1635: Music and Murder (45 page)

"So, what other word do you have from Herr Patroclus?" Marla watched as Telemachus hurriedly swallowed the mouthful of ale he had just taken in, choking a moment or two before the ale decided to descend by its proper passage.

"He also said to say that he has ordered one of the Vignelli duplicating machines." Telemachus' smile flashed again. "Speaking for myself, I am glad he has done so. I think we can make good use of its speed to do broadsheets and pamphlets. And I thank you for mentioning Frau Haygood to my brother, because she it was who convinced him that we should buy it." The smile soured somewhat. "Of course, he says nothing of my suggesting months ago that we should get one."

"Hmm." Franz cradled his mug in his hands. "A not uncommon problem. Scripture says something about a prophet not being honored by his own."

"'For a prophet is not without honor save in his own country.' Matthew chapter 13 verse 57," Telemachus responded. He grinned at their surprise. "It is a favorite verse of the Committees of Correspondence. Not that we . . . they . . . at all compare themselves to Jesus, but we . . . they . . . have a message of truth for our people that seems to be facing similar rejections."

"So you know something of the committees?" Franz asked. Marla had an idea that Telemachus knew rather more of the CoC than his brother suspected, or would approve of.

"I spend time with them," Telemachus said with a defensive air. "I hold to their beliefs, even if Father and Patroclus do not agree. I help at the Freedom Arches when I have some time of my own, which isn't often."

"Why do you support the committees, in the face of your family's disapproval?"

"Because of my family," the young man replied. "Not because I reject them, but because of our history." Marla felt her eyebrows go up, but she said nothing. After a moment, Telemachus continued.

"You know, of course—you must know—my father ensures that everyone knows—that the Zopffs were once the favored printers and publishers of the Elector of Brandenburg." Marla nodded, echoed by Franz. "But do you know why we are no longer in Berlin? Did Father or Patroclus tell you that part of the story?" Telemachus snorted. "Of course not. They never speak of that, to spare the family some form of embarrassment or shame. As if it matters now, twenty years later and across half the Germanies." A large amount of ale was drained from his mug.

Marla waited. She'd been curious for some time as to why the Zopffs were no longer in Berlin.

The story had simple bones, to hear Telemachus tell it. The Elector of Brandenburg was Lutheran prior to 1613. Conrad Zopff, being desirous of pleasing the Elector, made it plain that he and his house were Lutheran as well. He was so much a Lutheran that he would seek out books and pamphlets to print that would assail both popish beliefs and what he would label the 'misguided Calvinists'.

That changed in 1613. The Elector became a Calvinist. Unfortunately, it had not come to the Zopff family's attention that this change was in the wind. Literally two days before that change was announced, Conrad published a particularly harsh, critical and venomous anti-Calvinist pamphlet. Almost overnight the patronage melted away.

"This was before my birth," Telemachus fumed, "but I've overheard enough late night conversations between my father and Patroclus to know the family tried to keep going for two years, hoping that the passage of time would soothe feelings. But the old Elector had a long memory. They were finally forced to leave Berlin before the last of their silver melted away."

Telemachus brooded for a long moment.

"I was born in Erfurt. Countess Anna Sofie Fürstin von Anhalt-Zerbst und Dessau, the wife of Count Karl Günther von Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt, heard of our troubles and extended an invitation to my father and grandfather to settle in their lands. We stayed there until the rebuilding of Magdeburg began.

"All the time I was growing up, I heard how the Elector's rejection crushed my grandfather's spirit, how we had come down so far in the world. And even as a lad it made me angry that our lives had been almost ruined because of one man's whim about which church he wished to believe in. I despise the Hohenzollerns, root and branch." The angry glint in Telemachus' eyes was almost enough to be a fire.

"So I work with the committees at every opportunity. Someday that will be my lifework, to help change the world so that such things don't happen again."

