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

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ve seen their banners, their blazons. I expect that pig von B�ren’s there too’

Rothmann, his face in his hands: ‘It’s over.’

Silence all around.

Kibbenbrock tries to revive our spirits: ‘Let’s stay calm. Until the bulk of the bishop’s troops enter the city they can’t touch us. There are more of us, and they know we have nothing to lose. But we have to do something.’

The weaver’s right, we’ve got to think. To think.

Time passes. We reinforce the sentries on the barricades. Our only cannon is placed in the middle of the square, to repel an attack if one of our defence lines is breached.

The men mustn’t have time to lose heart. More patrols and weapons-collections, we manage to get hold of some more hackbuts. They say the Catholics are hanging garlands on the doors of their houses, so that von Waldeck’s troops will spare them. Other squadrons are taking them back down again.

The city is motionless. The square, lit by fires, could be an island in the middle of a dark ocean. Out there, like terrified animals, everyone is waiting, hiding in their houses.

In their houses.

In their houses.

I step aside with Gresbeck and Redeker. We put our heads together.

It can be done. We can try at least. It couldn’t be worse than this…

A final order to Gresbeck: ‘So we agree. Tell Rothmann. Tell him to move, give him the smartest men, we’ve barely got time.’

‘Gert…’ The former mercenary hands me his pistols, holding them by the barrel. ‘Take these. They’re accurate, a present from the Swiss campaign.’

I slip them inside my belt. ‘See you in an hour.’

Redeker makes way for me in the almost total darkness, I walk resolutely past him. We pass through two or three narrow streets, a few yards more and he shows me the door. Whispering: ‘J�rgen Blatt.’

I load the pistols. Three loud knocks on the door: ‘Captain J�rgen Blatt of the municipal guard. The bishop’s troops are entering the city. The burgomaster wants us to escort the lady and her daughters to the monastery. Right now. Open up!’

Footsteps behind the door: ‘Who are you?’

‘Captain Blatt, I said, open up.’

I hold my breath, the sound of keys, I lean the barrel of the gun against the chink of the door. It opens a crack. I blow half his head away.

Inside. The man at the top of the stairs hasn’t time to aim his hackbut: I grab him by the leg, he falls, shouts, draws a knife, in two bounds Redeker is at the top of the stairs, and finishes him off with it. Then spits on the floor.

Dagger in hand, at the end of the corridor the sound of women screaming: an old woman appears before me: ‘Take me to the lady.’

A big bedroom, a four-poster bed and various ornaments. Frau J�defeldt, in a corner, presses her two children to her, and a terrified servant kneels to pray.

Between us and them stands a moron with a sword in his hand, twenty years old at the most. He trembles, not saying a word. He doesn’t know what to do.

Redeker: ‘Put it down, you might hurt yourself.’

I stare at her: ‘Milady, the convulsive events of this night have made my visit a necessity. I mean you no harm, but I am obliged to ask you to follow us. Your daughters will stay here with all the others.’

Redeker sniggers: ‘I’m going to take a look around the house, to check there aren’t any other over-zealous servants.’

Burgomaster J�defeldt’s wife is a beautiful woman of about thirty. Dignified, she holds back her tears, and raises her eyes over my head: ‘You villain.’

‘A villain who’s fighting for the freedom of M�nster, milady. The city’s about to be invaded by a troop of murderers in the pay of the bishop. We have no time to lose.’

I whistle to Redeker, who comes back up the stairs to us with a little wooden box under his arm. He isn’t discouraged by the expression on my face. ‘We kill his servants, we take his women. And why not take his florins?’

In the doorway, the old woman throws a pelisse around her lady’s shoulders, murmuring an Our-Father.

We escort Frau J�defeldt to the Market Square. When the prisoner is recognised, we receive a stirring ovation, weapons are raised to the sky: the Baptists are still alive!

Rothmann comes towards us from the other direction, with his arm around the shoulders of a distinguished-looking lady, wrapped in a sable, a long black plait hanging down to her shoulders.

‘May I introduce Frau W�rdemann, the wife of Councillor W�rdemann. Our lady is a sister: I baptised her myself.’

Redeker leans over to my ear: ‘When his spies informed him about this baptism, the husband confirmed her new faith by giving her a sound thrashing. The poor thing thought she was going to die; for days afterwards she couldn’t crawl along the ground, let alone walk.’

Frau W�rdemann, an austere beauty, wraps herself in her pelisse: ‘I hope, gentlemen, that you will allow us to warm up by a fire, after dragging us from our houses by force in the middle of the night.’

‘Of course, but first I am obliged to deprive you of a personal object.’

I slip the rings from her slender fingers, two inlaid pieces of gold.

‘Karl!’

The boy comes running, his face filthy with sleep and smoke.

‘Take the white flag and run over to �berwasser. The message is for burgomaster J�defeldt: tell him that we’re going to present ourselves at the monastery, we’ve got to talk.’ I push the rings into Karl’s fist. ‘Give him these. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Captain.’

‘Go on, quick as you can!’

Karl takes off his shoes, which are too big anyway, and stands barefoot in the snow. Then he dashes off like a hare across the square, while I nod to the sentries to let him go.

‘Which of us is going?’ Rothmann asks.

