Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church (7 page)

There, beneath the blossoming apple trees and lindens, was where Kilian had composed his most beautiful melodies in Tallinn, and it was in this place that he recalled the words of his friend Giuseppe that the best music truly springs forth in gardens, there, where the greenery enfolds you and where life blooms. Unlike Milan, Tallinn was not known for its gardens … Kilian's heart ached whenever he recalled his days in Milan. Oh, why, he often thought, could there not be such gardens in Tallinn – such sun and warmth, such a joy of living, such royal courts, grandeur and magnificence? However, something dear to the heart and pleasing to the eye could also be found in Tallinn. Yes, also in Tallinn.
Here it was cold and bleak, the summers were brief and spring felt monotonous. The snow would melt, but the weather would not warm up, the grass would not burst forth from the ground and the trees would not unfurl their leaves. It felt as if nature no longer knew whether it was alive or dead after the long winter. Kilian loathed springtime in Tallinn the most – it was a spring quite different from that at home in Nuremberg or in Milan, where he had spent the most magnificent time of his life. It was spring, not winter, that was the time of death in Tallinn. Winter was even pretty in its cold, glassy essence, its glowing hearths and cosy evenings. Spring, on the contrary, wounds a person through its very absence, with its cold, filth and muck. That was when it was most painful to live here. Eastertide in Tallinn was filled with inertia, mourning and distress – not like in Milan. Now, in mid-May, it seemed as if even the trees and bushes prompted him to remember that the time of death was past.

The apple trees in St Nicholas's churchyard had broken out in bloom today.

Kilian Rechpergerin sat on his rock, freshly warmed by the spring sun, and played his lute while two girls sat at his feet and listened. Both of the girls, Katrine and Birgitta, were pretty, and proud town maidens at that, the daughters of town citizens. Alas, they were so young, and love was not even a game to them yet. Their hearts were certainly full of good cheer, and the prospect of betrothal was no longer too far off, but love remained a somewhat amusing and foreign land to them, a thing of delight. They were not aware that love must hurt and that true love means pain.

Kilian sang:

‘Lo, the tavern lies there at the crossroads

Close to Dorrenstamm

And Satan himself runs the bar …'

It was an old song that he had heard a couple of years ago at a roadside inn in autumn while on his way from Nuremburg to Milan. The song spoke of a tavern where Satan led travellers astray, coaxed them into casting dice and forced them to sell their souls to cover their debts. Kilian had once felt that selling one's soul was an empty and unnecessary act. Bishops sometimes spoke of it, and travelling monks preached about it. Yet a person could not actually sell their soul; it was just fable.

Now he knew better. Now he understood that song.

A man can sell his soul. It is possible to tempt a person on to the road to sin. Sin lies in thoughts, in a look … sin lies in coveting. It is a mortal sin. It was not without cause that Kilian had chosen that very churchyard for his noontime idling. It was past this spot that Gerdrud walked every day at midday on her way to visit the mill beyond Harju Gate.

‘Listen, you, Sire Meistersinger of Nuremburg, do you know any happier songs as well?' Katrine asked, giggling. The freckles on her brow flickered in the rays of sunlight – she was a pretty red-haired girl with mirthful green eyes.

‘Yes, the kind of songs that are also suitable for young, chaste girls and not only those about dice and Satan,' Birgitta urged.

‘Or do you believe that all songs should speak of men's merrymaking?' ‘Sire Meistersinger Kilian Rechpergerin of Nuremberg has likely lost his tongue completely because of his great master-singing?'

The questions rained down upon Kilian; the girls giggled, but the singer could now see Gerdrud approaching in the distance. The young woman carried a basket under her arm. She noticed Kilian – and she also noticed the two girls listening to his music. If Kilian had been alone then Gerdrud might possibly have walked closer and chided him for wasting the day in this manner – singing along to melodies strummed on his lute – but this time she did not draw near. This time she did not even nod. She averted her gaze as if she had not seen Kilian. As if he were not even there.

This hurt him – however, it hurt him sweetly, filling his heart with painful joy.

‘Not in the least, lovely maidens,' he said, raking his fingers across the strings of the instrument. ‘However, I am not yet an actual Meistersinger, I am only a
Schulfreund,
a wandering journeyman. But, in spite that of that, I wish to sing to you. There is a song for everyone, be they young or old, fat or thin, beautiful or ugly, man or woman, robber or cleric.'

‘And who are we, in your opinion? Young or old? Fat or thin?' Birgitta asked. ‘Beautiful or ugly, robbers or clergy?'

‘Women or men?' Katrine said through a fit of giggles.

