Sylvia (55 page)

We walked back to the stables where Master Nicodemus instructed a stable hand to, as he put it, ‘See if Hans and Kurt have not yet left and fetch them to me at the front of the palace.'

‘Nay, they have not left. I have not been asked to harness their horses, Master,' the lad replied.

‘Good. Find them and send them to me immediately.'

A stable boy was also sent to bring Reinhardt to the front of the palace. My earnest hope, for much rested upon it, was that he'd made good his word and followed me. A night spent in the open under the elm tree would not be much to his liking and with his new French manners he might have sought shelter on the way, planning to arrive later in the morning. Reinhardt wasn't one for roughing it and I had previously wondered how he would endure when once we were on the crusade. But, true to his word, he soon stood at my side, though looking somewhat bedraggled and not his usually spruced-up self. I had also told Master Nicodemus to summon all the servants and peasants from the bishop's estate. He had departed to give instructions, so that the ratcatcher and I stood alone. I quickly explained what had happened with the crows.

‘Aye, the gatekeeper has told me,' he replied. ‘They speak of it as a curse upon the bishop by “the angel”. They think of you as near a saint, Sylvia, and your miracles are well-known among the bishop's women servants.'

‘You must have been most uncomfortable sleeping in the open, I know it is not to your liking,' I said in an attempt to change the subject away from myself.

Reinhardt gave a short laugh. ‘Nay, I shared the gatekeeper's fire and his broth last night and slept in the gatekeeper's hut. He gave me a sheepskin so that I might keep warm.'

‘Lucky you,' I said. As usual he had landed on his feet.

He sniffed. ‘You smell terrible, Sylvia! Did it not go well with you?'

‘I pissed myself and, nay, I was locked in a prison cell,' I replied, perhaps a little over-dramatically. ‘I will explain later.'

‘Hmm . . . Nice people, so much for the adoring servants,' he said, one eyebrow raised.

‘Reinhardt, you must do exactly as I ask – we are in mortal danger and we risk our very lives.'

‘What? Is it the crows? The ridding?'

‘Nay, the bishop wishes me, us, killed when the ridding is done.' Servants were beginning to gather and, as quickly as I might, I explained the situation, the donation of the wagon and the later ambush planned to kill me.

He gave a low whistle. ‘I should have stayed in France, you're nothing but trouble, Sylvia,' he grinned.

‘Please, be serious, ratcatcher! You must do as I say,' I said in an urgent whisper, as Master Nicodemus was seen to approach with the two soldiers, Hans and Kurt, at his side. I must say, for fierce soldiers who had embarked upon a crusade, their ugly faces wore an expression of utmost apprehension. I looked directly at them as they approached and both lowered their eyes.

‘I have told them they must enter with you,' Master Nicodemus said as he drew up. He nodded at Reinhardt.

‘Good morrow, sire, we meet again,' Reinhardt said cheerily, so that I was forced to chasten him with an angry look. The bishop's man simply grunted, thinking, no doubt, that this piper fellow was yet another unexpected knot he must untie in the plot to kill me.

‘Hans and Kurt, is it?' I asked in a friendly voice. ‘Who is Kurt?'

‘I am Kurt, fräulein.' It was Scarface who answered, though without looking at me. Both stood with their shoulders hunched, looking down at their feet, their hands clasped behind their backs. And then I saw the peck marks to their necks received when they had attempted to escape – angry red marks where the beaks had struck at them, as if they were infected with the pox.

‘The first thing I wish you both to know is that I bear you no malice – what happened is in the past. I truly regret that you must now accompany me into the bishop's palace.' I shrugged. ‘But alas, there isn't any other way. What began in one way must end in the same manner. Birds are easily confused,' I explained. ‘And crows very dangerous when they become so. If they attack you, cover your eyes, and even if they peck your fingers to the very bone do not take them away. Better a crippled claw that may eventually heal than blindness, eh?' I said, hoping I was not spreading the gory details too thickly for credence.

