“Goddert we’ll take home—at least there he won’t have to see poor Rolof all the time. That’s the best we can do for him for the moment. As for Rolof? I don’t like having a body that’s been slit open and written on with his own blood lying about the house. Looks suspiciously like heathen rites. I think for the time being we should get him out of the way, however much it pains me not to give poor Rolof a proper burial. Let’s get Goddert home first. You’ll stay with him and I’ll come back and”—he cleared his throat—“clear up.”
They took Goddert by the arm and led him out unresisting. His eyes were blinded by tears. The fury of the storm had increased and several times they almost ended up together in the mire. It was something of a miracle that Goddert was able to put one foot in front of the other. He was rapidly succumbing to apathy. Jacob remembered how he himself had staggered along the Duck Ponds two days ago after he had found Maria’s body, ready to accept any lie, provided it was better than the reality, shattered and yet strangely uninvolved, an interested observer of his own wretchedness.
He felt immensely sorry for the old man.
At last the houses on the Brook appeared through the slanting curtain of rain. They hurried on, heads well down between their shoulders. Goddert was whimpering to himself.
Jacob clenched his teeth. Then he saw something and stopped in his tracks.
There was a jerk as Jaspar took another stride. Goddert slipped out of their grasp and went sprawling, splashing mud in all directions.
“For God’s sake, Fox-cub, what’s all that about?”
“Look.” Jacob pointed.
Jaspar squinted. There was a faint gleam of light between the shutters of Goddert’s house.
Light.
“Goddert,” said Jacob, speaking slowly and clearly, “did you leave anything burning when you went out?”
From the ground Goddert gave Jacob an uncomprehending look. “No.”
“Not a candle, an oil lamp, fire in the grate?”
“Definitely not. Why do you ask?”
“Sorry, I’d forgotten the Lord didn’t bless you with the gift of long sight. It looks as if you have visitors. Were you expecting any?”
“I’m not expecting anyone at all. You must be wrong.” Then his face was transformed. “But perhaps— perhaps Richmodis is back!”
He scrambled to his feet and set off for the house. Jaspar grabbed hold of him. “Nonsense, Goddert. Face up to the facts. She’s been kidnapped.”
“No,” Goddert shouted. “It’s Richmodis! She’s come back. My little girl! Don’t you see, Jaspar, it’s all been a terrible mistake and she’s back. Let go of me!”
“For Christ’s sake, Goddert.”
“No. Let go.” His strength suddenly seemed to have returned. He pulled himself free and set off running toward the house.
“The fool!” Jaspar swore. “Goddert, stay here. You’ve no idea who’s in there,” he shouted.
“Richmodis!”
They slithered along behind him, but Goddert was too quick for them. They saw him fling open the door and disappear inside, then heard his cry.
“Oh, Lord,” groaned Jaspar.
A few steps brought them to the house. They clattered into the room and came to an abrupt halt. Jaspar’s chin dropped. “Richmodis,” he gasped.
Goddert was pressing her to him, as if he could hold her so close nothing in the world would ever take her away again. The tears were running down his cheeks. Richmodis was patting his rounded back. Her hair was disheveled and dripping wet. She gently prized his arms away from her and stroked his face. “Are you all right, Father?”
Goddert was laughing and crying at the same time. “Who cares how I am? Holy Virgin, I thank you. Oh, God, I thought I’d never see you again!” His head swung around to Jaspar and Jacob. “Ha! Didn’t I tell you? My little girl!”
Jaspar grinned. He went over and, throwing his arms wide, hugged the pair of them. “Goddert,” he said solemnly, “you can say what you like about your mental capacity, but that of your stomach is far superior to mine.”
They laughed and held one another tight. Jacob stood by the door observing a happiness that, for a moment, blotted out everything else. Then he felt sadness welling up inside him and turned away.
“That’s enough,” said Richmodis. “Come and look in the back room.”
They followed her. A man was lying on the massive kitchen table. His face was terribly pale, his clothes soaked in blood in several places. As they entered he laboriously raised his head.
Jaspar was beside him immediately. “What happened?”
“Sword wounds. One in the leg, the other in the side. I was just going to bandage them.”
“We must wash them first. Get me some wine, vinegar, and water. Cloths as well. Quickly.”
“I’ll fetch the wine,” said Goddert.
“I want it to wash him with, Goddert, to wash him! Understood?”
Goddert gave him a withering look and hurried off. Richmodis brought some cloths. With an expressionless look on his face, Jasper examined the man, felt his body, checked his pulse, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
The man groaned and tried to sit up. Jaspar gently pushed him back down. “Don’t move. We have to bandage your ribs first. Tell me your name.”
“Kuno Kone,” the man whispered.
Jaspar paused for a second. “Kone? The merchant house?”
Kuno nodded.
“Well, well, well. Curiouser and curiouser.”
Jacob looked down at the man, feeling superfluous. He was about to say something, but Goddert shoved him to one side and put a brimming pail of water and two jugs on the floor beside the table. Jaspar sniffed them.
“That smells of vinegar,” he declared and picked up the other. “This’s probably wine. But it’s best to be sure.” He put the jug to his lips and took a long draught.
“Hey,” Goddert protested. “To wash him, you said.”
“Firstly,” said Jaspar, licking his lips, “anything I use to wash our friend here must have my specific approval, and secondly you can let me have a knife instead of stupid comments. I’ll have to cut his clothes away.”
Grumbling to himself, Goddert went to find a knife as Richmodis returned with another pile of rags. They all ignored Jacob.
“Can I do anything?” he asked hesitantly.
Jaspar looked up for a moment. “Play your whistle,” he said.
Jacob stared in astonishment. “Do what?”
“Don’t you understand German? Play your whistle. Until we’ve got him bandaged up.”
Breathing heavily, Kuno seemed about to protest.
“And you can keep your trap shut,” Jaspar commanded. “We’ll talk later. Goddert, the knife. Richmodis, soak that cloth in vinegar. Well, Jacob? Haven’t you any whistles left? I thought they grew on you, like monkeys on a tree. Come on. I want music if I’ve got to work at this hour of the night.”
Jacob felt inside the habit. The last thing he would have thought of was his whistle. It was still there. It had survived the fishmarket and the horrific journey under the cart. He took it out from his belt, twisting and turning it in his fingers, at a loss for what to play.
At that moment Richmodis looked up at him. And smiled.
It was that brief, warm smile.
Jacob started with the merriest tune he knew. And as Jaspar silently cut away Kuno’s clothes and then, with Richmodis’s help, washed him, carefully cleaning the wounds, and Goddert obediently brought fresh water and wrung out the cloths, the music gradually seemed to bring warmth to the room. With each silvery note peace and