‘Who you are, lovely maidens, is for you to decide, for you to choose and for you to find out. I have already chosen my own path, and I walk it with song. You know, in our guild it is understood that in order for a man to become a true Meistersinger he must be able to create a song in
an instant from thin air, from nothing at all, a song that has never before existed.' Kilian spoke with enthusiasm. Gerdrud was now quite close, although she still did not turn her head to acknowledge him.

‘And can you perform that art, Kilian Rechpergerin?' Katrine enquired.

‘As I said, I am merely a travelling journeyman. My skill is not yet that of a true Meistersinger.'

‘Do not be so modest, Kilian. We heard how you sang just now.'

‘Then tell us, would you be able to conjure up your own song out of thin air just now?'

‘Or one about something that you see and which is pleasing to you?'

‘Oh, but do I not always sing of what pleases me and of what is dear to my heart? Can one ever sing of anything else?' Kilian asked wistfully.

But the girls pushed him further. Kilian only feigned resistance; he was simply waiting.

‘Then sing, Kilian. You are supposed to wander and sing to everyone,' Birgitta commanded.

‘Very well, I will sing,' the boy retorted. ‘But of what?'

‘Sing about something – no, sing rather of nothing at all. Yes, exactly, sing your own new song about nothing at all,' the girls clamoured.

‘Of nothing at all? Fine, then I will sing,' Kilian acquiesced. Gerdrud was very close now and had to be within earshot. Kilian did not see that Melchior and Dorn had stopped for a moment at the foot of the hill. Dorn was still explaining some matter to his assistants, but Melchior had started up the hill. He raised his hand to Kilian in greeting and stopped to hear the song.

‘Here is a song about nothing at all

It speaks not of I nor of any other

Not of love, nor of youth

Or of anything else, of nothing at all

It materialized before me while I slept

Galloping on its horse in solitude

I have no inkling of when I was born

I am neither happy nor angry

I am not a stranger here

And I have no place here

I am I to do

A mountain fairy cursed me like this

I do not know whether I sleep or I wake

My heart is nearly broken, I'm in such despair

Yet I care for this not, not with half of my finger

I have fallen in love with someone, I know not who she is

Because I have never seen her

Never in all of eternity has she made me glad or dejected

And I care not for this

I have never seen her, yet I love her so deeply

She has done for me not what she should nor what is forbidden

When I do not see her I am happy

I do not care for her in the least

For I know someone who is kinder and finer and richer as well

I know not where she lives

Whether above in the mountains or on flat plains

It would be too painful to tell her how she tortures me

And also too painful to remain

Hence I will depart

Here is my song

I know not what it concerns

I send it off to someone

Who will send it with someone else to someone in Nuremburg

Perhaps this person can send me a key from my small chest with which I might solve this puzzle.'

Gerdrud passed Kilian as if the boy were not even there. Melchior, however, listened to the end with interest and then cantered off after the Magistrate.

M
ELCHIOR WAITED NEAR
the Town Hall briefly while Dorn tracked down the court servants, the assistant scribe and the town advocate, berated them all and then ordered them to head to Toompea. There were two roads that led from Lower Town up to Toompea. The larger, grander road, used by draft horses and livestock, was called Pikk Mägi or Long Hill. This started at the end of Rataskaevu Street close to the Town Hall and passed through a gate tower built during Melchior's youth. The other, Väike Mägi, or Short Hill, had a wooden gate with a narrow entryway at the base of the hill. The town watchmen locked both gates every evening and took the keys to the Town Hall. There was little chance of getting up Short Hill in spring, as it was too steep and slippery with mud. Many men had broken bones attempting the climb, and recently one Order attendant had fallen and broken his neck.

Reaching Toompea by way of Long Hill was no easy task in the month of May either, as the road was muddy and covered in manure, pitted by large potholes and was so narrow in places so that carts could barely squeeze through. Rocks and rubble constantly tumbled down on to the road from the cliff above, on top of which meandered the Great Castle's curtain wall.

One had to pass through two gates to reach Toompea. Melchior knew the way well because one winter he had attended school near the Dome Church. The road went straight as they passed through the stone tower at the base of Long Hill. The rocky base of the cliff loomed to their right, as if it were a protective barrier built by nature itself. To the left yawned a gorge – if anyone were to slip here they would reach the town with ease and very rapidly. Even Melchior's house and rear courtyard were clearly
visible from there. At one stage the Town Council had ordered the construction of a railing alongside the road, but it had been damaged a couple of winters ago and no longer provided any security for those scaling the hill. The small, rectangular Short Hill gate tower stood a couple hundred paces above and marked the town's limits. Anyone ascending the hill was at that point forced to leave behind the free town air and Lübeck law because then they would cross into the dominion of Toompea where the Commander ruled and laws of the Teutonic Order held sway. In front of the timber tower was a heavy double gate constructed from oak, which the Council watchmen locked at sundown. No one could enter Order territory from the town at night-time or vice versa.

