THE CUSTOM OF holding a Smeckeldach competition was said to have been around as long as Tallinn’s guilds themselves, and each guild regarded it an honour to offer the very best brew that had been chosen at their own drinking festivities. Melchior could not remember whether it had been the Great Guild, St Olaf’s or St Canute’s that had been the first to hold such beer-tastings, but a number of such events had now become established throughout the year. The most important, however, was held under the roof of the Brotherhood of Blackheads. The men attending these events were chosen with care – only those whose judgement was deemed the very best were selected, and it was nothing to do with an invitee’s profession. When, a few years back, the Commander of the Order had heard that such a competition was being held in Lower Town he had the guild informed that their members had forgotten to invite their local lord. Spanheim, whose origins were less lofty than some previous commanders, would happily sit at the same table as the townsfolk – particularly when the Blackheads arranged such a hearty feast to go with it. Master Freisinger believed the Blackheads’ feast table to be crucial to the success of the event, and no expense was spared to make sure that everything was of the highest quality. It was highly unlikely that anyone besides himself and the other hosts would be able to count the number of boars, lambs, ducks or swans that had been heaped upon the table. The Town Council’s cook had been working at the guild for several days to assemble such an opulent feast, and, as Melchior was aware, Freisinger had personally visited each and every butcher in town and picked out only the finest cuts of meat.
The rules of Smeckeldach stipulated that guilds compete over two separate days with a day off in between for rest and recovery and to allow the samplers’ thirst to be properly restored. On the first day the Dominicans and members of the Great Guild would each present four types of beer that had been brewed at locations around the town or, as the Dominicans did, had been brewed by themselves. All competing beers were to be produced according to old German traditions, and if anyone loudly criticized any of the beers then not one of the four could be declared winner.
Melchior counted about fifty men gathered at the Brotherhood of Blackheads’ guildhall that evening, the most esteemed amongst them being the Commander of the Order, the Dominican Prior and the Tallinn Town Councilmen. The rules of Smeckeldach also prescribed that there could not be two guests of honour at any one time; this distinction could not be shared. Thus Commander Spanheim – as the chief judge – sat slightly apart from the long table in his place of honour, and Freisinger himself assumed the duty of serving the Knight. The Blackhead hosts and the devout Brother Wunbaldus attended to the other guests’ beer steins.
Melchior could not enjoy the beer particularly that evening. Of course, he was not the only man there somewhat perturbed by Clingenstain’s murder, but he felt a black emotion rising up from the depths of his soul, could sense the pain it imparted even before it arrived. Melchior had visited the Dominican Monastery, he had seen the chessboard, and his father’s face once again appeared from Heaven in his mind’s eye, causing him pain, even though he tried with all his might to push it as far away as he could. But the stabs of pain bursting from his soul would not pass. Melchior was of Wakenstede descent, and there was no escape from the curse. The symptoms that signalled his pain were seemingly insignificant –merely flashes of memory, different each time. Sometimes they came by day, sometimes by night.
But despite this approaching sense of dread Melchior sipped every brew placed before him out of duty and called his decision out to Spanheim in a loud voice when it was asked of him. So far he had had to praise all of them truthfully and with enthusiasm: the Great Guild’s mark beer, the Hamburg-style brew, Tallinn beer and the six-veering beer. Nevertheless, Melchior shouted with even greater resonance when Wunbaldus began to tap the Dominicans’ spring brews, including a laurel beer and his bock, which now stood triumphantly like a flag-bearing knight atop his enemy’s tower. The pious Wunbaldus himself kept modestly to the shadows behind the Prior and Brother Hinricus, while words of praise were aimed in his direction.
Melchior also noted Master Goldsmith Casendorpe, Merchant Tweffell and Gallenreutter, the Master Mason of Westphalia, sitting at the table. Even Kilian was present and rotating through the acts of playing his lute, voraciously devouring the feast and knocking back beer. Every man who had come into contact with the unfortunate Clingenstain on Toompea yesterday was at the feast, and Melchior observed each one of them closely. He watched their faces and strove to read their thoughts; when they spoke tried to catch what they were saying. Melchior had come to the conclusion that if Clingenstain had had some kind of arcane connection to the town then these same men must hold the key to it – or if not a key then at least a map to someone who knew where this key was hidden.
