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

you pay your taxes to von Waldeck. Think about it. The bishop is a clever son of a bitch, promises cost him nothing.. The papists are used to this kind of subterfuge, you know that better than I do.’

Kibbenbrock has raised his voice too loudly. The rattle of armour and spears announces the approach of the horsemen, torches illuminate the well-trimmed beard and leather gloves of Dietrich von Merfeld von Wolbeck, brother of the abbess of �berwasser, the bishop’s right-hand man. At his side, Melchior von B�ren: he’s probably here because he hopes to settle his scores with Redeker in person.

J�defeldt anticipates their question. ‘My lords, these men are Baptists, they are here to negotiate. We have promised them their safety.’

Dietrich Pointy-Whiskers gives a snort of astonishment. ‘What’s happening, J�defeldt, are you still dealing with these wretches? In an hour’s time there’ll be nothing left of them but a pile of bones. They’re the walking dead, forget about them.’

‘Herr von Merfeld is not mistaken,’ I intervene. ‘Of all the parties involved in this struggle tonight, we are the only ones with nothing to lose. As far as we’re concerned, the bishop’s entrance into the city would only mean certain death. So you’d better believe that we’re not going to give up without a fight. You’ll have to take the city one inch at a time.’

Von B�ren sighs: ‘You’re a bunch of cowards, you won’t last as long as a yawn from His Lordship. Pinchpurses and street-thieves, that’s what you are.’

Kibbenbrock smiles and shakes his head in a way that attracts the nervous attention of the two merchants. ‘You’re so frightened of losing your power that you’ve allowed von Waldeck’s vassals into your house out of fear of our four hackbuts. Do you know what I think, J�defeldt? Von Waldeck has known this from the first. He was able to use the division between you and us to cut the city in two.’

The burgomaster’s high forehead is covered with wrinkles, his eyes dart from W�rdemann’s face, gloomier than ever, to Kibbenbrock’s and mine.� Kibbenbrock won’t leave him in peace: ‘It’s a bloody mess, haven’t you noticed? The bishop’s been playing a double game from the start. He’s reassured you that he could be sure of support within the walls, someone to open the gates to him at the right moment, and once he’s in he’ll suddenly remember that you’re Lutherans, rebels like ourselves against the Pope’s authority.’ A pause, time for that to sink in, and then: ‘You can forget your municipal freedoms: after us, it’ll be your turn on the scaffold. Think about it, J�defeldt. Think long and hard.’

The two burghers are motionless, looking at Kibbenbrock and then over thir shoulders, in search of an invisible adviser.

Von Merfeld says in disbelief: ‘J�defeldt, you’re not going to listen to these two wretches? Don’t you see they’re trying to save their skins, they’re in a state of desperation, when His Lordship gets here we’ll sort things out. We’ve made an agreement, so don’t forget it.’

Still silence.

I listen to my heart beating out a rhythm to the passing of time.

W�rdemann mentally tells the Rosary of his accounts.

J�defeldt thinks about his wife.

J�defeldt thinks about the bishop’s army.�

J�defeldt thinks about his forty men barricaded inside the monastery.

He thinks about von Merfeld’s ludicrous whiskers.

He thinks about that bitch Merfeld’s sister the abbess, and yes, everyone had always known that she was the bishop’s spy in the city.

He thinks about the garlands on the houses of the Catholics…

I spread my arms: ‘We’ve come here unarmed. Let’s stop fighting, and defend our city together. What the fuck have the nobles got to do with it? M�nster is us, not the papists, not the bishop’s men.’

Von Merfeld explodes: ‘For God’s sake, you can’t allow yourself to be won over like that by two silver-tongued roughnecks!’

J�defeldt sighs and grasps an imaginary snake. ‘They weren’t the ones who convinced me, Herr von Wolbeck. You brought us promises.’

‘The word of His Lordship Franz von Waldeck!’

‘But these… roughnecks, as you call them, are offering peace, with no need for any armed mercenaries in the city, it’s a proposal that’s worth taking into consideration.’

Von Merfeld explodes: ‘You’re not really going to believe these shitheads?’

