Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [57]
The street outside curves and is lined with trees. There was no one in sight. Assuming that the grave robber would head for the inner city, and the Schloss, we took that direction. As we neared the open area in front of the city gate, we were finally rewarded by a glimpse of the man we were after. One glimpse was enough for Tony, who staggered and stopped, for a vital couple of seconds, before he got a grip on his nerves and began running again.
I couldn’t blame him for hesitating. The figure was that of a tall Black Man, enveloped in a cloak that swooped out around his body like giant dark wings. The head appeared to be a featureless lump.
The monstrosity disappeaerd under the stone arch of the Roedertor. I admit, without shame, that I felt a healthy reluctance as we followed, running into darkness and into the enclosing walls that had been designed to hold back entire armies.
If you have never seen a medieval city gate you may picture it as a pair of wooden doors, plus a portcullis or two. No so. This particular gate, which is more properly called a bastion, consists of a series of massive walls and narrow passages, designed so that a defending force could clobber the attackers at several points. Once past the first gate, an invader found himself in a circular area hemmed in by high stone walls with enclosed galleries, from which various missiles could be propelled onto his head. The only way out of this area was over a moat, whose drawbridge could of course be raised. Beyond the drawbridge a high tower defended the inner part of the bastion.
The gates are gone nowadays, and the drawbridge has been replaced by solid pavement. All the same, my shoulders hunched apprehensively as we entered the circular court. Pounding along the brick-paved street that crosses the moat and goes through the narrow tunnel under the tower, I felt a wave of sympathy for the soldier who had had to attack the place – not for the arrogant knight, safely encased in steel, but for the conscripted peasant in his leather jerkin, clutching his pike in a sweaty hand and hoping to God he’d never have to use it. I half expected an arrow to whistle over my head and rattle on the pavement. It was the sort of humourous gesture our adversary seemed to enjoy.
We got through the tunnel without incident, however, and came to a baffled halt in the street beyond the bastion. The tall houses of the old city loomed dark and silent on either side. We hadn’t made enough noise to awaken the inhabitants, since we were both wearing rubber-soled sneakers. The loudest sound was Tony’s heavy breathing.
I was pretty sure we had lost our man. There were a dozen hiding places in that crowded, narrow way, half a dozen alleyways and side streets he might have taken. Yet I still felt vulnerable and exposed, as if someone were watching me.
I glanced up over my shoulder. The town walls were shadowy bulwarks, cutting off the sky. A single lonely streetlight did little to lighten their darkness.
Up above, on the balustraded walkway, something moved. It looked like a black sleeve, flapping.
I clutched at Tony, who was staring stupidly down the Schmeidgasse. He let out a yelp.
‘For God’s sake, don’t do that!’
‘He’s up there,’ I gasped. ‘On the wall. Tony – I think he waved at me.’
‘You would think that,’ Tony said bitterly. He pulled away from me and ran towards the flight of stone stairs that led up to the ramparts.
There may be worse places in which to pursue a crazy grave robber, but offhand I can’t think of many. The stairs are composed of the same rough brownish stone that constitutes the walls. They are steep, narrow, and very uneven. The walkway is stone-floored too; it is actually the top of the rampart, with a thin outer wall on one side.