His head was still going around and around. Completely disoriented, he crawled across the planks. He heard rapid steps and looked up just in time to see Urquhart’s foot coming toward him. The toe of the boot struck him on the chest, sending him flat on his back.
The world around started to grow colder.
Urquhart came up to him and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said. It sounded almost sympathetic.
Jacob coughed and felt the blood running down his chin. His lungs seemed unwilling to take in air. “I know that.” He had to force the words out.
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just run away?”
“I was too slow.”
“You’re not slow.”
“Oh, yes, I am.” The air whistled as he sucked it in. “You’re always too slow when you run away.”
Urquhart hesitated. Then he gave an unexpected nod as his hand disappeared inside his cloak. When it reappeared Jacob saw the all-too-familiar little crossbow. The disfigured face twisted in a smile. “Welcome to nowhere, Jacob.”
Jacob turned his head away.
A voice rang out. “Urquhart of Monadhliath!”
The effect was startling. A look of pure horror appeared on Urquhart’s face. He swung around, pointing his bow with outstretched arm in the direction the voice had come from.
Jaspar’s voice!
Breathing heavily, Jacob rolled onto his side and crawled on all fours to the wheel. Away from Urquhart was the only thought in his head.
But the murderer seemed to have forgotten him. He was looking around wildly for Jaspar, who was nowhere to be seen, though his voice was still to be heard.
“Do you remember the children, Urquhart? What they did to the children? You wanted to stop them. Remember?”
It came from below. Jaspar must be somewhere on the scaffolding. Gasping with pain, Jacob pulled himself up and stood there, swaying. Urquhart leaped across to the side of the scaffolding and looked down into Dranckgasse. At the same time Jaspar’s head appeared farther away.
“But you couldn’t stop them,” he cried.
With a scream of fury, Urquhart whirled around toward him. But Jaspar had disappeared again.
“Lies!” he shouted. “Lies! I wasn’t there when it happened.”
From below came a clattering, like footsteps running, then it faded. Urquhart took a step forward, but there was nothing there. No boards, no struts, no rails. Urquhart drew back.
Then he turned to face Jacob again. His eyes had lost their icy coldness. All they registered was pure horror. The bolt was aimed at Jacob’s forehead.
“Do you sometimes dream of the children?” came Jaspar’s voice, echoing across the roof.
Urquhart’s hand started to tremble. The next moment he was running along the planks away from Jacob. He leaped the gap to the next platform, ran to the edge and—staggered. He doubled up. The arm with the crossbow sank, his free hand went to his head.
Jacob held his breath.
Jaspar appeared on the rungs, directly in front of Urquhart. He looked tense. After a quick glance at Jacob, he clambered onto the platform. His eyes were flickering with fear, but his voice was steady, each word cutting like a sword.
“You are Urquhart, duke of Monadhliath,” he said.
Urquhart drew back a step.
“You came down from the Scottish Highlands to join Louis of France in the sixth Crusade. You wanted to serve the Lord your God and win back the Holy Land, but what you saw after you took Damietta was the face of Satan.”
Urquhart did not move.
“Remember Damietta.”
Jacob watched in disbelief as Jaspar went up to the huge figure and slowly stretched out his hand. He must be out of his mind!
“You butchered the Egyptians. First the men. Then Louis’s soldiers fell on the women. I know you were against it, Urquhart. You did not want God’s name dishonored, you used all your influence, but in vain. You arrived too late.” Jaspar paused. “And then Louis’s bully-boys herded the children together. You remember?”
“No,” Urquhart mumbled.
Now Jaspar’s hand was trembling. He tried to take the crossbow. Urquhart gave a groan and jumped back. They made a grotesque picture, as if the two disparate figures were performing some mysterious heathen dance on the edge of an abyss.
“Think of the children,” Jaspar insisted. “The soldiers—”
“No. No!”
“Listen to me. You’re going to listen to me.” Jaspar clenched his fist and came closer. “Just as you were forced to listen when the French king joked about their whimpering, when he said it reminded him of the mewing of seagulls, just as you were forced to look on as the swords descended, chopping them into pieces, just as you were forced to watch as their bellies were slit open while they were still alive, Urquhart, they were still alive, and it drove you mad, and—”
A scream came from Urquhart such as Jacob had never heard from a human throat before.
Jaspar tried to grab the crossbow.
And failed.
Jacob saw Urquhart straighten up. Everything seemed to happen excruciatingly slowly. His arm started to rise, the tip of the bolt came up, and the realization that he had lost showed in Jaspar’s eyes. The muscles of his face relaxed. With a smile he looked up to heaven.
Jaspar had given up. He was accepting his fate.
It was absurd.
Not a sound passed Jacob’s lips as he launched himself. He forgot his pain. He forgot his fear. He forgot Goddert and Richmodis, Maria, Tilman, Rolof, and Kuno. He forgot everything that had happened in the last few days.
Then he forgot the smoking ruins of the shack, forgot his father and his brother.
All he saw was Urquhart and Jaspar.
Long strides took him toward them. There seemed an eternity between each heartbeat. Centuries rolled past. As if in a dream, Jacob floated over the scaffolding while the crossbow still rose, higher and higher, until it came to a halt, pointing at Jaspar’s breast.
Somehow he managed to cross the gap to the next platform. He kept going.
Urquhart’s index finger tightened.
Time stood still.
Jacob stretched out his arms and put all the strength left in his body into one last leap. He felt a wonderful lightness. The impact, when he hit Urquhart, was almost soft. He grasped the arm of the duke of Monadhliath as if he were taking him home, pushed him over the edge of the scaffolding, and followed him readily.
Urquhart had been right. They had become one.
Perhaps they could rise up together. Without the hatred and the fear and the terrible memories.
Joy welled up inside him and he closed his eyes.
“It’s simply beyond belief,” said Jaspar.
Jacob blinked.
He was hanging over Dranckgasse. Far below a dog was sniffing at Urquhart’s corpse.
Nonplussed, he turned his head and found himself looking into Jaspar’s haggard face. The dean was grasping him firmly with both hands, his brow gleaming with sweat.
“This really is the most stupid fox I’ve ever caught.” He sniffed. “Genuinely thinks he can fly.”
THE CITY WALL
No one ever heard what was agreed between Jaspar Rodenkirchen and Johann Overstolz on that morning of 14 September in the year of our Lord 1260. At the end of the discussion, however, the threat had disappeared and, in return, there had never been an alliance. Gerhard’s death was an accident and poor Rolof had been attacked by thieves. Once they’d agreed to each other’s lies, everything was right with the world again.
Conrad said mass at prime and preached another holy Crusade, without ever learning what a close escape he had had. The body of an unknown man, with burns to the face and chest, was found in Dranckgasse. The weapon beside him left no doubt that he was the crossbow murderer who had killed at least three people in the city. No one knew his name, where he came from, or what his motives for the killings were, so the knacker took him away on his cart and buried him in a common grave, where he was soon forgotten.