“Jost, from Fust,” he heard in a low whisper. “A message, urgently, for Peter Schoeffer.”
As soon as he unlocked the door, a hooded figure slipped inside: his uncle’s foreman, Jost, nodding in recognition. “Erlenbach just rode in, I’m to warn you.” His hood was pulled so tight that Peter barely made out his face. “They know—that’s what he says.” A cloud of mist came from the shadowed lips. “Put everything away, your uncle says.”
There was no sound now in the lane, no clue as to the way those horses and their soldiers might have gone.
“Just here?” said Peter, “or—”
The faintest shrug. “He only sent me here.”
Instantly, he understood. As far as Jakob was concerned, Gutenberg could live or die by his own sword. Peter still could send a warning: the thought was like a bat that darted back and forth as he thanked Jost and dropped the beam across the door. The whole thing was the fool’s own fault, he thought. The Bible and the Humbrechthof were all that counted. Let Dietrich seize the prophecy; it serves the master right. Peter might have sent a boy, but in the instant he was given to decide, he hesitated—then left the man to twist on his own rope.
He flew into the workshop, barking orders. Keffer turned as slowly as a man encased in treacle, sluggish, golden: everything moved with a lethargy, a slowing of time’s motion. “Mirrors, now!” said Peter, and the pressman nodded, cranked the bed back out from underneath the platen. He hoisted out the heavy tray of letters. “To the shed,” said Peter, as he turned to Ruppel and Neumeister.
“You’re making a new psalter, for Pope Nicholas,” he told them. “Formes out, now, and follow Keffer to the shed. I’ll bring you the new pages.” Mentelin and Hans were at his side, the only men who knew, had helped prepare the plan. He did not need to tell them what to do. Mentelin was a red flame as he went past, the sample sheets of canticles, a few new pages of the Psalms, hung like limp curtains from his outstretched arms. He set to fanning some on the three tables, one beside each press, as if they’d only just been printed. Hans brayed back by the forge, and Peter went to help him carry in the trays of type, the pages of the Psalms that they had set and printed in the dread that they’d be needed for this very purpose. Peter felt the blood pound in his throat, fear and defiance coursing through his trunk, his neck, his forearms. Everyone was moving, clipped, efficient, without words, their hands, their faces, all intently focused. Peter felt the fiercest pride. Keffer moved the mirror molds onto the workbench. Wiegand grabbed the box of mirrors they had cast already, and dealt them out along the bench like playing cards. Two other boys were towing a full pot of molten metal from the forge.
The worst was the huge flock of drying pages, six hundred great sheets, nearly, hanging from their lines. God spare us, Peter whispered, praying that the ink was halfway dried. He called the whole crew hoarsely to come quickly just as soon as they were done, for this, though massive, was not something they could rush. In haste and panic Peter gestured for more barrels, stools—they did not have a dozen ladders. Up swarmed the hands, like tentacles, like harvesters among the vines: each page was lifted, gently, painfully, so slowly that he thought his heart would burst just watching it, his ear trained on the door. Frau Beildeck had come down, astonished at the strange commotion, and he grasped her by her ruddy arm and begged her to ascend again and watch the lane from up above. Another boy was sent to crouch beside the portal in the courtyard, ears pressed tight to the wood, to sound the first alarm.
Peter left them lifting, laying, jogging finished pages; the boys and men began to stagger off outside, toward the storerooms with those printed piles, one following the other like a trail of ants. Peter was moving like a shuttle through the shop: first to the composing room, removing the torn Bible pages clipped to every setter’s stand; then examining minutely all three presses, reaching under one to pull a fallen waste sheet out. Upstairs he unpinned the large chart that tracked their progress, folded it, and took the bundle—dangerous, revealing—of Bible notes and pages out into the cold.
The track between the workshop door and the two storerooms was now wide and trampled. He heard a muffled sound—at least he thought—and tasted acid in his mouth. The men were grave, entirely silent as they filed, except for a slight huffing and the shuffling of their sodden feet. Peter heard again the muffled sound, of feet, perhaps, not hooves, up north again, along the Cobblers’ Lane in the direction of the synagogue—or Mombasilier, or even, he thought with a twist of guilt, the Hof zum Gutenberg. Brusquely he seized Ruppel by the arm, and wildly motioned that the tracks must be erased; on his way back to fetch more pages, every man now dragged his feet in an uneven circuit, flattening the pale, untrammeled snow. Their manic loops and jets of breath, their panting open mouths, were an inversion, a perversion, of those jolly Flemish winter scenes.
