‘Kilian, why do you play your lute at all if you can only play melodies so gloomy that it makes me want to burst into tears? Look around you. A gorgeous spring is blossoming everywhere, and, as my mother says, youth is only given once and merely a pinch of it at that – although she doesn’t say this to my sister, who has already pledged herself to the nuns at St Michael’s.’
‘Darling maidens, darling maidens,’ Kilian lamented despondently. ‘I cannot force my songs. I sing of joy when my mood is joyful and of sadness when my mood is sad. If a song does not emanate from the soul, then there is no point in singing at all.’
‘What so plagues your young soul that it only wishes to sing of pain?’ Birgitta demanded, laughing. ‘You do not live like a monk in a monastery, so you are allowed to sing of happiness and cheer to young girls.’
‘Of love and of spring,’ Katrine piped up.
‘Of flowers and of happiness, and of all the beauty in the world that makes the heart beat more rapidly and the soul cry out in jubilation.’
‘You must know about such things, Kilian; you’ve travelled throughout half of the entire world and seen noblewomen and knights and heard all kinds of songs and stories.’
‘And have seen the ways and manners of foreign lands. Surely you can sing the kinds of songs that are more attuned to the hearts of Tallinn’s virtuous maidens than those that moan on about sorrow and heartbreak.’
Kilian seemed at a loss. ‘Sorrow and heartbreak are the very elements that produce the greatest songs. You wish for me to sing of happiness and joy …’ he sighed.
‘Oh yes. Absolutely,’ the girls squeaked.
‘Of the heart’s beating and the soul’s cries?’ Kilian questioned.
‘More than anything in the world,’ Katrine affirmed.
‘Of foreign ways and noblewomen, of happiness, joy and of spring?’
‘And of marital bliss, too, Kilian,’ Birgitta exclaimed.
‘And of love, Kilian, and of love.’
‘And of love?’ Kilian echoed. ‘Of noblewomen and love, the heart beating and spring … Yes, I will sing – although in a real song these go together with sadness and heartbreak, with separation and despair.’
He took up his lute, played a melancholic chord and began to sing slowly and quietly, yet still loud enough that his tune would carry through the open window of Sire Tweffell’s house:
Bernard de Ventadorn lived in Limousin, in Ventadorn Castle
He was not of noble descent but the son of an attendant who tended the castle bread ovens
And he grew up to become a fine, handsome man
And he was skilled at singing and at weaving beautiful songs
He learned the ways of the lords and was a friend to many
And the count, the ruler of Ventadorn, enjoyed his company
He certainly enjoyed his songs and verses and honoured the man highly
Yet the count had a wife, so beautiful and young, lovely and cheerful
And she, too, enjoyed Bernard’s songs of love for her and her virtuousness
And their love lasted such that no one realized it, secretive and hushed
When the count perceived the truth he became enraged at Bernard and locked his wife in the castle tower
And the woman denounced Bernard
And he went away, far from that land, alone in his sadness …
A window banged open somewhere along the street, and a man’s voice roared out, shouting that he would start disembowelling the singer if that racket didn’t stop immediately. The girls huddled together and whispered to one another then curtsied adoringly to Kilian and ran off. The boy sighed and then unhurriedly made his way through the courtyard door of Tweffell’s house. Melchior spied the adjacent window being pulled shut as he did so.
It was a peaceful May evening, filled with the scent of lilac and with a light spring breeze. Melchior also closed the window and lit candles. He needed to think and to write. He located a scrap of parchment, ink and a quill, searched for his star chart and spread it out on to the table. Record everything, his father’s words came back to him, an apothecary must remember so many things, and it is wiser to put it down on paper. If something troubles an apothecary, if something does not match up, then write it down. So Melchior wrote, becoming so engrossed in his task that he did not hear Keterlyn slowly open the rear door and steal into the room.
‘Well, my dear husband, is catching a murderer harder than concocting witches’ remedies? Your star chart is of no help in this task, it seems.’