****

"Los peces en el rio

Pero mira como beben

Por ver al dios nacido

Beben y beben

Y vuelven a beber

Los peces en el rio

Por ver al dios nacer"

Marla held the last note out, listening to hear if the girls wavered in tone, but they held true. Finally she had mercy on them and cut off the note. There was a melodramatic "Uhhhh" of inhaled air from the front row. "Knock it off, girls." She didn't even look up from her music as she spoke.

There were giggles scattered around the choir. Marla's mouth curved a little as she remembered her junior high days. It still amazed her sometimes that some of the things she'd done in choir hadn't gotten her in serious trouble. Like the time she and Becky . . . well, that didn't bear thinking about.

"Okay, ladies, that was good." Eyes brightened around the room and everyone stood up straighter. The girls had learned that whenever Marla called them "ladies", she was pleased. "The French song next." That drew groans. French wasn't as easy as Spanish or Italian or Latin, and the girls always hoped Marla would overlook that song during choir rehearsal. She never did. You'd think they would have learned.

Marla looked up and raised her hands. The girls snapped to, all eyes on her. Marla hummed a pitch; the girls hummed it back to her. She gave them three small beats, and they began.

"Un flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle,

Un flambeau, courons au berceau

C'est Jésus, bonnes gens du hameau,

Le Christ est né, Marie appelle,

Ah! ah! que la mère est belle,

Ah! ah! ah! que l'Enfant est beau! . . ."

****

Franz set his baton down carefully before looking around at the orchestra. Silence grew as he stared at them, moving from section to section, saying nothing. Bit by bit the smiles of the musicians faded away. At length he spoke.

"Gentlemen, that was almost pathetic." There was iron in his voice. No one would now meet his gaze. "We played this section, this Pastoral Symphony from
Messiah
, in our concert only four months ago. And we played it well. That is why I left it until now to rehearse again, thinking that you would have retained that work. But now, now we sound like . . . like . . . " Words failed him, and he looked down.

The breathing of over forty men was muted. Someone coughed, sounding like an explosion in the silence.

Franz looked up again, to find every eye now on him. "You are better than this." His voice was quiet but was heard by every ear in the room. "You know that. I know that. Do not shame the name of Master Händel like this." He closed his score.

"I will not accept your complacency. Decide tonight what you will do." Franz gathered his jacket, score and baton, then walked the length of the room to the door.

****

Matthäus Amsel stood and watched as Franz left. The others gathered around him. They all looked at each other as the door closed—all but Matthäus, who continued to stare at the door.

"Will . . . will he tell Master Heinrich?" That was his youngest brother Johann, Matthäus knew. There was muttering among the others.

"No." The lead violinist did not turn around. "He will do no such thing. He would not think of it, unless we drive him to it." Now he turned, and everyone, even his brothers, stepped back. "And that we will not do. We will
not
fail Master Franz."

It was the first time that any of them had called the young conductor 'Master'. All of them noted it; none of them objected.

"I told you," Matthäus looked around the group, "I told you what he said of Master Abati's words at the choir rehearsal, about the call to greatness. That man . . . " Matthäus pointed to the closed door, " . . . that man has the vision to lead us, to mold us, to make us more than we ever dreamed of being . . . to lead us in making the greatest music that our world, our history, has ever known. And if we will not commit to greatness, he will leave us and find those who will."

There was no sound. Everyone but Matthäus was staring at the floor, clutching instruments and bows in white-knuckled hands.

"This will not happen again." The lead violinist's voice was weighted. The others felt the words as much as heard them. "We will not do this again. Before God, gentlemen, we will never again come to a rehearsal unprepared, or unready to offer less than our very best." There were mutters of agreement. His voice grew colder. "Mark me well, gentlemen. You will answer to me if you do. This will
not
happen again."

The agreements were louder this time. Matthäus looked around. Everyone caught his eye and nodded.

"Good. Now, there is daylight left. Learn your parts anew."

Simon Bracegirdle stepped to his side as the others took to their chairs and began practicing with fever, fervor and focus. The two of them turned away from the seats and took a few steps towards the door.

