Death and the Devil: A Novel

by Frank Schätzing

  “It is right,” he murmured.

  But was it? The words seemed to mock him. What was right about killing people? What was right was the common goal, the sacrifices they had made. But what kind of goal was it?

  He tried to recover his former clarity of vision, but he could not. He felt weary and confused, incapable of saying what they actually hoped to achieve. And yet there had been a time when it was clear to all. Each one of them had sworn an oath because each one believed in the justness of their cause.

  The cause.

  He realized that for days now they had just spoken of “the cause.” They never mentioned the actual purpose. There were certain words they avoided, as if they didn’t want to be associated with them. They were like naughty children who keep their eyes shut tight and think no one can see them.

  The cause.

  There had been a common goal. Such a clear, unmistakable goal they had all accepted it without regard for their own interests.

  Johann could not repress a laugh, then pressed his knuckles to his lips. Had Matthias ever done anything that ran counter to his own interests? Or Daniel? Heinrich von Mainz, at least. And Kuno!

  But no, Kuno was about to betray them all. If he hadn’t done so already.

  Theoderich? Perhaps, but—

  Johann jumped up and began to pace up and down feverishly. They had lost sight of their goal. He would never be able to sleep easily again, his peace of mind was gone. There must be some kind of justification, some absolution. What they were doing was not for themselves, but for some higher purpose.

  He leaned his hands on his desk and looked inside himself.

  All he saw was blackness.

  THE ATTACK

  “Has he gone?” asked Richmodis after a while.

  “We should have put out the candle,” said Goddert. There were fine beads of sweat on his brow.

  Jacob shook his head. “Too late. Pointless anyway.”

  “I can’t hear anything at all.”

  Jaspar placed his finger on the tip of his nose. “Does that mean he’s simply given up?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jacob.

  Richmodis looked at the door. “He doesn’t give up,” she said softly. “He’ll never give up.”

  “Even so, nothing much can happen to us.” Goddert clenched his fists. “It’s a strong house, doors and shutters barred from inside. He’d need a battering ram.”

  “Perhaps he’s brought one.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Jacob was still listening but could not hear anything apart from the storm. Still his feeling of unease was growing. It wasn’t like Urquhart to leave things undone.

  “He doesn’t need a battering ram,” he whispered. “He’s much worse without one.”

  “What could he do?” Jaspar wondered.

  “The back door!” Richmodis exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “I heard it clearly. He’s at the back door.”

  Goddert shook his head vigorously. “He can’t get in there. I barred it myself, even the Devil himself couldn’t get in.”

  “How did he get around the back?” asked Jaspar. “Over the roof?”

  “How else?” replied Jacob.

  Goddert looked at him in dismay.

  “I’ve escaped over the roofs once or twice myself,” Jacob explained. “If Urquhart climbed up the front—”

  “It’s a very narrow, very sharp roof,” declared Goddert, as if that settled matters.

  “So what? It would be no problem for me, even less for him.”

  Goddert wiped the sweat from his brow. “Still,” he said, “there’s nowhere he can get in.”

  Kuno gave a quiet groan.

  There were no more sounds from the back door.

  They waited.

  After a while Jacob began to relax. “Looks as if he really has gone.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  Jaspar scratched his chin and went into the kitchen. When he came back he looked less worried. “Everything secure.” He sat down beside Jacob and patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, Fox-cub, you were about to tell us something. The answer to the question from your very lips. I can’t wait to hear it.”

  Jacob nodded, but his mind wasn’t really on it. There was something he’d forgotten, something important—

  “Goddert?” he whispered.

  “Hmm?”

  “Very quietly now. You shut everything?”

  “Of course! How often do I—”

  “Is there a skylight?”

  Goddert stared at him. The color drained from his face. “Oh, my God!”

  Jacob seemed to feel the floor tremble beneath his feet. “Take it easy,” he whispered. “We’ve got to think of something. Urquhart’s in the house already.”

  “But what?”

  “Just keep talking as normal. Go on. About anything.”

  “Oh, God! Oh, God!”