Hearing Keterlyn’s voice Melchior straightened up, smiled, rose and kissed his wife. ‘A star chart tells us basic things. It tells us how people generally behave. Even a stealthy murderer is a person. The mixing of medicines is undertaken according to recipes that have been recorded by wise men who have studied the ways in which various remedies behave and how their properties interact with one another. All that has been will be again; there is nothing new under the heavens. Mix yarrow with peppermint and a strong, sweet wine, and it will take away whooping cough … Place the blind-drunk Butcher of Gotland into the same room as a man planning his revenge, and that man will chop the Knight’s head off. But who was it, and how did he end up in that room?’
‘And that does not lie within your star chart?’
‘A star chart holds knowledge but not specifically of our contemporary Tallinn. A star chart contains the wisdom of hundreds of years; it is devised by men who understand people, their passions and their desires. A star chart never lies; it just has to be read correctly. It speaks of life, of people and the heavenly forces that influence them. Everything is interconnected, my darling wife. Just as the stars and planets affect one another in the skies, so do people influence others by way of their actions. All are held together with invisible threads: one tweaks another, and that one a third. Look.’ Melchior pulled his wife down to sit at his side and pointed to the star chart. ‘Aquarius wishes to tell me something that I still do not quite understand. Here is death. Death? Will the Apothecary see death today? It forces me to speculate, and I am incapable of solving this mystery.’
‘Should not Sagittarius warn you that such things must be avoided?’ Keterlyn asked, stroking her husband’s hair.
‘I may surely avoid them, but death will not stay away from the town of Tallinn. And if a murderer is on the loose here, then that means the town is sick and needs healing.’
‘But, my darling Melchior, it’s not as if you will ever guess who beheaded the Knight. You are not a seer.’
‘I do not want to guess; I want to know. So, first I wrote down what I do know and then those things that bother me most about Clingenstain’s murder.’
‘So, tell me then. What do you know?’
‘I know that Clingenstain arrived in Tallinn, having never been here before but having ties to a number of people in the town. For five days he made merry on Toompea, and then four townsmen visited him all in one day. A couple of hours later someone chopped his head off in a fearful rage. This someone ran from Toompea down to the town – this I also know for certain, as no one followed him from the Small Castle, a trail of blood led through Dome Gate towards Lower Town and he cast his murder weapon aside on town soil.’
‘But this could have been someone from the parish who did so to put people off his trail,’ Keterlyn suggested.
‘There are no vassals in the Great Castle at the present, only clergy, a couple of dozen cobblers, bakers and other servant folk, and the Commander asserts it could not have been any of these because no one was missing. He knows them all, and he knows this as fact. I believe this also because even if it had been someone who resides in the Great Castle then he would have carried out this bloodshed in the dead of night when Clingenstain was asleep. After all, it’s not the wisest move to run through Toompea and through two gates with a bloody cloak and a sword.’
‘But neither could it have been any Tallinn townsperson.’
‘Why not? Any one of those four men could
have held a grudge against Clingenstain. He cheated Casendorpe over a golden collar, swore at him profusely and underpaid him. He had stolen a ship from Sire Tweffell, he did not give Kilian an attestation, and Prior Eckell –’
‘Melchior, surely you truly do not believe that old Tweffell or the Prior might have cut his head off?’ Keterlyn interrupted, taken aback.
‘No. However, Tweffell is served by the loyal Ludke, and the Prior was once at the Dominican Monastery on Gotland. Clingenstain took confession with Eckell, my darling, and Eckell did not visit Toompea alone – he was accompanied by Brother Hinricus, and Brother Wunbaldus collected alms there that day. Both are young and strong.’
‘You think then that what he confessed …’ The woman fell silent and eyed her husband uneasily.
‘I am still unable to think beyond the fact that four men called on the Knight during the day and later he was found dead. Anyway, I wrote three more things down that puzzle me. Take a look.’
Keterlyn looked closer and read, forming each letter with her lips. ‘From what you have taught me of writing … I can make out something here about a coin, yes?’
