The Enterprise of Death

by Jesse Bullington

  “How many, Niklaus?” Katharina said firmly, her voice unwavering even as he took her big toe into his mouth. “It must have been quite a few, for you not to confess freely. The Moor?”

  “No!” said Manuel, genuinely taken aback. “She wouldn’t even let me sketch her, and besides, she reminds me of Lydie.”

  “Really?” Katharina had no idea how the stone-quiet and spruce-stocky Moor reminded her husband of their niece. “The big dyke, then?”

  “Dyke? Really?” Manuel clicked his tongue at his wife, although his friend had more than once referred to herself as Schielands Hoge—the biggest dike in Rotterdam. “Mo’d break it off if I suggested it, and she won’t let me sketch her, either.”

  “Hmmm,” said Katharina, stretching her foot past her husband’s ear, finally letting him lower himself. “Let me work on them, they’ll have their skirts over their heads before you can mix your flesh tones.”

  “That’s, well, that’s, beautiful, really,” said Manuel, but he wasn’t thinking about painting his companions, he was gazing raptly at his wife’s profile as he slid down beside her and kneaded her breast. “Christ Christ Christ, have I missed you, Kat.”

  She gasped and he squeezed harder but then she was sitting up, tearing his freshly scarred hand away and holding it up toward the window. “Niklaus, what’s happened?!”

  “Oh, that?” said Manuel, putting his unmarred right hand on the nape of her neck and squeezing gently. “That’s a story for later, full of witches and bastards.”

  “But is it alright?”

  “It is, it is, but there’s another region that’s troubling me …”

  “Oh really?” Katharina began kissing the fingertips of the hand she held. “Now, I thought you just said witches.”

  “I did, I did,” said Manuel, pulling his hand away from her mouth and replacing it with his own. “Later.”

  They did nothing but kiss for a very long time, and then she cried briefly but fiercely, holding on to the hand von Stein had shot, and then they fucked until Manuel came, which was far too quickly for both of their liking. Then he finally confessed to masturbating on five different whores, on nine separate occasions, as he used his hand and mouth on his wife—the taste of his own paint was a fitting penance, they agreed as she squirmed and he postponed her climax as he detailed the way he had made them hold up their skirts, the way it had run off their breasts like oil whites, but before he got to the last night with the last whore, where he had sketched a French girl no older than his niece with his charcoal in one hand and his cock in the other, splashing her chin and tongue and breaking the charcoal in his passion, before he got there Katharina had heard enough and drew his head back in with her nimble feet as he tried to break away to continue his tales, and she came harder than she had since he had left to go to war. Exhausted from the ride to Bern, and his wife, Manuel opted to wait until the next evening before asking her about the men she had enjoyed while he was gone.

  “You could,” Katharina said after they had both caught their breath. “I really wouldn’t—”

  “Hmph,” Manuel snorted, cupping her breast firmer as he pressed himself against her. “Don’t want to. The sketching’s enough until I get back to you.”

  “It makes me think you’re playing martyr when you say it like that,” she said, more sharply than she intended. “I actually, you know, fuck other people, I fuck them, Niklaus, and you make up dirty stories. As long as the whores—”

  “I don’t want to jerk off on whores, let alone have sex with them,” said Manuel. “I want to sketch them, and occasionally paint them, and then I want to come home and make gentle love to my wife as I invent stories about jerking off on whores. And call me old-fashioned, but I’m still perfectly happy with you sleeping with other men when I’m away so long as you love me best.”

  “Mmmm,” said Katharina, snuggling closer to her husband. “I sometimes think it wouldn’t be as … weird if you really did, instead of making it up.”

  “Oh? Weird, eh? A pity, then, it would be so much more normal if I painted whores with my prick instead of my brush.” Now Manuel pretended to sulk, but Katharina’s hand had fallen to his, her fingers running over the gnarled scar tissue.

  “Tell me what happened,” she said, her tone now somber, and so he did, leaving out nothing. Before he had even stormed out of von Stein’s tent for the first time she had gotten up and retrieved the special schnapps, and then they sat on the edge of the bed and drank little sips of the fiery enzian water as he recounted his story. She stopped him, bidding he confirm and confirm again the details of Awa raising the dead, and of her raising Manuel from the little death. She did not cry even when he did, and at last he concluded his story, wishing he could see her face in the dark—the moon had long since deserted them. He waited quite a while before she spoke. When she did, her voice was very flat, in the way it became when she was quite furious with him.

