Chapter 38

  Dutch coast, near Rotterdam, 20 July 1534

  * * *

  The wind stirs the tufts of grass on the low dunes, like beards on the chins of giants. A miracle seems to hold up the little shed where the fishermen's boats are kept, battered as it is by storms and seawater.

  The sun is about to rise, night is over and day has not yet begun: a pinkish light falls upon the gulls as they wheel placidly about, occasionally fighting with the crabs for the dead fish that have fallen from the night's nets. Slow backwash, low tide, a fine mist hides the edge of the beach from north to south. Not a soul.

  Little insects run along the trunk of wood brought here from who knows where. I run my hands along its damp bark. The guide assigned to me by the brethren in Rotterdam told me that this was the spot. He didn't hang about: Van Braght isn't the kind of person you're pleased to see.

  Three long shadows on the sand, to the south. Here they are.

  My hands slide to my pistols, crossed under the hooded cape that protects me from the North Sea breeze.

  They approach slowly, side by side.

  Dark, inexpressive faces, bushy beards, crumpled shirts and swords tucked under a shoulder-belt.

  I don't move.

  They come within earshot. 'Are you the German?'

  I wait for them to get closer. 'Which of you is Van Braght?'

  Tall, stout, face worn by sun and sea, a small-scale pirate who claims to have attacked twenty Spanish vessels. 'That's me. Have you brought the money?'

  I jangle the little bag on my belt.

  'Where's the gunpowder?'

  He nods. 'It showed up last night. Ten barrels, is that right?'

  'Where?'

  Three pairs of eyes upon me. Van Braght barely moves his head. 'The imperial forces are covering the coast, it wasn't safe to leave it here. It's at the old dyke, half a mile on.'

  'Let's go.'

  We set off, four parallel tracks in the sand.

  'You're Gerrit Boekbinder, aren't you? The one they call Gert from the Well?'

  There's no curiosity, no special emphasis in his question.

  'I'm the buyer.'

  The dyke is a palisade of rotten wood. The sea has penetrated it, forming a narrow channel that disappears into the hinterland. At the top, the low cottage of the coastguard stands out against the sky.

  The barrels are covered with worn sail-cloth on which terns are walking. When they lift it up, a swarm of flies abandons the stinking fish crammed into boxes. Underneath: the barrels, lined up. One of the three lets me choose: I point to the barrel in the middle, he takes off the lid and steps aside.

  The pirate wants to reassure me: 'It's from England. The stench of the fish will keep the cops away.'

  I plunge a hand into the black powder.

  'It's very dry, don't worry about that.'

  'How am I going to transport it?'

  He points behind the dunes, where I can see the head of a horse and the high wheels of a cart: 'You're on your own from here.'

  I untie the purse and hold it out to him. 'While you're counting it, your men can load up.'

  At a nod of his head the two reluctantly lift the first barrels, starting to stagger clumsily towards the path.

  A gull lets out a cry above our heads.

  The crabs slip beneath the carcase of an old boat.

  The sunlight begins to weaken the morning breeze.

  Absolute peace.

  Van Braght finishes counting. 'There's enough there, mate.'

  I reach for my pistols. 'No there isn't. It's less than half what we agreed.' A moment's indecision, he can't see the guns under my coat. 'The bounty on Gert from the Well must be twice as much as that.'

  I don't give him time to move, my shot explodes right in his face.

  The other two come bounding back, swords drawn. Two against one, I pour the powder into the unloaded pistol, load the bullets, more powder, faster, prime the guns, pull the trigger, they're a few yards away, arms outstretched, a deep breath, no shaking, I aim at the moving limbs: two shots, almost in unison, the first one collapses at my feet and the other falls, his pistol explodes, perhaps I'm dead already, but my ghost draws a short dagger and plunges it into his throat.

  A groan.

  Silence.

  I stay where I am. I watch the gulls coming back to settle on the beach.

  I'll have to load the barrels on my own.

  * * *

  Rotterdam, 21st July 1534

  * * *

  'And that makes fifty.'