Red-haired Kibbenbrock goes at the head, loosening the belt that holds his sword and giving it to Gresbeck. ‘I’ll go,’ He looks at the preacher and me. ‘If they see one of you two they might have an irresistible desire to shoot you. I represent the weavers’ guild, they won’t open fire on me.’

Gresbeck butts in: ‘He’s right, Gert, you’re more use here.’

I draw the pistols from my belt. ‘These are yours. It’s dark, they won’t recognise me, I’ll use a different name.’

‘You’ll get yourself killed.’ His tone is already resigned.

I smile at him: ‘We’ve got nothing left to lose, that’s our strength. The map, quick.’

To Redeker: ‘Do you recognise this passageway behind the cemetery?’

‘Of course, you get there via the little foot-bridges of the Reine Closter.’

‘They’ll probably have placed sentries here and here. Form groups of three or four and get them over to the other bank.’

‘How many in all?’

‘At least thirty.’

‘And the sentries?’

‘Knock them out, but do it quietly.’

‘What are you planning to do? We’ll be here unarmed.’ Gresbeck follows my finger on the parchment.

‘The monastery is impregnable. But the graveyard isn’t.’

Gresbeck scratches away at his eyebrow. ‘They’re armed to the teeth, Gert, they’ve even got a cannon.’

‘But it’s easy to get to, and it’s out of range of the monastery.’ To Redeker again: ‘Get as close to it as you can, they’re barricaded inside, they won’t be checking the outer wall. But hurry, it’ll be daybreak in an hour at the most.’

A glance of agreement with Kibbenbrock. ‘Let’s go.’

While we’re making for the edge of the square, Rothmann’s voice comes from behind: ‘Brothers!’

Silhouetted against the torchlight, tall, very pale, his breath disappearing into the frosty night: he could be Aaron. Or even Moses.

‘May the Lord be with you along the way… and may he watch over you all.’

*

Just past our barricade we come across Karl, still running, his feet frozen, so breathless he can hardly speak: ‘Captain! They’re telling us to go… that they won’t open fire.’

‘Did you hand over the rings?’

‘To the burgomaster in person, Captain.’

A clap on the shoulder: ‘Fine. Now run and warm up by the fire, you’ve done your bit for tonight.’

We go on. �berwasser is silhouetted like a great black fortress over the Aa. The church of Our Lady flanks the monastery: our patrols heard Knipperdolling’s anguished screams coming from the bell-tower for an hour, until his voice gave out.

Now there’s only silence, and the faint flowing of the river.

Kibbenbrock and I advance side by side, with a white sheet stretched in our hands.

The door creaks half open. An alarmed voice says, ‘Halt! Who goes there?’

‘Kibbenbrock, representative of the weavers’ corporation.’

‘Have you come to keep your matecompany? Who’s that other one with you?’

‘Swedartho the locksmith, spokesman of the M�nster Baptists. We want to talk to burgomaster J�defeldt and Councillor W�rdemann, their wives send their greetings.’

We wait, time stands still.

Then another voice: ‘I’m J�defeldt, speak.’

‘We know you’ve brought the bishop’s vanguard into the city. We have to talk. You and W�rdemann come outside, to the cemetery.’ No useless leniency. ‘And remember that if we don’t get back to the square in half an hour the workers of St Egidius will take your wife, fore and aft, and maybe she’ll give you that son you’ve been wanting for so long!’

Silence and cold.

Then: ‘Fine. To the cemetery. The men won’t fire on you.’

We walk around the convent: the cemetery — where at least three generations of nuns lie rotting beneath the wooden crosses — is surrounded by water and closed off at the end by a low stone wall. It’s been turned into a camp. About twenty horses tied to the wall facing the monastery indicate that our patrols have counted accurately. There’s a small cannon pointing out from behind a pile of sacks, guarded by three Lutherans, another two with hackbuts stand at the entrance, watching us carefully. Von Waldeck’s knights flash their swords, bivouacked around the fires, menace and superiority written all over their faces: the affairs of these burghers don’t concern us.

The burgomaster and the richest man in M�nster come towards us, torches in hand, with a dozen armed men behind them.�

I put them on guard: ‘Keep your cops at a distance, W�rdemann, or your wife might find out whether Rothmann’s dick really is better than yours…’

The merchant, austere and menacing, gives a start and looks at me with disgust: ‘Anabaptist, your preacher is nothing but a rebel buffoon.’

J�defeldt nods to him to be quiet: ‘What do you want?’

He is bare-headed, his hair dishevelled by a sleepless night, his sweating, nervous hand on the stiletto in his belt.

I let Kibbenbrock speak first: ‘You’re about to make the biggest fuck-up of your life, J�defeldt. A fuck-up that you will regret for the rest of your days. Stop while you still have time. At daybreak, von Waldeck’s troops will take possession of the city, he’ll regain dominion over it…’

The burgomaster interrupts, irritated: ‘The bishop has assured me that he won’t touch the municipal privileges, I’ve got a document written by his own hand…’

‘Bollocks!’ spits Kibbenbrock. ‘Once he’s back in power he’ll be able to wipe his arse with your municipal privileges! Who’s going to be able to tell him to do anything when he’s the boss of M�nster again? Think, J�defeldt. And you too, W�rdemann, just do your sums for a minute: how exactly is your business going to benefit from paying duties to the bishop? The production of the monasteries will put the squeeze on yours again, and the Franciscans will get rich while