  “So you risked me, and Lydie and the baby, all for a fucking witch, Manuel? A real witch? That creepy fucking Moor you brought here, into our home? With an Inquisitor searching for her?”

  “The Inquisitor, he, ah, he’s been excommunicated, and—”

  “Niklaus Manuel!” She slapped him across the face as hard as she could, his left eyelid immediately swelling. “You’re such a fucking idiot!”

  “I didn’t have a choice, they—”

  “We always have a choice, Niklaus!”

  “You’re right,” he said quietly. “I just kept, kept imagining it was, it was …”

  “It was what?!”

  “I kept imagining it was you under the sack they’d covered her with, or Lydie. And when they were going to rape her I kept thinking it, I couldn’t stop, and I thought you’d want me to help her, whoever she was, and I, and I—” Manuel’s voice broke, knowing his wife was right, that he had risked her, the most kind and wonderful person he had ever met, and his growing family besides, for a fucking witch, and only the hand of Providence had saved him; had the Inquisitor not been excommunicated they would all be dead, or worse, von Stein was a barbarian, and —

  “Oh, Niklaus,” Katharina whispered, taking her husband’s head in her arms and stroking his hair. “It’s alright, it is, and I’m proud of you, really I am, you just scared me—”

  “I know!” he moaned. “I know I—”

  “Shhh,” she said, her own eyes filling not at her husband’s tears, which were not so uncommon as some men’s, but at the invisible sword he had hung over her head for who knew how many days until that Inquisitor had been discharged from the Church. “I love you, Niklaus; you’re just too sweet for your own good. I’m proud of you, though, I am. I don’t know if I would have saved her, if it meant risking you and our family.”

  “Katharina,” he sniffled. “You’re so good … you’re so … so good, and I knew you’d, I knew you would be waiting for me, if I didn’t, if I didn’t lose my soul. It was a test, it had to be, and I passed, I did, and to prove it He cast out the traitor in His Church, He got rid of him.”

  “Who cast him out of the Church, Niklaus?”

  “God,” said Manuel, realizing how ridiculous he sounded.

  “Now, that’s impossible,” said Katharina, and when this stunned her husband into silence she waited only one, two, three heartbeats before saying, “I’m an adulteress, you’re a killer, and we don’t pay nearly enough to the Church for Him to intercede on our behalf, you filthy artist.”

  They laughed in the dark, both scared and guilty for what they had thought, and then they finally went to sleep, the husband and wife forgetting everything but their love for one another as they fell into their dreams together.

  XXI

  Breakfast in Bern

  While Katharina and Manuel spent their night engaged in wanton fucking and earnest conversation, Awa and Monique only did the latter. Both apologized, though each felt they really should not have to, and in the morning they were closer to friendship than they had been for days, if not
quite warm. They ate fresh biscuits that Lydie had made, Katharina and Manuel coming down from the second floor midway through the meal.

  “Nun sacks!” Manuel picked up one of the cocoon-shaped confections and bit into it with relish.

  “Bozolati,” Lydie said, glancing at Awa and blushing. “Nun’s bozolati, uncle.”

  “Fu—fantastic, is what it is.” Monique waved her biscuit at Manuel’s niece. “Real choice, Lydie. Sweet, too.”

  Awa snorted, wondering what Manuel thought of the gunner flirting with his niece. Then she realized that several sets of eyes had settled on her, and she coughed, taking a sip of water. “Very sweet, young miss,” said Awa. “Thank you very much.”

  “Manuel was telling me you both will be leaving for Marseilles at once,” said Katharina as she got herself a plate before joining them. “A pity we did not have more time to get to know each other.”

  “Well, time’s a fickle bitch,” said Monique, biting into another biscuit.

  “She is indeed,” said Katharina mildly. “She is indeed.”

