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

‘Tilbeck made an arse of himself in front of everyone. It may be that the Lutherans have drawn up an agreement with von Waldeck. The people are going wild, the weavers are already in the square, they’ve erected barricades, Rothmann, they’re armed.’

Kibbenbrock kicks the cobblestones. ‘Bloody hell! Have they all gone mad?’

Rothmann nervously drums his fingers on the table, he has to decide what’s to be done.

‘Redeker’s gone in search of more weapons, the Lutherans might try to get us out, to hand the city over to the bishop.’

Irritated, Knipperdolling swings his great belly from side to side. ‘That fucking cut-throat He’s the only one who could have come up with a story like that. But didn’t you tell him he risked fucking up everything we’ve done? If we go all the way to armed confrontation…’

‘We’re there already, my friend. And if you don’t place yourselves behind those barricades now we’ll be cut off, and the people will have to advance on their own. You’ve got to be there.’

A long silence.

The preacher looks me straight in the eyes. ‘Do you think the bishop decided to take action?’�

‘That’s a problem we’ll deal with later on. For now, we need someone to take care of the situation.’

Rothmann turns towards the other two: ‘It’s started, long before we could have expected. But to hesitate now would be fatal. Let’s go.’

We go down into the square, there are at least three hundred, men and women shouting behind the barricades, their work-tools transformed into lances, clubs, halberds. Redeker pushes a cart covered with a tarpaulin towards the middle of the square. When he takes it off the blades flash in the winter sun: swords, axes, a pair of hackbuts and a pistol. The weapons are distributed, everyone wants to be holding something so that he can defend himself.

At a rapid pace, sword and pistol in his belt, the former mercenary Heinrich Gresbeck comes towards us.

‘The Lutherans have stored their weapons up at �berwasser. They’re bringing them to the central square.’

He studies us as though he’s waiting for an order from me or Rothmann.

The preacher grabs a stall from the market and drags it out, jumping on to it.

‘Brothers, we mustn’t start fighting each other. But if anyone doesn’t understand that the true enemy is Bishop von Waldeck, then it will be up to us to defend the freedom of M�nster from those who are threatening the city! And anyone who joins in this battle for freedom will not only enjoy the protection that the Supreme one reserves for his elect, but will have access to the mutual assistance fund which is, from this moment, made available to our common defence force.’ A roar of acclaim. ‘The Pharaoh of Egypt is outside these walls, and he wants to return to enslave us once again. But we will not let him. And God will be with us in this undertaking. In fact the Lord says: “They also that uphold Egypt shall fall; and the pride of her power shall come down: from the tower of Syene shall they fall in it by the sword. And they shall know that I am the Lord when I have set a fire in Egypt, and when all her helpers shall be destroyed!”’

Hearts rise in unanimous excitement: the people of M�nster have found their preacher once again.

The imposing Knipperdolling and red-faced Kibbenbrock wander about among the clusters of the weavers: most of the members of the most organised and sizeable corporation are already there.

Gresbeck takes me aside: ‘This looks like the moment of truth.’ A glance behind him. ‘You know what’s needed.’

I nod: ‘Assemble the thirty fittest men in front of the church, people who are familiar with the city and not over-burdened with scruples.’

We join Redeker, who has finished emptying the cart.

‘Form three squadrons of four men each, and send them off to walk around �berwasser: I want a report every hour on the positions of the Lutherans.’

The little man darts away.

To Gresbeck: ‘I’ve got to be mobile. You’re in command of the square. Don’t let anyone take any spontaneous initiatives, don’t let anyone take us by surprise: man the barricades, put a sentry on the church bell-tower. How many hackbuts have we got?’

‘Seven.’

‘Three in front of the church and four by of the entrance to the central square. They won’t be much use if they’re scattered around the place.’

Gresbeck: ‘And what will you do?’

‘I’ve got to work out how the battlefield’s to be organised, and who’s in which positions.’

Redeker, in seventh heaven, is getting the men together, he sees me, raises a huge pistol and shouts: ‘Let’s get the fuckers!’

*

The reconnaissance from the walls has been reassuring: as far as the eye can see there isn’t a trace of the three thousand mercenaries we’d been warned about.

The second patrol turns up to say that the Lutherans have placed men armed with hackbuts on the Cathedral bell-tower, and from there they are dominating the Rathaus square, the entrance to which is barred by two carts placed sideways across it, exactly opposite ours. There are no more than ten Lutherans behind the carts, but they’re well armed, with supplies from �berwasser: in case of attack they wouldn’t need to spare their bullets. We, on the other hand, have to make do with what we’ve got, and we’re short of ammunition.

The Market Square where we’ve barricaded ourselves is easily defensible, but it could also prove to be a trap. We’ve got to go round the barricades, close the bridges over the Aa and cut the Rathaus Square off from the monastery.

‘Redeker! Ten men and two hackbuts. We want to close off Our Lady’s bridge, behind the square. Right now.’