He watched these men and tried to guess what was going on in their minds because it was in this way that he strove to dispel his own dreadful secret. It was in this way that he resisted the curse – by directing his mind elsewhere. The profession of apothecary was both the Wakenstedes’ joy and their despair – the key to breaking their hex. Yet perhaps this was also wrong, as thus far not one single afflicted Wakenstede apothecary had found the cure to their dreadful torment.
Goldsmith Casendorpe appeared to be in a particularly good mood that evening – entering into conversation with their host Freisinger and patting him on the shoulder at every opportunity – which Melchior put down to the impending wedding. Melchior was sitting next to Pastor Mathias Rode of the Church of the Holy Ghost. The Pastor was a quiet and dignified man even at an event such as this – even though, as most people in the town were aware, beer could occasionally so unfurl the sails of the clergyman’s tongue that even sailors would wince in embarrassment. Master Mason Gallenreutter of Westphalia had, on the other hand, already drained several tankards of beer, and his banter seemed to know no bounds. He did his best to rattle off all sorts of tales to any open ear within range and make his presence known in other ways, often in a more thunderous tone than was customary in Tallinn. Melchior detected, though, that when Gallenreutter was not actually talking in a brash voice then he instantly switched to looking completely sober, his gaze darting around the table as if searching for the best person to whom to tell his next story.
The Smeckeldach had reached the point at which no one had any further doubts over the evening’s best beer. Commander Spanheim arose from his seat and proclaimed, ‘The damn truth, it is, devil knows – pay me no heed, Father – and may all the saints bear my witness, that – and now definitely pay attention, Father – that the Dominicans’ beer, this bock, is certainly the best to my liking and to everyone else’s, too, it seems. Satan’s steaming grandmother, do tell, where did you find such a brewer?’
The question was meant for the Prior, who had difficulty making himself heard over the hubbub. The esteemed head of the Dominican Order still had a tired and beleaguered air about him, although he was drinking the beer like a much younger man.
‘That brewer is none other than our Lay Brother Wunbaldus. He genuinely possesses a gift for many practices that are essential to our poor brothers,’ the Prior spoke, and shouts of praise trumpeted from dozens of mouths around the table. Merchant Tweffell was also forced to acknowledge that the Dominicans had triumphed over the Great Guild that evening. While Wunbaldus refilled the men’s flagons Master Blackhead Freisinger officially declared the Dominicans’ bock to be the very best, as such was the opinion and the will of all present. The men naturally began to demand that Wunbaldus reveal where he had learned this art, and Master Mason Gallenreutter entreated him to do so at characteristic volume.
‘Tallinn might sit at the edge of the world when you look from Westphalia, but when it comes to beer, this town … well, it tastes like that made by the Warendorf Town Council’s Master Brewer,’ he declared. ‘Or no, wait, the flavour even seems to remind me of one particular English brew that I tried once in London. Where have you studied this art, Wunbaldus?’
‘Here and there,’ the Lay Brother replied self-effacingly. ‘I have roamed much through this wide world.’
‘We Dominicans have a wandering way of life, Master Mason,’ Eckell also affirmed. ‘It is our duty to bring all that is good in one place with us to another – and to proclaim the Word of the Lord at the same time.’
Gallenreutter, who was sitting on Melchior’s other side, nudged him playfully and chuckled, ‘Yes, the devout brothers do not only surpass all others at trading herring and selling indulgences.’
Freisinger overheard the mason and shouted in response, ‘Hey, do not mock our holy brothers. A poor monastery would be a scourge to all – to our overlord, to the merchants, to the bishop and to the farmers who should all support the brothers’ work. Such a monastery would benefit no one.’
The men drank and lavished compliments upon Wunbaldus and the Dominicans while the Blackheads served dried salted cod, white sausages, garlic ham and baked pastries to accompany the copious amounts of beer. Melchior sampled these morsels and had to admit that no one else in the town could compare with the Council’s cook.
He had noticed that none of the guests dared talk of the murder on Toompea until it was brought up by Spanheim. The Commander’s tongue had now loosened, though, and the ghastly event very soon became the subject of every conversation.