I glanced up at Master Nicodemus and saw from the look in his eyes that he took this instruction to the two men and the possibility that they would be severely injured for a known fact. He too must have seen where the crows had previously pecked them. I touched my neck to indicate their peck marks. ‘You have been punished sufficiently as it is,' I said sympathetically. ‘Now, you must each stand to the side of me while the piper with his calming tune will be two steps ahead. We are now in God's hands. Let us pray silently to our Saviour that we are spared and come out of this ordeal no worse than when we went into it.'

I could see as they came to stand beside me that they were truly afraid – big, burly men with great barrel chests shaking like a leaf. Reinhardt then took up his place in front of me and started to play a dirge that would well suit a funeral procession. We arrived at the great door to the front of the palace and Reinhardt halted and continued to play as I moved forward. Then with my stave I tapped, as might the prophet Elijah have done upon the rock that brought forth water in the desert, three times for the effect it would have on the servants and serfs who watched. Then I lifted the latch and pushed at one of the doors, but it didn't budge. I turned to Kurt and indicated he should open it, but he shook his head furiously, refusing. Then to Hans, who did the same, both men fearful and drawing back, afraid to open the door lest the crows within attack them. Placing my stave to lean against the door to the left, I pushed the other, using both hands to swing it open. A murmur rose from the servants watching.

Though I had seen the crows flying in and out of palace windows all the while we'd stood outside, and heard their cawing through the stout door and thick stone walls, I was not prepared for the noise that met us. A mighty roar issued from the interior, from the entrance chamber and from the great hall beyond it, so that I knew my voice would not be heard. Even if I should scream it would be drowned in this furious cacophony of beating wings and bird cries. A thousand, nay five thousand, even more, the concatenation of cawing crows seemed to boil the thickened air above me, and they were so numerous they appeared as one great whirling creature. I knew as I stepped into the entrance hall that we were done for, that there could be no ridding of these birds. The sharp stink of bird shit assaulted my nostrils and I thought I must choke.

I retreated back to Reinhardt and shrugged. ‘We are done for!' I shouted. But so great had the noise become that I could no longer hear his flute, even though he stood before me. Whether he read my lips or possibly heard me I cannot say, but he nodded and his eyes closed, his cheeks puffed out and he began to turn scarlet as he blew upon his pipe. I had seen him do this once before, when he'd summoned the rats in the village on the first night we had been together. Then, as I now supposed, the notes he played were well beyond a pitch that might be heard by the human ear.

Quite suddenly only the sound of beating wings persisted. This in itself was a roar but a different sort of noise so that I could call out for the crows to leave the palace. I kept calling, and then had the presence of mind to push open the remaining door, and walked back towards Reinhardt who was now at the entrance to the great hall, when all at once a mighty roaring sound came towards us. ‘Drop!' I screamed to Reinhardt and fell to the floor myself, my stave sent flying. I pulled my sheepskin coat over my head to protect it and lay on my stomach frightened out of my wits.

It took five minutes or so for all the birds to depart the palace. We would both wear bruises to our backs and he some cuts to his hands and back for weeks to come, although I had been the more fortunate of the two of us. The full force of the leading birds had not been low to the floor, the birds naturally seeking the sky they could see through the open doorway. The leather of my long sheepskin coat pulled over my head had protected me. Similarly, Reinhardt had pulled his broad-brimmed felt hat over his head and down to protect the sides of his face. His back and hands were bleeding and the rear part of his tunic hung in strips, but in outward appearance at least, I seemed unscathed.

I stumbled to my feet and stood over Reinhardt who lay still. ‘Oh my God!' I said, unknowingly blaspheming as I saw his torn and bleeding back and then his hands. ‘Are you all right?' I cried.

‘Sweet Jesus!' he cried, lifting the hat from his face and looking up at me. ‘What was that?'

‘Don't blaspheme!' I cried, not thinking.