Then there was noise, and indisputably the chink of mail, the sound of heavy leather boots approaching. Peter shooed the crew ferociously toward the workshop door. He bent and locked the storehouse, and stood an instant with his head flung back, his face exposed to ice and snow. “Saint Michael defend us against the rulers of this world of darkness,” he whispered to the cloak of heaven, moving then with such a speed as he had never done before into the shop, looking upon the men—his men, by God—each taking his appointed place, Hans and Mentelin bent with rags behind each man to wipe the melted mush that trailed in from the door.
They had a minute, at the most, before the archbishop’s men arrived. Peter looked with shining eyes at all of them: the men poised at the presses and the setters in their places, the drying lines that now hung slack, but for a score of pages Mentelin had draped. He touched his fingers to his lips and raised his hand and made the sign of Christ’s cross in the air. A little voice said, “Sir, they’re here,” and then each body tensed, unwittingly, in answer to the pounding of a metal fist upon the courtyard door.
Peter turned and saw the master book, the blank and numbered dummy Bible, on his desk, and swooped upon it as he passed and dropped it, kicking it beneath the desk. The yard when he stepped out looked churned and grimy. He made a sign to open up the double-gated portal. The hinges creaked in protest as the doors swung in slowly, followed closely by six men-at-arms who flattened themselves either side of the wide arch. They stood stiffly to attention, three by three, right hands on hilts, eyes straight ahead, heads cowled in leather, waiting. From the shadow came the dainty clop of high-strung hooves. A lone rider entered, thin, erect, black horse high-stepping, rolling its wide eyes. The face of Erlenbach, crusader, knight of the Teutonic order, glimmered faintly in the white light of the crushed new-fallen snow.
“Bring torches,” Peter told the boys, and stood unmoving in the center of the courtyard as Archbishop Dietrich’s fist approached. Speech failed him for a moment: he was torn between a stiff, reflexive urge to kneel and then cold fury at this violation of his threshold. “My lord,” he said at last, unflinching as the booted leg in its bright, razored stirrup drew level with his neck. “You seek a service here in Mainz?”
Free soil, free city, freemen, he intended: he tipped his head both graciously and languidly, to show he felt no deference.
Archbishop Dietrich’s Hofmeister looked down on him as if he were a grub. His face was skeletal, mere gristle, long of beak and capped with mail, with tufts of white that sprung from ears and neck.
“Search the place,” he said, his visage hard.
“By what right—,” said Peter, but the knight was swinging down from the saddle with no more attention than he would have spared a cur. The end of his sheath swung around as he dismounted and struck Peter lightly on the arm.
“Treachery. And blasphemy.” A faint twitch lifted the knight’s mouth. He pushed past Peter, tall and slightly stooped, mail faintly jingling beneath his crimson cloak, into the doorway to the workshop where his soldiers had already shouldered through.
The crew looked up, mouths falling open in astonishment, arrayed as if on stage. How th
ey had done this without some direction, each in his own corner, shrinking, freezing, staring with such seeming naturalness, Peter could not say. He planted himself at Erlenbach’s left hand and threw his arm out, with contempt, derision. “What blasphemy, my lord, when as you see, it is your master’s work we are engaged in?”
The proud beak tilted, exactly like a bird’s; with yellow eyes the man looked at him, head turned slightly to the side. “My master’s work,” he sneered, “my eye.” He jerked his chin toward his captain, and the men approached the presses and snatched up the sheets. Keffer put up his hands, and Ruppel followed: ashen-faced they watched as two squat, burly fellows reached into the bed of Keffer’s press and dragged the forme out and began to bash the metal with two cudgels they produced from their thick belts.
“Hey!” said Peter, springing, but the knight was swifter, tougher, and restrained him with the biting grip of his left hand.