Gallenreutter spoke loudly at Melchior’s side. ‘So, just when I had wished to speak to the Knight, to bow before him and declare myself his most loyal and humble of servants – because we both hail from the same area, you see – he was snuffed out. Like a heavenly scourge, am I right?’
‘You, Master Mason, wished to speak with Clingenstain?’ Melchior heard the Commander enquire from his own table with astonishment.
‘That I did,’ Gallenreutter confirmed. ‘However, your guardsmen sent me away. I am a stranger, and they know me not. I am indeed a foreigner here in Tallinn, but Clingenstain and I are both from the same place, and I do declare that this fine beer would have been very much to his liking also …’
Many then turned towards Magistrate Dorn to demand news of how the Council’s hunt for the murderer was progressing. Who is he? Is he from Tallinn? Where is he in hiding? Why did he slay a Knight of the Order? Gallenreutter likewise asked how the man was being sought and who it might be.
Dorn could do little more than proclaim loudly, ‘Tallinn’s Council has given the Order its word. This man will not escape, as that would bring shame upon the entire town. The court servants and guards are searching for him at this very moment, and he will soon be in chains and so forth, and then to trial on Toompea.’
Sire Tweffell bleated in laughter, ‘Hear, but tell us, if you know not who this man is then how are you searching for him? Are the court servants asking every townsperson, “Good sir, it was not you perchance who deprived our Knight of his head?”’
‘The Council certainly knows how the Council will search,’ Dorn retorted. ‘It’s not as if this is the first time. Murderers of an even more horrendous character have been apprehended before. We already know quite a good deal about him …’
‘What exactly does the Council know?’ Tweffell demanded. The councilmen at the table shook their heads and averted their gaze. Dorn looked pleadingly towards Melchior for a moment.
‘Well, that he came from the town and what not,’ the Magistrate slowly stammered, ‘that … with a sword and off with his head … and then back to the town and …’
Melchior sipped his beer, coughed loudly then rose from his chair and began to speak commandingly.
‘What do we know about the murderer? Esteemed Alderman and honourable Commander, we know quite a great deal. We know that he must be a strong and robust man capable of wielding a sword, one for whom chopping off a head poses no great difficulty. We know he had to have come into contact with the Knight somewhere before and that the killer bore enmity against him. We know that it must have been someone familiar with both the town of Tallinn and with Toompea, meaning that he is not a stranger. No one could have thought the man’s presence there unusual, and he has to be as bold and brutal as Satan himself. If he had been discovered then he would have fought back with the same sword. It is someone who was not where he was meant to be yesterday evening at eight o’clock. How will the Council catch this murderer? I answer: with the Lord’s aid and by its own wit.’
The room was silent. Spanheim finally nodded approvingly. ‘Those are righteous words, Melchior,’ he said. ‘This devil must be seized and dragged to Toompea. Certainly we will then hang him and desecrate his corpse in the same way he did Clingenstain’s. We will chop off his head and drive it on to a stake for all to see.’
‘On to a stake?’ someone exclaimed. The Commander dismissed this with a gesture and did not bother to respond.
Tweffell shrugged and mumbled just loud enough to be heard, ‘I still do not comprehend how you will ensnare him if you do not know who he is.’
Before Melchior could open his mouth to reply Gallenreutter spoke up.
‘If you will, then please allow me to tell you all a tale from my home town of Warendorf, where I built a church a few years ago, when a councilman was treacherously murdered in the dead of night. The killer slipped in through the window and choked the councilman in his sleep.’
‘Do tell, Master Gallenreutter. It sounds exciting,’ someone called out, and several others voiced their approval.