‘You just did!' he accused, pushing his arms up from the flagstones and rising shakily to his feet.

‘No I did not!' I protested, still taken aback by the shock. Then we both began to laugh, although perhaps a little hysterically.

But not for long, for in the doorway lay Hans and Kurt. I would later realise that they had not dropped to the floor, but instead had turned, attempting to flee out of the palace only to be hit by a vortex of several thousand crows. All around them lay dozens of dying crows, some on their backs still jerking, their wings flapping, others attempting to fly turning in circles, a broken wing extended with the tip feathers touching the bloodied flagstones. Others lay quite still upon their backs, their claws curled with their legs in the air, while others shuddered in final death.

We ran the few steps to where the two men lay, kicking aside the dead and dying crows. The men's tunics and hose were ripped but there was only a little blood to be seen on their backs and the backs of their legs. Both their heads lay at a peculiar angle, although it was the colour of the skin to the entire back part of their bodies that caught our immediate attention. It was as purple as a ripened plum where the pounding of several thousand crows had brought the blood under the skin to form a total bruising to the back of their bodies. Then we saw that it was not this that had killed them, though it might well have proved a later, slower cause of death, for their necks had been snapped by the impact. It was as if they had been struck with a blunt instrument to the nape of the neck and back of the head.

We rose and walked through the great doorway. ‘Reinhardt, can you play?' I asked.

‘I think so,' he said, working his hands to see if he'd broken any fingers. ‘Aye, they seem all right, what do you wish?'

‘To sing the
Tantum Ergo
.' He nodded and we stood at the doorway, then slowly sank to our knees.

Tantum ergo Sacramentum

Veneremur cernui:

Et antiquum documentum

Novo cedat ritui:

Praestet fides supplementum

Sensuum defectui.

Down in adoration falling,

Lo! the sacred host we hail,

Lo! oe'r ancient forms departing

Newer rites of grace prevail;

Faith for all defects supplying,

Where the feeble senses fail.

I had barely commenced to sing this hymn when all the bishop's servants and serfs fell to their knees, their hands clasped in prayer. Even Master Nicodemus went to ground and I saw that he crossed himself as he rose after I had completed singing and the last beautiful strains of Reinhardt's flute had died away.

Of course, the servants and serfs who witnessed the event clearly saw God's hand in all of it and were quick to make yet another miracle of the incident. They told how I walked from the palace without a mark upon me while the two soldiers, Hans and Kurt, lay dead at the entrance to the doorway. God had punished them for their sins against the Petticoat Angel. It was, they said, as if the birds had been a great rock hurled through the air to strike them both down, a rock thrown by the hand of an angry God. Quite soon the story had further changed. The bishop's servants swore that as they watched, the birds had been transformed into a great black rock that contained an angry roar. Many years later I would hear tell of this miracle, but by then a round, dark-coloured rock with reddish stains, the blood of the two men, had been found upon a hillside near the bishop's palace. It was named ‘The Rock of God's Wrath' and it had become a sacred place.

Master Nicodemus approached us and it was clear to see that he was overcome by emotion. He saw Reinhardt's bleeding back and called out to a woman to bring clean water and rags to cleanse the wounds and ointment to soothe them, then said he would cause to be fetched a fresh linen tunic and hose for him to wear. Then, almost as an afterthought he called for the two bodies to be moved.

Death on the streets of Cologne was a commonplace event. As Father Hermann, Nicholas and I worked among the poor, it was to be witnessed most days. Sometimes it was by violence, but mostly from slow starvation or sickness. Father Hermann would often sigh and say, ‘I give the last rites as often as we give out bread.' Yet the death of the two soldiers, Kurt and Hans, was so immediate that I could not yet comprehend it. They were alive and stood fearful at my side, then moments later lay dead. If it had not been for Brother Dominic's teaching, I would myself have thought, as the serfs and servants did, that they had been smitten by God's hand.