‘I’m still the burgomaster of this city. I’ve got to think of the interests of its inhabitants. We know that the Catholics have received the order to hang garlands outside the doors of their houses. Why, sir, can you explain that to me? Might it be so that the bishop’s mercenaries can tell which houses are to be spared sacking? That wasn’t part of our agreement…’

Von Merfeld stiffens, a fucking Lutheran is openly accusing him, but von B�ren is the first to jump in: ‘If that’s how it is, I’ve got a way of dealing with turncoats!’ He draws his sword and puts it to the burgomaster’s throat.

The Lutherans react, but a nod from von Merfeld is all it takes to get the knights up on their feet: twenty horsemen, armed to the teeth and ready to fight a dozen frightened burghers. In direct combat that would be that.

Von Merfeld gives me a triumphant grin.

It is extinguished by a horrible scream, like the screech of a bird of prey, from the wall at the end of the cemetery, a scream that freezes the blood and makes the hairs on our arms stand up, creeps up our spines like a spider: ‘Stop, you bastard!’

Long shadows of spectres advance between the tombs, the army of the dead resurrected. Some of the men drop to their knees to pray.

‘I’m telling you, you fucker!’

Weird figures, they cross the field, emerging from the darkness, in the torchlight, the army of the shadows, thirty ghosts with raised crossbows and hackbuts, their captain at their head. And on his back, two pistol-lengths taller than the man himself, the wings of the angel of death. ‘Von B�ren, you son of a whore.’ He stops, spits on the ground and hisses: ‘I’ve come to pull your heart out and eat it.’

The knight blanches, his sword trembles.

The Angel of Darkness, Redeker, pushes his way forward until he’s a couple of yards away from us. ‘Everything all right, Gert?’

‘Just in time. The situation’s been turned upside down, you might say, now it’s up to you to decide, gentlemen. Either we settle our scores right now, on the spot, or you get back on your horses and set off the way you came.’

His whiskers still standing to attention, von B�ren has already given his vote by lowering his sword, and J�defeldt finally breathes again.

There are twice as many of us, and we’re the more determined. We have nothing to lose, and von Merfeld knows it.

A click of the tongue and a whispered curse, one final contemptuous glance at the burgomaster, he turns on his heels and rejoins his men with a great jangle of spurs.�

Redeker puts the barrel of his gun against von B�ren’s chest. Von B�ren closes his eyes and waits, frozen, for the shot. An expert hand unlaces the purse from his belt. ‘Clear off, you bastard. Off you go and kiss your bishop’s arse.’

*

The sun is dimly appearing from behind the church of St Lamberti as we return to the market square. The horsemen are leaving the city, escorted by both Redeker’s men and the Lutherans. Some people swear they saw von B�ren weeping with rage as he passed through the gate of the city.

Frau J�defeldt and Frau W�rdemann have been reunited with their husbands, and Knipperdolling is walking beside us with Councillor Palken and his son, a hint of hoarseness in his voice, one black eye, but in good humour, as though he were walking along absently in search of an inn.

In the camp, we are welcomed by a cry of exultation, the hackbuts fire into the air, a forest of hands lifts us up above everyone’s heads, the women kiss us, I see people taking their clothes off and Jan of Leyden being carried in triumph by a group of girls as though the mere force of his words had seen off misfortune. The people demolish the barricades and pour back into the streets, those streets which, for a whole night, have been under the most terrible threat. Windows open up, women, old people and children go down into the street, despite the intense cold, despite the fact that dawn is beginning to scatter the darkness.

Knipperdolling pours beer for everyone.

Rothmann comes over to me with satisfaction, his face tired but smiling: ‘We’ve done it. I told you the Lord would protect us.’

‘Yes, the Lord and hackbuts,’ I smile. ‘And now?’

‘What?’

‘And what are we going to do now?’

The reply comes from Gresbeck, blackened by torch-smoke, crumpled and dirty, the white scar on his eyebrow looking even bigger on that sombre face.

‘Now we’re going to hold our breath, Captain Gert from the Well.’

He smiles, and I press his hand as I thank him.

Knipperdolling is listening to the message from one of the patrols, looking worried, he staggers towards us: ‘Gert, I didn’t want this to…’

‘What the fuck’s happened now?’

‘Von Waldeck has set his peasants against us. They’re coming here, it’s said there are three thousand of them, they want to sort things out in the city once and for all.’