‘Ah, so it was the Maiden Hedwig. Then it is quite clear why she nearly knocked the Pastor down,’ Dorn said, erupting into laughter.
‘I know not. For what reason then?’ Freisinger replied frostily.
‘Now then, Sire Blackhead, the whole town is aware that you and the Maiden Hedwig will soon require the services of the Pastor, who will stand in front of the altar and by the power vested in him …’ the Magistrate intoned knowingly and winked. ‘Tell us rather, Master Blackhead, when will old Casendorpe arrange an engagement party?’
Freisinger was apparently not amused by this sort of discussion. ‘That you should certainly ask of Master Casendorpe,’ he marked curtly.
Melchior patted the Magistrate’s shoulder and chuckled. ‘Our town is small, and it is not as if anything goes unnoticed – and women also tend to gossip up a storm when a wedding seems to be imminent. Well, I, too, have heard that Master Freisinger is rumoured soon to be putting aside his merry life with the Blackheads and taking on the role of a married citizen of the town – but stories are come in all shapes and sizes, and once they have been let loose then they reach the pharmacy in time, so do not be irritated by our curiosity, Master Blackhead.’
‘I hold it not against you, Melchior,’ the merchant replied. ‘Surely you, as a married man, know that you say one thing, although is understood otherwise, and all the while third parties hear it in a third manner and pass it along differently to a fourth.’
‘Such it is, Master Blackhead,’ Melchior assented. ‘However, maybe you will have a sweet pharmacy elixir to counter the throat ache that ailed you last week? I still have some left, and by your expression I would say the pain has not quite passed yet.’
‘It would be an absolute sin to not take a drink now that I am here. A thousand thanks. I shall, I presume, be treating you in return this evening.’
‘Oh, of course, the beer-tasting festivity,’ Dorn remarked. ‘Do tell, it will not be cancelled, will it?’
‘When has any festivity at the Brotherhood of Blackheads been called off before? No matter if a hundred enemies surround the town there will always be a fest at the Blackheads. Word has gone out and the beers brewed.’
‘If you say so, Master Blackhead, if you say so … I do not recall the Blackheads having held such grand festivities here in the past. There was really nothing to be heard of your guild when I was young,’ Melchior remarked with a nod. It was said that the Brotherhood of Blackheads had been in Tallinn for a few hundred years, long before the other guilds, but the Blackheads themselves were the only party to assert this, and, in truth, Melchior could not remember having heard much about the Brotherhood before Master Freisinger arrived in town. Nevertheless, Freisinger did come to Tallinn, and the Blackheads’ fame rose in no time. The young merchant invited the sons of Great Guild merchants and other foreign traders to join, and in the three years since the cheerful and easy-going Blackheads had been acclaimed across the town for their mighty festivities and drinking sessions, their hastiludes and tournaments. Before Freisinger arrived there had been only three old unmarried merchants in Tallinn who called themselves Blackheads, but they were so aged and frail that the Guild of the Brotherhood of Blackheads would have gone to the grave with them.
Freisinger sipped the elixir, saying it indeed did his throat well. ‘I suppose the Blackheads are different in every town,’ he said in reply to Melchior. ‘Not that our brotherhoods are many in number either. But you enquired before as to whether the festivity would be called off. For what cause should it be cancelled? Has something happened?’
‘Has the Master Blackhead then not heard about Toompea?’ Dorn asked.
‘I was at the market just before coming here, and I did overhear something concerning Toompea, but I did not investigate the matter. What is it then? Has war broken out? Speak up, Melchior. No doubt these stories have also reached the pharmacy,’ Freisinger probed merrily.
‘What I know’, Melchior began slowly, ‘is that the former Commander of the Order in Gotland, Henning von Clingenstain, is said to have been divested of his head yesterday evening on Toompea.’
‘Gracious Lord. That Clingenstain?’ the Blackhead cried. ‘So it is true then. Heavenly grace. Who would commit such a dreadful deed?’
‘They say the murderer escaped to the Lower Town,’ the Magistrate grunted, vexed. ‘But who that person is, that I do not know.’
