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

‘No, you fucking whoremonger, we’re barricaded in here, the Lutherans are outside.’

He follows my gesture and gets excited: ‘Where?’

I point to the barricade fronted by the carts at the entrance to the central square.

‘Are they in behind there?’

‘Exactly, and they’re armed to the teeth.’

I recognise the expression on my holy pimp’s face, it’s the one he uses for special occasions.

‘Careful now, Jan…’

It’s too late, he’s making for our defences. I haven’t got time to think about him, I’ve got to go and instruct our patrols. But while I’m talking to Redeker and Gresbeck, out of the corner of my eye I see Jan approaching the defenders of the barricade — what the hell is he thinking about? I calm down when I see him sitting down and taking the Bible out of his pocket. Good man, you just read something.

The map of M�nster shows us how many different paths we could take to get round the Lutheran fortifications. Redeker gives us a lot of advice, telling us which are the most exposed areas, which buildings could be used as cover if we were to try and approach them. But all conjecture comes to a halt in the face of the impregnability of �berwasser: getting the novices out was one thing, taking the place when it’s held by forty armed men quite another.

All of a sudden the hubbub reaches us from the other side of the square. Shit! I’ve just got time to cast a glance towards our defences, when I see Jan of Leyden standing open-armed on the top of the barricade.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

‘Run, Gert, they’ll kill him!’

‘Jaaaaan!’

I dash across the square, almost crashing into the calf on the spit, I stumble and get up again: ‘Jan, get down here, you mad bastard!’

Shirt open, he shows his hairless chest, calling to be shot. His eyes flame over at the Lutheran carts.

‘Shortly mine anger shall be accomplished, and I will cause my fury to rest upon you. By your works will I know you, and I will do unto you that which I have not done, because of all your abominations, sinful Lutheran.’

‘Get down, Jan!’ I might as well be invisible.

‘And neither shall mine eye spare, neither will I have any pity, but I will hold you responsible for your conduct, and your abominations will be apparent within you: then you will know that I, the Lord, am the one striking you. You have understood, you great Lutheran son of a whore, your bullets can do nothing to me. They will bounce off this chest and return to you, while the Father is in me, He can gobble them up and fire them back out of His arse whenever He wants, right in your faces!’

‘Jan, for God’s sake!’

He’s standing bolt upright with his mouth wide open, making a terrifying noise. Then the mad blond from Leiden raises his voice to the heavens: ‘Father, listen to your son, hear your bastard: clear these pieces of shit off the cobbles! You heard me, Lutheran, go on, shit yourself, you’ll drown in the spit of God and the Kingdom will be ours. I will dine with the saints on your corpse!’

The hackbut goes off, and Jan freezes. For a moment I think they’ve hit him.

He turns towards us, a stream of blood coming from his right ear, his eyes filled with enthusiasm. He drops, and I catch him before he hits the ground, he faints, no, he’s coming to: ‘Gert, Geeert! Kill him, Gert, kill him! He almost took my ear off! Give me my gun till I kill him… please, give it to me! Shoot him, Gert, if you don’t shoot him I’ll do it… He’s down there, you can see him, there he is, Gert, the gun, the gun… He’s ruined me!’

I lean him against the wall and say a few words to our defenders: if he tries to do that again, tie him up.

*

The sun is sinking behind the Cathedral bell-tower. The dogs are gnawing on the calf-bones piled up in the middle of the square. I’ve established a roster of guards at the barricades: two hours each, so that everyone can get a bit of sleep. The women have prepared makeshift beds made out of whatever they had to hand, and lit us fires for the night. The cold is intense: some of the men have opted to have a roof over their head. But the most determined have stayed, people you can count on.

We are warming ourselves around a fire, wrapped in our blankets. A sudden hubbub at the barricade closing off the square to the south makes us leap to our feet. The sentries are escorting a boy of about twenty to us, breathless and frightened-looking.

‘He says he’s Councillor Palken’s servant.’

‘The senator and his son… they dragged us away, they’re armed, there was nothing I could do, W�rdemann… burgomaster J�defeldt was there as well, they’ve been taken…’

‘Calm down, get your breath back. Who were they? How many?’

The boy is drenched in sweat, I have somebody bring him a blanket. His eyes dart from one face to the next. I hand him a mug of steaming soup.�

‘I’m a servant in Councillor Palken’s house. Half an hour ago… about a dozen armed men… came in. J�defeldt was leading them. They forced the councillor and his son to follow them.’

‘What do they want with Palken?’

Knipperdolling, furious: ‘He’s one of the few people who support us in the Council. W�rdemann, J�defeldt and all the other Lutherans hate him.’

Rothmann doesn’t seem convinced. What’s the point of a hostage? They’re invulnerable to attack in �berwasser. Panic in Rothmann’s eyes: ‘The keys!’

‘What?’

‘The keys, Palken’s got the keys to the gates on the north-western side of the walls.’

‘That’s exactly right,’ the servant lifts his nose out of his mug. ‘It was the keys they were after!’

‘Gresbeck, the map!’

