The priest looked him over and Kirkpatrick felt a spasm of irritation at how he must look; it had been bad enough when he was disguised as a beggar, in sackcloth hood and torn old clothes which stank of the cabbage smell you get from marinading in your own farts. Now he was slathered with fluids and watery blood and grease, so he realized he was unlikely to get reasonable treatment – the red-faced man confirmed it.
‘Who the Devil are you, sirra?’ he demanded truculently, but the priest held up one placating hand for he had heard the voice, at odds with a beggar’s look. No whine or deference in it – on the contrary, it had the tone and timbre of command so the priest stepped carefully.
‘Ekarius came in. Another followed him, asking after him as you have done.’
‘Who is Ekarius?’ demanded Kirkpatrick and the red-faced man elbowed the priest aside.
‘My assistant – and who are you?’
‘Assistant what?’ answered Kirkpatrick and the red-faced man went purple, drew some of the fat from his belly to his chest and puffed up like a pigeon.
‘I am William of Thanet, Master artist,’ he bellowed. ‘I will not ask again …’
‘Neither will I.’
Kirkpatrick showed him the dagger; even at six feet of distance it pricked a hole in the man’s pompous bluster and he sagged and sputtered. The priest made the sign of the cross and said: ‘Christ be praised.’
‘For ever and ever,’ Kirkpatrick answered, then jerked the dagger meaningfully.
‘Ekarius mixes paints for Master William,’ the priest answered quickly and the dumbed William nodded furious agreement.
‘Little man, speaks strangely, says he is a pilgrim from the Holy Land?’
‘As to that last, my son, I could not say,’ the priest declared and William of Thanet found his voice.
‘From Cologne,’ he spluttered. ‘He has seen the church of St Maria Lyskirchen, as have I – he can recall some of the frescoes and is helping me recreate them here …’
He waved and Kirkpatrick saw, for the first time, the great, intricate webbing of scaffold clawing up two of the walls, half masking Christ in His Glory and The Last Supper. Cologne – well, that fitted at least – Ekarius was almost certainly Lamprecht.
‘Can he paint?’ Kirkpatrick asked, bemused and William of Thanet exploded.
‘Christ in Heaven, no – he simply recalls figures and positions I have forgotten. I let him limewash, mind you. When he is not darting around …’
‘Where is he now?’
Both men pointed upwards.
‘He has made a nest up there,’ snorted William. ‘Like a squirrel.’
Kirkpatrick looked up, then back at the men.
‘It would be best,’ he said, ‘if you went about your business elsewhere for the moment.’
‘It would be best,’ the priest answered firmly, ‘if you were to hand me that dagger and kneel in prayer.’
William of Thanet knew that was not about to happen and dragged the priest away. At a safe distance they would run and fetch a bailiff – if they could find one in all the ructions and if they could find one willing to enter Old Jewry even in daylight.
Kirkpatrick found the way to the net of lashed poles, a series of slatted wooden rungs with ropes hung on either side as handholds; when he looked up, the edifice towered above him, the height of a good castle wall and, to his left, another scaffolding dappled the half-finished Annunciation with light. He bounced a little, testing the first rung and swallowed a dry spear in his throat as the entire cat’s cradle of wood swayed alarmingly.
Sixty feet above Malise felt it just as he closed in on the whimpering Lamprecht, who was huddled in the darkest corner among pots of limewash and long brushes; the stink of paint and flax seed oil caught his throat and stung his eyes so that his frayed nerves sprang to a temper he had to fight to control.
‘Lamprecht, you stinking little goniel erse o’ a hoor slip …’
Lamprecht heard the voice and found some rat courage.
‘Non aver di te paura, malvoglio. Tocomo – er tutto lo mondo fendoto …’
Malise cursed; he had no idea what Lamprecht was saying, but he heard the shrill, desperate threat in the voice and swallowed his ire until it all but choked him.
‘Lamprecht,’ he said soothingly in French, which he knew the little rat understood. ‘Listen to me – I am here to help you …’
‘You come to kill. Everyone she wishes to kill Lamprecht. Fater unser, thu in himilom bist …’
Malise heard the whine of him, heard also the descent into muttered German. Then he felt the sway of the platform and knew at once what had caused it.
‘Oaf,’ he hissed. ‘Unhalesome capernicous gowk …’
He caught himself again, forced French between the grind of his teeth.
‘Who is my master, imbecile? The Comyn Earl of Buchan, kin to the Comyn Lord of Badenoch and both of them seeking only to reward you for what you know. Why in the name of God and all His angels would I wish you harm? I wish only to keep you safe from the imps of Satan that the Earl of Carrick has set on your trail.’