Gallenreutter rose to his feet and continued. ‘As one might suppose every councilman has many mortal enemies, yet how can the right one be found when all swear they did not commit the act and there was no witness? It’s not as if a town council would dare to put a single wealthy merchant on the rack or send him before the Lord’s judgement based on suspicion alone. Luckily there was a very clever magistrate in the town of Warendorf, a smart and able man, who began to investigate more closely how the murderer had broken into the councilman’s home late at night. And what did he do? He found the locksmith who had crafted the lock on the councilman’s door, and they tried together to see how to break the lock in the way the killer had done. Next, the magistrate went to look for the ropemaker who had woven the rope with which the councilman was strangled. Third, he took note of the fact that rain fell on the night of the killing; there was mud and patches of filth in front of the councilman’s home at the time, but the entry hall was clean and no trail of mud led from the door to the councilman’s chamber. Fourth, the magistrate started considering who would benefit most from the councilman’s death. And what became clear? It turned out that –’
Before Gallenreutter could continue Melchior butted in, ‘If I may interrupt you, Master Mason, then I would deduce what became clear.’
‘By all means. Have at it, Sire Melchior.’
‘I would say that, as you have already mentioned these circumstances, it is not difficult to conclude that the door’s lock could only have been broken in that particular manner from within, a similar rope was found inside the councilman’s house and his wife would enjoy the greatest benefit from his death …’
‘Indeed, Melchior …’ Gallenreutter exclaimed in surprise.
‘Yes,’ the Apothecary continued, ‘and would I be mistaken if I also postulated that the household had a major-domo? The murderer did not enter from outside; he came from within the house.’
Gallenreutter seemed somewhat disappointed but acknowledged that Melchior was correct in his guesses. ‘No, Melchior, you err not. That very same major-domo had recently purchased an identical hemp rope and, after he had been tortured for a short time, confessed that he and the councilman’s wife had been staining the master’s sheets probably since the very day the councilman brought the young man into his house.’
‘Have some clemency, Master Gallenreutter,’ the listeners shouted upon hearing this. ‘What a dreadful tale.’
Even Pastor Rode stood up angrily and proclaimed, ‘Womenfolk! Temptresses! Serpents! Even St Augustine said they must be kept away from holy men.’
‘I hope that whore was stoned to death,’ the Commander grunted.
‘Oh no. She was buried alive,’ Gallenreutter replied. ‘The major-domo was hanged, although he had admitted on the rack that the woman had bewitched him and seduced him into murdering her husband. They had planned to sell off the councilman’s assets after his death and continue to live their life of sin in some other town. However, what I wanted to say through this story was that even when there are no witnesses to a murder, some clever man can always be found.’
‘As can such a magistrate …’ Melchior quipped.
‘Yes, and our magistrate is – as we know now– a sharp and clever chap. But some astute man able to read the signs a criminal leaves behind must always be found; a man who can track down witnesses even when it seems at first as if there is none. Even the most impossible of crimes can be deciphered and the guilty parties served their just punishment.’
Then the festivities continued, as no one wished to hear any more such horrifying tales. Melchior visited the rear courtyard to relieve himself and afterwards moved around the room from one conversation to another. Prior Eckell and Master Goldsmith Casendorpe had begun to talk business. The Prior may have been gravely ill, but the management of monastery affairs did not seem too far from his mind even at the beersampling table. He assured the artisan that no one paid as good a price for the craftsman’s gold as the Dominicans.
‘Our brothers sold so much good oily herring to the vassals over the last fasting that our money will rust if we do not get rid of it quickly. We can also count the free masses and prayers said for all of your deceased family members as payments in kind,’ Eckell assured the Goldsmith, who still seemed doubtful.
‘Gold is in short supply, Father,’ Casendorpe reasoned. ‘Gold is expensive, as you well know, and it is rising in price. The last ship that was supposed to bring me gold from Bruges either sank or was ransacked by that Vogt of Turku …’
Melchior could tell the Goldsmith had already made his final decision and was simply pushing the price up. He will, without question, make that precious golden chalice for the Dominicans’ altar – of that Melchior was certain.
Sire Tweffell was positioned near Kilian at the beer table and instructing the minstrel in the principles of shrewd business. Kilian sat listening attentively, seeming to pay not the slightest heed to Freisinger’s repeated demands for him to play his lute. He was much more interested in what he was being told about wax trading.
