“Why? God, they know everything about us.”
“So what?”
“Are we going to wait for them to come back and send us to join Rolof?”
“In the first place,” said Jaspar irritatedly, as he got up, “I presume it wasn’t a them but a him, that is, Gerhard’s murderer. In the second place, why should he come back? He’s got a hostage. He doesn’t need to bother with us anymore. None of us is going to say a blind word.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” asked Jacob uncertainly.
Jaspar was silent. Somehow his silence seemed to last too long.
“All right.” Jacob sat down on one of the stools. “I’m sorry I came to your house. I blame myself for what’s happened to Richmodis and I’m sad about Rolof. And I feel terrible that something might happen to you or Goddert. I’m very sorry, dammit! But it’s happened now and I can’t do anything to change it. It was your decision to help me. If you want, I’ll go and try to find Richmodis. If you never want to set eyes on me again, I can understand that. Only, however much I have to be grateful to you for, don’t blame me because you decided to help me.”
Jaspar frowned. “When did I ever blame you for anything?”
“Not out loud, Jaspar, but you thought it. You see me as responsible for all this. In a way I am. But you had a free choice. Nobody forced you. Don’t think I’m being ungrateful, I just want you to be open with me. Throw me out, if you like, but don’t pretend you want to help me, while inside you’re beginning to hate me.”
“Who’s saying I hate you?”
“No one is. But at the moment you’re thinking, if I hadn’t met this goddamn good-for-nothing—or, if you like, if I hadn’t helped him—Rolof would still be alive and no one would be in danger. You’re weighing my life against those of Rolof and Richmodis, and I come off worse. You don’t have to tell me, I know. But I also know this may be your last opportunity to decide, and I don’t want you deceiving yourself and me. I can live—and die—with anything, apart from the contempt of a Good Samaritan who’s standing by me, not for my sake, but for his own self-respect.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t need anyone to tell me my life is worth less than that of others. Send me away, if you want. But leave me my pride.”
Jaspar put his head on one side and squinted at Jacob. “You think this is the right moment to tell me all this?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm.” He sat down facing Jacob and massaged the bridge of his nose. For a while all that could be heard was the drumming of the raindrops on the shutters.
“You’re right, I did see you as responsible. I was thinking, what right has he to live, when my servant had to die for his sake and Richmodis is God-knows-where, assuming she’s still alive. He should be feeling so guilty he wished the earth would open and swallow him up. And he has the cheek to ask whether I’m sure my suspicions are correct. He doesn’t deserve to live! How can God allow worthwhile people to suffer because of a piece of scum?”
He paused.
“But I had forgotten, just for a moment, that no life is worthless. What is worse, I was trying to wriggle out of the responsibility. It’s easier to condemn you than to admit I’m responsible for everything myself.”
Jaspar hesitated. Then he raised his head and looked Jacob in the eye. “I thank you for the lesson, Fox-cub. Will you continue to accept my help?”
Jacob looked at him and suddenly couldn’t repress a laugh.
“What now?” asked Jaspar indignantly.
“Nothing. It’s just that—you have an unusual expression when you apologize.”
“Unusual?”
“A bit like—”
“Like what?”
“There was this capon—”
“Impudent brat!” snorted Jaspar. “That’s what you get when for once in your life you admit a mistake.”
“Perhaps that’s why. Once in your life.”
Jaspar stared at him angrily. Then he had to laugh and for a while they both cackled away. It was nervous, overwrought, hysterical laughter, but it did them good all the same.
“Poor Rolof,” said Jaspar at last.
Jacob nodded.
“Well?” Jaspar’s brow furrowed like a plowed field. “I still think we should go onto the attack.”
“Attack who? How? When Richmodis—”
Jaspar leaned forward. “Richmodis has disappeared. We won’t help her by sitting around doing nothing, and certainly not Rolof. I also don’t think we can trust the man who abducted her. He intends to kill us all. But do you know what I think? I think we’re already making things a bit awkward for him.”
“How?” Jacob asked skeptically. “So far people on our side have done nothing but get killed.”
“True. But why then did he take Richmodis hostage instead of just killing her? In that case I’m convinced he’s telling the truth. She’s alive. What I mean is, why did he take her hostage?”
“Because it suited him. He can do as he likes with us.”
“No, goddammit! Because he had no choice! Don’t you see? All his attempts to get those who know about Gerhard’s murder out of the way have failed. Even if he were to kill Richmodis and the two of us, and Goddert into the bargain, he still wouldn’t know who else we’d told. He’s losing already. He’s lost track of the number of people who might be in the know. So he’s had to find a way of silencing us all at once; he’s had to go on the defensive. He’s made mistakes. Perhaps we can get him to make another.”
“We can’t.” Jacob waved the suggestion away. “We don’t know his name, nor where to find him.”
“We know he was a crusader.”
“Thousands were. Thousands and thousands.”
“Yes, I know. But this one is special. Probably a noble, a former knight or cleric, since he can write. Though I’m not too keen on his taste in ink. Studied in Paris.”
“How do you make that out?”
Jaspar pulled a face. “From Rolof, unfortunately. I told you, our murderer is starting to make mistakes. Over the years each university developed its own style of writing. The Bolognese, the English, the Parisian, to name but a few. The letters on Rolof ’s forehead are pure Paris school.”
“So what? You’re forgetting the patricians. Whatever we find out about him, they’re the ones we’re up against.”
“Or not. Why did they hire a murderer, eh? To do the work they don’t want to—or can’t—do themselves. Including murder, abduction, and torture. I can even imagine they might have given him a free hand to a certain extent.”
“Still,” objected Jacob, “what does it help, knowing about him?”
“Know your opponent, you know his plan.”
“And who was it said that?”
“Me. Well, no, the Roman emperor Julius Caesar. But it could have been me. Doesn’t matter anyway.”
Jacob sighed. “That’s all well and good, but I can’t think of a way to find out anything about him.”
“Of course you can’t. You’re the Fox while I’m a—what did you call me?”
“Capon.”
“A capon, yes, a capon who’s wide awake and doesn’t intend to get slaughtered. A capon who intends to win this battle. And he will.”
“I suspect the capon’s got it wrong there,” said Jacob.
“No, that’s not what he’s got.”
“What has he got then?”
“An idea!”
KUNO
The old warehouse…
Kuno was sitting in his dining room, trying to work out which warehouse Daniel had been talking about. He may have been half drunk, but on that point he was presumably to be trusted. A woman was being held prisoner there. Who she was Kuno did not know. Much of what Daniel had thoughtlessly let slip was a mystery to him. The
