JACOB
“Wake up!”
Someone was shaking him. For a moment he thought he was under his arch in the Wall, then he sat up. It was still dark, but he vaguely recognized Jaspar’s silhouette. He was laughing. “So this is the lad who can’t get to sleep?”
“What time is it?”
“The watchman called three o’clock not long ago. The procession starts in two hours, so you have plenty of time to ask for an audience in the archbishop’s palace. Then we’ll meet between the fourth and fifth hour in Seidenmachergäßchen. It’s nice and quiet there on a Sunday morning. Let’s say by the city weighhouse.”
“Just a moment,” said Jacob, rubbing his eyes. “What’s all this about meeting? I thought we were going together.”
“So did I. But I had an idea while you were sleeping. It’s connected with your story. I’m going somewhere else.”
“To Goddert’s house, perhaps?”
“I’d like to.”
“So would I, dammit!”
“But we’d be fools to let ourselves be seen on the Brook at this juncture. Not now. Off you go, and make sure you keep that forest fire you have on your head well covered on your way to the palace.”
Jacob stood up and stretched. Tried to, at least. His body was probably black and blue from being hammered against the shutters. “What do you have in mind?” he groaned.
“I’m—” Jaspar patted him on the shoulder. “Tell you later. You know where the weighhouse is?”
“Yes.”
“Good. If I don’t see you there, I’ll assume your mission has been successful and go along to the palace.”
“Why can’t you tell me where you’re going?”
“Because it won’t get us anywhere just now and would take too long to explain. Off you go, and keep out of Urquhart’s way. He’ll be blazing mad at you.”
Before Jacob could say anything, Jaspar had taken him by the shoulders and pushed him out into the street. The rain had stopped, but it was still cold. Jacob looked around. There was an oil lamp swinging to and fro outside Bodo’s house next to the brewery. Key House opposite was silent. There was no one about.
“Off you go,” said Jaspar.
Jacob put his head back and pumped his lungs full of air till they were bursting. Although he was sore all over, he felt as if he had come alive again after a long time. Then he embraced Jaspar, pressing him so tight to his breast something cracked, and gave him a smacking kiss on his bald head. Jaspar stared at him, flabbergasted.
“Not like me.” He grinned, then turned and scurried away up Keygasse.
The archbishop’s palace, also known as the Hall, was on the southern side of the cathedral precinct, between Dragon Gate and Tollbooth Gate. Built a hundred years ago, it was an imposing, two-story castle with a row of arcades on double columns decorating the opulently furnished hall on the upper floor. That was where Conrad dispensed justice; it was also the place where he had outwitted the patricians when they had come for supposedly unarmed and peaceful discussions.
Conrad’s private apartments were to the rear, opposite the cathedral and not visible from the street. There was no point in trying to gain admittance there. Anyone who wanted something from the archbishop had to approach his soldiers and officials, which meant humbly begging audience at the front entrance.
Jacob had avoided the main streets, weaving his way through the narrow alleys like a salamander. There was a chance the patricians were still looking for him and Jaspar, but they couldn’t get into every nook and cranny, and that was where Jacob was at home.
He paused for a moment to draw breath. He was at the end of Pützgäßchen, which led into Am Hof, a broad, prestigious street with stately buildings such as the Crown House, where the dukes of Brabant held court when they were in Cologne, and the Klockring, the sheriffs’ headquarters. The archbishop’s palace was directly opposite. There were lights on in some of the ground-floor windows and the main door was open. A group of men in armor were talking with two night watchmen on horseback. Their muffled voices came to Jacob, but he could not tell what they were saying. With a burst of coarse laughter, the night watchmen spurred their horses and the soldiers withdrew into the building. The double doors screeched and slammed shut.
Cautiously he peered out into the broad thoroughfare. Farther up he saw a few monks scuttle through the darkness into the provost’s quarters. There was garbage lying everywhere. Heavy rain, such as that during the night, swept everything the citizens threw into the street down through the steep east side of the city toward the Rhine. And there was nothing the good citizens did not throw into the street. The senses were assaulted by the mixture of the ubiquitous pig dung with an amalgam of rotting vegetable scraps and gnawed bones. Despite that, all appeals to throw everything in the cesspits were ignored, or dismissed with the irrefutable argument that the gold diggers—the local term for the unfortunates who were supposed to empty them—performed their function too rarely.
Jacob decided he had waited long enough. Making sure not a single red hair was sticking out from under his hood, he ran over to the door and knocked loudly.
Immediately a flap slid back and a pair of eyes scrutinized him. Jacob felt his hopes rise. “I have some important information for the archbishop,” he said breathlessly.
“What information?”
“A matter of life and death.”
“What?”
“For God’s sake, just let me in before it’s too late.”
The flap slid to, then one of the doors opened and Jacob found himself face to face with a man in armor and helmet. There were three more behind him, regarding him with curiosity.
“The Lord be—oh, why bother?” muttered Jacob as he sketched a blessing and hurried inside. The door snapped shut behind him.
He looked around. The entrance was lit by pairs of torches in elaborate holders. At one side a broad stone staircase with a massive stone balustrade led to the upper floor. Between the torches the wall was hung with tapestries representing chimeras and Titans, sphinxes, naiads, and centaurs, beings with snakes’ heads and bats’ wings, manticores baring their fangs and dwarves with the faces of dogs, cyclops, scaly devils and gorgons, birds with women’s heads and werewolves, forming a garland of merry horror around the ecstatic saints with eyes turned to heaven, bodies disfigured by the wounds of martyrdom, hands raised to the angels with their powerful gold-blue-and-turquoise wings and haloes. Above them all was Christ, His right hand raised, His earnest gaze directed straight ahead. The dark eyes appeared to see everything and at the same time into the heart of each and every individual. Jacob trembled. He saw the living God and felt strong, felt new courage well up inside him.
An iron-gloved hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned away from the comforting eyes of Christ and found himself looking into the soldier’s.
“What’s all this about, monk?” the guard barked.
Monk? Oh, of course.
“I have to speak to the archbishop,” Jacob said, against all reason.
The man stared at him, then roared with laughter. The others joined in. “It’s not that easy to get to speak to the archbishop, Friar Oaf. Has no one ever taught you to bow your head when you ask for audience?”
“And what have you been taught?” Jacob retorted. “Conrad von Hochstaden is in great danger and you make fun of the messenger who might save his life. Do you want to end up bowing your head on the executioner’s block?”
The laughter died away. The soldier scratched his beard, unsure what to do. “What’s this danger you’re talking about?” he asked.
“Mortal danger!” Jacob cried. “God wither your loins if you don’t take me to Conrad this instant.”