The evening’s fine beer had unbound Tweffell’s tongue. ‘Buy wax from the Russians in winter,’ he tutored, ‘and drive the price down so far that they start to shout with rage – and don’t even think of speaking about this to anyone before St George’s Day either. Don’t bother selling it in Livonia; everyone here is poor. Sell it instead to Bruges where there are moneyed monasteries – and a large number of them at that. When they start dipping candles they do it till their fingers bleed – and they do not sleep for weeks on end; all they do is make candles.’
‘I will remember that, dear uncle,’ Kilian promised obediently. ‘Of course you’ll remember it. When I am under the ground who else will instruct you? No man has ever become rich by playing tunes either. Now, where was I? Ah, so, if you want to buy felt and fabric from Bruges, then, you know, I’ve heard that those damned Victual Brothers, of whom our sea is now much clearer, have – at least as many of the demons there are left since their chief’s head was chopped off – now based themselves near Zeeland and continue to pirate merchant ships from there. And I’ll say, too, that the Teutonic Order may have trounced them on Gotland, yet who pays for all of those war-going galleys that purify the sea of this scourge? Hanseatic merchants pay for them. It is the merchants not the Order or any other overlord. We pay. We pay for our own laws and rights and all else. Tell me, boy, what good would these barons and Fürsten be without merchants? Where would they obtain their fine clothing and silver plates? My eyes will not see such a time, but yours might look out on a world when barons bow before traders.’
To his surprise Melchior noticed that Spanheim had left his table of honour in order to hear the Master Mason of Westphalia spin his tales. The Apothecary slipped in amongst the men while Gallenreutter rambled on about how constructing a castle, a church and a house are completely different art forms. The most difficult of these was, of course, a church.
‘A church does not merely have to be pleasing to the eye,’ he continued, ‘it must be visible from afar. A church is not built by one single master, because a man needs to know so much and has to consult others who also possess great knowledge – and not just about sacred matters. A master must have knowledge of the town, of its people and its history. Just as in the construction of any building, a church begins first and foremost with digging. You dig at the site of the future church in order to build strong foundations. You root and sift through the layers of mixed earth; you dig deeper and you see what stood on that place before and all that there is within the folds of the earth. Alas, time has no other path – the old must always make way for the new.’
Several others were listening to Gallenreutter, Pastor Rode and even Kilian amongst them – since Sire Tweffell had pulled some councilmen aside in the meantime to complain about the shoddy work done by the Tallinn Mint. Gallenreutter’s narrative rippled smoothly from church construction to the Guild of Stonemasons, the membership of which included many Estonians that spoke German oh-so poorly and who occasionally even conducted affairs in some strange tongue amongst themselves as if they were not baptized Christians at all.
‘Estonians? Yes, they are good stonecutters,’ the Commander grunted, elbowing his way into the conversation. ‘Brutish, burly men. Fine warriors. None can contend with them when it comes to swinging a battleaxe. Devil’s dawn – they’ve the brawn of many men put together.’
‘One evening,’ Gallenreutter continued, ‘I made merry with them beyond the town walls, although they did not understand my manner of speaking very well nor I theirs …’
‘That language of theirs is devilish, yes, such that the God of Christians certainly did not come up with it,’ the Commander affirmed. ‘Although you hand them a battleaxe, send them against the Russians and they will chop and chop and chop.’
‘But their songs,’ continued the Master Mason, ‘I didn’t understand their songs nor they mine.’
Kilian and a couple of Blackheads immediately began pressing Gallenreutter to state whether he was a singing man. The Westphalian Master maintained that his mouth worked better with food and beer than it did singing and that he certainly was not blessed with the gift of music.
‘A mason’s trowel, that is my instrument. With a trowel I can truly conjure incredible and godly tunes. However, if a whistle happens into my hands then even stray dogs try to flee my presence,’ Gallenreutter exclaimed raucously. Still, Melchior noted again that the Westphalian Master was in no way as drunk as he seemed to want to pretend.
‘So what you are saying is that you still occasionally sing, Sire Gallenreutter,’ Kilian persisted.
‘Ah, what singing, really? I stirred up a racket there in the tavern, singing a song I thought that the masters of Tallinn’s guilds should know, but, alas, they had never heard of it,’ Gallenreutter hollered in return.
