“Aha! Here it is!” Thomas produced the pencil in triumph from a pocket that Franz knew had been plunged into at least three times before the pencil was finally found. Thomas poised the pencil over the pad. “Names, please.”
“Dane Stevenson and Dallas Chaffin. They were both here in Magdeburg the last I knew. Dane plays tuba, and Dallas is a percussionist. And they might know of some others.”
Thomas wrote the names in the margin of the page with care, then looked up. “Anyone else?”
“You might ask Lennie Washaw as well. He’s in touch with most of the up-timers in Magdeburg. He could know of some other players.”
Thomas noted all that before carefully restoring both pad and pencil to their accustomed places. He stood, and gave a short bow to them both.
“I thank you again for your grace and kindness, and for the good advice. I shall pursue these names immediately,” with a pat for the pocket where the pad was resting.
“Uh, Thomas,” Marla responded in one if the driest tones Franz had ever heard her use, “you might want to wait a little while to do that. Most people don’t like to be hammered awake at the crack of dawn, or to talk to strangers before they’ve had their morning coffee and brushed their teeth.”
“Oh. Right.” Thomas looked a bit nonplussed, then shrugged. “Okay. Good-bye.” He shook hands with them both, and charged out the front door before Franz could stir from his chair.
Marla finally broke down in giggles, and Franz felt himself chuckling along with her.
“Is he always like that?” Marla asked. “I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that before.”
“Thomas is a man of strong passions,” Franz replied, “but even for him that was a side of Thomas I have not seen. Must be part of becoming a composer.”
“Must be,” Marla said. She stood up. “Well, come to bed, love, and let’s see if we can get a bit more rest before the day truly begins.”
Chapter 33
Simon Bayer charged up the steps to the rooms that Hans and Ursula shared with him. He burst in the door, to find Ursula sitting in her chair, reading her Bible.
“Here you are, Ursula,” he said as he presented her with a roll fresh from Das Haus Des Brotes. “Hans said to bring this to you now, and he would bring more when he comes home tonight.”
“Thank you, Simon.” She set her Bible on the side table, tore the roll into smaller pieces with her fingers, and began eating it. “I thought Hans would be fighting tonight.”
“Naw,” Simon said. “Herr Todd and Herr Tobias said the bear pit is filled with snow and ice, and the new place still is not ready, so they had to cancel this week. But they promised they will be ready soon.”
His excitement must have showed, because Ursula sighed and shook her head. He looked at her with a frown. “Aren’t you proud of Hans, Ursula? He has never been beaten. Men call him the Samson of Magdeburg.”
“I am glad that he has not been hurt,” Ursula replied after a moment, “and I am glad that he has found something that he likes to do. I just wish that he was not hurting people to make this money.”
Simon had to think about that a bit. “But he does not hurt them bad. It’s just like in play, you know. It’s not like he is trying to kill them or anything. He is not a soldier.”
Simon’s opinion of soldiers was shaped by his elders’ recollections of the sack of Magdeburg by Pappenheim’s troops. In his mind, he often thought of them as some species of devil, led by Pappenheim direct from the right hand of Satan, eight feet tall, with horns and bloody fangs.
He saw a trace of a smile on Ursula’s lips.
“Yes, Simon, he is not a soldier. Thank you for reminding me that there are worse things for a young man strong in body to do than to occasionally pummel someone.”
Simon mulled that one over, and decided that it was a positive statement.
“Well, I have to get back on the street,” he said. “The candler told me if I came by this afternoon he would have three different packages for me to deliver, and I do not want to leave him looking for someone else.”
Ursula waved a hand as she finished the roll. “Then get on with you, and stay out of trouble.”
He grinned at her, then charged back out the door and rumbled down the steps.
* * *
Ursula stared at the door, feeling a lump in the back of her throat. Yes, it could be worse. But the reality was bad enough. She had never seen Hans fight; God willing, she never would. But she knew his strength—who better than the sister that he’d carried from place to place without complaining? And she knew the size and hardness of those hands that were still remarkably gentle when he picked her up. The thought of that strength, those hands, hitting someone on purpose, with the intent of driving them to the ground, made the bread she had just swallowed turn to a leaden lump in her stomach.