John McPake and the Sea Beggars Page 9

  The black wart burst, the black stuff spurted into Johannes’ eyes. Blinded, he fell to the floor, to be dragged unconscious from the court and thrown into the back of the building.

  A junior officer took John’s arm, led him into the station cell and slammed the door after him.

  Cornelius tore himself free from Balthasar, picking up a tankard from the floor and hurling it towards the departing soldiers. ‘Shit filled heretics, Satan’s whores!’ This last word was swallowed by snow gusting into the room.

  A young girl, possibly the bride, sobbed. The two dogs, sensing something amiss, growled before turning their attention to the copious amounts of food spilt on the floor. The piper inspected his instrument. Trodden on during the fracas, it looked ruined beyond repair, a swan with a broken neck. ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry,’ he said, as if consoling an injured child.

  An elderly man spat in the direction of the space previously occupied by the door. The father of the bride, a dignified man in green hose, approached Balthasar and the brooding Cornelius. He placed an arm on each of them to show there was no resentment against the uninvited guests who had inadvertently turned a joyous occasion into a calamitous one.

  ‘It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourselves. We all agreed to an act of defiance to mark my daughter’s wedding. We met and voted to ignore the curfew. This is our life, these are our children.’ The other guests moved closer and nodded. ‘We knew they might come. Their spies haunt the hedgeways and listen in the taverns. They blackmail the weak, and frighten the strong.’ He moved closer to the doorway and peered into the blizzard. ‘We gave victuals to two young men from the next village. They were to scour the horizon for intruders. If they raised the alarm all music, laughter and merriment would cease on the instant, all fires would be doused and candles extinguished. They will be lying somewhere, their blood draining into the snow.’

  From the back of the room a drunken peasant emerged from his self-induced catatonic state. He embarked on a bawdy song that included frequent references to a bull’s pizzle before the woman standing nearest to him slapped him across his face, instantly returning him to his previous state of oblivion.

  ‘Your friend will be taken to Gravenvezel where he will be tortured and killed unless you buy his freedom,’ explained the bride’s father. Others nodded their agreement with this analysis.

  ‘We have no money,’ said Cornelius. Balthasar shrugged and tapped his pockets in a gesture of futility.

  After a moment’s silence the young bride and her new husband approached from the back of the room. The other guests moved aside respectfully. The woman took Cornelius’s clenched fist, gently opened it and folded it again around a coin. ‘If you take this,’ she said, ‘we will forever associate this day with giving hope to strangers. The memory will erase that of the Spanish mercenaries who subjugate us and destroy our happiness.’ The murmurs of agreement that initially filled the room like penitents’ whispered prayers grew louder and more insistent until they erupted into a shout of defiance.

  The assembled guests crowded forward to embrace the two men who were overwhelmed by their generosity. The old man led them to the doorway, wiped the stinging snow from his eyes and pointed towards the east. ‘Four leagues, maybe more,’ he said. As they stood there a young girl approached and handed Balthasar an improvised parcel of food rescued from the upturned table.

  ‘Bless you, bless you,’ said Cornelius holding her hand with such fervour that the girl became embarrassed and turned back into the assembled mass of well-wishers. The dogs too were patted and spoken to encouragingly.

  John stared at the black and white chequered tiles on the floor of the police cell, which was suddenly crawling with large flies, bloated bluebottles, fat larvae squeezing themselves out of their pupae. His feet were barely visible under the squirming mass of putrefying insects. The smell belonged to the charnel house; to murder victims left in ditches, to fetid putrid wounds.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said the Bastard.

  SEVENTEEN

  There were others in Johannes’ cell. A father and son slept in the corner with their mouths open. A young man, whose clothes were soaked with urine, banged his head against the wall repeating a phrase that Johannes could not make out. A peasant woman with the nose of an eagle and metal teeth was stamping the straw at intervals, cackling with satisfaction whenever she crushed one of the darting cockroaches. She picked up their smudged remains and dropped them into her mouth as if they were oysters.

  Noticing Johannes, she approached with the shy demeanour of a young child and opened her hand, offering a tiny black carcass. Johannes shook his head whereupon the woman grew immeasurably sad and shrank into a corner.

