Chapter 10
All is not what it seems

Fra Pietro chivvied Angelo into an early start. He wanted to reach Mechelen before the following evening and before the weather possibly made travel impossible. He could have stayed a while longer in Brussels; indeed Angelo was strangely pressing on the matter but the friar was keen to fulfil all his appointments. He also had a sneaking suspicion that Angelo had found more than drinking company the day before and that was reason enough to remove him from further temptation as soon as possible. The boy had not been at the tavern when the friar arrived and had only sauntered in an hour later, with a stupid grin on his face and the barest of apologies. Pietro was disturbed by the strength of his protective feelings towards him. Whether Angelo had sowed his wild oats or not, should be neither here nor there; it had to happen sometime of course but had he not solemnly promised his mother that he would see that her son came to no harm, both physically and spiritually? Yet he was irrationally irritated that his squire might have had his first physical contact with a woman. He could ask him outright but despite his curiosity, decided against it; they had a long way to travel and a lot to accomplish; the sooner they got underway the better. Still he was nagged by the thought that maybe he didn’t want to hear the answer to a direct question and was even more disturbed by his own personal experiences the day before. All things considered, it was maybe best to leave Brussels behind.
His worst fears about the weather seemed to be reinforced, as the sleety snow, drove relentlessly into their faces and the horses plodded unwillingly through the mud and slush of the still dark, city streets. He assumed it was far too early for the snow to stay around for long; it was only the beginning of November; the temperature would surely soon rise again. However, he had been told that the winters in these parts, in two of the last three years, had been both early and particularly harsh. Even more reason then to travel while the roads were still open and he was glad when the city walls were no longer visible behind them. The problem was, that due to a lack of traffic, the untrampled snow actually got deeper the further north they travelled and soon the road became hard to follow.
Not far out Brussels, they passed a gaunt and snow-decked gibbet with two swaying and long-dead corpses twisting in a grotesque ballet in the wind. In the silence that only deep snow can bring to a landscape, the creaking and squeaking of the chains in scaffold’s mountings sent chills down their spines. Angelo urged his horse forward so that he was riding alongside the friar; there was comfort in company.
As the morning wore on, more travellers and carts either passed them, or got in their way on the road; some were stuck up to their axles in the snow but much to Angelo’s disappointment, the friar always refused to offer assistance. The squire was desperate for conversation, or diversion to lighten the journey but his master was fixedly concentrated on the way ahead and the grim look on his face gave no encouragement to idle banter.
Angelo’s head was full of his experiences of the day before and although he didn’t want to share that information with the monk, he wanted to communicate with someone, or lend his shoulder to an entrenched wagon, anything to release his pent-up energy and somehow show he had moved a step closer to true manhood. Pietro was equally concentrated on the events of the previous day and was using the difficulty of the journey to steel himself to greater discipline. It was not easy, he had an aversion to the inexplicable but he repeatedly reminded himself that his mission was paramount; everything else was a diversion.
He had fully intended to write detailed accounts of his progress and send them back to both of his employers but had been distracted by what he put down to hallucinations that gave rise to uncharacteristic doubts. It didn’t matter so much; he knew he would forget nothing. One of his greatest skills was the ability to retain information in the smallest detail, analyse it and present it to whomever necessary but reports should have been long underway by now and he berated himself for his sloppiness. Tonight in Mechelen, he would correct the error and letters could be sent the next day.
Despite the snow and the bitter easterly wind, they were making good progress and a passing group of pikemen told them they were only a few hours ride away from Mechelen. Pietro felt they could afford to stop, rest the horses and themselves and eat in the next village they came across; Angelo’s relief was palpable and once again, the friar had to remind himself he didn’t travel alone.
Sint-Lievens-Houtem was clearly a community built to service the needs of the road travellers and there were two large inns to choose from. Pietro chose the one that looked the most welcoming and having tied the horses under an awning with what seemed to be good hay and an unfrozen water trough within reach, they made their way across the yard and hammered on the door.
It was some time before he got a reaction but they could hear sounds of activity and the moving of furniture inside. Eventually,and after further hammering by the priest, a high-pitched voice answered impatiently; it was difficult to ascertain if it was male or female.
“Come in why don’t you, everyone else does! Goodness, people knocking even; what manners; truly uncommon; it must be strangers but all are welcome.”