‘No matter. You sing,’ Kilian exclaimed and positioned his lute. ‘Sing for us, Master Mason, sing, and I will play. So, how goes that song? Worry not, sire. I’ve travelled across half the world and know more tunes than I would be able to perform over the entire forty days of Lent.’
An even larger crowd had now collected around Gallenreutter, amongst them Sire Casendorpe, who asked what song it was which all Tallinn guildsmen should supposedly know. He himself was unaware of any such thing.
‘Ah, it is an old song said to have originated in Tallinn itself, composed by the very first guild to make its way to these parts,’ Gallenreutter declared.
Casendorpe erupted into laughter. ‘Well then, ask the Master Blackhead, as they believe themselves to be the very oldest here in Tallinn. Ha! The oldest … what rubbish. Our Guild of St Canute was already famed across the entire Hanseatic League and the Holy Roman Empire before anyone had even heard of the Blackheads.’
Freisinger immediately bustled over to the group of men upon overhearing Casendorpe’s boast. ‘What is this I hear? Is someone casting aspersions on the age of our guild?’ he enquired good-naturedly.
‘I cast nothing. I simply stated that you are not nearly as old as Jesus Christ or the city of Rome,’ the Goldsmith declared loudly.
‘I remember now how that old song went,’ Gallenreutter exclaimed. ‘I cannot sing well, but I can recall a few verses. I think it is in a very old dialect. Kilian, play.’
The Master Mason truly lacked skills in the art of singing. None the less, his voice rang clear and strong as he followed Kilian’s melody, reciting loudly and articulately:
Come, for daybreak is nigh and light gleams from the east
oh, my friend, our seven brothers await thee at the crossroads
nonpareil the Lord’s temple, to which they’ll show ye the way
radial compass and trowels, they hold
aid them to drink the light that glimmers at the grave
their oaths as ancient as Solomon’s wisdom
unto the seven masters, their shields extended
solemn Death drapes in his cloak he who is afore all
Favete linguis et memento mori
relic calls afar for its blood
elegiac yesterday is closer to Christ’s blood which floweth down the walls.
Gallenreutter gave a powerful performance, and all the men seated at the table fell silent and listened. When Gallenreutter had finished Kilian put down his lute and sighed heavily. The song had not been all that special after all.
‘Master Gallenreutter, I certainly have no knowledge of such a song. It isn’t even much like a song but rather some kind of riddle,’ Kilian said glumly.
‘Truly, Gallenreutter, that may be some kind of ditty or riddle of the masons, but never in my lifetime have I heard that in our Guild of St Canute,’ said Casendorpe. ‘And if the guildsmen of St Olaf’s are unaware of it, then …’ He turned to address members of the other guilds. ‘Hey, Sire Tweffell and you others. Listen, do you know any song about seven brothers, Solomon, a trowel and walls and death that covers something with its cloak … or how did that go again?’
‘What in the name of St Victor are you asking now, Master Goldsmith?’ Tweffell barked hoarsely, pulling himself away from a conversation with the councilmen. ‘My old ears did not hear.’
‘Our guest from the town of Warendorf wishes to know whether men of the Great Guild know a song about seven brothers who, at dawn, show someone the way somewhere, and there’s the temple of the Lord and some sort of trowel?’
‘Holy Christ, you’ve had far too much beer, Master Goldsmith, and I cannot understand a word you’re saying,’ Tweffell huffed in irritation. ‘What seven brothers? What trowel?’
Casendorpe shrugged and turned back towards Gallenreutter. ‘You see, no one knows a thing about such a song. No doubt you recall it incorrectly.’
‘It is not really a song but rather a riddle,’ Kilian repeated. ‘I have never heard it before.’
‘If it is a riddle then it must also have an answer, but I have no idea what it is meant to mean,’ said the Goldsmith. ‘Ask our pastors; maybe they know. If they do not, then they do not, and the mystery of your riddle will remain a mystery to us.’