The men clinked their glasses together and drank, as is always done in Tallinn when bad news is heard from Toompea.
‘Do you know whether Commander Spanheim has already set a bounty?’ Freisinger asked after a pause.
‘I know not what our Commander has or has not done, but no doubt I will hear of it soon enough because I am on my way straight to Toompea from here – once my stomach problems abate somewhat,’ Dorn said. ‘No, the members of the Order said nothing about a bounty. They only mentioned that some sort of coin had been stuffed into poor Clingenstain’s mouth and that his head was nailed to a wall …’
‘A coin stuffed into his mouth,’ Melchior exclaimed, astounded.
‘So they said. That it rolled out of his mouth when the head was moved. I don’t even want to think about such a grisly thing.’
‘Dreadful,’ Freisinger said musingly. ‘The quicker the murderer is apprehended the better, or the Commander will be furious, and should his wrath fall upon the town … That would not be good for merchants. When you are up on Toompea will you remind the Commander that we are expecting him as a guest of honour today and the day after tomorrow? By the way, what does the honourable Town Council think of the case? Will it set a bounty as well?’
‘The honourable Council has not yet discussed anything,’ said Dorn. ‘The honourable Council is in repose or is handling its own trade affairs, and the Magistrate must now head to Toompea with a horrible backache. A foul tale, it is. No matter which way you look at it. Foul.’
Melchior chuckled. The Magistrate had spoken earlier of a stomach ache. Freisinger bade the men good day and asserted once more that as long as the Council did not forbid it then an event as important as Smeckeldach would certainly not be called off. And that, according to custom, the Commander, as the land’s overlord, was also warmly welcome. Freisinger then tipped his cap and left. Melchior thought he glimpsed the face of Goldsmith Casendorpe flash amongst the crowd outside just a moment earlier, which in turn led him to the thought that he would certainly lament when the town lost such a resolute Blackhead, the most valiant in the guild’s history.
It was written in the Great Rights of the Brotherhood of Blackheads that no citizen of the town or married man may belong to the guild. When a Blackhead takes a wife – and, given the direction from which the winds currently blew, Master Freisinger seemed to be sailing towards that very harbour – he must resign from the post of Blackhead Alderman. The individual then becomes a town citizen and a married man; he is accepted into the Great Guild, and the Blackheads must search for a new alderman. It was a somewhat strange rule, but all matters associated with the Blackheads were peculiar. They had certainly been in Tallinn since the earliest days, but no one had really seen or heard about them. There were some two or three old greybeards who had not taken wives, but they always looked for newly arrived foreign merchants to appoint as their successors. And no one knew what affairs were run by the guild itself. Yet, now that the Brotherhood had struck an accord with the sons of the Great Guild masters and with merchants’ foreign journeymen, no jollier group could be found in the town. Who knows, maybe I would have become a Blackhead as well, Melchior pondered.
‘Very well,’ he said to the Magistrate. ‘As I understand it we must now undertake an important trip to Toompea. I will quickly weigh out some remedies so that Keterlyn might make do on her own while I am out.’
The Magistrate scratched the back of his neck and acknowledged that he had indeed come with that request on behalf of the Town Council.
‘Look, Melchior, if you do not oppose, then …’ he began h
altingly, ‘then just as last time the Council would employ you as assistant to the Magistrate … Well, yes, and perhaps that story of a backache was actually something of a false pretence, or what have you …
‘That stomach-ache story? Very likely,’ Melchior corrected, chuckling. ‘Anyway, I consent gladly. And I have just recalled that I recently sent the Commander a unique drink that I concoct out of sweet mead and a few curative herbs and which drives exhaustion out from the bones following several days of revelry. As if by wizardry. This is my town and my pharmacy, and I want to know what goes on. Let us go to the back room. I will speak to my wife and then must search for my cap and clean the dust off it.’
‘Away, away, my friend. Let us speak to your cap and clean the dust off your wife and then off to Toompea,’ Wentzel Dorn exclaimed, springing to his feet.