I unroll it in the light of the fire, with the help of Knipperdolling. The Frauentor and the J�defeldertor: the gates behind �berwasser, the road to Anmarsch: ‘They want to bring the bishop’s men into the city.’

Things are looking bad.�

You can see it in everyone’s faces. Crammed into the narrow Market Square, cut off from the opposite shore of the Aa, where the Lutherans are committing the atrocious crime that will finish us off. Should we try a sortie? Escape from this impasse and launch a surprise attack on �berwasser? An unreal silence has fallen over the whole city: apart from the combatants, everyone is locked up in their houses. Mute, sitting around flickering fires, waiting for our imminent and unknown fate. Who’s coming to the city! The three thousand paid men following von Waldeck? A vanguard waiting for daybreak? This night will give us our answers.

Knipperdolling is in a rage: ‘Those great arseholes. Rich fuckers. I remember all those fine speeches against the bishop, the papists and everyone talking about municipal freedoms, new faith… But they’ve got to tell me to my face if they’re going to sell themselves to the bishop for a handful of silver! We expelled the bishop together! I want to talk about it, Gert, until yesterday I couldn’t have imagined them handing over the city to the mercenaries. Let that pig J�defeldt tell me himself what kind of promises von Waldeck has made to him! Give me an escort, Gert, I want to talk to those charlatans.’

Redeker shakes his head: ‘You’re mad. Their words aren’t worth a fuck, they only think about their wallets, you’ll be a halfwit if you waste your time talking to them.’

Rothmann intervenes: ‘It might be worth a try. But without taking any pointless risks. They may not be as firm as they appear. They may be just be bloody frightened…’

Two squadrons set off. One straight to the Frauentor on the South, then walking along the walls, about ten ghost-like figures in all. Redeker heads in the opposite direction, for the J�defeldertor.

No initiatives or desperate attacks, not yet. Keeping an eye on the entrances that have fallen into their hands, checking any movements in and out of the city. Trying to read the future from their activities. The two squadrons have the task of keeping watch and posting lookouts along the way and on the road to �berwasser: eyes to scrutinise every twitch, and couriers ready to bring messages at any moment.

With me, to escort the head of the weavers’ guilds, about twenty, almost all of them boys, sixteen or seventeen, but they have courage in spades, and keen eyesight.

‘Are you scared?’ I ask the boy with the fluffy attempt at a moustache.

In the rough voice of sleep he drawls slowly: ‘No, Captain.’

‘What’s your trade?’

‘Shop assistant, Captain.’

‘Drop the “Captain”, what’s your name?’

‘Karl.’

‘Karl, are you a fast runner?’

‘As fast as these legs will carry me.’

‘Fine. If they attack us and I get injured, if you see that things are going badly, don’t waste time picking me up, just run like the wind and give the alarm. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

Knipperdolling takes three of his men with him and marches at their head carrying a white flag as a sign of truce. We follow him twenty or thirty feet behind.

The head of the weavers is already close to the monastery, and starting to ask someone to come out and parley with him.

We stop a little ahead of St Nicholas’s church, our guns loaded and catapults at the ready. Silence from �berwasser. Knipperdolling continues to advance.

‘Right, J�defeldt, out you come! Some bloody burgomaster, is this how you defend the city? Kidnap a councillor and open the gates to von Waldeck? The city wants to know why you’ve decided to have us all killed. Come out and talk to us like men!’

Someone calls to him from a window. ‘What the fuck have you come to do, Anabaptist wanker? Did you bring any of your whores with you?’

Knipperdolling staggers, loses his cool: ‘You son of a bitch! Your mother’s the whore!’ He steps forward again, too far this time.

‘You’re joining forces with the papists, J�defeldt, with the bishop! What the fuck are you thinking about?’

Come back, you fool, don’t get so close.

The gate swings open and about ten of them, armed, are on top of him.

‘Attack!’

We hurl ourselves forward, Knipperdolling is yelling at the top of his voice, four of them have hold of him. They retreat as we fire at them with catapults and crossbows. The first hackbut fire is heard, some of us are hit, they’re shooting from the tower. The gate closes again and we are exposed, we scatter, spreading out around the square, returning fire, the place echoes with the cries of Knipperdolling and the shots from the hackbuts. They’ve fucked us over. There’s nothing to be done, we’ve got to withdraw, picking up the wounded.

I give the order: ‘Back! Back!’

Curses and laments accompany us towards the Market Square.

They’ve fucked us over and we’re in the shit. We cross our barricades and stop on the steps of St Lamberti, hubbub, shouting, curses, everyone crowding around us. We lay down the wounded, entrusting them to the women, the news of the capture of Knipperdolling immediately spreads, along with a roar of rage.

Rothmann is dismayed, but Gresbeck stays calm, orders us to hold our positions, we’ve got to contain the panic.

I’m furious, I feel my blood boiling, my temples pulsing. We’re in the shit and I don’t know what to do.

Gresbeck shakes me: ‘Redeker’s back.’

He’s exhausted too, face like thunder: