Free Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church by Indrek Hargla Page A

the castle courtyard and …
    Commander Ruprecht von Spanheim roared.
    He roared in such a way that the court attendants ducked and the Magistrate jumped in surprise.
    In truth, this roar had nothing to do at all with the appearance of the Council envoys. The esteemed Commander had just doused his body in a bucketful of cold water. When he spotted the townsmen Spanheim issued a guttural grunt, kicked over a second full pail of water and gestured towards the door to the castle hold. An attendant directed the Council entourage across the courtyard towards the southern wing of the castle where the Commander’s personal quarters were to be found. The group had to wait there for some time while Spanheim dried himselfand dressed in fresh clothing. The court attendants were silent, the town advocate pursed his lips worriedly and Dorn inspected, with great interest, the view from an arrow-slit that looked down upon Toompea’s grazing lands and Tõnismägi Hill.
    The Commander finally entered and ordered them into his reception hall. When he saw Melchior amongst the other faces he guffawed cheerily.
    â€˜Melchior, you old wizard. Who allowed you up here?’
    Melchior bowed cordially and handed a clay bottle to the Commander without a word.
    â€˜By the Holy Virgin, your miracle remedy,’ Spanheim exclaimed and laughed. He snatched the bottle, guzzled it and then ordered the court attendants and Town Advocate to make themselves scarce because, as he said, ‘Toompea is no fairground.’ By the time, a little while later, he entered the starkly furnished reception hall mantled by a low-vaulted ceiling the Commander was glowing. He praised Melchior. ‘No, do not protest. I affirm it is a miracle remedy …’
    â€˜I must hastily state that it is, nevertheless, a most ordinary pharmacy elixir, nothing more,’ Melchior replied modestly.
    â€˜Oh, hell and demons, Melchior, do not argue with the Commander,’ Spanheim snapped. His surly mood seemed to have passed as it always did when he had sampled Melchior’s mellow beverage after several days of intense merrymaking. They stood in the Commander’s reception hall, where there was really nothing more than a coal brazier, a writing stand and a faded Order tapestry.
    â€˜Do not argue,’ the Commander repeated. ‘On the battlefield, thank you for asking, I can hold my own – I sliced entire companies of Poles into tiny pieces in my younger days, that I did. At a feast I can drink Fellin’s entire joker-filled castle under the table, where they would remain if only the dogs did not come to lick the crumbs from their beards. Even Tallinn washerwomen can hold more beer than that Commander of Fellin, whose name causes kittens to laugh and to keep laughing until someone steps on their tails.’
    Dorn forced out a hollow laugh, and Melchior confirmed that the honourable Town Council and pharmacy held the general belief that they were, without question, absolutely certain that not a soul in Fellin could match Tallinn’s Commander in matters of beer drinking.
    â€˜That’s just how it is,’ the Commander barked. ‘I’ve drunk the lot ofthem under the table, and I’ll carry on drinking and go to bed with my head held high and my back straight, and then I’ll screw ten whores before daybreak if I choose to do so, and that happens to me quite often, I can tell you …’
    â€˜And I, too, have always held the conviction that no one can compare with our Commander when it comes to laying whores and drinking beer. The whole of the honourable Town Council knows that …’ Dorn began to elaborate, but Melchior quickly stepped on the Magistrate’s foot and coughed. Dorn fell mute, startled.
    Spanheim paid this no heed. ‘So it is,’ he said, sighed and approached his writing stand.
    â€˜Come closer, Magistrate,’ he commanded. ‘I want to show you