  An emaciated but dignified figure, wearing the remnants of what may have been a Pastor’s cloak, walked slowly towards Johannes and placed an arm round his shoulder.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said.

  He was strangely familiar but Johannes could not place him. ‘This is our mansion, maybe God has others for us but … ’ His gesture encompassed the whole space. Johannes glanced at the wattled walls, stained with what he hoped was not human blood.

  Messages were scratched at head height, mainly dates and names; there were simple prayers too, begging notes to a God who for reasons best known to himself was now indifferent to the petitioners’ persecution. Perhaps, after a short flirtation with Luther, God had reverted to Catholicism. This was the same God who had allowed Michel to be taken. Feeling his anger rise, Johannes distracted himself by reading the more secular messages: simple ill-spelt declarations of love to wives, mistresses, children.

  ‘Maria blyf my trou.’

  ‘Mother, hold me.’

  ‘I strayed from the path. Forgive me’

  A wall of missives destined never to be read by those to whom they were dedicated, most unbearable were those urging family members and friends to remember the writer after his death. There were drawings too: a dog, a small hut and, etched in red, an image of the wheel upon which the draughtsman would in all probability have been strapped and broken. Johannes was not, at that moment, strong enough to face his own nightmare apprehensions concerning Michel.

  The man who had embraced him earlier was still watching. Johannes remembered where he had seen him before. He was the hedge preacher who had first sown the seed of doubt about the old religion in the hearts of the small community.

  The weavers and their families had gathered under the branches of the large tree outside the village. It was a hot day and the shelter was welcome. Frenzied crickets almost drowned out the deferential conversations. They spread cloths on the ground and shared rye bread, cheese and wine. Children ran among their elders playing tig, the village dogs did likewise, young lovers stole kisses and said secret things. Expectation grew until the preacher appeared. The jostling crowd parted respectfully as he was ushered towards a knoll at the foot of a large oak.

  ‘We’re moving through the oeuvre now. St John the Baptist’s Fast Day Sermon from the Budapest Museum of Fine Arts if I’m not mistaken.’

  Probably, Academic, but it doesn’t matter.

  Antonia was quickly won over. She had only reluctantly agreed to accompany husband and son after complaining about the foolishness of leaving the looms to hear the latest fanatic. Standing in the shadow of the oak, screwing up the corner of her apron and squinting into the preacher’s sunlit face, in that instant she was wooed, won and ravished by his openness, honesty and warmth. He reminded her of her father, she said. His voice soared into the branches and his eyes lit up as he declaimed the joys of salvation, conjuring the vision of an eternity untainted by fear, illness or death. At one point, just as his rhetoric strove to encompass the rapture and ecstasy of union with God, a neighbour’s child tumbled from a tree amid a flurry of leaves and small branches. Even that was turned by the preacher to his advantage as he built in references to fallen angels and predestination. In quieter moments the old women at the back strained to hear, interrupting proceedi
ngs with ‘What did he say?’ They were hushed by those standing further forward equally eager not to miss a word.

  They walked back through the fields, in the early evening, in the warm glow of the setting sun and were, quite simply, happy. Michel skipped ahead eager for his supper. The following day Antonia lapsed into her sorrows.

  There was a barred window on the far wall. Curious, Johannes moved towards it until the pastor stood in front of him and blocked his way. Johannes moved him aside and grasped each of the two metal bars.

  Smoke from numerous small fires hung in the air, the cloying, choking smell made Johannes pull the front of his smock over his nose. The landscape was battle scarred and burning, the few remaining trees blackened. In one of them a tiny naked figure hid in the charred and hollow trunk. On the horizon an elongated corpse hung from a gallows beneath which small figures watched without interest. A man on his knees, head bowed, was being beaten by a tall thin figure with a long cane. Victims were herded towards the open doors of a box-like container. The dead, already dressed only in white shifts, were being ravaged by dogs and further stripped by rapacious looters.

  ‘It’s The Triumph of Death, the Prado, Madrid.’