  A servant came in, only to take a step back at seeing Awa. Then he sheepishly hurried around the now-quiet table and whispered in Manuel’s ear. Katharina heard what the man said and promptly dropped her biscuit, her eyes growing large.

  “Pardon me,” said Manuel, but Awa saw he had gone quite pale. On his way out after the servant he paused, looked at her, and then quickly exited into the hall. Even though he closed the door behind him they heard raised voices almost at once, and Katharina quickly stood up.

  “If you ladies would care to join me,” Katharina said, both Awa and Monique noticing that while she had discarded her biscuit she still held a small knife in her right hand. She was shaking slightly, and as Lydie opened her mouth to speak, or maybe sigh or yawn, the full attention of her aunt fell upon her. “Lydie, please take a walk outside.”

  “Where should—”

  “Outside,” Katharina repeated, and the two strangers realized that despite the levelness of her voice the woman was incensed. As soon as the girl had removed herself and the rear door swung shut Monique rose from the bench beside Awa.

  “Right-o, what in hell’s the rumpus?”

  “Oswald,” said Katharina, staring at the still seated Awa. “The abbot of the Dominican monastery.”

  “Oh,” said Awa, recalling Manuel’s story of the abbot who was not supposed to like ladies but did anyway. “Is he here to commission Manuel again?”

  “The Dominicans are the ones burning witches,” Katharina said softly, and Awa flinched from the sharpness of the woman’s eyes. He had told her, then, and she had not been happy. Not at all, and now the chief Dominican in the area was talking to Manuel in the next room.

  “Come on, then.” Monique nudged Awa. “I’ll get my pistols ready an’ we’ll scoot out, aye?”

  Awa looked up at her friend. “They’ve caught me. Manuel’s told me the sort of men they are, that those who try to help these women are accused themselves. I’ve endangered you all enough, so let me surrender and—”

  Monique stuck out her tongue and blew, the raspberry deafening. Then she seized Awa and jerked her to her feet. “You’re not that fuckin weak, an’ neither am I. Let’s go, little sister.”

  “What? Mo, I’m caught, they—”

  “The window at the back of his studio.” Katharina was looking at the biscuit she had dropped on the table. “Give me a moment, I’ll, I’ll spill something on myself and run in crying, keep them from looking out the front. Go straight out and left, there’ll be more people on the road that way.”

  “No,” said Awa, pulling her arm away from Monique, “I—”

  “Don’t think I won’t fuckin carry ya,” Monique hissed.

  The door burst open and Monique’s hand fell to her hip but her guns were still in their brace, hung over a chair in the studio, and Katharina gave a little yelp. Manuel beamed at them, shutting the door softly behind him and striding proudly over to the table. Looking at each woman in turn, he sat back down on the bench and picked up his half-eaten bozolati.

  “Should I stab him?” Katharina asked Monique and Awa.

  “Alright, alright!” Manuel put his breakfast back down. “The abbot’s just called. Father Oswald?”

  Katharina put the knife against her husband’s cheek.

  “And-he’s-commissioned-me-to-paint-something-big,” came out in a rush. “Very big, and very lucrative. It’s finally happened, Kat, it’s finally fucking happened!”

  “Mary’s mercy, Niklaus.” Katharina’s knife clanged onto her plate. “We heard shouting.”

  “He’s just loud, and happy to see me. He’s been waiting for my return.” Manuel looked to Monique. “He commissioned me before, a small piece, but I was still excited, and so I had a drink or two since Kat—”

  “Manuel,” said Monique, sitting back down. “I’ve ’eard that story far too many times ta even pretend I give a fuck bout the ’orny bishop.”

  “Abbot,” said Manuel, crossing his arms. “Oswald’s an abbot.”

  “Don’t make the story any more interestin.” Monique took another biscuit. Meeting Awa’s eyes, Katharina smiled. The necromancer smiled back, and they finished breakfast.

  Monique claimed to need most of the afternoon to follow through on a few leads and Awa was not in a hurry to see her future employer fawning over pig-assed whores, and so as the table was cleared they parted until the evening. Later in the day, and after much soul-searching, Manuel went to his studio where Awa was preparing to leave.