  Adrianson finishes checking the weapons, then gives me the list of what we've got.

  'Fifty hackbuts, ten barrels of powder, eight bars of lead. And ten thousand florins.'

  'We're going to need two carts. Did Reynard give you the passes?'

  'Here they are. He says they're practically authentic: the seal is the same as the one they use in the Hague.'

  'They'll get us as far as the border. Then we'll have to think about something else. We'll leave as early as we can. We're going to have to stop at Nijmegen and Emmerich, and I don't know how much time it'll take us to get there. It'll be a long journey, we'll have to avoid the busier roads.'

  The farrier offers me one of the rolls of dried tobacco from the Indies, he says he was taught to smoke them by the Dutch merchants. The Spanish call them cigarros, they smell of another world, of shacks, leather and green pepper. The smell is aromatic and leaves a pleasant taste in the mouth.

  We throw ourselves into the hammocks offered to us by brother Magnus, preacher of the Baptist community in Rotterdam. He keeps a frugal table, but his generosity to the cause makes up for the banquet one might have wanted.

  We let the smoke swirl along with our thoughts, and it hangs there in the middle of the room, in the attic of the house.

  The brethren over there are meek people. They admire Münster, and they've been a great help to us. But they wouldn't challenge the authorities with an insurrection: they content themselves with practising their own faith in secret, in nocturnal meetings and communal readings. I haven't come across the combative spirit I was expecting. On the other hand I have encountered generosity and esteem in abundance.

  It's hard to blame them, things don't work the same way in the big mercantile cities as they do in our German city-state. And the Spaniards are here too, which means the locals have the Emperor right in their own back yard.

  But I've discovered that there is a party of discontents, there are a few turbulent brethren who want to follow and our example. Few in number inexperienced, lacking a real leader. One of them is Obbe Philips, who has denied his past as an apostle of Matthys, and pretends he's always followed the same moderate line as he does today. Then there's young David Joris of Delft, a brilliant orator whom our host identified as a promising guide. It seems that the future of the movement depends to a large extent on Joris. His mother was one of the first Baptist martyrs, beheaded in the Hague when David was a child. He is wanted as a highly dangerous criminal throughout the whole of Holland, so it's difficult to meet him. He has no fixed abode, he's always travelling about the place, he turns up and off he goes again, he often uses false names with the brethren for fear of infiltrators. It seems that he doesn't shirk the sacking of churches, but even he, like Philips, vociferously denies murder.

  The situation is far from stable, but likely to end up with nothing but a lot of fine words being bandied about.

  Meanwhile, we'll be on the road again tomorrow, heading back with our precious cargo to hide from the road blocks and prying eyes. Another two communities to visit. Back in Münster in a month.

  'Goodnight, Peter.'

  'Goodnight, Captain.'

  Chapter 39

  Münster, 1st September 1534

  * * *

  It appears grimly from behind the hill. The cold wind hurls the rain into our faces, forcing us to narrow our eyes: I can make out the black silhouette in the plain, the banks of the Aa, the line of the walls, the sentries' lanterns, the only stars in a black-dark night.

  I spur the horses on to one final sweat-drenched and exhausted effort. Adrianson, who's bringing the other cart, is close behind me: we've done it. The wheels throw up mud from the path, we travel slowly, ever closer to our goal. Further to the north, I can make out a black row of fortifications: von Waldeck's earthworks have become an insurmountable barrier closing off all means of access and all escape routes.

  'There's something wrong.'

  The farrier's voice is lost in the rain: he's right, I have a strange feeling of anxiety in my stomach, a deadly sense of catastrophe.

  'The bell-towers, Gert... the towers. What's happened to them?'

  That's what's missing. The city is flat. And the bishop's cannon can't reach so far and so high. Where have the bell-towers gone?

  It isn't the cold of the night that sends shivers into my limbs, an invisible hand is strengthening its grip on my innards.

  We identify ourselves to the sentries of the Ludgeritor. I don't know any of the guards, or perhaps I do, one, Hansel, the shoe-maker, white-haired, decrepit.