“It is the book!” The printer writhed in that hard grasp, no longer feigning his own horror. “The book that Dietrich asked for, damn you, man.” He twisted free and lunged toward the soldiers with their pile of printed sheets. “The Psalms, you heathen slugs,” he said, snatching one and spinning, nearly throwing it at Erlenbach. “The canticles of Solomon and Moses, just as you saw them for yourself, two years ago.” His face was inches from that weathered skull: “Don’t think I don’t recall that you were there, with Rosenberg, in Eltville—do not deny you heard Johann Gutenberg offer him this present for the pope.”
The knight looked on him haughtily and smiled. “A pretty story.” Ruthlessly his eyes swept through the open space of the whole workshop. “Every piece of paper, parchment,” he barked, the soldiers fanning out, two to the drying hall, two more to the composing room, the first two giving the poor forme a final bash before discovering the twine and with an ugly relish pulling on its end to dump the whole tray with a crash onto the floor. A kind of flare went off in Peter, bright and hot, and he moved bodily to block their access to the room in which the heavy frames of letters waited in their cases, six sets of alphabets, set at an angle to six stools.
“You have no right,” he snarled, “to tear this shop apart.” He hurled the words at Erlenbach. “You order them to stop. This work is worth ten times their stinking hides.” As if in answer to an order he had not yet even thought, Keffer, Neumeister, and Ruppel moved to block the spaces in between the beams. Like hulking statues, hollow-eyed, broad-shouldered, a living mirror of the Kaufhaus frieze.
The boots sheathed in their jagged metal tips made a strange snicking sound. “Oh,” said Erlenbach, as he approached; as if amused, he looked them up and down.
“You think that this is yours.” He smiled, a hideous distortion of those bloodless lips. “From what that tinker Gutenberg said, though, it is his.” His laugh was soundless, a mere scrape; he reached into his belt and drew out a paper, unfolded it, and flung it at him, forcing Peter to bend down and take it from the ground. A waste sheet, from the book of Jeremiah, he saw as he uncreased it. And yet he kept his face entirely blank.
“Nice work,” said Erlenbach, almost pleasantly, “for liars and for blasphemers.”
Harshly Peter laughed. “The pope then is the blasphemer on high.” He shook his head, and sneered, and strode toward the desk with what he hoped was utter confidence. “I take it you have never seen a psalter, or pontifical.” These cretins had a year of Latin, two at most, he thought. He threw the waste sheet down beside the sheets of canticles and psalms.
“Those are not verses.” Erlenbach bored into him with his hunter’s eyes.
“Nor are they prophecy—or blasphemy. An introduction, only, words of preface to the book of prayer, written by the saint Jerome.” Impatiently he flicked his hand. “For God’s sake, ask His Grace, or Rosenberg, if you do not believe me.”
A vein throbbed silently in that rigid, sunken face; the old knight looked around. His eyes fell on the pile of pilgrim mirrors. “Superstitious twaddle,” he said, his lips twisting.
Peter shrugged and gave his coldest, cruelest smile. “Keep the masses happy—isn’t that the way?” The way you bastards rule by crushing, smashing, dulling those who might object with bright new baubles. Do not the rich oppress you by might? The words of the apostle James rose up inside, and Peter kept on smiling.
How hateful was their power now, arrayed against the breath of these new men—the stirring of renewal flowing through this workshop, this whole city and their Bible. Has not a poor man the right to heaven? May he too not offer the gift of scripture to his parish, in the hope of speeding his own way? Peter felt his chest swell, heard his voice, implacable and biting.
“You have no business here,” he said. “I bid you leave us now in peace.”
He lifted one hand; a dozen strong men silently arrived from every corner to surround him. Erlenbach looked out at him from his clay mask, and Peter felt himself exult, and then he saw it: sticking out from underneath the desk, three paces from the knight’s shod foot. The master book.
He forced himself to tear away his eyes. But something in his face alerted Erlenbach, who stirred and looked around, sniffing almost, as if he too had sensed that something was amiss.
For terrible long seconds no one moved or spoke. The soldiers came like washerwomen from the drying lines, the full sheets hanging from their arms. Erlenbach moved toward the desk, his right hand sweeping the whole surface clean: of inkpot, quills, a pile of paper scraps, the litter of a half a dozen mirrors. His foot came within inches of the book as he turned, snarling. “Insolence. You will hear more.”
