The rooster is more cheerful than usual this morning and, to Martin’s surprise, prefers to go out on its own. The reason, however, quickly becomes clear – there are several hens nearby.
As for Martin, he goes on his rounds. He soon realises that word has got out about him and the horseman. The inhabitants of the castle town waver between suspicion and admiration when they encounter him. He will need allies to survive this.
So he takes the road to the castle gate. The guard, equipped with a lance and a sword, is chewing on an apple. The lance is immediately lowered in his direction. The guard shakes his head.
‘Am I not allowed to go in?’ Martin asks.
‘You could be anyone,’ the guard says.
‘I saved the horseman.’
‘All right then.’
Martin’s face brightens, but the man laughs.
‘No, boy. I don’t care.’
‘But perhaps the princess does care. Perhaps you are making a mistake.’
The man flicks the apple core at Martin.
‘If I am not allowed in, who is?’ Martin asks.
The man sighs, flings his sword up in the air and catches the naked blade with the palms of his hands. ‘Witches with sixteen toes,’ he says. ‘The executioner, Thomann and pigs that can do arithmetic.’
‘I have a rooster that can speak. Would that count?’
The guard spits. ‘Even if you could fly bum first, I wouldn’t let you in.’
‘Would anyone even notice?’
‘Jesus. You’re as stubborn as my missus.’
Martin scrutinises the man. He is quite young and seems bored. He keeps glancing over to the women flouncing across the courtyard. Every now and then he shudders, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. A slight fever. No…
Martin waits. The man begins to bob up and down impatiently.
‘Get lost,’ he says to Martin.
The boy takes a few steps backwards, but keeps looking at the man. He has a suspicion and just now needs a bit of patience to confirm it. An insanely agonising itch. Often seen in the village and later in the taverns. And indeed, now the man loses his composure, grabs his crotch and scratches compulsively.
‘Pubic lice,’ the painter once explained to him. ‘If you look who’s scratching, you know who’s been rolling in the hay with whom.’
Martin is pleased. That’s a start at least.
‘Get lost,’ the guard grumbles.
Happy now, Martin concedes to being sent away.
Over the next few hours, Martin can be observed at the stables, at the walls and elsewhere, gathering grit and chalk, scraping lichen from a wall, asking for a small bowl and patiently grinding the ingredients to a very fine powder.
In the afternoon, he reappears at the gate.
‘You again,’ the guard growls.
Martin holds the bowl to him. ‘Apply it twice a day,’ the boy says.
‘Apply?’
‘To the affected area.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘To the areas that itch.’
‘What do you care about my itches?’
‘I saw that the blond woman in the house over there, the house that you have a perfect view of from your post, also has an itch.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes. Her husband doesn’t have the same problem. That is strange,’ Martin says. ‘So if I were you, I wouldn’t stand here all day scratching myself in front of everyone. Someone might come up with the bright idea of asking the woman.’
The guard listens to Martin’s words. He reaches out his hands for the bowl, very slowly. Martin pulls his hand back just a little.
‘What?’ the man hisses. He thinks. ‘In exchange, I’ll let you in.’
‘Not right now. I want to go in when it suits me.’
Martin hands him the powder, which the man, turning his back, applies so quickly that white clouds rise up. The guard sighs with relief. And Martin is satisfied. Soon he will go in, but only once he has understood.