Sylvia (52 page)

‘Sylvia, there are twenty granaries along the Rhine, all within this city. If each give six bags of corn or barley . . .?'

‘And why would they do that?' I asked.

‘Simple. Rats!'

‘You would return to being ratcatcher?' I asked, amazed.

‘For thee, my pretty maid, for thee!' he laughed. ‘In a few days it will be done and my noble flute can then return to better things.'

I did not tell him they were among the words for a song I'd written, but knew that at some later time I would sing it for him. I did a quick calculation. ‘That's one hundred and twenty bags of corn and barley! But we shall have no wagons to transport it!'

Reinhardt shrugged. ‘None needed,' he replied. ‘Each child shall carry their own, perhaps two weeks supply with a little dried or smoked fish. The rest of their food we, they, will have to beg or scavenge.'

So that he didn't think me entirely senseless, I laughingly said, ‘Ah, I had already thought of doing that! But thinking, as there would not be enough to give every child a portion it would cause great resentment among those who went without. It would also encourage bullying, the strong taking from the weak. That will still remain a problem for us. Street children do not show charity towards each other and they will be constantly hungry. I fear for the smaller ones.'

I then told Reinhardt about Nicholas's moods and the need from time to time for him to be alone. ‘We must have one wagon – there is almost half enough saved from the alms box. Master Israel has promised me canvas for a canopy where Nicholas may go when his moods overtake him.' I mimicked the voice of the wonderful old man I so loved. ‘“I am
meshugga!
If the rabbi knows of this donation,”' – I slapped my forehead as he would do, ‘“
Oi vey!
I should be expelled from the synagogue.”' Then waving my arms in the air, ‘“You know nussing from Jerusalem. Listen to me, Sylvia. From Jerusalem children should be goink out, not goink in!”'

We arrived at St Mary's at the usual time, half an hour after the Angelus and Lauds, to wait for Father Hermann. The four church carts stood ready in the square to do the rounds of the markets, the children harnessed and chattering happily among themselves. Then a cleric I had not seen before came out of the church and walked towards us. He didn't offer his name or even greet us and sought no introduction. ‘Father Hermann has been forbidden to see you and has already left for the Cistercian convent at Hoven where he is to be the priest.'

‘Did he not leave a message?' I asked, shocked. ‘This is his church, his beloved Virgin Mary and her Child Jesus live here! He is Father Hermann
Joseph
, her earthly husband!' I cried out.

‘It is at the instruction of the bishop and you are forbidden to contact him at the convent,' the cleric said spitefully, clearly enjoying the task of bearing bad tidings.

‘And you're absolutely sure he left no message?' I asked once again, still shocked. I simply could not believe Father Hermann would leave without some sort of explanation or attempt to contact me.

‘None. It was expressly forbidden.' The cleric's chin lifted indignantly and his small mouth pulled into a rosebud of pique. He handed me a small brass key. ‘It is the key to the alms box. You may have what it contains, but from today it is no longer for your benefit. Please leave the key near the screen to the chancel, place it under the alms box.' He pointed to the carts. ‘They may not be used – it is forbidden, Church property. You must ask the children to take them back to the stables at once.'

‘But how will the children eat? We must have them! The carts are needed to collect our food!'

The cleric shrugged. ‘I am only following orders.' He turned and walked away, then stopped as if suddenly remembering, and turning to face me he said, ‘Oh, and you will no longer sing at Holy Communion, Sylvia Honeyeater.' Why is it that some people seem to take great pleasure in the discomforting of others?

We watched silently as the cleric walked back into the church. ‘Well!' Reinhardt exclaimed, then drew a deep breath before expostulating, ‘Well, well, well! Now the cat is truly set among the pigeons!'

I started to cry as I watched the chastened, silent children begin to pull the carts back to the church stables. ‘Whatever will become of us?' I wept.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Rock of God's Wrath

REINHARDT AND I SCROUNGED all morning for food for the children, having persuaded a peasant to lend us the use of his cart for a few hours. The ratcatcher played and I sang, but without a priest to lend us authority or to shame the peasants and townsfolk into donating in the form of a tithe, it proved a difficult task. Most would simply shrug and say, ‘I gave last week,' or more shamelessly, ‘What's in it for me?' Some of the men leered at me, their randy looks suggesting that a quick knee-trembler behind a stall would soon enough open their hearts. Folk were growing weary of the constant need to give, and with the fear of God removed were now openly reluctant. It was rapidly becoming time to move on, but Nicholas still sat staring at the wall waiting for the world to end. By mid-afternoon, when we needed to return the cart, we had not near sufficient food to feed the multitudinous children.

‘We leave on the day of Pentecost yet ten days hence and even then it will depend if Nicholas is no longer beset. Whatever shall we do?' I said disconsolately.

Reinhardt, new to the unrewarding task of gathering food, smiled. ‘Tomorrow I shall visit Master Solomon – his rats will once again be numerous. I shall make him an offer too good to refuse. On the morrow he will deliver six bags of corn, three to St Martin's square, the other three to St Mary's, in return for a rat-ridding.'

‘But he is a Jew! He will not aid a Christian crusade,' I said, thoroughly down-hearted. We had played and sung our hearts out and yet our flock would go hungry.

‘Well, did not Master Israel give you canvas for a cart we don't have?'

‘He is my friend.'

‘He is
also
a Jew. Cheer up, Sylvia, let us have faith one day at a time, eh? I am not sufficient Christian to think beyond one small step in the many that will take us to Jerusalem. The reason Master Solomon will agree and, as well, the city's corn merchants is that it is a bargain. A thousand rats will eat a bag of corn a day. The value of a merchant's conscience is always negotiable and a bag of corn lost to rats each day is a solid reason to discount its value.'