  Jaspar cleared his throat noisily. “If you ask me, Goddert,” he said in a loud voice, his eyes fixed on Jacob, “the bastard won’t be back. He’ll have realized we know how to protect ourselves.”

  “Perhaps he got afraid and ran away,” agreed Richmodis in firm tones.

  Jacob wasn’t listening. He was thinking feverishly. Opposing Urquhart with sheer strength was pointless. He was stronger than all of them put together and he’d be armed. He was probably sitting in the loft now, his tiny crossbow ready.

  At the top of the stairs, between the parlor and the kitchen, a black rectangle yawned in the ceiling. Was he up there, listening? Would he attack immediately or keep them in suspense, wearing them down? But they were at the end of their tethers already.

  For a moment Jacob thought about creeping up the stairs and facing him.

  In your dreams, he told himself. Urquhart will kill you the moment your fiery mane appears in the hatchway.

  Fiery mane! An idea occurred to him. He gave Goddert’s sleeve a little tug. Goddert’s head swung around. He looked as if he was close to cracking up. Jacob placed a finger to his lips. “Have you any lamp oil?” he asked softly.

  “Whaaat?”

  “Lamp oil, dammit. Or any oil. A jugful.”

  In bewilderment Goddert looked from Jacob to Jaspar. The dean and Richmodis were desperately trying to make normal conversation.

  “Y-yes, there’s a jug under the kitchen seat.”

  “Fetch it.”

  Goddert went even whiter and looked up toward the open hatch at the top of the steps. Jacob rolled his eyes and patted him on the cheek. “That’s all right.”

  It was all a matter of luck now. He fervently hoped God would grant him just a few seconds, nothing really, just the few seconds he needed to fetch the jug. He had to pass underneath the opening in the ceiling. If Urquhart put a bolt through him, then it was all over. Jaspar was a powerful intellect, but physically he was no more a match for Urquhart than Goddert. And Richmodis might put one over on a drunken patrician, but that was all.

  Lord, he thought, I don’t pray to you as often as I should. Thank you for all the apples I managed to steal. Have mercy on me. Just one more time.

  Have mercy on Richmodis.

  “I’ll get us something to drink,” he said, loud and clear.

  “Good idea,” Jaspar cried.

  He threw his shoulders back and went to the kitchen, forcing himself not to look up. Fear sent shivers of ice down his spine. There was no candle burning in the back room; it was pretty dark. He gave himself a painful knock on the edge of the table. The bench was by the window.

  Jacob bent down and felt for the jug. His fingers touched something round and cool. He brought it out and smelled it. Oily. Just what he was looking for.

  “I’ve got the wine,” he shouted to those in the front room. “Was under the bench. Empty those mugs, here I come.”

  “They’re empty already,” squawked Richmodis. Her voice was too shrill.

  He’s noticed, thought Jacob in panic. He knows we know—
r />   With an effort he stopped his hand trembling and strolled back, deliberately taking his time. The hatch yawned above him like the gate to hell. When he passed underneath it for the second time, his legs almost gave way, but he made it. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth by the time he sat down beside Jaspar, put the jug in his hands, and whispered a few words to him. Then he picked up a piece of firewood, went over, and held it to the flames.

  Richmodis and Goddert watched him, baffled. Jacob pointed silently to the ceiling and tried to work out the likelihood of his plan succeeding. Richmodis and Goddert were on the street side, therefore not in the way. Jaspar, opposite him, had stood up, clutching the jug and still chatting away. Kuno was on the fireside bench, next to the doorway to the back room and therefore closest to the hatch, but he was asleep.

  It might work.

  Come on, thought Jacob, where are you? Don’t keep us waiting. Show yourself.

  “What if he didn’t—” Goddert said timidly. His hand was on the hilt of the sword, but his fingers were trembling so much that he wouldn’t be able to hold it for a second.

  “Shut up,” hissed Jaspar.

  Jacob frowned.

