Q by Luther Blissett (poetry books to read txt) 📕

M�nster, 28th January 1534

M�nster has a fascination all of its own, narrow alleyways, dark houses, the Market Square with the church of St Lamberti rising at its edge: the architecture and the arrangement of the buildings, everything seems casual, chaotic, and yet as the days pass you realise that there’s a hidden order in the labyrinth of streets. I have spent my free time getting to know the city by wandering aimlessly for hours, losing myself in the maze and then getting my bearings back, always at different spots in the city. I discover half-secret passages, I chatter with the tradesmen, the people here are open with strangers, perhaps because Anabaptism came here on the feet of wandering Dutch prophets. I have met one of them, Heinrich Rol, who has been assigned a parish inside the walls. We spent a long time talking about Holland, he told me the names of brethren from there, I didn’t recognise any of them. They say that M�nster has fifteen thousand inhabitants, but on market days it must be more than that. The burghers here are the kind that travel, textile factories, loads of workers. Getting rid of the bishop allowed them to abolish taxes on textiles and compete with the products of the monasteries: the friars have a tough time, the merchants get fat. I’ve learned how to harness the strength that comes out of places, those walls exude excitement, discontent, life: it’s a major crossroads, between Northern Germany and the Lower Rhine, but there’s a vital energy that comes from the city itself, from the conflict that is being born among the dirt and the cartwheels.

M�nster is one of those places that gives you the sense that something is bound to happen sooner or later.

*

I’m dashing through the mud of the street, already enveloped in darkness, paying no heed to the dirt splashing my trousers, I’m flying fast, on the tips of my boots, all the way home. It was Knipperdolling who sent us to get everyone, they found me in the inn, lingering over a theological dispute between two blacksmiths. Quick, quick, big trouble, the boy who tracked me down told me to run to the house of the leader of the guilds, and to wear the pin on my coat, a little piece of copper showing the acrostic of our motto: DWWF, The Word Made Flesh, without which I wouldn’t get in.

Three knocks on the door, and after a moment a voice asks, ‘Who are you?’

‘Gert from the Well.’

‘What’s the password?’

I show the brooch: ‘The Word made flesh.’

Bolts running back: Rothmann nods to me to come in, a rapid glance at my shoulders before closing the door again.

‘It’s a stroke of luck that we found you. There’s a nasty wind blowing.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Haven’t you heard?’

I shrug my shoulders in apology.

Worry is clearly apparent in his face. ‘The bishop, that son of a bitch, has issued an edict: he’s taken away all our civil rights, from us and anyone who supports us. He threatens repercussions on the townspeople if they continue to cover for us.’

‘Shit.’

‘Von Waldeck is preparing something, I know him, he wants to divide us, he hopes he can win the Lutherans over to his side and leave us isolated. Come on, we’ve called this meeting to decide how to react. We need everyone’s opinion.’

The dining room is already crowded, about twenty people are crowding around the circular table, the noise is like the sound of the market from a distance. Knipperdolling and Kibbenbrock are whispering among themselves, the purple faces of the two representatives of the weavers’ guilds speak for themselves.

When they see me, they gesture to me to sit down next to them. I push my way through, Bockelson is already there, a grave nod of greeting: ‘You’ve heard about the edict?’

‘Rothmann told me, I didn’t know anything about it, I’ve been farting around all day.’

Rothmann calls for silence with broad gestures, the other brethren hush one another.

‘Brethren, this is a serious time, there’s no point hiding it, von Waldeck’s offensive is aimed at isolating us in the city, putting us outside the law so that we can be persecuted, possibly with the connivance of the Lutherans. Tonight we’ve got to decide how to defend ourselves, now that the bishop has shown his cards and is giving battle, and we face great danger.’

A knock at the door, startled faces, someone runs to see, the password echoes through to us, more than one, there are a few of them.

About a dozen workmen, hammers and hatchets in their hands, at their head a tiny, thin, dark man, a huge pistol in his belt, the face of a right bastard, rapid movements. It’s Redeker, highwayman by trade, who joined the Baptists to relieve the rich of their purses, and then converted to the common cause. Rothmann himself baptised him a few days ago, after he had given proof of his affability by donating to the Baptist fund the proceeds of his most lucrative plunder: five hundred gold florins taken from the bishop’s knight, von B�ren, a memorable enterprise.

Rothmann rages at everyone with his expression. ‘What does it mean?’

‘That people don’t want to sit twiddling their thumbs while the noose is being tightened around their necks.

‘It isn’t a good reason for coming armed into Knipperdolling’s house, brother Redeker. We mustn’t give our enemies a pretext for attacking us.’

‘It’s going to happen anyway, what do you think?’ The little man is black with rage. ‘Strike at the right time, that’s what we’ve got to do, and soon. The Lutherans are ready to kiss von Waldeck’s arse and sell the lot of us! They’ve seen weapons being transported on the other bank of the canal, to �berwasser monastery: they’re preparing to attack us.

‘Redeker’s right, fuck it. We can’t wait until they come through that door to slit our throats!’ The echo comes from everyone who’s been listening, a chorus of incitements. ‘That’s right! Let’s give it to them right now,