  'Hansel, is that you?'

  The shifty eyes of a guilty man. 'Good to have you back, Captain.'

  A slap on the shoulder. 'What on earth's happened to the towers of Münster?'

  A gloomy expression, his eyes still fixed on the ground, no reply. I grab his arm as I try to suppress the panic rising in my throat. 'Hansel, tell me what happened.'

  He frees himself from my grip, a thief before the court: 'You shouldn't have gone away, Captain.'

  The night air speaks of a crime committed, something horrible, unspeakable. Filled with anxiety, we walk down the deserted streets towards Adrianson's house. No one says anything, there's no need, we hurry, soaked to the bone.

  I see him knocking at the door, tightly hugging his wife and his little son . There's no joy in their faces, these are the gestures of someone sharing a misfortune.

  His wife offers us a hot infusion, by the embers crackling in the fireplace. 'That's all I can give you. Since rationing was introduced it's been hard to get hold of milk.'

  Thin, the nerves standing out in her neck, the strength of her grief sustaining her. Her eyes turn to her son with each sentence she utters, as though to protect him from some obscure danger.

  'Are things as bad as that?'

  'The bishop has intensified the siege, with each passing day it's got harder to go out and get food. And we have to queue every day to get food for our children. The deans in charge of rationing are giving us less and less.'

  Adrianson has managed to get the fire going, as though the performance of these simple, domestic gestures could alleviate the imminence of despair.

  'What's happened to the bell-towers, Greta?'

  She looks at me without trembling, strong, she doesn't share the men's cowardice: 'You shouldn't have left, Captain.'

  It's almost an accusation. Now I'm the one avoiding her glance.

  Her husband is ready to reproach her: 'Don't get angry with him, he's risked his life for everyone. In Holland we got hold of money, lead for the cannon, gunpowder...'

  The woman shakes her head. 'You don't know. You've haven't heard anything.'

  'What is it, Greta? What's happened?'

  Adrianson can't control his fear and anger: 'Tell us, woman. What's become of the bell-towers!'

  She nods, those hard eyes are meant for me. 'They knocked them down. Nothing must rise to challenge the Supreme one. No one must be proud, we have to keep our eyes down when we walk in the streets, we can't wear necklaces, they get requisitioned. He's appointed two little girls and a boy to be judges of the people. They strip you of any superfluous objects, any coloured clothes. All the gold and silver fetches up in the court strongboxes.'

  Adrianson takes her hand. 'What about your ring?'

  'Everything... to the greater glory of God.'

  I breathe deeply, I've got to stay calm, try to understand: 'What court, Greta? What are you talking about?'

  She speaks with hatred, with profound fury: 'He's made himself king. King of Münster, of the elect.'

  I'm so angry the words stick in my throat, but she goes on: 'It was Dusentschnuer, the goldsmith, that old crock, along with Knipperdolling. A horrible recitation: they flattered him, they implored him to accept the crown. They said that God had spoken to them in a dream, that he had to accept the crown from the Father and lead us into the promised land. And that vile charlatan was there prostrating himself, mocking us, saying he wasn't worthy...'

  Protective and raging, the blacksmith hugs his wife's shoulders. 'Revolting pig. Thruppenny whore-monger.'

  I murmur: 'No one stopped him... Where were my men... Heinrich Gresbeck?

  'You mustn't blame them, Captain, they're not here. They're acting as escorts to the missionaries who were dispatched to find reinforcements. The king has surrounded himself with armed men, anyone who dares to speak out against him is carried off, disappears, no one knows where, to some underground prison, perhaps... then to the bottom of the canal.'

  I've got to ask, I've got to know: 'Bernhard Rothmann?'

  The silence heralds a horror even worse, if possible, than I was expecting.

  'He's been appointed court theologian. Knipperdolling, Kibbenbrock and Krechting received the title of count. The king says he will soon lead the chosen people across the Red Sea of the enemy armies, and conquer the whole of Germany. He's already assigned the principalities to his most loyal followers.'

