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

Rothmann narrows his eyes, a wolf: ‘What do you want to do?’

Redeker stands up to him, rooted solidly in the middle of the room: ‘I say, get rid of them. Let’s cut the papists’ throats, let’s cut the Lutherans’ throats. I’d rather trust a snake than J�defeldt and his mates in the Council.’

‘And what about Tilbeck? The other burgomaster isn’t hostile to us, do you want to slit his throat too?’

‘They’re all in it together, Rothmann, can’t you see that? One plays nice cop, the other plays nasty cop, they’re corrupt, they’d a thousand times rather have von Waldeck than us, they’re just waiting for the chance to stab us in our sleep, and the bishop’s offering them that chance on a silver platter. Let’s put an end to all this, and anyone who’s got to go to hell, let them go there right now.’

Rothmann folds his arms and takes a few dramatic and meditative paces. ‘No, brothers, no. That can’t be the way.’ He waits until his words have attracted everyone’s attention. ‘We’ve been struggling for two years, together, sometimes alone, winning the support of the population of M�nster, of the workers, step by step, scattering the seed of our message, collecting members first in the city and now from outside, too.’ His eye falls on me and on Bockelson. ‘Matthys’ apostles are here. And other people are coming in too, led by hope all the way to our city. They are the ones, those men and those women full of faith in God and in us, yes, brothers, in us, in our capacity to win this battle, they can’t see everything destroyed in a single night on a wave of panic. It isn’t just their faith that gives us strength, but their material contributions, even their legacies, brothers, the money that is donated to us.’ A murmur runs through the room, questioning eyes looking for the donors.

Redeker’s restrained fury interrupts him: ‘I’ve donated a bag of money to the cause as well. And now I’m saying, with that money, let’s buy cannon!’

‘Yes, a cannon and swords!’

‘And pistols?’

‘No, we’re not going to sort everything out that way, not our efforts, Redeker, not our work. If we start a massacre now, what will the neighbouring cities say, what will the brethren say, the ones who are looking to M�nster as a beacon of revitalised Christianity? They’ll think we’re bloodthirsty madmen and they’ll hold back. What you’ve given to the case, what others are giving today, isn’t the booty of war. And I say that it can be employed very differently and put to good use.’

‘What the fuck does that mean?’

‘It means that today the bishop is trying to turn the population against us, threatening the population if they support us. So we’ve got to act in such a way that they stay on our side. We have to be the captains of the humble, not only of ourselves. Don’t you understand what von Waldeck wants? I’m not going to play his game, we will react, Redeker, but more effectively.’ A pause to create a sense of expectation. ‘I propose that the assembly deliberate on the use of the money collected in favour of a fund for the poor. To which all the needy can have access, in a manner which we will decide, a mutual aid kitty, and the ones who have more should contribute to it as they can.’

Seated, Knipperdolling and Kibbenbrock nod, convinced.�

Redeker sways on his legs, undecided: it isn’t enough.

Rothmann insists: ‘Then the poor will understand that their cause is our cause. The mutual assistance fund will be worth more than any sermon, something tangible in their lives. The Lutherans can plot as long as they want, but we’ll be stronger, the bishop can issue a thousand edicts, but we’ll have the people on our side!’

He has finished, they stand and look at each other for a long time. Behind Rothmann there is a nodding of heads, behind Redeker a rumble of uncertainty.

The brigand twists his mouth: ‘And what if they decide to fuck us over?’

I stand up, sending my chair flying. From under my coat I throw my dagger on the table, Rothmann and Knipperdolling give a start.�

‘If it’s force they want to try, we’ll give it back in plenty, brother, on the word of Gert from the Well. But if the people are with us, the swords will be raised by the thousand.’ The silence of the grave throughout the hall. ‘Now let’s go out there and tear up the bishop’s edict, and the Lutherans will see that we aren’t afraid of von Waldeck or of them. Let them think twice before attacking us.’

Everyone’s astonishment quickly fades, as does Rothmann’s tension. Redeker stares at me cockily, over my sword, and barely nods.

‘Fine. We’ll do as you say. But none of us plans to make a martyr of himself. If I’ve got to be fucked over, I want to do it with my sword in my hand, taking a good few of those bastards with me.’