‘No doubt every town has its secrets,’ Gallenreutter replied – but just at that moment, some men on the other side of the table were demanding that more beer be poured, as Ulm the merchant had knocked his tankard over. Freisinger rushed over to see whether the man could mop up the spill with his sleeve or whether a fine was to be paid. The latter instance would not, of course, mean that he would not receive a new stein of beer, but the Dominicans’ bock was already starting to run out, to the great disappointment of all. Freisinger proclaimed that this was of no consequence, as the Blackheads’ own five-veering beer could now be tapped. The Master Blackhead had purchased several casks of the brew today and now commanded the servants to roll them into the hall. Hearing this the Pastor of the Church of the Holy Ghost remarked that the Blackheads appeared to have a treasury comparable with that of the King of England.
‘Don’t you worry, Pastor,’ Freisinger laughed. ‘The Blackheads have enough wealth to maintain an altar at the Dominican Monastery, and if they so wished could also have one at your church, were it deemed necessary.’
‘What I have heard,’ Gallenreutter exclaimed, sitting next to Melchior, ‘what I heard when I began my journey to Tallinn … what is said everywhere is that this is a poor town and there are no great coffers or piles of wealth to be found.’
‘That is false talk,’ Freisinger said to the mason. ‘Tallinn is a prosperous town, and a peril such as a shortage of coins has never nipped at the Brotherhood of Blackheads’ heels. We Blackheads have always had quite sufficient funds for maintaining our dignity and significance, as ours is the oldest guild in Tallinn – no matter what the men of St Canute’s and St Olaf’s may believe.’
Just then Dorn tapped Melchior on the shoulder and quipped that Pastor Rode seemed once again to have some exceedingly jolly stories to tell. At the other end of the table several men were leaning close to the Pastor as he spun some yarn and then broke out into fits of laughter. Melchior nodded and raised his eyebrows. Pastor Rode was not a tonguetied man and was actually a very skilled storyteller, yet when one mentioned women to him while he was in a beer-infused state it was not unheard of for his speech to be peppered with words that would certainly not be fitting if proclaimed from his pulpit. Several Tallinn guildsmen were, however, quite adept at stirring the Pastor up with their tales during his drinking bouts, so that by the end of the evening he would give a sermon that would provoke laughter around the town months afterwards.
While some had already begun to goad the Pastor, saying they wished to hear again whatever it was that had caused the others to laugh so much, Melchior listened as Freisinger related to Gallenreutter the many virtues of the Blackheads.
‘The Brotherhood of Blackheads was already in this town when one still had to fight the pagans for every square foot of land. They helped to dedicate this town’s holy sanctuaries to the Lord Christ, and the fortunes both of Tallinn and the Blackheads have grown since then. When death dances around the town it is the Blackheads who are the first to reach for their arms.’
‘Are the Blackheads then so warlike that they go for their weapons straight away? If they are so wealthy that –’ Gallenreutter marvelled.
‘Absolutely correct, Master Mason, absolutely correct,’ the Blackhead’s Alderman agreed with gusto. ‘The good Lord has bestowed great wealth upon the Blackheads. One often accomplishes more with good counsel and a barrel of silver Riga marks than with a halberd.’
At the other end of the table the men were demanding, with increasingly volume, that the Pastor give his enlightening sermon about a nun at the Heisterbach Abbey, which all had heard was quite an diverting tale. Only Prior Eckell protested, angrily cautioning against giving a homily in such a place and at such a time. Rode reared up from his seat in spite of this, knocking over a tankard of beer in the process, and not even Freisinger insisted that the Pastor measure the spot with his sleeve – the customary way to determine the amount of the offender’s fine.
‘Good friends, “The Sermon of Heisterbach Abbey”. No one tells it better than the honourable Pastor Rode,’ Freisinger announced. Rode had already started to slur his words a little, but he spoke so expressively and with such emphasis that all fell silent to listen.
‘I wish to tell you a holy and illuminating story that took place at the abbey at Heisterbach, and it is a tale as true as that fact that I am standing here before you. A young maiden named Beatrixa lived amongst all the other pious womenfolk at Heisterbach, and this young maiden had a figure that was very – how should I put it? – pleasing to the eye. However, Beatrixa was also devout in her beliefs and faithfully served the Holy Mother of God, before whose altar she prayed whenever she had any time – and after she became the oratory supervisor she prayed there even more. Now, there was also a cleric at the abbey, and he observed the devout Beatrixa, admiring her figure, and this man began to covet the pious maiden and lead her into temptation, may the Lord have mercy on her. The more this man spun his carnal seductions to her the more that she rejected his advances, but the evil words had already done their work, and the old serpent – the very same that led Eve on to the path of sin – had already begun to coil around the maiden’s chest so tightly that she could no longer resist, and …’
Rode paused, sipped the beer a servant had just placed before him and then continued, as the men were shouting, demanding to know what happened next.
