision. But most of them were unscrupulous adventurers and they had no idea of what actually awaited them. They wallowed in dreams of immeasurable riches and generous remission of sins. Others, brave knights, experienced in warfare but blinded by the legends of the Holy Grail, probably imagined it would be like a grand tournament.”
Jaspar shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m going on like this, we haven’t the time. The point is, it was in connection with that Crusade that I heard about the tiny crossbow. Some poor devil who had lost his legs at the siege of Acre rambled on about it during confession. And I didn’t know whether to believe him. He was already a bit—” Jaspar tapped his forehead.
“When did this Crusade end?” Jacob asked.
“Six years ago. So it would fit in with this monster going about his business in Cologne. We know a little more about him.”
“So? What help is it to know him?”
“Knowledge always helps. Can’t you get that into that empty water-tub you have for a brain?” said Jaspar as they walked along by the Brook. “He is a former crusader who has committed murders. And will commit a further murder, if we assume that the main action is still to come. The basic question, it seems to me, is: is he acting on his own initiative or on someone else’s behalf? Gerhard’s death shocked Cologne. If that’s only the prelude, then it’s more than just an old crusader running amok, especially considering how well planned the whole thing was. So we assume the man’s being paid. Well paid, probably. They’ll have chosen him carefully.”
“Who’re they?”
“How should I know? Someone with money and influence, I suspect. Someone willing to pay for a silent, invisible executioner, who probably still has an exceptionally difficult task to perform. He buys himself witnesses and on the same evening as the murder manages to get rid of the only two people you told about it. So we have a mind capable of logical planning, rare enough nowadays with the followers of Saint Bernard railing against reason and trying to stop the wheel of time. He’s intelligent, quick, and skillful, probably very strong physically, and an expert shot into the bargain. Now most crusaders were complete blockheads, ergo our murderer must have belonged to the elite.”
“So why does he go around murdering? The Crusade is over. If he’s so clever, why doesn’t he just go home?”
“That,” said Jaspar, “is a good question.”
They had reached the street of Little St. Martin’s. The church was some way down on the left and opposite it, according to Jaspar, the bathhouse where they were to meet Justinius von Singen and Andreas von Helmerode. Jacob had never been in a bathhouse, but at the moment all that interested him was the false witnesses. If he and Jaspar managed to persuade them to change sides, as he fervently hoped they would, and make a statement to the council, then his nightmare might be over and the long-haired monster consigned to the jaws of hell out of which it had crawled. If only—
“Wait,” Jaspar said softly and stopped.
Jacob stumbled on for a step, then turned to face him. “What is it? Why are we stopping?”
Silently Jaspar pointed to an obviously excited gathering outside the bathhouse. A gang of children came running from that direction. As they went past, Jaspar grabbed one by the sleeve.
“Lemme go,” the urchin shouted. Jaspar’s bald pate and long nose seemed to fill him with fear.
“Right away, my son, if you tell us what’s happening down there.”
“Two men’s been done in. Lemme go, I didn’t do nothin’. Lemme go.”
“Stop shouting,” hissed Jaspar and let go of his sleeve. The boy chased after the others as if the Devil were at his heels.
Grasping Jacob by the arm, Jaspar swung around. “We’ve got to get away.”
“But—” Away? Jacob felt his heart sink and looked back.
“Keep walking,” Jaspar commanded. “Behave normally. Don’t hurry.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Jacob, already filled with dread.
“Once again our murderer has been quicker. We stroll along discussing how clever he is, idiots that we are, like lambs to the slaughter, my bald head shining in the sun for all to see.”
Jacob looked back again. Four men, burly types in the dress of house servants, had emerged from the throng and were following them.
“We’re being followed?” asked Jaspar, not turning his head.
“Four,” said Jacob dully.
“Perhaps we’re in luck,” said Jaspar. Jacob took another quick glance behind and saw the men quicken their step. Now they were almost running. “They didn’t count on us turning back like that. Once we’re past the malt mill we’ll split up. You go off to the left, get among the crowds in Haymarket. I’ll take the opposite direction.”
“But where will we—”
“Do you understand, dammit?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll find you somewhere. Now!”
Before Jacob could say anything, Jaspar gave him a push and ran off to the right, through a courtyard toward St. Mary’s. As he spun around, Jacob saw the four men abandon all pretense and set off after them, bawling and shouting.