Obediently, Peter dipped his head. “I welcome it,” he said. “His Grace has not yet seen the product of our work.” And from the corner of his eye he watched the heel move, almost grazing the thick sheaf—his breath stopped, his throat closed. He swallowed, then advanced and held his hand out.
The knight just eyed it with contempt and pulled his mesh and leather gloves back on.
“Men die who treat me as a fool.” His tone was thuggish, threatening. “Gensfleisch will answer for this—if he’s not already singing.”
He turned, his long cloak snagging on the corner of the book, then pulling free, swirling above his feet as they receded, followed by the thick tramp of his soldiers, bearing their mean spoils.
The minute they were gone, Peter loped the hundred yards across the Quintinstrasse, through the churchyard to the Hof zum Gutenberg. Lorenz unlocked the door. His eyes were wide, his gray hair flying from his head. “They’ve took him off, young master,” he said shakily.
Peter strode down the hall, looked briefly in the master’s study, noted how the stools were knocked about. The stacks of papers on the table were all gone; whatever copies of the prophecy the fool had kept there too. The door onto the little courtyard was ajar, a wake churned through the whiteness toward the stable door. He wrenched it open, groped into the alcove for the tinderbox, and struck a light.
The press was stripped of its protective cloth, which they had stamped into the straw. Whatever type had been left standing in its bed was gone. A twist of twine hung from the bar. He turned toward the desks, the master’s high one and the table by the window, where he’d cut that type an age before. There’d been a setting case there too, to judge from the now-empty frame they’d left behind. Whatever type the master kept in all those pockets had been seized, along with the large case. Peter wondered for an instant how they’d lashed it, four foot square, onto a horse. God damn him. May God send down His plague on him, the arrogant, self-centered fool.
Wiegand and Lorenz stood behind him, gaping. “Get everything that isn’t nailed. Put any type you find into a sack, and every frame and stick.” The press, exposed, he could not help. To Wiegand he said slowly, carefully: “Then go to Hans, and have him send as many as he needs to haul it to the Humbrechthof.” The boy nodded. Peter took a final look, and then went out to find the man.
The fool would crack before they’d even heated up the tongs—if force w
as even needed, any kind of torture. More likely Gutenberg would spill it of his own accord. Peter wished for catgut then, a metal brand—anything to seal that proud, loose mouth.
He paused a moment, undecided. They might have taken him to the archbishop, yet he had heard no haste of hoofbeats heading north, toward the river ford that led to Eltville or Aschaffenburg. To Dietrich’s residence in Mainz, then: there were cells inside the Little Court, he knew, to hold the miscreants before the court of law, beside those gardens where his peacocks screamed.
The square before St. Martin’s glowed as if each crystal of the snow was lit up from within. Out of the ragged clouds a strange and diffuse brightness came, from hidden moon and stars. The traders had all shuttered and deserted their locked stalls. Peter headed toward the ghostly pillars of the Little Court. He cursed with renewed vigor as the snow soaked through the flimsy leather of his shoes, and wished belatedly he’d brought his boots—and then his torch and knife. For halfway there he saw a movement in the shadows, a flickering; he stopped and peered across the shifting pools of dark and light. This was no time for fingers, murderous or larcenous, around his throat. He sidled silently into the deeper darkness at the edges cast by the great houses. A figure peeled then from the cloister columns, walking slowly toward him from the gate of Dietrich’s palace. Tall and hooded, stalking almost, rustling as its arms swung, punching at the air. Another step, and Peter knew: he heard the muttering beneath the breath, the churning of the consonants, a bitter jumbling like letters clacking to the ground. The bastard’s teeth were doubtless ground as well, absent a bone to chew, a body he might lash with that abusive bludgeon in his mouth.
Gutenberg plowed toward him, head bent, face entirely shrouded by the hood, venting like Vesuvius. Unseeing, wrapped in his own drama; Peter moved out from the shadows in his path. If he had had a dagger he might well have closed his hand around the clean hard purpose of its hilt. Instead he bared his teeth and let the words fall with contempt upon the snow.
Gutenberg's Apprentice Page 26