‘An old Gotland ørtug was stuffed into Clingenstain’s mouth. Why? For what purpose? Is it a statement or message of some kind? If so, to whom and for what? The second point I recorded was that Kilian said Clingenstain wore the golden collar around his neck after having taken confession, yet the Commander and the esteemed Prior Eckell claim something quite different. How can this be? And third …’
Keterlyn read haltingly, ‘The third point you have written here is … Freisinger’s change of mind?’ She raised her eyes in surprise.
‘Yes,’ said Melchior. ‘Up until Clingenstain’s death the Sire Blackhead wished fervently to take the Master Goldsmith’s daughter as his bride and had already agreed upon a dowry at the notary. The entire town knows that the happiest of marriages would come of this union – not counting the Apothecary’s own, of course – but then, straight after the murder, Freisinger changed his mind. Promptly and abruptly.’
‘What then does this have to do with Clingenstain?’
‘At first glance nothing more than the fact that it was Casendorpe who sold Clingenstain the now missing golden collar and that Freisinger suddenly dropped the most beautiful and wealthy maiden in Tallinn. Just as the star chart states, everything is interconnected and everything influences everything else. Sire Freisinger must be an absolute dolt if he does not wish to become a citizen of Tallinn by marrying the highly honourable St Canute Guild Alderman’s daughter – and with a good dowry at that – but he is manifestly not an absolute dolt.’
‘No, doubtless he is not,’ Keterlyn said tenderly, and kissed Melchior’s forehead. ‘However, I know of one absolute dolt who happens to be married already and who sits hunched over in his chair alone despite his own star chart’s predictions. Sagittarius indeed promised the Apothecary a sweet kiss yesterday.’
‘Ah, so you do still believe the star chart,’ Melchior exclaimed triumphantly.
‘Oh, how much of that nonsense do I believe?’ Keterlyn said with a wave of her hand. ‘No doubt it is a game, like chess perhaps, which someone can use to envision life and people. Just like pieces on a chessboard, so are the zodiac signs people from a certain perspective, and –’
‘Chess? You are right in a way – although you don’t know how to play chess.’
‘That is true, but Gerdrud does, and old Tweffell forces her to play with him when Ludke is off somewhere handling affairs, and –’
‘Ludke plays chess?’ Melchior raised his eyes in disbelief. Keterlyn answered that chess was the old merchant’s sole passion, and he had taught every member of his household how to play with him, including Kilian and his wife – as if the game were an activity fitting for a young woman. Pastors could often be heard delivering sermons on the dangers posed by games that distract people’s thoughts from heavenly matters.
Keterlyn was right. Melchior had also heard that chess is a mirror of life and of the world, that every piece has its own significance and role, just as people in the temporal world. He thought of the chess game that the Prior and Wunbaldus had been playing and which he had noticed while at the monastery and then again recalled his own father. Chess is probably the one thing Father taught me that I have forgotten.
Melchior asked Keterlyn to ask Gerdrud whether she would lend them a chess set in exchange, perhaps, for a therapeutic salve at half price, and Keterlyn reckoned she could easily do so.
I must remember how to play, Melchior reflected. It is not right that I have forgotten my father’s teachings.
18
MELCHIOR’S PHARMACY, RATASKAEVU STREET
17–18 MAY, NIGHT
MY FATHER IS dead. The thought seized Melchior Wakenstede in the night as he lay in bed; it pierced his thoughts with no warning, painful and deep as an executioner’s searing-hot lance. Melchior had a dream in which he was walking on the rocks between the town wall and the sea; a woman approached him, crying, and said to him, ‘Do you understand that your father is dead, Melchior? You are all alone.’
He is dead. He’s gone. He died in my arms. All that remains of him is rotten earth in a decaying coffin deep under the ground in St Barbara’s Graveyard. Never again will I smell his scent or watch his hands as he prepares medicines. Never again will I listen to his voice as he teaches me something. He loved me, and now he is dead.