‘You would rid the city of twenty thousand rats?' I asked, amazed.

‘Aye, there are many more than that – for every person dwelling in a city there be ten rats. Of mice,' he gave a low whistle, ‘a great many more and only fleas and lice surpass the number.' He took up his flute and played a silly little nonsense song children sing when they skip or play ‘Hop-along Tom'.

Rats and mice

and fleas and lice

We wish them all

gone in a trice.

But if we didn't

itch and scratch

We'd use our hands

to steal and snatch.

If rats and mice

were never born

How fat we'd grow

on all that corn.

Reinhardt's promise to see Master Israel's cousin on the morrow considerably cheered me. We would at least have gruel to give the children, if not tonight, then tomorrow. His advice that we have faith only unto the day was well reminded. I recalled Brother Dominic's words: ‘
If we attempt to understand God's glory
all at once, we will be blinded by His infinite light and so see nothing. But taken one sunrise at a time, by sunset our eyes will have been opened to all things wise and wonderful
.' It was a reminder to regard each day as a small part of His glory, a task given to me, so that I might earn my faith and know a small portion of His love.

It was near sunset and we were in St Martin's square to apportion half of the meagre rations we had gathered to the good, pious, ever-cheerful waiting cooks, when a horseman arrived, his mount carrying a saddlecloth showing the bishop's colours with the mitre embroidered upon it. He dismounted and walked over to where we were standing and drew me aside.

‘Fräulein Sylvia, His Lordship the Bishop summons you to his palace. We have a cart standing by.'

‘Nay, I will not go!' I protested.

Reinhardt, watching, came over. ‘What is it, Sylvia?'

‘The bishop. He wishes me to return to his palace.'

Reinhardt looked at the horseman, who was a small thickset man of mid-years, judging from his good hose and neat dress perhaps a trusted manservant. ‘Do you know what happened to her yesterday?' the ratcatcher asked.

‘Aye, it was a mistake. His Lordship meant only to frighten her. No harm was to come of it.'

‘Then you may tell the bishop he succeeded exceedingly well,' I interjected.

He shook his head and smiled, speaking softly, ‘Nay, nay, fräulein. His Lordship apologises and wishes me to tell you he meant you no harm. It will be to your great advantage if you should come.'

‘And if I don't?'

He smiled again. He had been well chosen for this task and would not easily be drawn to anger. ‘It is not a consequence we have contemplated,' he said calmly. We both knew that I had no choice – a peasant and at that a woman might not disobey a Prince of the Church and hope to survive the experience. The very least I might expect was a public flogging and it could be worse – he could declare me a heretic.

As if he read my thoughts, not smiling, he said, ‘The cross of crows, might that not easily be seen as the work of a witch?'

‘But it is the raven and the jackdaw, not the crow, that are the devil's birds,' Reinhardt exclaimed. ‘Sylvia's way with birds is well-known to all! The bishop has already been petitioned by two priests and asked to pronounce this gift of summoning the birds of the air as an act divinely inspired.'

‘Aye, but not the crow! The crows of Cologne are long known for their satanic powers. They are the third of the devil's birds, the carrion bird that eats gallows' flesh and, like the raven and the jackdaw, is a harbinger of misfortune. To cause one of these satanic birds to fashion the holy cross, the very birds that were present with the Jews at Golgotha when they crucified our Saviour, is that not the work of a witch? What think you if a bishop should call a convocation of priests to bear judgement upon this heinous cross of crows?'

I looked at him in astonishment. It was obvious this was no humble manservant. I had never thought the bishop a man sufficiently intelligent to serve his holy vocation, and Brother Dominic had often pronounced him a bumbling, garrulous fool. I now saw whence came his counsel on those rare occasions when it proved to be sound. I did not for one moment think that he believed this artifice of crows contrived into a cross was witchery, but, instead, was well aware how it might be made to look thus to the commonfolk.

‘How then must I be punished a second time? Was the bishop's frightening not sufficient?' I asked, trembling inwardly.

‘Punished?' he asked, surprised. ‘I did not speak of punishment, only of consequence.'

‘You play with words, sire,' I said softly.

‘And for a woman you have far too many,' he said, for a moment losing his patience and indicating quite another character concealed within. ‘Come, I have a cart waiting.'

‘But it is near Evensong, may I not go in the morning?' I cried. ‘I shall leave with the ringing of the Angelus.'

‘Nay, you are needed in the palace at first light.'

‘Where will I sojourn?' I glanced at Reinhardt. ‘May I bring my friend?'

‘With the servants, and nay! You
must
be alone,' he said firmly.

‘I will follow, Sylvia, and will wait outside the gates, under the elm,' Reinhardt said. I had told him of our previously being made to wait at the gates and of the elm tree.

‘Do not try to enter the bishop's palace,' the envoy said sharply. ‘I will not tolerate it.'

It was now certain that he was the high-lofty among the bishop's retainers. We had arrived at the bishop's palace when it was yet twilight and the horseman, who had ridden just ahead of the trundling cart as if to ensure that I made no attempt to escape, now rode up, the animal's hooves crunching on the gravelled forecourt. He still had not introduced himself, and the cart driver had simply grunted when I'd asked him if he knew the name of the bishop's envoy. He had clearly been told not to speak to me and, despite several attempts at conversation, remained silent. Looking down at me from his horse with an expression of disinterest, his formerly patient and equitable demeanour absent, the envoy said abruptly, ‘A servant will take you to your lodgings. He has been told not to speak to you.'

‘I have not eaten today,' I said to the manservant who accompanied me. He merely grunted and soon we arrived at a small stone building that stood on its own near the stables where he unbolted the door and with a nod indicated that I should enter. ‘Will you arrange for some sustenance?' I asked again but still he made no answer.