  He suddenly felt unsure. What if Goddert was right and they were standing here like idiots for no reason? Perhaps Urquhart had decided to leave them to stew in their own juice until he’d carried out the main plan. He knew they wouldn’t leave the house before it was light. Did he really know that? And who said he knew where they were hiding anyway? Even that wasn’t certain. Richmodis had heard something at the back door, but it could have been the wind. And the steps outside the house? What had made him so certain it was Urquhart? Perhaps it was one of the night watchmen. Or just a dog.

  Time passed at a snail’s pace.

  Kuno mumbled something and opened his eyes. They were unnaturally bright. The fever must have risen considerably. He leaned on his elbows.

  Jacob signaled to him not to move, but Kuno didn’t seem to see him. He slowly sat up and stretched out his hand as if trying to grasp something. His face was gleaming with sweat.

  “Gerhard?” he asked.

  “Keep down,” Jacob whispered.

  “Gerhard!”

  With surprising nimbleness Kuno slipped off the bench and staggered to his feet. He was right in the doorway. His gaze was unfocused.

  “Gerhard!” he howled.

  “Away from there!” Jacob shouted. He ran over to Kuno and grabbed him by the arm to drag him away. Kuno’s head whirled around. His eyes and mouth were wide open. His hands shot out and grabbed Jacob’s shoulders in a viselike grip. Jacob desperately tried to free himself, but Kuno seemed not to recognize him. With the strength of madness, he held him in a grip of steel, all the time bellowing Gerhard’s name until his voice cracked.

  It all happened very quickly.

  Jacob saw something large and black emerge from the opening and heard a snapping noise. An expression of immense astonishment appeared on Kuno’s face and it was a moment before Jacob realized where the arrowhead came from that suddenly stuck out of Kuno’s wide-open mouth. Then Kuno sagged, slumped into him, and pulled him to the floor.

  The blazing brand slipped out of his grip and rolled away over the floorboards.

  “Jaspar!” he shouted.

  Urquhart appeared in his field of vision. He had a brief view of the murderer’s face.

  It was completely expressionless.

  With a whoop, Jaspar swung the jug. The oil poured over Urquhart, who spun around and hit Jaspar with a blow that sent him flying across the room like a doll, crashing into Richmodis. Jacob had to use all his strength to push Kuno’s body to one side and saw Goddert, in what must have been the bravest moment of his life, hurl himself at Urquhart, brandishing the sword in his right hand. His arthritic fingers were clenching the hilt as if no power on earth could loosen them.

  Urquhart grabbed his wrist.

  Goddert was panting. They stood, face-to-face, motionless as statues, while Richmodis tried in vain to push Jaspar’s body off her and Jacob feverishly looked for the brand.

  Goddert’s eyes had a strange expression, a mixture of fury, determination, and pain. His panting turned into a groan.

  “Father,” Richmodis shouted. “Let go of the sword.”

  Urquhart’s features did not register the slightest emotion. Goddert gradually slumped.

  Where was that blasted brand?

  There! Under the bench. In a trice Jacob was there, pulled it out, and rolled over on his back.

  “Father!” Richmodis screamed again.

  She had struggled free of Jaspar and now threw herself at Urquhart. Jacob saw the crossbow raised and felt his heart freeze to ice.

  “No,” he gasped.

  Then he remembered there couldn’t be a bolt in it. The next moment the bow hit Richmodis on the forehead and flung her back. Urquhart was standing like a tree trunk in the middle of the room, his fingers still locked around Goddert’s wrist.

  “Jaspar,” Goddert whimpered. The sword slowly fell from his grip.

  Jacob heard the crack of Goddert’s bone at the same moment as he flung the burning brand. As it flew through the air, it hit the falling sword, which sent it spinning against Urquhart’s cloak.

  The oil blazed up straightaway.

  Stunned, Urquhart stared at Jacob, as the flames began to envelop him. Not a sound came from his lips. The next moment he was a pillar of fire.

  A pillar of fire that was rushing toward him.