  Shh! I’m getting into my stride now. A cart overloaded

  with corpses and skulls trundles through the market place

  of the dead, dying, mutilated and desecrated. The bone-thin nag straining under its burden is urged on by the flail

  wielded by the skeleton-in-chief who struggles to hold a

  lantern with his spare arm. An open coffin, already occupied, straddles another white clad corpse rocking as if on a fulcrum. A body has plunged head first into a crater of cess and rain. Its legs wave at the sky in slow motion. In the distance the battle still rages; a frieze of lances, broadswords and cudgels is visible above a pall of smoke and flame. A raven picks at the flesh; a dog sifts through the bones. On the distant gray sea an arc of lost souls floats towards oblivion. On the deck tiny figures with oval mouths crowd together, their arms trapped at their sides. A beacon lit with human eyes sinks into the water. Strange black dragonflies hover; emaciated s

  oldiers press their shields against the insistent army of the

  dead.

  ‘For God’s sake, Narrator, get a grip. This is overwritten, self-indulgent shite!’

  I’m sorry, but the Academic is right. This is an accurate depiction of The Triumph of Death. Each detail is lifted directly from the canvas. Remember, John would stare for hours at this painting. Isn’t that right, John?

  ‘Big hairy deal. It’s crap and you know it’.

  Go on, if you don’t believe me look it up, I’ll even give you the link www.museodelprado.es/…/the-triumph-of-death

  ‘Don’t be stupid. And don’t sulk. Pathetic!’

  I’m not sulking.

  ‘You are!’

  Where was I? An impotent militiaman tugs at his sword which refuses to leave the scabbard. A terrified harlequin hides under the table still set for a feast. Insect figures without eyes smile at everything and nothing. A bogie man in black silhouette rails at his dying flock. Two skeletons tug at bell ropes. Thighbones mark the hour on the clock. A girning wraith empties gray bladders from a wicker hamper. A torso, half man, half frog struggles to remove a cage from its head in which frets a small bird. High above the burning ground spindly cartwheels, nailed to the tops of charred poles like carnival hats, hang heavy with tortured, limp carcases. In the foreground an oblivious youth plays the mandolin to woo his lover.

  I’m sorry, John. I’m struggling now. I’m not sulking. I just need to lie down…

  ‘About time. After all, this is my territory. When all is said and done, this is an accurate representation of your soul; isn’t that right, John? A wonderful metaphor for the essential sickness that characterises your whole being, the same sickness that made you neglect your brother in the home, that drove your mother away in the first place, and drove your wife into someone else’s arms. Isn’t that right, John? Do you think they’re having sex even as we speak? She can’t get enough, especially after living with you with your pathetic cock and lack of appetite … ’

  ‘Jester, stop pushing! All right, go ahead. I can’t be arsed anyway.’

  ‘There were funny moments though weren’t there, John? Do you remember when you fell in love with that naked mannequin in Debenhams? You caressed her cold plastic breasts and averted your gaze from her smooth and rounded pubic area. You tore a dress from an adjacent clothes rail and, covering her modesty, swept her up in your arms and steered her out of the shop. You have to admit, it was amusing. “We are meant for each other,” you explained to the security guard on the door. “Ours is a marriage made in heaven.” The man was so astonished he did nothing. Then you tried to pay her fare on the number 44. “Get aff ma bus!” said the driver … ’

  From an academic perspective the pair of you are contributing nothing.

  ‘I was only trying… ’ explained the Jester, upset at being interrupted.

  ‘I’m sure you were … the research is certainly interesting. All that the Narrator describes is indeed taken from the picture he mentions. Some experts suspect that our old friend Bosch may have had something to do with it. But undeniably it is this picture that is referred to in the estate of Philip van Valckenisse, Triumphe vanden Doot, van Bruegel. All of the traditional elements of the medieval Dance of Death are there, the skeleton riding a miserable nag, a burning landscape, it’s all there. Well done. There you are, Narrator, I’ve done my best to provide a sense of perspective, if you’ll forgive the pun. I’m sure you’ve got your breath back by now. I think you should take over again, after all, even from an academic point of view, you are very good … ’

  Flatterer.