We leave the garrison to the south of our fortification. We manage the first stretch quickly, no one in sight. Then the road forks: we’ve got to go to the right and follow the bend leading to the first bridge over the canal. We’re there, the bridge is right ahead of us. A shot from a hackbut smashes into the wall a yard away from Redeker, who is at our head. He turns around: ‘Lutherans!’

More hackbut fire booms from a narrow little alleyway leading to the central square.

‘Come on, come on!’

As we’re going back up the street we are followed by shouting and a general hubbub: ‘The Anabaptists! There they are! They’re getting away!’

We stop when we reach St Egidius.

I call to Redeker: ‘How many did you see?’

‘Five, six at the most.’

‘Let’s wait for them here, and when they come round the corner we’ll fire.’

We load up: two hackbuts, my pistol and Redeker’s.

They leap out about ten yards away: I count five of them, they weren’t expecting this, they slow down, while our guns fire in unison.

One of them is hit in the head and goes straight down, another falls backwards, injured in the shoulder.

We go on the attack, and they retreat confused, dragging the wounded man behind them. Others appear around the corner, some of them slip into St Egidius. More shots, then impact: I parry a blow with my dagger and the barrel of my gun splits open the Lutheran’s head. This is one hell of a mess. More gunshots.

‘Come on, Gert! They’re firing from the bell-tower! Come on!’

Someone grabs me from behind, we’re running like crazy with the bullets whistling around us. We’re not going to get through here.

We reach our barricades and slip in behind them. We count ourselves straight away: we’re all there, more or less intact apart from a sword-slash to a forehead, which is going to need stitches, a shoulder dislocated by the recoil of a hackbut and a good dose of fear for everyone.

Redeker spits on the ground: ‘The bastards. Let’s get a cannon and bring St Egidius down around their ears!’

‘Forget it, it was a fiasco.’

Knipperdolling and some of his men come running towards us. ‘Hey, anyone injured? Anyone killed?’

‘No, no one, luckily, but we’ve got a head here that’s going to need stitches.’

‘Don’t worry, needle and thread’s our speciality.’

The weavers take in the wounded man.

In our absence, in the middle of the square, where the traders’ stalls had been, a fire has been lit to cook lunch: some women are turning a calf on a spit.

‘Where the hell did that come from?’

A fat, red-faced woman carrying crockery comes up beside me with a nudge: ‘Generously donated by Councillor W�rdemann. His grooms wouldn’t accept our money, so we took it… ever so politely!’ she giggles contentedly.

I shake my head: ‘Cooking, that’s all we need.’

The fat woman puts down her load, puts her hands on her hips and stands there defiantly: ‘And how were you planning on feeding your soldiers, Captain Gert? With lead? Without the women of M�nster you’d be finished, believe me!’

I turn to Redeker. ‘Captain?’

The bandit shrugs.

‘Yes, Captain.’ Rothmann’s voice comes from behind us, he’s with Gresbeck, they’re holding some parchments. The preacher looks as though he doesn’t want to waste time on explanations: ‘And Gresbeck is your lieutenant… He notices Redeker’s immediate agitation, as the man stretches his neck in between us to get himself noticed, and immediately adds with resignation: ‘and Redeker your deputy.’

‘It hasn’t gone well. I wanted to go around the square, but they took us by surprise before we could cross the canal.’

‘Our patrols tells us they’re barricaded in at �berwasser. Burgomaster J�defeldt is with them, along with most of the councillors apart from Tilbeck. There’s about forty of them, I don’t think they’ll try to attack us, they’re on the defensive. They’ve got a cannon in the convent cemetery, the building’s impregnable.’

I breathe out. What now?

Rothmann shakes his head. ‘If the bishop really has got a force together, things could go very badly.

Gresbeck unrolls the parchments in front of me: ‘Have a look at this, in the meantime. We’ve got hold of some old maps of the city. They might be useful to us.’

The drawing isn’t precise, but they show even the narrowest passages and every bend and corner of the Aa.

‘Excellent. Let’s see if they suggest anything to us. Now, though, we’ve got things to do. Redeker gave me the idea. Let’s drag a cannon down from the walls, quite a small one, not too heavy, one which could be easily transported here.’

Gresbeck scratches his scar. ‘We’ll need a winch.’

‘Get one. Seven hackbuts would barely be enough if we had to resist an attack. Take the men you need, but make sure you get the cannon down here as quickly as you can, time’s moving on, and when it starts to get dark we’re going to have to be well protected.’

I stay alone with Rothmann. The preacher’s face shows admiration mixed with a hint of reproach.

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’

‘No. Whatever Gresbeck thinks, I’m not a soldier. Cutting off the people in the square seemed to me to be the right idea, but they’ve clearly organised troops to search the streets all around. The bastards are covering their arses.’

‘You’ve fought before, haven’t you?’

‘A former mercenary taught me to fight with a sword, many years ago. I’ve fought with the peasants, but I was a boy then.’

He nods resolutely. ‘Do whatever you think is necessary. We’ll be with you. And may God sustain you.’

At that moment, behind Rothmann’s back, Jan of Leyden appears at the end of the square. He spots us too and comes over, an almost amused expression on his face.

‘Finally! Where have you been?’

He moves