  Jacob’s heart missed a beat. Two burning arms were stretched out. He felt them grasp him and lift him up. His own clothes started to burn. Jacob screamed, then his back was smashed against the closed window, again and again and again. He felt as if everything inside him were shattering into tiny pieces, but it was just the shutters he could hear bursting as the wood gave way under the violence of the onslaught. He shot through in a cloud of sparks and splinters, plummeting into the mud of the street.

  The rain lashed at his face. He gasped for breath and looked up into a sky shot with lightning as Urquhart jumped over him.

  Laboriously he rolled over onto his stomach. The blazing figure was hurtling straight toward the stream in the middle of the street. There was a splash and it disappeared.

  Jacob crawled on all fours through the mud, got to his feet, and stumbled on. He’d drown him. Hold him underwater until he was dead. If it was possible to kill the monster, he would.

  He knelt down where the human torch had been extinguished by the water. Dipping his hands into the dirty brown current, he felt everywhere.

  “Where are you?” he panted. “Where are you?”

  Nothing.

  He searched like a man possessed, pulling himself this way and that on his elbows. He didn’t see the doors open, a crowd appear, shouting curious questions, waving candles. He didn’t see Jaspar come out, unsteady on his feet and with a bloody nose, to reassure them. He didn’t see Richmodis, her arm around the trembling Goddert. All he saw was the water.

  Even when it had become clear Urquhart had escaped, he kept blundering angrily on until exhaustion brought him to a halt.

  Breathing heavily, he raised his hands and howled up at the heavens.

  His cry was lost in the raging storm.

  14 September

  AFTER MIDNIGHT

  Jacob, dripping wet, was sitting on the fireside bench watching as Goddert’s arm was put in a makeshift splint. He felt wretched, tired, and useless.

  Goddert moaned softly, but he bore his injury bravely, almost with a hint of pride. The neighbors had gotten the nearest surgeon out of bed. He was more familiar with bone setting than Jaspar and was examining Goddert with a professional air, while Jaspar dealt with the large cut on Richmodis’s forehead. It looked worse than it was. Apart from his bloody nose and an impressive bump, Jaspar was uninjured.

  It was Jacob who was a minor miracle. He ought to have been dead, or at least had most of the bones in his body broken. He certainly fe
lt half dead, and the fact that he had escaped with numerous bruises, grazes, and slight burns he owed solely to the state of Goddert’s shutters, which were more rotten than the bones of the Three Kings.

  He put his head to one side and looked around. Where the window had been a gap yawned, through which the wind whistled. Even before the neighbors had appeared, Richmodis had managed to get water from the well in the backyard to put out the fires that were flaring up. The room looked like the aftermath of a Tartar attack, overturned furniture and scorch marks everywhere.

  Kuno’s body was stretched out across the floor. Jacob tried to feel sorry for him but couldn’t. Everything had been too much. Only his immense relief that Richmodis was safe and sound told him that he was not completely burned out inside.

  There was a throng gathered outside and inside the house. They all wanted to know what had happened and Jaspar never tired of repeating his story of the mysterious crossbow murderer who, as everyone knew, had been at large in the town during the last few days. And that Kuno, a friend, well, more of an acquaintance really, should have sought refuge from the storm on this night of all nights—no, he had no idea where Kuno had been before, hadn’t asked, and now it was too late, God have mercy on his soul.

  Jacob didn’t understand why Jaspar didn’t tell the whole story, but for the moment he couldn’t really care. A bowl of hot soup appeared under his nose. Bewildered, he looked up. A middle-aged woman was regarding him with sympathetic concern. “You must be frozen stiff,” she said.

  Jacob stared at her, uncomprehending. How long had he been sitting here? How long since—

  “Are you all right?”

  “What?”

  “There’s some soup.”

  “Oh—oh, thank you.” He managed a smile for her, took the bowl, and set it to his lips. It was hot and did him good. It tasted of beef and vegetables. Only now did he realize how hungry he was. Greedily he emptied the bowl and held it up for the woman to take, but she had disappeared.

  There was a stir outside. “The magistrates are coming,” someone shouted. Magistrates? Oh, yes, Jaspar had sent someone to wake the magistrates. Had he not specifically said they should bring Bodo Schuif, the brewer?