Q by Luther Blissett (most recommended books txt) 📖

M�nster, 9 February 1534, morning

I’m woken by a burst of knocks on the door.

Instinctively my hand goes under the mattress for the handle of my dagger.

‘Gert! Gert! Get up, Gert, get a move on!’

My sleep recoils, hitting me right between the eyes: who the fuck?

‘Gert we’re in deep shit, wake up!’

I swing out of bed, trying to keep my balance.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Adrianson! Get a move on, everyone’s running to the square!’

As I put on my breeches and slip into my old jacket, I’m already thinking the worst. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Open up, we’ve got to get to the Council!’

As he’s saying the last word, I swing the door open into his face.

I must look like a ghost, but the cold sharpens my senses in a moment or two.

Adrianson, the farrier, doesn’t have the jovial air that he usually brings to our evening discussions. He’s completely out of breath: ‘Redeker. He’s just brought a stranger into the square, a man who’s arrived… He says he saw the bishop getting an army together at Anmarsch, three thousand men. They’re about to rain down on us, Gert.’

A twinge in my stomach. ‘Landsknechts?’

‘Move it, let’s go. Redeker wants to consult the burgomasters.’

‘Are you sure, though? Who is this stranger?’

‘I don’t know, but if what he says is true they’re about to put us under siege.’

In the corridor I knock at the front door: ‘Jan! Wake up, Jan!’

I open the door of my mate from Leyden, which, despite advice, is never locked. His bed hasn’t been slept in.

‘He’s usually having a shag in some barn or other…’

The farrier drags me down the stairs. I almost fall to the bottom. Adrianson goes down the street ahead of me, it’s been snowing all night, the slush splashes up from our boots, someone tells me to fuck off.

We run to the main square: a white meadow. At its centre, the dark mass of the Cathedral looks even bigger than usual. Agitation spreads through the clusters of people collected under the Rathaus window.�

‘The bishop wants to enter the city with his army.’

‘He can fuck off. Over my dead body!’

‘It was that bitch of an abbess who called him.’

‘With our taxes. That bastard’s paying an army to fuck us over.’

‘No, no, that big slag of an abbess of �berwasser… it’s all because of that business with the novices.’

In spite of the frost, at least five hundred people have surged into the square on the wave of the news.

‘We’ve got to defend ourselves, we need weapons.’

‘Yes, yes, let’s listen to the burgomaster.’

I spot Redeker in the middle of a group of about thirty people. He has the cocky air of someone determined to go against the grain.

‘Three thousand armed men.’

‘Yes, they’re at the gates of the city.’

‘You only have to get up on the tower over the J�defeldertor to see them.’

I feel a blow on my shoulder and turn around. Redeker versus the rest, snowballs in hand. Someone must have tried to shut him up. Suddenly there’s turmoil. People glancing upwards: burgomaster Tilbeck is at the window of the Rathaus.

A roar of protest.

‘The bishop’s army is marching on the city!’

‘Someone’s ratted on us!’

‘We’ve been sold to von Waldeck!’

‘We’ve got to defend the walls!’

‘The abbess, the abbess, lock up the abbess!’

‘Never mind the abbess, it’s cannon we need!’

The little clusters merge into a general mob. They look even more numerous than before. Tilbeck stiffly raises his arms to embrace the whole square.

‘People of M�nster, let’s not lose our calm. This story of three thousand men has not yet been confirmed.’

‘Bollocks, they’ve been seen from the walls.’

‘That’s right, that’s right, someone’s arrived from Anmarsch. They’re on their way.’

The burgomaster doesn’t lose his cool. He shakes his head and, with a seraphic gesture, tries to calm them down. ‘Don’t get worked up: we’ll send someone to check.’

The crowd glance at each other impatiently.

‘Army or not, Bishop von Waldeck has personally given me every guarantee that he won’t violate municipal privileges. M�nster will remain a free city. He’s personally committed to it. We’ll show them we haven’t lost our heads: this is the moment to act responsibly! M�nster must live up to its ancient tradition of civic tolerance and cohabitation. At a time when all adjacent territories are involved in internecine wars and revolts, M�nster has to be exemplary in…’

The snowball catches him full in the face. The burgomaster collapses on to the windowsill, submerged in a sea of insults. One of the councillors helps him to his feet. Blood flows from his split cheekbone: something must have been hidden in the snow.

There’s only one person in the whole of M�nster with an aim like that.

Tilbeck beats a retreat, followed by the most furious shouting.

‘Corruption! Corruption!’

‘Tilbeck, you’re a whore: you and all your Lutheran friends!’

‘What the fuck do you expect? If it wasn’t for you bloody Anabaptists, von Waldeck wouldn’t raise a finger against the city.’

‘Bastards, we know you’re in league with the bishop!’

Some people start shoving. The first blows fly. Redeker is still on his own. There are three of them, all pretty well built. They don’t know who they’re up against. The biggest of them aims a fist at face-height, Redeker bends over and takes it on the ear, stumbles back and aims a kick between the other man’s legs: the Lutheran bends double, his balls in his throat. Then a knee to his nose and his two comrades have a tight grip on Redeker, who is kicking away like a crazed mule. The big one hits him in the stomach. I don’t give him time to do it again: a two-handed blow to the back of the neck. When he turns around, I rain blows down on his nose. He falls on his arse. I turn around, Redeker has freed himself from the clutches of the other two. Back to back, we defend ourselves against attack.

‘Who thought up the story of the three thousand knights?’

He spits at his adversary and nudges me in the ribs. ‘Who said anything about knights?’

I almost burst out laughing as we strike out, each man for himself. But by now it’s a general riot, we’re swept along by it. A troop of fifty men emerges from behind the Cathedral: the weavers of St Egidius, roused by Rothmann’s sermons. In a moment the Lutherans are on the opposite corner of the square.

Redeker, more of a son of a bitch than ever, looks at me with a mocking laugh: ‘Better than the cavalry!’

‘Great, and now what are we going to do?’

From the market square, the sound of the bells of St Lamberti. As though we’re being summoned.

‘To St. Lamberti, to St. Lamberti!’

We run to the market square and invade the stalls under the astonished gaze of the traders.

‘The bishop’s about the enter the city!’

‘Three thousand soldiers!’

‘The burgomasters and the Lutherans are in cahoots with von Waldeck!’

Among the carts, the tools of daily work are turned into weapons. Hammers, hatchets, slingshots, hoes, knives. In the blink of an eye the carts themselves become barricades, blocking all access to the square. Someone has taken the prie-dieus out of St. Lamberti to reinforce these improvised walls.

Redeker grabs me in the confusion: ‘The people from St. Egidius have brought ten crossbows, five hackbuts and two barrels of gunpowder. I’m off to speak to Wesel the armourer to see what else I can get hold of.

‘I’ll go and get Rothmann, we need him here.’

We set off without wasting any more time, quick, dashing through the furious crowds.

Knipperdolling and Kibbenbrock are also in the presbytery of St Lamberti. They’re sitting disconsolately at the table and all three leap to their feet when they see me come in.

‘Gert! Good to see you. What the hell’s happening?’

I look hard at the preacher of the Baptists. ‘An hour ago news came in that von Waldeck has prepared a force to march on the city.’ The two guild representatives blanch. ‘I don’t know how much is true, the news must have got exaggerated along the way, but it’s certainly not a carnival prank.’

Knipperdolling; ‘But they’re already