  “Awa?” She was admiring the dress Katharina had given her and Lydie had quickly altered, the accompanying veil draped over the stool as she held up the strange garment. The stained bandages and habit were disposed of, and Awa had been delighting in the feel of cool air on her bare skin when the knock came at the door. She pulled the dress over her head, battling the puffy sleeves onto her arms.

  “Yes?” she said to the door.

  “Can I … can I come in?” Manuel asked on the other side.

  “Oh! Yes, yes, come in!” No one had ever asked her permission before entering a room, and the experience gave her a quiet little thrill.

  “Ah,” said Manuel, again asking himself how in heaven the strapping, dark-skinned woman reminded him of his little slip of a niece. The thin tunic and brown, ratty leggings she had retrieved from her bag by the river were no more flattering than the nun’s habit or the clothes she had stolen from Bernardo, but they did suit her more than the soft dress she now wore. She seemed too big and too sharp for it, as though the cloth would be shredded to ribbons as soon as she took a step. “You look nice.”

  “Am I a woman of Bern yet?” Awa plucked up the veil and held it over her face.

  “Good as, or better,” said Manuel. “I’m glad Lydie was here, she’s better than Katharina or I at tailoring.”

  “I’ll be happy when I can knit my own clothes again,” said Awa, dropping the veil. “I feel like this thing will rip as soon as I take a step.”

  “We do have a loom here, so—”

  “Your wife doesn’t like me, Manuel,” said Awa. “You should have asked her instead of inviting me in without her knowing—”

  “Katharina is, can be, ah, cautious, is all,” said Manuel. “It’s not that she doesn’t like you, she just … doesn’t like you being here.”

  “Oh,” said Awa, angry with herself for letting such a valid sentiment hurt her. “We’re leaving now, so she won’t have to worry.”

  “About that …” Manuel suddenly wrung his hands. “Might you consider staying? Not in the house, but somewhere nearby where —”

  “I don’t need you to protect me, Niklaus Manuel Deutsch of Bern.” Awa smiled.

  “No, I suppose you don’t,” said Manuel, recalling all too well his poorly conceived and even poorer-executed escape plan back in the hazel wood with Werner and the rest. “But I do need your help, if you’d be willing to lend it.”

  “Niklaus Manuel Deutsch of
Bern, I’ll kill the Pope and every priest if it would please you,” Awa said, her face doing its too-serious, vaguely sinister expression that always gave Manuel pause.

  “Nothing, ah, so strong as all that,” said Manuel. “Mo’s talk has been rubbing off on you, I see.”

  “Not all she’s been rubbing off on me,” said Awa, and Manuel’s eyes widened, the artist gaping at her. She stared back at him and shrugged. “Well, I thought it was funny.”

  And then he did laugh, far too loudly and weirdly for it to be genuine, but Awa appreciated the gesture nonetheless. “Niklaus Manuel Deutsch of Bern, I—”

  “How in hell did we get back to the of Bern, eh? Manuel, it’s Manuel, or Niklaus or—”

  “Niklaus is what your wife calls you,” said Awa, vigorously shaking her head. “Manuel. What is it I can do for you, Manuel?”

  “Wellllllll,” said Manuel. “You could stay the night, maybe in the brothel Mo’s whores are at? And once the sun starts to go down you could—”

  XXII

  Dancing After Midnight

  This is how it goes, thought Manuel as he crept down the street along the wall just after midnight, this is the first step down. Don’t be coy, he thought next, you’re already seven flights down and dropping, by Alighieri’s reckoning. Shall we do a recent head count of your mortal sins? Thirteen dead men before, plus the seven planks you’ve added to the compendium of saints from this last tour, plus Werner … did the other three count, Bernardo and the Kristobels? They would still be alive if she had not been loosed, and he had loosed her, so—

  A stone thumped his scalp, a lump quickly rising on his unadorned, and thus uninsulated, head. Looking up, he saw a shadow crouched on the top of the wall, and then she had his wrist and up he went. This is how it goes, he thought again as the moonlit churchyard came into sight beneath them, break bread with a witch and before you know it you’re digging up bodies and—Don’t put this on her, thought another part of him, this idea is yours and yours alone, God forgive me. Would the confessor wait for him to finish or drag him out of the box with his sins half recounted?