Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church (4 page)

On this occasion, however, the eighteen-year-old Hedwig was standing beneath the window of his workshop in Kuninga Street and delivering
some shocking news. ‘And that knight was chopped into pieces right there on Toompea. All of his arms and legs severed from his body. Cut into pieces.'

Hedwig had been to the market with her mother, which meant she had heard the day's news.

‘Hush, girl, hush,' Casendorpe murmured and cast an irritated glance behind him to where his journeymen were trying to look busy and as if they were not listening to the shocking news that the young girl had brought. It was not usual for young maidens to speak of such things.

‘Father, it is completely unbelievable, absolutely astounding,' Hedwig exclaimed.

‘Yes,' the Goldsmith concurred, ‘I believe it is indeed.' He adjusted his spectacles and wrinkled his brow. A goldsmith's work had to be visible to the townspeople so that the artisan might not compromise the quality of the precious metals, and the Town Council therefore required the goldsmith's workshop to have a large window that faced the street and from which the interior could be seen. Casendorpe serviced his regular clients through an open window that yawned above a table. Affixed to the wall next to the table was a shelf that held items certifying that the Goldsmith was an important, esteemed and wealthy man devoted to all kinds of arcane arts. One this shelf Casendorpe had placed items such as shark teeth, coconut cream, coral, peacock feathers, a lump of amber, parrot feathers, a dried crab and other articles that exuded meaning and power, brought to the town from far-off lands and purchased from wandering merchants in exchange for bulging purses full of coins. One did not need to fear growing cold while bartering at the open window during winter. The Goldsmith's workshop contained a large hearth and a forge that an apprentice tended when work was under way.

Hedwig stood below the window and shouted so loudly that even the journeymen turned their heads. ‘But, Father, it is that very same knight to whom you sold a chain collar yesterday. Imagine – oh heavenly grace – you saw that man just a short time before he was chopped into pieces …'

Casendorpe raised his head slowly. ‘Was that spoken of at the market as well?' he asked in a muted tone and peered around nervously.

‘No, not that, but you yourself said that his name was Clingenstain – that Knight of Gotland – and now, in the market, they are saying it was he who was chopped into bits.'

‘Into
pieces
?' the Goldsmith mumbled, then asked with growing seriousness, ‘You didn't say anything to anyone about how I sold a collar to that knight, now, did you, Hedwig?'

‘No, Father, I didn't say a thing,' the girl asserted.

Casendorpe pushed aside the guild's book of accounts into which he had been making notes while standing the table. ‘We could go for a short stroll about the town, Hedwig,' he said, ‘perhaps around the market and the pharmacy.'

‘Ah, so you want to hear the news as well. But, Father, I am telling you, he was chopped up into pieces and –'

‘Hush now, please,' the Goldsmith rebuked his daughter. ‘This is not a thing of which young maidens should speak. Wait for me at the doorstep. I shall get myself ready.'

Rumours, market tittle-tattle – these things were so dangerous that it was better to hear them straight away. Especially when they concern a man who wore a golden collar made by your own hands around his neck. A man who was now dead.

Thank heavens, he is dead.

M
ERCHANT
C
LAWES
F
REISINGER
, Alderman of the Brotherhood of Blackheads, had also heard of Commander Clingenstain's murder in the market while he and two attendants were purchasing the finest foods to offer at that evening's beer-sampling festivity. The Toompea milkman's uncle told the fish trader's daughter … someone had seen, someone had heard … a head was chopped off … what a dreadful thing … oh, those Knights of the Order can't even manage to keep sober … that very same Clingenstain, yes, the one who had made merry for several days and who the Town Council had fed and plied with drink … a terrible shame on the entire town of Tallinn …

Freisinger pricked up his ears; rumours are only rumours. One thing was clear, though; there had apparently been a great deal of blood.