Puzzled, Angelo turned to the priest,
“What did he, or she, say? I didn’t understand a word of that. Is it Dutch, or German or what?”
Pietro smiled at the boy’s discomfort.
“Judging by the tone, I think we are welcome inside but I too have no idea what was really said. Let’s enter and see.”
His confident manner gave no indication of his caution and as always, he clutched his dagger and heaving open the thick wooden door, peered into the room.
It was a dark with a heavy drape covering the window but there was light from the flames of the fire and from candles and a torch in a bracket on the wall. They could instantly feel the heat from that enormous open hearth with its crackling and spitting logs and they could smell the spiced meat roasting on the spit and the bubbling, herbal broth in the bulbous pan; the innkeeper was clearly prepared for visitors and both friar and squire were seduced by the warmth and the smells alone.
“Shut the damned door why don’t you. Do you think this heat was created for you to leak out into the world?”
The speaker was squeezed into a tall sided wooden chair and seemed to be the landlord of the establishment, if only because of his portliness and the white, blood-spattered tunic barely covering his belly and scarlet breeched legs. Another man stood behind him with a razor in one hand and an upturned funnel for a hat. Leaning on a small, rounded, stone table were a monk and a nun with a red book balanced on her head. It was a bizarre tableau to say the least but Pietro and Angelo had removed their cloaks and were rubbing their icy fingers before the fire before they realised how bizarre.
“Father, look…he’s cutting into the landlord’s skull; why’s he doing that?”
Pietro spun round to see what the latest example of insanity in this God-forsaken land was and saw that Angelo was right. The surgeon, if that is what he was; seemed to have made an incision into the man’s skull and made a great show of digging something out. The monk looked on in admiration and the nun rested her chin impassively on her hand. There was no further reference to their newly arrived guests; they seemed absorbed in the operation and nothing else.
Pietro crossed himself more out of caution than anything else and grabbed Angelo’s arm to stop him joining the group and curb his curiosity.
“From what I can see,” he murmured, “the surgeon is performing a trepanning; it’s quite common if the patient suffers from madness ,or severe headaches, or has suffered a blow to the head which causes a significant clotting of the blood; though quite why they are doing it here and now is beyond me.”
“Well, they can hardly do it outside in this weather”, Angelo pointed out, “but the man doesn’t cry out and he can talk to us. Doesn’t he feel any pain?”
“You’re right, that is strange.”
The priest moved across the room to the group.
“May I ask…”
The landlord shouted out in his thin, wheedling voice, as if in ecstasy,
“Master, cut the stone out quickly. My name is Lubbert Das!”
After a moment’s struggle, the surgeon triumphantly plucked out and held up a mass of bloody tissue.
“Aha! There is the Devil’s work; you are now safely cured Master Lubbert.”
The monk and the nun clapped enthusiastically and the surgeon bowed so deeply that the funnel fell off his head and clattered onto the stone floor.
“Ah but wait…there is more!”
With a dramatic gesture, he plunged his knife once more into the bloody wound and extracted something else. Guarding it with his palm, he turned to Fra Pietro and his squire.
“Behold, first the extraction of Satan’s implanted insanity and now the resurrection of Master Lubbert’s wisdom.”
He removed the hand hiding the object and revealed a golden flower which he gently lay on the table beside another just like it. The monk and the nun cheered and clapped once more and the landlord sprang out of his chair and did a little jig around the room before also taking an exaggerated bow before the two strangers, blood spilling copiously from his wound onto the floor. Fra Pietro’s face must have revealed his disbelief because all four then dissolved into fits of hysterical laughter, clapped each other on the shoulders and pointed at the priest and his servant.
Pietro was on the point of leaving as quickly as possible when the landlord ran across and took him by the arm.
“Oh so serious priest; surely not! Come, eat and drink with us. Welcome, welcome and please forgive our small theatre; there is little enough amusement in this land with its present inclement weather but you have to admit, you were taken in were you not?”
Lubbert Das spoke now in reasonable Latin, instantly destroying Pietro’s earlier theory that the name Lubbert was synonymous with a fool or a simpleton. That he knew from the German texts he had read. Folk tales and legends had fascinated him since childhood and he had made it a hobby to link them to good Christian principles, so that in his work as a priest, arguments with peasants could be conducted in the context of their own folklore. It had of course, been many years since he’d had such contacts with the peasants; his promotions had rapidly moved him into totally different circles though he still found stories from different lands fascinating.