The group walked – rather stumbled – up the slope until the men finally reached the point at which the Short Hill Gate intersected with Long Hill. Melchior mused that it felt as if the stretch between the two gates had been put there for the sole purpose of allowing a citizen a chance to decide whether he really wished to pass beyond the castle walls and hand himself over to Order law; whether he really had the will to abandon his secure town rights and the protection of the Council and step into the stronghold of his country's overlords.

They were now within the outer bailey of Toompea, which had a courtyard enclosed by a low wall ringed by a moat. By passing through the bailey one could either go north through Bell Tower Gate to the bishop's residence or through the main gate leading to the Commander's grand keep, which loomed a few hundred steps away. Either way the party of town citizens was now on Toompea in the domain of wind, rocks and power.

The first thing that struck anyone arriving from the town was the sheer might of the walls and towers. Although the Lower Town wall was continually being built higher and stronger and new towers were erected all the time, it did not appear that way when viewed from the heights of Toompea. Melchior walked this path quite frequently, as Toompea did not have its own pharmacy, but he always felt a twinge of isolation and dread when he saw those cold walls and towers rising in front of him. The Order was the Order, and the more time passed the more divergent were the lives in Order castles and the towns that surrounded them. Despite this, the present Commander of the Order in Tallinn, Ruprecht von Spanheim, was a simpler and more gracious man than many of his
predecessors and had even called the town's apothecary his friend a couple of times.

The streets of Toompea were not paved as they were in Lower Town, and there was a great deal of mud. The drab outer bailey was no exception. The men traipsed ahead through the muck towards the main gate of the keep. On their right was a moat in front of the wall that split Toompea in half, along with the Bell Tower, also known as Dome Gate. Were they to walk through that passageway and head straight along Piiskopi Street they would reach the Dome Church, the octagonal tower of which could be seen rising above the wall.

Toompea Small Castle – the Commander's residence – was immediately in front of them, as was Pikk Hermann Tower, which stood as a symbol to the townsfolk of the Teutonic Order's power and might. The stronghold had been built by soldiers of the Danish Crown, and the Order had further fortified it further, piling the castle walls higher and erecting four tall towers at each corner that were visible far out to sea along with the spire of St Olaf's Church.

Although Toompea did not have its own pharmacy, the Commander had a personal physician who sometimes mixed remedies for his lord. Over recent years, however, the doctor's vision had grown dim along with – Melchior suspected – his mind. It was for this reason that the town apothecary did not mix the Commander's medicines according to the physician's recipes but rather used his own intuition or followed instructions given by the town doctor. He had not, of course, gone before the Tallinn Council and mentioned anything about how the town's apothecary would sometimes also mix remedies for their overlord on Toompea because one or other of the councilmen might well get a malicious idea when considering this fact. Melchior Wakenstede was an apothecary by permission of the town and practised on town land and was required to mix those medications passed down to him by the town doctor. Tallinn did not need to get involved in treating the lords of Toompea. But Ruprecht von Spanheim had a somewhat different disposition from previous commanders. He was rumoured to come from a very poor noble family in Germany, a family so low in fortune that it had long been unable to find the means to maintain its status. Ruprecht von Spanheim was the fourth son of a destitute knight who did not even have sufficient means to place his son in a monastery, and thus young Ruprecht was said to have entered the Teutonic Order as young boy to
make ends meet on his own as penniless warrior-monk. By this time, however, the man had become commander of the most important town in Livonia, purely as a result of his valour in battle. Ruprecht von Spanheim had fought bravely against the Poles, the Lithuanians, the Russians, the bishops and the Swedes, and this had gained him many supporters within the Order. Yet Commander Spanheim remained a man of even temperament who regarded Tallinn's town affairs with benevolence and understanding. Playing a large part in this was certainly the beer that Toompea received from Lower Town and towards which the Commander had never shown much restraint. Quite the opposite, in fact, Melchior had deduced, given the frequency with which the Commander dispatched his attendant to the pharmacy to fetch a certain elixir. Melchior mixed this potion from herbs, apple juice and mead topped off with a raw egg, and it was because of this drink that the Commander had labelled Melchior his friend on more than one occasion.