8
NEAR ST NICHOLAS’S CHURCH
16 MAY, BEFORE MIDDAY
KILIAN RECHPERGERIN ENJOYED strolling through the gardens of Tallinn and practising melodies in the cool shade amongst the bushes. He had several favourite spots, one of which was in the orchard between Seppade Street and Mäealuse Street, where the poorer folk lived and where Ludke would not find him. Kilian was frequently irritated by the fact that the master’s servant would tag along after him around town if Old Man Mertin had not given the boy any other jobs to do. But a boarder may not be surly; a boarder must show humility and gratitude. After Ludke located the garden Kilian began to pass the time somewhat closer to home in the cool shade of St Nicholas’s churchyard at the foot of the hill. Below lay the courtyards of the houses on Seppade Street; above was St Nicholas’s, and it was surrounded by trees. It was a shady, secure spot, and Ludke had not yet found it. There was a good sitting stone near the northern edge of the churchyard directly across the street from the town mint; it was enclosed by dense foliage, and from there Kilian could get a good view of whoever was passing by.
There, beneath the blossoming apple trees and lindens, was where Kilian had composed his most beautiful melodies in Tallinn, and it was in this place that he recalled the words of his friend Giuseppe that the best music truly springs forth in gardens, there, where the greenery enfolds you and where life blooms. Unlike Milan, Tallinn was not known for its gardens … Kilian’s heart ached whenever he recalled his days in Milan. Oh, why, he often thought, could there not be such gardens in Tallinn – such sun and warmth, such a joy of living, such royal courts, grandeur and magnificence? However, something dear to the heart and pleasing to the eye could also be found in Tallinn. Yes, also in Tallinn. Here it was cold and bleak, the summers were brief and spring felt monotonous. The snow would melt, but the weather would not warm up, the grass would not burst forth from the ground and the trees would not unfurl their leaves. It felt as if nature no longer knew whether it was alive or dead after the long winter. Kilian loathed springtime in Tallinn the most – it was a spring quite different from that at home in Nuremberg or in Milan, where he had spent the most magnificent time of his life. It was spring, not winter, that was the time of death in Tallinn. Winter was even pretty in its cold, glassy essence, its glowing hearths and cosy evenings. Spring, on the contrary, wounds a person through its very absence, with its cold, filth and muck. That was when it was most painful to live here. Eastertide in Tallinn was filled with inertia, mourning and distress – not like in Milan. Now, in mid-May, it seemed as if even the trees and bushes prompted him to remember that the time of death was past.
The apple trees in St Nicholas’s churchyard had broken out in bloom today.
Kilian Rechpergerin sat on his rock, freshly warmed by the spring sun, and played his lute while two girls sat at his feet and listened. Both of the girls, Katrine and Birgitta, were pretty, and proud town maidens at that, the daughters of town citizens. Alas, they were so young, and love was not even a game to them yet. Their hearts were certainly full of good cheer, and the prospect of betrothal was no longer too far off, but love remained a somewhat amusing and foreign land to them, a thing of delight. They were not aware that love must hurt and that true love means pain.
Kilian sang:
‘Lo, the tavern lies there at the crossroads
Close to Dorrenstamm
And Satan himself runs the bar …’
It was an old song that he had heard a couple of years ago at a roadside inn in autumn while on his way from Nuremburg to Milan. The song spoke of a tavern where Satan led travellers astray, coaxed them into casting dice and forced them to sell their souls to cover their debts. Kilian had once felt that selling one’s soul was an empty and unnecessary act. Bishops sometimes spoke of it, and travelling monks preached about it. Yet a person could not actually sell their soul; it was just fable.
Now he knew better. Now he understood that song.
A man can sell his soul. It is possible to tempt a person on to the road to sin. Sin lies in thoughts, in a look … sin lies in coveting. It is a mortal sin. It was not without cause that Kilian had chosen that very churchyard for his noontime idling. It was past this spot that Gerdrud walked every day at midday on her way to visit the mill beyond Harju Gate.
‘Listen, you, Sire Meistersinger of Nuremburg, do you know any happier songs as well?’ Katrine asked, giggling. The freckles on her brow flickered in the rays of sunlight – she was a pretty red-haired girl with mirthful green eyes.