Unlike Master Goldsmith Casendorpe, Freisinger the Blackhead was a man of great curiosity. No rumour was too insignificant in the merchant's profession – knowledge of the town's affairs, troubles and misfortunes, joys and festivities are always of some use to a trader. A merchant – and especially one who hailed from a foreign land – must know more about town affairs than even the town's Chief Councilman. Freisinger listened out carefully, but the rumours and counter-rumours were overwhelming. One thing they all agreed on, however, was that there had been a great deal of blood

He needed to find out more. Freisinger started to make his way towards the pharmacy but then, in the distance, spotted Casendorpe approaching arm-in-arm with his daughter Hedwig. Freisinger's heart leaped with joy. His future father-in-law and his fiancée drew nearer, and
stories of dreadful bloodshed on Toompea were briefly pushed aside in his mind.

Hedwig was Clawes Freisinger's ticket into the circle of Tallinn's wealthy and respected citizens. She was the finest maiden in the town, not just because she was as beautiful as St Ursula but she was as rich as … as Master Goldsmith Casendorpe himself. Hedwig was Freisinger's passport into the Great Guild and his farewell to the status as a Blackhead. There were, of course, many in Tallinn who regarded the Master Blackhead as very best groom available. No one could say that he was poor – Clawes Freisinger always saw to that. His coats and cloaks were tailored from the most expensive cloth and his caps were as grand and feathered as those of any baron. Freisinger had not been shy about acquiring chains and rings: a silver clasp always adorned his collar, and even in winter he hung gold-encrusted ornaments from his fur cloak, which was cut from the highest-priced material.

And no one could say he lacked skill when it came to handling arms. He rode as gallantly as some knights, his arrows flew to their mark as accurately as those of an English archer, and when the Council ordered the Blackheads' war party to display its arms these were always in a commendable condition: the men's armour glistened with oil, and their battle axes were as sharp as butchers' blades. When the city guilds organized war games Freisinger set for the Blackheads the honourable goal of winning the highest number of prizes and to be declared the most valiant men on the field.

Members of the Brotherhood of Blackheads were, of course, only merchants – and most were foreigners at that – but taking part in a tournament allowed a townsman to feel like a nobleman, if only for a moment. Furthermore, Freisinger could not say for certain that neither he nor any other fine Blackhead would fail to unhorse any Harju vassal with his lance.

Clawes Freisinger had resided in Tallinn for five years and gave himself credit for the fact that the Brotherhood of Blackheads, which before had sunk into the deepest of comas, was now famed throughout the town.

The eligible bachelor Freisinger was a much-sought-after groom in Tallinn. He had become accustomed to merchants' wives stealing glances at him, and he had never needed to pay a girl for her company. This was without question no secret from Maiden Hedwig either, certainly not.

Clawes Freisinger stood and waited patiently until Hedwig noticed
him. He then nodded discreetly and motioned with his head towards the western end of the market square. No doubt they would manage to cross paths there behind some well-concealed corner and once again vow to one another the very thing they had professed in secret for the last year.

To his surprise Clawes Freisinger had come to the conclusion that he deeply and passionately loved the Maiden Hedwig Casendorpe and that he was prepared to pay the price of forfeiting his Blackhead status if only so he could carry that figure – which he could only imagine from the silhouette beneath her clothing – to his bed as his lawful wife.

I should resist this temptation with greater fortitude, Freisinger thought as he ran after the Maiden Hedwig like some shepherd boy.

D
OMINICAN
P
RIOR
B
ALTAZAR
Eckell had been feeling under the weather for some time. He was afflicted by aches, heartburn and sharp stinging pains; his appetite had disappeared, his head spun, the world swam before his eyes, and on some occasions, when his condition was acute, the Prior believed he could hear the voice of the Archangel Michael calling out to him, letting him know that he was expected. Maybe his time on this earth was indeed coming to an end, although he still had so much to do … Alas, one man's time had reached its end just yesterday. He had heard this just now from the monastery
cellarius
Hinricus, who himself heard the news from the cook, who in his turn had learned of it at the market.

Henning von Clingenstain had been killed on Toompea. His head had been chopped off. Lord have mercy on his soul.

