Death and the Devil

candle brought the rich carving to life. As a child he had often stood looking at it, not long after his uncle Gottschalk had found the carved and inlaid wood in a Florentine warehouse and brought it back. It came, so it was said, from Byzantium and had fallen into the hands of Venetian knights during the first Crusade. Often, if the light was right, old ships would sail across an ocean of darkly grained wood, monsters and demons crane mahogany necks, and gargoyles with knotholes for eyes and worm-eaten teeth grin down at him, while cherubim and seraphim, on wings of walnut and ash, flew over them and the Holy City glowed in pure ebony on the horizon, such a glorious sight that he blushed with shame not to be one of those fighting to liberate it.

But then he had been a boy, his head full of ideals.

Now he was getting old, almost fifty. He had not been on a crusade, yet he had seen more of God’s creation than many of the self-appointed liberators who lay waste to the world in the name of God, then wasted away themselves in Seljuk prisons or suffered torture in Pecheneg dungeons, their heads impaled on lances lining the entrances to heathen strongholds. Johann’s spiritual ideals had taken a backseat to the study of profit and loss, but he never forgot to repeat the Psalm Have mercy upon me, O God, and to look on his wealth with due modesty.

He would establish a church, he swore for the nth time, and commission an altarpiece for it, a huge crucifixion on gold leaf. He’d start to make the arrangements as soon as the worries, doubts, and sleepless nights of the next few days were over. At the moment he had other things on his mind.

He knocked and entered the room beyond the door.

The old woman was sitting in the dark, but she was awake. Johann knew she hardly ever truly slept. Blindness was sleep enough for her, a sleep in which she could enjoy again the scenes from her life when she was young and held court with Werner, long since dead and almost forgotten. Their banquets were famous as far away as London, Paris, Rome. She had entertained Roman cardinals, seen rich merchants from Cornwall dancing in the great hall and gentlemen from Flanders with tall hats and full purses go down on their knees before her. She had been admired for her business acumen, respected for her keen mind, and desired for her great beauty.

All that was in the past.

And yet she did not live in the past but in the here and now. Beneath her sunken lids she saw into the future, and sometimes it seemed she saw much more than all the others who had eyes to see.

Johann sat on the edge of the chair opposite her, putting down his silver candlestick. He stared silently at the flame.

After a while she leaned forward slowly. In the glow of the candle her face seemed carved out of marble. Despite the closed eyes and deep furrows, one could still feel the fascination she must have exerted. It was almost like looking at the death mask of a very old, very beautiful woman.

“Something’s wrong,” she said in a hoarse whisper, all that was left of her rich, melodious voice, dry leaves blown along the walls by the wind.

Johann placed his fingertips together. “Yes.”

She gave a sigh, scarcely audible. “You don’t believe in our cause anymore?”

He shook his head as if she could see. “That’s not it, Mother. I believe in it more strongly than ever. What we are doing is right.”

“But you have doubts about the alliance.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” The white fingers set off across the black velvet of her dress, sought out and clasped one another. “Gerhard Morart is dead. He had to die. Not because we are cruel—because I am cruel—but because our cause demanded it.” She paused. “But there are some in our company who do not seem to understand that. The fools think they can go through fire without getting their feet burned.”

“We all come to the fire,” said Johann softly. “Sometime or other.”

“Of course. But what is pleasing in the sight of God and what is not? Have you ever thought how arrogant it is to claim to know God’s will and dispense justice in His name? When not even the pope can prove he is truly a servant of God. If the ways of the Lord are beyond finding out, as the Bible teaches, then perhaps it is the pope who is an abomination in the sight of God. Who, then, is more likely to burn? The man who questions the authority of the holy Catholic Church or the so-called Holy Father?”

“That seems to me a question no mortal can answer.”

“Nor can we interpret God’s word to suit ourselves. Do not torment yourself unnecessarily, my son. You will not find the answers we are looking for in this world. But since we cannot know, does that mean we must not act?”

“We will act,” said Johann determinedly.

The parchment skin tautened around the old woman’s teeth. She was smiling.

“But I would be happier,” he went on, “if I had better troops at my command. I don’t share Matthias’s fears about Heinrich von Mainz—Matthias sees danger everywhere—but there are others.”

“Yes, I know.” She lifted up her head and jutted out her chin. Her nostrils quivered as if she were trying to identify some faint odor. “You’re worried about Daniel. He’s a hothead. He’ll kill someone one day.”

“Or get killed. Daniel is a risk to the family.”

“I’m more concerned about Kuno.”

“Yes.” Johann sighed wearily. “Kuno’s the other one I had in mind.”

“But we cannot condemn Kuno because it is his heart speaking. Gerhard Morart dandled him on his knee. Kuno wanted to become a stonemason like him. When Gerhard became a journeyman, Kuno pestered his father to be allowed to accompany him, even though he was only a little boy, a very little boy who had only just learned to speak, never mind think for himself. He loved Gerhard above all else.”

“All the worse.”

The old woman stretched out her hand, feeling her way to Johann’s head. The withered fingers patted his hair. “Kuno’s no fool,” she said soothingly. “He’ll come to his senses soon and stand by us and the oath we all swore.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

The old woman was silent.

Johann stood up and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Good night, Mother.” He took his candle and went to the door.

“Johann.”

“Mother?”

“You need to relax. Read the Psalms. I suggest you will find what you need in Psalm one hundred and nine. Verse eight.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Mother.”

He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, and went to a small English chest of drawers that stood underneath a tapestry showing a hunting scene from Greek mythology. Two candles as thick as a man’s arm on either side of the chest gave sufficient light to read. He took out the Bible from one of the drawers and opened the heavy tome.

He heard voices below. Theoderich and Daniel were playing some board game. Hadewig, Johann’s wife, was singing an old song with an incredible number of verses.

He smiled.

Now, as the days got shorter and the nights colder, they often sat around the fire together again, telling one another stories. The family was scattered throughout Cologne, but their favorite place was here, at the house in Rheingasse, where the old woman dreamed of days gone by and days to come, weaving her dreams around the whole house, so that they were caught up in them and forgot time and the coldness of the world outside.

He leafed quickly through the pages until he found the passage she had mentioned. Relaxation was not the point. She was well aware that with his knowledge of the Bible, he would have to look it up to understand what she was telling him.

He found the page. His index finger ran along the lines.

For a while he stood there, motionless. Then he closed the book, replaced it, and went downstairs to warm himself by the fire.

JACOB

Jacob flew straight at the Shadow. His pursuer obviously hadn’t reckoned on this sudden about-face. He was