  The pastor moved Johannes away from the barred window and ushered him towards the heap of blood-stained straw.

  EIGHTEEN

  John huddled, foetal-like, under the single blanket in the cell until the panic attack subsided and his body unclenched, his hyperventilation mutating into laboured breathing. He felt cold from a film of sweat. He knew he must become grounded so tried to concentrate on the detail of his surroundings. Pale green painted walls, a lavatory pan with no seat, a wooden bench the length of the wall, a light bulb encased in a mesh of protective wire, the small spy hole in the door and the untouched meal on its tray on the floor.

  At the very moment he teetered on the cusp of deep sleep, the Tempter popped up and woke him.

  ‘Stay vigilant, John. He might be here you know. Like you, he could have fallen on hard times, the wrong side of the law. He might be in the next cell, thinking about you. Imagine that, after all this time the pair of you separated by a thin wall, neither knowing the other was just inches away.’

  Lacking the energy to resist, John pulled himself upright and listened intently for sounds of sleeping from the adjacent cell. Nothing, only the dull buzz of the lighting and the occasional ping from the radiator.

  ‘Still, next time,’ said the Tempter.

  Still clutching the coin, Cornelius attempted to fasten his coat at the neck. The buttonhole proved elusive. ‘Spanish sodomites!’ he shouted, stamping on the ground. ‘Catholic catamites, Lucifer’s lepers. Bastards!’ He was shushed by the wind-shaking trees. Knowing that his friend’s anger had to run its course, Balthasar turned to chastise the dogs who were understandably reluctant to forsake the warmth of the inn and pad once more into the snow.

  ‘We can be there at dawn,’ said Cornelius.

  The wind tore at their faces as they set off in the direction indicated by the father of the bride. Although it was only mid-afternoon the weak sun had already given up the pretence of holding any real shape or purpose in the sky, its residual light was shredded across the white bleakness.

  Balthasar thought of home. He found himself hankering for the tedium and repetitiveness of the loom, and glanced down at his gloves. What had happened to his weavers’ hands, softened by the lanolin?

 
He stood on the stone flags of their kitchen and moved towards Wilhelmien who initially resisted and pushed him away before responding, albeit grudgingly, to his kiss. He checked the logs in the hearth, stirring the broth as he always did.

  Cornelius punched his stick into the grinning face of the first soldier to force his way over the threshold of the inn. He derived great satisfaction from toppling the next Spaniard from his horse and smashing his elbow into the gap beneath the visor. He spat at his victim and pissed into his face as he squirmed on the ground. As the chill wind snapped him out of his reverie he thought of Johannes. There was no guarantee he had been taken to the Dieventoren, he might already be dead, beaten and killed by the soldiers to keep themselves warm and stave off the boredom of their long journey back to the barracks.

  ‘Keep the faith,’ said Balthasar.

  The sluggish water seeping from the dykes gradually solidified into frozen ropes. Elsewhere globular icicles hung like forsaken weapons. The dogs growled as they floundered through the drifts. The only navigational aids were the setting sun and the intermittent smudge of a church spire that would briefly emerge on the horizon before being hidden again by flurries of snow.

  A clump of snow would, now and then, drape itself round their faces like a cold flannel, at other times single playful flakes wandered into their open mouths. They passed a pond which held the frozen shapes of two ducks, perfectly upright, rendered immobile at the very moment when the already heavy water froze.

  The dogs stopped and turned their snouts upwards. Correctly interpreting the gesture, the two men nudged the animals into the hedgerow to let pass several horses and their riders which had emerged without warning.

  ‘Walloon mercenaries,’ muttered Balthasar, correctly identifying the red coats. The snarling dogs spooked the last horse in the procession. The frightened beast reared and teetered and, for a moment, Cornelius’ face was inches away from a flailing spur as its owner reined his horse down and threw a curse at the two peasants. They were too busy to stop and interrogate them. Having fulfilled their quota for the investigators, their imperative was to get to camp as soon as possible and share details of the women they had manhandled at the previous village. Cornelius brushed himself down and waved his fist at the departing group. ‘We’re going the right way,’ commented Balthasar. ‘At least they have trampled a path for us.’