  Anger and fear are becoming a dead weight that drags me down. I'm exhausted, but there's more, I can read it in that steadfast expression, in that proud, tired beauty.

  'Rothmann said we had to follow the customs of the patriarchs of the Scriptures. Go forth and multiply, he said, and let every man take as many wives as he can satisfy, to increase the number of the elect. The king has fifteen wives, none of them much more than children. Rothmann has ten, and so have the others. If my husband hadn't come back within a month I'd have been assigned to one of them.'

  Adrian's hands, white with tension, want to smash the fireplace to pieces.

  'Oh, we shouted, yes we did, we said it wasn't right. Margaret von Osnabrück said that if the Lord wanted procreation, then women should be allowed to choose more than one husband as well.'

  She swallows back her compassion with a sigh. 'She spat in the face of the preachers and pissed on the heads of the ones who came to get her. She knew what awaited her, but she wouldn't keep quiet. She shouted to the whole city as they dragged her away, that the women of Münster hadn't fought side by side with their men only to become common concubines.'

  Another pause, holding back her tears of hate. There's an infinite dignity in those words, the dignity of someone who has shared in the extreme gesture of a brother or a sister.

  'She died killing them with her words. Many women followed her example, preferring to die insulting the tyrants rather than accept their laws. Elisabeth Hölscher, who dared to leave her busband. Katharina Koekenbecker, who lived with two men under the same roof. Barbara Butendieck, denounced by her husband because she dared to contradict him. They didn't execute her, no. She was pregnant, that was why she got away.'

  Nothing but the crackling of the fire. The deep breathing of little Hans in his cot. The drumming of the rain on the roof.

  'Didn't anyone rebel?'

  She nods: 'The blacksmith Mollenhecke. Along with another two hundred of them. They managed to lock the king and his followers in the Rathaus, but then... What could they do? Open the gates to the bishop? That would have meant condemning the city to death. They couldn't imagine doing that. Someone freed the king and two hours later their heads rolled into the square.'

  Peter Adrianson picks up the old sword he fought with on the barricades in February. Exhaustion on the furrows of his face.

  'Let me kill him, Captain.'

  I get to my feet. What remains to be done.

  'No. A martyr wouldn't be much use to your wife and son.'

  'He'll have to pay for it.'

  I turn back to Greta: 'Get your things. You're going tonight.'

  Adrianson clutches blindly at the hilt of his sword. 'He's got us fucked, he can't get away with it.'

  'Take your family far away from here. That's my final order, Peter.' He's about to cry, he looks around: the house, the objects. Me.

  'Captain...'

  Greta is ready, her son in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. I wish Adrianson had her strength right now.

  'Let's go.' I pull him by one arm, we walk out into the deluge, I let her pass. We keep close to the walls, along a route that seems interminable.

  All of a sudden Adrianson's wife gives a start.

  Instinctively I put my hand on my sword. Two short, hooded silhouettes.

  One holds a lantern. They approach, small footsteps in the mud.

  The light is raised towards our faces. I glimpse young eyes, smooth cheeks. Not more than ten years old.

  A shiver.

  The little girl points her finger at the bundle that Greta is holding pressed to her chest. A small, white finger.

  Terror in the woman's eyes. She lifts the corner of the blanket and reveals Hans, stiff with cold.

  The girl doesn't take her eyes off my face.

  Blue eyes. Blond curls dripping with rain.

  The lofty indifference of a fairy.

  Pure horror.

  The instinct to crush her. To kill.

  My heart beating like a drum.

  They pass on.

  * * *

  At the Ludgeritor.

  They've unloaded our carts, the animals have been lodged under a canopy.

  'Halt! Who goes there?'

  'Captain Gert from the Well.'

  I come forward so that he can recognise me. Hansel, his face spectral with hunger.

  'Harness the horses up to one of the carts.'

  Uncertainly: 'Captain, I'm sorry, no one can leave.'

  I point to the bundle that Greta is pressing to her chest.

  'The little one has cholera. Do you want an epidemic to break out?'

 

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