Prior Eckell was sitting with the young
cellarius
in the monastery scriptorium. The chapter meeting had just ended. For some years now the Prior had, without fail, come to the scriptorium at this time of day to contemplate heavenly and not-so-heavenly matters. The monks who were not in town preaching or handling other monastery affairs worked during this hour before their lunch. The Prior felt a strong need to sit and ruminate on this day because he had already prayed. He could not even remember whether or not he had slept the previous night. Prayer is an art. Genuine prayer, a beseeching force bursting from within a person that makes its way up to God, this must be learned and learned diligently. Prior Eckell had learned to pray before falling asleep in a way that his prayers remained with him for the entire night, sustained throughout his dreams. Eckell relived these orisons in his dreams; they spiralled
around his thoughts, and he even heard himself speaking with the angels and saints to whom he prayed. He had cultivated this skill as a young man in order to find refuge from the night-time visions of a twenty-yearold monk. And Eckell had kept up this skill, this art. Sin stalks a person with every step. A monk's thoughts must be like a town defended by a sturdy wall, but sleep is a time when the town gates are opened wide and the watchmen have vanished with the keys. It was for this precise reason that the young Baltazar learned to battle his dreams ceaselessly, so that night-time temptations might not poison his daytime thoughts.

He had experienced a profound need for this skill the previous night.

‘Father, was that member of the Order the very same who took confession from you yesterday on Toompea?' the
cellarius
Hinricus enquired, agitated.

‘Yes, none other,' Eckell replied wearily.

‘Then it is as if it occurred according to some heavenly prophecy, is it not? He went to confession during the day, and a few hours later … he is executed by the sword. As if he had foreseen the event …'

Eckell did not reply. He did not tell Hinricus that Commander Clingenstain had no reason to believe he would meet his death on that night on Toompea. The saints charge a prior to keep young monks away from worldly horrors – they do not yet know death, they do not know its smell, they do not
remember
death as a prior does. And he, Baltazar Eckell, remembered a great many kinds of death; he could recall every colour, every smell and sound. No, Clingenstain was certainly not expecting his death would be the lustrous red colour of blood glistening on grey slate or that it would reek of beer.

‘Should I have the infirmarer prepare for you an infusion for your aching bones?' Hinricus asked with a hint of concern. ‘You are pale, Father.'

‘I am pale because my blood has already gone as white as my hair,' the Prior replied. ‘No, the infirmarer is not required. Do you know where Wunbaldus is?'

‘He was in the brewery earlier tasting his bock – the very same that will be judged today at the Brotherhood of Blackheads. Should I have him summoned?'

‘Yes … or, that is, no,' the Prior mumbled. ‘I must think.' I must
calm myself
and
think
. ‘Please have my chessboard taken to Wundbaldus's chambers and … He fell silent. Hinricus waited patiently. The old man
breathed deeply, his hand resting on a closed book and his gaze fixed on the window, as if he had just glimpsed St Catherine there. Only birdsong came from outside, penetrating the absolute silence that reigned within the dank walls of the scriptorium. Eckell felt his present train of thought slip from his grasp, melting like snow in springtime.

‘Does the snow still fall, Hinricus?' the Prior asked without warning, his gaze still trained on the window through which the monastery's budding orchard trees were visible.

‘No, Father, it does not,' Hinricus replied quietly. Snow has not fallen for two months. Virgin Mary have mercy on us.

‘Then the snowfall has passed,' the Prior whispered. ‘That is good, Hinricus. Praised be the Lord, that is very good.'

‘P
OOR GIRL,'
K
ETERLYN
repeated as she stood next to her husband and watched Gerdrud as she left the house and came out on to the street.

‘Everything else but that, my lovely wife,' Melchior said and chuckled. ‘Gerdrud may be unhappy, but she is far from poor because Sire Mertin is one of the richest men in Tallinn.'

‘Yet what good are riches if you do not see a single penny of them and every day you must rub lotion on your ailing husband's swollen legs like some almshouse healer?' Keterlyn replied. ‘I still remember Gerdrud from when we played together in a meadow outside the town – she was so full of joy, such a spirited young thing, but look at her now.'