Angelo tugged at his sleeve.
“I don’t understand Father, what did they do? Is the man wounded or not? There’s so much blood; how can he not be in pain?”
Pietro laughed good-naturedly; partly to assure Angelo that there was nothing to be afraid of and partly to give the impression that he shared the joke that had been played at their expense. There was no sense in antagonising the locals, from whom they would need at least some refreshment before moving on.
“No boy, he’s not wounded; can’t you see, they’ve pulled a trick on us and a very clever one too”
He nodded in the direction of the actors who were beaming in pleasure.
“I wonder if your ale and victuals can give us as much sustenance as your entertainment provided food for the soul.”
The innkeeper laughed once more and wiping his hands on his breeches, which were liberally spattered with fake blood, poured out two jugs of ale for the visitors.
“Our ale is good master priest but our stew is the best in the land. You’re heartily welcome to partake of both, for a small price of course!”
Pietro dug in his purse and extracted two coins.
“Will this be enough?”
He knew it was more than enough but if the landlord was dishonest, they would soon know.
“More than enough my friend. For that, we will need to provide another tableau for you to see.”
“That won’t be necessary landlord. Our time is pressing and we must reach Mechelen before dark but generous helpings of your undoubtedly famed stew will certainly make the journey easier.”
With all the formalities and repartee complete, Pietro en Angelo took their seats in the corner by the fire and settled into a contented silence as they ate. The disparate group of amateur players also sat round a table and apart from the hum of low conversation, the inn became strangely peaceful. Angelo felt so comfortable that he had the inclination to curl up in the corner by the fire and sleep. They were more or less finished their meal when the atmosphere was rudely disturbed by the noisy arrival of new customers.
A large, well-dressed man burst into the room, followed by three boys each laden with what looked like canvasses and sacks overflowing with artists materials. Such was the impact of their entrance that the snow swirled and flurried in their wake and caused an unwelcome blast of cold air to displace the warmth from the fire.
“Ho Innkeeper, four bowls of whatever is in the stew pot today and jugs of ale to wash away its foul taste and quick as you like!”
Pietro found his manner a little robust but could not help but like the look of the man. He had an open face, sparkling eyes and a laugh that set you at ease. Not a man to cross perhaps but probably one to do honest business with. The four new arrivals took their seats at a long table and with what seemed a great deal of fuss, disrobed and settled themselves in. Both Pietro and Angelo found them strangely intrusive but had to accept that they had as much right to be there as themselves. The older man glanced over and bowed slightly.
“Good day sirs. Not the best of weather to be out and about in is it?”
The friar answered,
“Indeed not sir; we have travelled from Brussels and are heading for Mechelen, for we have an appointment with the Regentess, Margaretha tomorrow.”
Quite why he so readily gave away their intentions he didn’t know; there was something trustworthy about the man. However, it turned out to be a fortuitous remark.
“Now that is well met sir for I have the fortune to be the good lady’s court painter. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Gerard Horenbout and these are my sons and my daughter Susannah. They are apprenticed to both her ladyship and me and shortly to find work at the English court. In fact, the whole family is on the point of moving to London to gain employment with King Henry.”
Angelo’s ears had pricked up at the mention of a daughter but he had to look hard to see that one of the ‘ sons’ was indeed a girl, a woman even, though the way she was dressed against the winter weather, it was difficult to make out her form or features. Somewhat optimistically, he smiled in her direction but gained no reaction. ‘Ah well,’ he thought, ‘it is clear that our status is different,’ but it was an indication of his newly discovered appreciation of the opposite sex.
Pietro’s reaction to the introductions was slightly different. It was indeed a coincidental meeting. He was aware of the name Horenbout and his reputation as a miniaturist; the name was on his list. It was interesting to hear that the whole family was bound for England and the employ of the heretic Henry. Strange that his skills were suddenly in demand in England after many successful years both in France and here in Flanders. Maybe there were other, more urgent reasons for such an upheaval at such a late age, religious reasons perhaps. He determined to question the Regent herself, though subtly, as his informants had told him Horenbout was a particular favourite in Mechelen... For the rest of this novel, please contact the author