The agreement is reached, thanks to the words of Rothmann and the effective action of Matthys’ apostle. The foundation of a fund for the poor� is put to the vote: passed unanimously. Kibbenbrock, paper and pen, writes up everything in his accounting books, while Redeker organises five-man teams to tear down the edict from the walls of the city.

Rothmann and Knipperdolling take me aside as the brothers are leaving in groups of three or four so as not to be conspicuous. The night swallows their silhouettes one by one.

A slap on the shoulder and a compliment: ‘The right words. That was what they wanted to hear you say.’

‘And that’s what I think. Redeker is crazy, but he knows his stuff. We’ve managed to bring him to reason, and he’s understood.’

Knipperdolling shrugs his shoulders. ‘He’s a highwayman, hard to deal with…’

‘A bandit who steals from the rich knights to give to the poor. We need people like that. Matthys says it’s among the scum of the street that we’ll find the soldiers of God, among the last men, the outlaws, the acrobats, the pimps…’ I gesture towards Bockelson, who is crouching on a chair near the fire, half asleep with his hands on his balls.

The big weaver scratches his beard: ‘Do you think it’ll come to an armed fight?’

‘I don’t know, von Waldeck doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to give in easily.’

‘And what about the Lutherans?’

‘I think that’ll depend on them.’

Knipperdolling goes on rubbing his chin. ‘Mhm. Listen, it’s less than a month to the elections to renew the Council and the burgomasters. Kibbenbrock and I could stand as candidates.’

Rothmann shakes his head. ‘Our supporters are too poor to be able to vote: either you change the ordinance or you’re lost before you start.’

The opinion of Matthys’ apostles seems to be essential, I insist: ‘I wish with all my heart for you to succeed and take the city peacefully, but in this atmosphere things might turn out differently.’

Rothmann nods gravely: ‘Sure. We’ll see. Meanwhile let’s get the fund for the poor working straight away. Elections or no, we’ll manage to put the Lutherans and the Catholics in a minority. As a precautionary measure, we’ll shift the services from the parishes to private houses to protect against spies.’

‘May the Lord help us.’

‘I don’t doubt it for a moment, my friends, now if you will permit me I’m going with the brothers to make confetti out of the bishop’s edict.’

‘And what about Jan, are you leaving him here?’ Knipperdolling reminds me of my friend’s body prawled by the fire.

‘Let him sleep, he wouldn’t be much use to us anyway…’

Outside the night is icy, there’s no light, I shiver in my cloak as I look for the way to the Market square. I’m helped by my memory of drifting at length through those alleyways. Barely a shadow, the hint of a presence and I’ve already got my dagger ready, pointing into the darkness ahead of me.

‘Stay your hand, brother.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because the Word is made flesh.’

A face emerges from the darkness. It was at the meeting.

‘A bit closer and I’d have run you through without a second thought… Who are you?’

‘Someone who’s been admiring your way of doing things. Heinrich Gresbeck is my name.’ A diagonal scar runs across his eyebrow, blue eyes, well built, more or less my age.

‘Are you from around here?’

‘No, from not far away, although the last time I found myself in these parts was ten years ago.’

‘Preacher?’

‘Mercenary.’

‘I didn’t think there were any Baptists who had been trained to fight.’

‘Just you and me.’

‘Says who?’

‘I can tell a good swordsman. Matthys knows how to choose his men.’

‘Is that all you wanted to tell me?’

His face is hollow, the scar makes his features look darker and more menacing than they really are: ‘I admire Rothmann, he was the one who baptised me. We’ve got a great preacher, sooner or later we’ll have a captain, too.’

‘You mean me. Why not you?’

He laughs, white teeth. ‘Enough of your jokes: I’m little Gresbeck, you’re the great Gert from the Well, the apostle. They’ll follow you, the way they listened to you this evening.’

‘They’re not mercenaries, brother.’

‘I know. They won’t be fighting for booty, they’ll be fighting for the Kingdom, so they’ll be able to smash everyone’s head in. But someone’s going to have to lead them.’

‘I’m taking Matthys’ place until he…’

‘Matthys was a baker, let’s not beat around the bush, that guy from Leyden was a pimp, Knipperdolling and Kibbenbrock are weavers, Rothmann’s a man of the Bible.’

I nod, saying nothing more. A reassurance: ‘When the time comes you’ll know where to find me.’

‘We’ll all be there. And now let’s go and wipe our arses with that edict.’

He is already heading off into the night of the alleys, in search of the ghost of von Waldeck.