To understand this was painful, as painful as it had been the first time Melchior really grasped it. His father fell ill when he had been back in Tallinn for two years following his journeymanship in Riga and was working with his father once more. Not with a simple sickness, the medicines to counter which he would have known himself, no – it was an ill-natured and onerous affliction that made him cough blood and confined him to his bed with a high fever. It was not the cough and the fever, however, not the periods of weakness or the sweating palms but rather his expression that spoke to Melchior and told him that the man would not rise from his bed on this occasion. His father’s expression had no life, no love for life; it showed that he knew that this was the end and that he had submitted to God’s will. An apothecary must be familiar with and understand death, and he must know when his own is coming.
Melchior’s father died after eight days of suffering. He faded away and heeded the Lord’s call, and Melchior knew that nothing, nothing in this world, could lead him off this path. The town doctor paid a visit and shook his head, said that he was powerless, that this man’s life was in the hands of God alone. No earthly cure could be found for this disease, not any miracle remedy, no theriac, nor Mithridates’ potion, nor bezoar, nothing at all. His father was beyond help, and all Melchior could do was to wait and watch as his father coughed blood, faded and eventually expired. Melchior would be left with only memories and teachings, with things his father had touched, this house in which he lived … nothing more.
Melchior screamed and writhed in his bed. My father is dead. His chest heaved from the torment, and there was no other thought in his mind. He felt nothing as he pounded his head against the stone wall; he did not feel the wetness after he knocked over a jug of water. Only the agony of loss churned within. He clawed at himself to relieve it and howled.
Three days before his death his father could no longer speak. His countenance, from which the life had already vanished, said it all. He loved his son and regretted his departure from this world, but this was how it had to unfold. And he would not be alone in the Kingdom of Heaven; his Rosamunde awaited him there. Melchior’s mother visited his father in dreams, so his father had no fear; he knew he was expected. None the less, he felt grief. Just before drawing his last breath he managed to speak one final time. He had found the strength within at that moment to seize Melchior’s hand in farewell and utter his departing words in a feeble voice, ‘Take a good wife.’ A Wakenstede must always marry the right woman. A Wakenstede is damned without a good woman. The scourge will devour the man’s soul from wit
hin until he crawls naked in the dirt, screaming, flailing and tearing his hair from his skull, gnawing the flesh from his own bones, clawing his eyes from their sockets. Then Melchior’s father had whispered these words, ‘Saint, remember, fear.’ He gripped his son’s hand – he had wished to say so much more, but he was given no more time. Which saint was it that he must remember and fear? Melchior did not know, nor was he ever able to work out what his father had wanted to say, whether the words were a raving before death or something else. He was determined to find out one day.
Keterlyn was woken by her husband’s howling.
So it is tonight, the woman thought with alarm. Tonight is that night. It had been over six months since the last time, and she had begun to hope the Wakenstedes’ curse had released its grip on her husband, that her prayers before the altar to St Barbara and the candles that she lit there had helped, but no. She must be patient, she must believe, and hope, and love.
Keterlyn embraced her husband, but Melchior pulled free from her arms, curled up into a ball and howled.
This is the Wakenstedes’ curse. The pain of the whole world descends upon them like a hundred demons, and they cannot find solace. Death and horror, inferno and plague haunt them. Not every Wakenstede is afflicted – but if one is free from it then his son will not be. It had never found its way into Wakenstede sisters and daughters; only the men were stalked by it, as if a malison had been placed on them for some unspeakable sin committed hundreds of years before, one that they must carry and suffer. They had read books by scholars and scrutinized the secrets of nature to find a cure, but no cure had yet been found. They learned about the lives of the saints to find one to help them – yet no saint, no pilgrimage, no relic had ever been of any succour. And a man taken over by the Wakenstedes’ curse ultimately either perishes in the clutches of its pain – as if all the world’s sins were heaped upon his shoulders – or finds the right woman to be at his side, a woman who loves the man and prays for him and with whose support he can venture out across this sea of torment. Yet the curse does not leave these women unscathed – Melchior’s mother departed this world before her time because she had helped her husband to vanquish his pain, and in doing so had been punished herself.
Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church Page 18