"I do not know about them," Simon nodded back toward the others, "but you have convinced me of your intent."

"Good." Matthäus snorted.

There was a moment of silence between them, then he saw the Englishman look to him with a sideways glance. "His gaze marked you as well, then?"

"Oh, aye." Sigh. "Not simply marked, but pierced to the innermost. I almost felt the very Judas in that moment, Simon, almost as if I had betrayed him by being less than the music required. I would rather he had screamed and thrown things." Matthäus' right hand fisted into the palm of his left, again, and once more. "I will not abide that look from him again. And if that means I must belabor you and our fellows, then so be it." He smiled slightly, but the look he turned on his friend had more than a touch of steel to it.

Simon tugged on his forelock in a display of false servility. "Yes, sir, absolutely, sir, without delay, sir."

That sparked a brief laugh in the lead violinist as they turned back to pick up their own instruments and add to the general cacophony within the room.

****

Marla listened as the girls sang the old carol. No way around it,
O Come, O Come, Emmanuel
just sounded more impressive in Latin than in English—but then, it was originally a Gregorian chant, so it should. The girls were doing a good job, even the ones who a couple of months ago couldn't pitch match for anything.

Ingram had really come through for her when he'd found the two pieces of semi-circular 3 inch PVC pipe. Putting one end by the singer's ear and the other by her mouth really helped each girl to hear what she was singing and how it was different from the others. They would never be world-class singers, but at least they were able to blend in now. The girls thought it was due to some miracle of the plastic. Marla didn't disabuse them of the notion, but she knew that a length of hose or even a similar construct of wood would have done just as well.

The poor monotone, Frieda—such a pleasant child—alas, was still a monotone. Her speaking voice was a little unusual in sound, as well, so Marla wondered if she was a child who had often suffered from ear infections. She'd heard from Aunt Susan that the medical staff had already noted how prevalent some degree of hearing loss was among the down-timers because of the childhood illnesses that were suffered without antibiotics.

It was fortunate that Frieda's voice was soft and didn't carry beyond an arm's length. Stationed in the center of the choir, with strong voices surrounding her, she was not noticeable.

They finished the song and Marla cut them off with a circular motion of her hand. "Very good, ladies." She almost laughed as the girls preened a little. Such vain creatures they were, but so much fun.

"Gerde, pass out the new song." As the mimeographed sheets were being passed amidst murmurs and the rustle of pages, Marla continued. "This one's in Italian. Most of you have had enough Italian or Spanish to have a good guess at how the words should sound. We'll go through it once to get a feel for it, then we'll start working notes and words. Ready?"

The girls nodded, caught the pitch that Marla hummed to them and hummed it back. She gave them the preparatory beats, and they began.

"Tu scendi dalle stelle

O Re del Cielo

E vieni in una grotta

Al freddo al gelo

E vieni in una grotta

Al freddo al gelo . . ."

****

The Green Horse was in full form tonight, Isaac decided as the noise poured out through the doorway. He stepped around a man who was leaving, made his way to the bar and ordered ale.

"It is good to see you tonight, Herr Fremdling." The tavern owner set the mug on the bar. "I miss you and your friends playing."

Isaac looked around the crowded room, and laughed. "It does not look as if you miss us much."

"Oh, aye, I've the custom," the other man shrugged. "But I miss the music. Especially the Irish songs. Frau Marla could make a stone weep or a cripple dance."

"Aye, that she can. But, as the Grantvillers say, she and the others are up to their eyebrows in other work. I would not expect to see her much before January, my friend. But I will remind them of our promise to play here. They will come."

The tavern owner was called to another customer. Mug in hand, Isaac turned to face the room. He hadn't expected to see anyone he knew, but standing there across the room was Lucas Amsel, waving at him. Isaac waved back and made his way across the room to the table, where he found Lucas fulfilling his role as Master Schütz's attendant, companied with his three brothers and a man he did not recognize.

"Isaac," Master Schütz said in his rich and resonant voice. "Be welcome. Do you know Herr Patroclus Zopff?"