‘So then Beatrixa went before the altar to St Mary, the Mother of God, and said this, “Oh, benevolent queen, I have served you in truth and in spirit and with deep belief, but look, I now place my keys before you because I am no longer able to withstand the temptations of the flesh.” Saying this, Beatrixa put her gate keys on the altar and went after that man who had tempted her on to the path of sin, because the minds of womankind are weak. And then that man took her back to his own home, ordered her to take off her nun’s habit, and then …’
Rode faltered as the rolling thunder of laughter burst from the guildsmen’s mouths.
Even the Commander shouted, ‘Yes, what did that man do then?’
‘Do not hide the facts, Pastor. Tell us everything just as it happened,’ other voices also insisted.
Rode inhaled deeply, and fumbling for support with his hand on the table, blurted out, ‘And then that unholy man tempted her on to the path to sin and had his way with her.’
Laughter detonated like a cannon shot again, and someone shouted, ‘But I don’t understand. What did that man do with her then?’
‘That man deflowered her,’ Rode proclaimed even more loudly.
The crowd of guildsmen was not satisfied with this response, however, and continued to demand the Pastor articulate in detail what had come about there.
‘That cleric performed a carnal sin with the dishonoured woman, just as men do with women –’
‘Oh, come now, Pastor,’ Casendorpe’s voice could be heard through the laughter, ‘that was not the word you used before. If you truly recall what happened there, then say it as such.’
‘That man lay down with her –’ Rode began again, but even this did not satisfy the guildsmen, who knew very well the kind of words that the Pastor loved to use when as soused as a herring. The men banged their tankards on the table, stamped their feet and shouted, ‘Pastor, don’t hold back. We don’t understand.’
Rode took a drop of courage from his beer stein once again and declared, ‘The plague take you all. That man fucked that woman –’
Deafening laughter cut the Pastor off mid-sentence, and he shouted even louder, ‘Fucked her in a way that no man had ever fucked anything before. And then he fucked, and he banged –’
None could contain his laughter any longer – some men lay flat on the table with their faces lodged in the meat platter; others thumped their tankards and howled. Only Prior Eckell shook his head.
‘Fucked our devout maiden for a full day,’ Rode roared, ‘and then he fucked her a second day, and then a third, just for good measure. But then, when his filthy itch had been satisfied and he no longer cared for the woman, then he deserted Beatrixa and threw her out into the street.’ The Pastor then calmed somewhat, sipped his beer and continued, ‘Since Beatrixa no longer had anywhere to live and had no money and was too ashamed to return to the other pious sisters, she became a whore on the town’s streets – for fifteen years. Beatrixa prostituted herself for fifteen years, screwing men and performing all kinds of sins with them. And then one day after fifteen years had passed she went back to the door of the abbey, dressed in her lay habit and asked the doorkeeper, “Did you know Beatrixa who was the oratory supervisor here some time ago?” The doorkeeper replied, “Indeed I know her very well, as she is an honest and holy woman who has lived here entirely free from sin since she was a child.” When Beatrixa heard this she was confused and made to leave in a hurry. But the Mother of God herself then appeared before her, saying, “For the fifteen years you have been away I have undertaken your duties in your own guise and clothing, and now you may return to your place and repent your sins, as not a soul knows that you have been away.” The Holy Mother of God herself had taken Beatrixa’s place in the abbey for that entire time, taking on Beatrixa’s own form. This very same Beatrixa went back straight away and prayed before a statue of the Virgin Mary, and only during confession did she reveal the miracle that had happened to her.’
The men demanded another sermon from Rode, but Melchior did not stay to listen. He wanted to go home, where Keterlyn was waiting. He left the guildhall along with Prior Eckell, Hinricus and Wunbaldus somewhat before midnight.