‘Yes, the kind of songs that are also suitable for young, chaste girls and not only those about dice and Satan,’ Birgitta urged.
‘Or do you believe that all songs should speak of men’s merrymaking?’ ‘Sire Meistersinger Kilian Rechpergerin of Nuremberg has likely lost his tongue completely because of his great master-singing?’
The questions rained down upon Kilian; the girls giggled, but the singer could now see Gerdrud approaching in the distance. The young woman carried a basket under her arm. She noticed Kilian – and she also noticed the two girls listening to his music. If Kilian had been alone then Gerdrud might possibly have walked closer and chided him for wasting the day in this manner – singing along to melodies strummed on his lute – but this time she did not draw near. This time she did not even nod. She averted her gaze as if she had not seen Kilian. As if he were not even there.
This hurt him – however, it hurt him sweetly, filling his heart with painful joy.
‘Not in the least, lovely maidens,’ he said, raking his fingers across the strings of the instrument. ‘However, I am not yet an actual Meistersinger, I am only a Schulfreund, a wandering journeyman. But, in spite that of that, I wish to sing to you. There is a song for everyone, be they young or old, fat or thin, beautiful or ugly, man or woman, robber or cleric.’
‘And who are we, in your opinion? Young or old? Fat or thin?’ Birgitta asked. ‘Beautiful or ugly, robbers or clergy?’
‘Women or men?’ Katrine said through a fit of giggles.
‘Who you are, lovely maidens, is for you to decide, for you to choose and for you to find out. I have already chosen my own path, and I walk it with song. You know, in our guild it is understood that in order for a man to become a true Meistersinger he must be able to create a song in an instant from thin air, from nothing at all, a song that has never before existed.’ Kilian spoke with enthusiasm. Gerdrud was now quite close, although she still did not turn her head to acknowledge him.
‘And can you perform that art, Kilian Rechpergerin?’ Katrine enquired.
‘As I said, I am merely a travelling journeyman. My skill is not yet that of a true Meistersinger.’
‘Do not be so modest, Kilian. We heard how you sang just now.’
‘Then tell us, would you be able to conjure up your own song out of thin air just now?’
‘Or one about something that you see and which is pleasing to you?’
‘Oh, but do I not always sing of what pleases me and of what is dear to my heart? Can one ever sing of anything else?’ Kilian asked wistfully.
But the girls pushed him further. Kilian only feigned resistance; he
was simply waiting.
‘Then sing, Kilian. You are supposed to wander and sing to everyone,’ Birgitta commanded.
‘Very well, I will sing,’ the boy retorted. ‘But of what?’
‘Sing about something – no, sing rather of nothing at all. Yes, exactly, sing your own new song about nothing at all,’ the girls clamoured.
‘Of nothing at all? Fine, then I will sing,’ Kilian acquiesced. Gerdrud was very close now and had to be within earshot. Kilian did not see that Melchior and Dorn had stopped for a moment at the foot of the hill. Dorn was still explaining some matter to his assistants, but Melchior had started up the hill. He raised his hand to Kilian in greeting and stopped to hear the song.
‘Here is a song about nothing at all
It speaks not of I nor of any other
Not of love, nor of youth
Or of anything else, of nothing at all
It materialized before me while I slept
Galloping on its horse in solitude
I have no inkling of when I was born
I am neither happy nor angry
I am not a stranger here
And I have no place here
I am I to do
A mountain fairy cursed me like this
I do not know whether I sleep or I wake
My heart is nearly broken, I’m in such despair
Yet I care for this not, not with half of my finger
I have fallen in love with someone, I know not who she is
Because I have never seen her
Never in all of eternity has she made me glad or dejected
And I care not for this
I have never seen her, yet I love her so deeply
She has done for me not what she should nor what is forbidden
When I do not see her I am happy
I do not care for her in the least
For I know someone who is kinder and finer and richer as well
I know not where she lives
Whether above in the mountains or on flat plains
Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church Page 5
