The hangman’s daughter smiled. The men had probably already had more to drink than they should have. Work slowed down in the wintertime, and the workers struggled to get by with part-time jobs, squandering their meager earnings on booze and waiting for the arrival of spring. When the merry group of men saw that a woman had entered the tavern, they raised their glasses to her and made a few smutty remarks.
“Girl, come over here! I’ll buy you a beer if I can have a look at your tender breasts!”
A short, stooped carpenter’s journeyman sidled over to her, bowed deeply, and tried to take her by the arm.
“Come dance, hangman’s girl. Make my back straight and my rod bigger with your black magic!”
Magdalena broke free from him, laughing. “I can’t do any magic when there’s nothing to charm. Bug off!”
She sat down at a table in an alcove off to the side. For a while, the men kept leering at her; then they started drinking again and swaying to the beat of the music. It was not customary for women to go to a tavern alone, but as a hangman’s daughter, Magdalena was no ordinary middle-class woman; she was dishonorable, an untouchable. More like a cross between a woman and a thing, she told herself angrily, before her thoughts turned back to Simon and Benedikta again. What was the medicus doing with someone like that? Benedikta, however, was a refined lady…
She had almost forgotten why she was here when suddenly the tavern keeper appeared in front of her holding a foaming mug of beer.
“This is from an anonymous admirer,” he said with a grin, setting the mug down hard on the table. “If I understand him right, he won’t just stop at this one round.”
For a moment, Magdalena considered turning down the beer. The alcohol she drank earlier was still pulsing through her veins, and her pride wouldn’t allow a stranger to treat her to a beer, anyway. But then thirst won out, and she reached across the table and sipped from the mug. It tasted delicious and fresh. She wiped the foam from her lips and turned to the tavern keeper.
“Hemerle told me that, on Sunday, there were three strangers here wearing black cowls. Is that right?”
The tavern keeper nodded. “They must have been monks from somewhere, but not ordinary ones. They arrived on handsome black horses, the kind you rarely see around here, and tied them up outside the tavern. I could see right away that they were rich, educated people.”
“Was there anything else special about them?” Magdalena asked.
Strasser knit his brow. “There was something strange. When I brought their beer, they suddenly all fell silent. But I heard a bit of their conversation anyway, and I think they were speaking in Latin the entire time.”
Magdalena looked at him wide-eyed. “Latin?”
“Yes, just like our priest in the church,” replied Strasser, making the sign of a cross. “God rest his soul. Not that I understood anything, but it sounded like Latin, I swear by the Virgin Mary.”
“Were you able to understand anything at all?”
Strasser stopped to think. “Yes, one phrase, and it came up again and again—crux Christi…” His face brightened. “Yes, crux Christi! That’s what they said!”
“Crux Christi means the cross of Christ,” Magdalena murmured, more to herself. “Not exactly unusual if they were monks. Anything else?”
Strasser turned to leave. “What do I know? Why don’t you just ask them yourself? One of them is standing back there at the bar, and he was just inquiring about your father.”
Magdalena jumped up from the table. “And you’re only telling me that now?”
Franz Strasser raised his hand apologetically. “He only wanted to know who the big man here in town was who smokes that stinking weed.” He grinned. “No doubt he wanted to buy some from Kuisl. I also told him about you.”
“About me?” The hangman’s daughter almost choked on her beer.
“Well, because you do sell herbs, don’t you? And perhaps this tobacco, or whatever it’s called. Come along,” he said, leading the way. “He seems to have a bit of money to spend. You can see he’s a fine gentleman.”
Magdalena jumped up and followed the tavern keeper through the bar, which was becoming more and more crowded. She looked around in hopes of picking the stranger out from the many people from Altenstadt who were there, but when they got to the bar, they found only familiar faces there. A mason tried to grope her, she gave him a smack in the face, and he walked away, moaning.
“Strange,” Strasser mumbled. “He was here just a moment ago.” He stepped behind the bar. “I’m sure he just went to the place that even the Pope has to go to. Just wait a bit.”
Magdalena returned to her seat and sipped absentmindedly on her beer. Three men in black cowls conversing in Latin…The strangers were surely traveling monks, but why, then, the expensive black horses? And why had one of them inquired about her father?
She took another big gulp. The beer was delicious, perhaps somewhat bitter, but it stimulated the senses. Her head felt light, and thoughts came and went before she could get a grip on them. The music and laughter of the men sitting at the bar blurred into a single pulsing hum. Could that be the effect of the alcohol? She really hadn’t had that much to drink…It didn’t matter; she felt free, and a smile spread across her face. She tapped her feet in rhythm with the fiddle and continued drinking her beer.
The man in the black cowl stood outside and watched her through a small crack in the shutters. He’d have to wait until the henbane began to have an effect. Sooner or later, this woman would have to come out, and she would surely need help then. Who could harbor any suspicions at the sight of a gentleman offering to escort a drunken girl home? What was the name of the girl, again?
Magdalena.
His whole body began to tremble, and he couldn’t figure out why.
Jakob Kuisl loved peace and quiet, and nothing was as peaceful as a winter evening after it had snowed all day. It felt as if the snow had swallowed up every sound, leaving emptiness that overcame any thoughts, worries, strivings—leaving only space for quiet meditation. Sometimes Jakob Kuisl wished that eternal winter would come over the world and finally put an end to all its chatter and gossip.
He walked along the snowy road toward Altenstadt. In the distance, he could hear the bells of the basilica sounding. He was looking for his daughter. She had been missing since early that morning, and now it was almost after noon. Magdalena had promised to help her mother mend some old clothes and linens, and Anna Maria Kuisl kept going to the door all morning, looking for her daughter. Her grumbles and complaints gradually turned to anxious silence, and when the hangman finally confessed that he had sent Magdalena to Altenstadt to make some inquiries for him, she threw him out of the house. The words she shouted after him were unmistakable: He couldn’t set foot in the house again unless he came back with Magdalena.
The hangman loved his wife, he respected her, and some people even said he feared her, which was nonsense, of course, because a hangman fears nothing and no one, least of all his wife. But Jakob Kuisl had learned that talking back was pointless and meant only the end of the peace and quiet he longed for so much in his house. And so he left to look for Magdalena.
In Altenstadt, he could hear music coming from the only tavern in town. The windows of Strasser’s Tavern cast a warm glow, and laughter, the stamping of feet, and the sound of an out-of-tune fiddle could be heard. Jakob Kuisl approached, peeking inside through a slit in one of the windows.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
On a table in the middle of the room, a few young men were dancing and singing a crude peasant song in raucous voices. A circle of onlookers gathered around with glasses raised, laughing and cheering them on. Among the young men on the table, a girl was dancing and stretching her arms up in a suggestive pose. Then she tilted her head far back while one of the men poured beer into her mouth from a huge beer stein.
It was Magdalena.
Her eyes were rolling wildly while one fellow reached out lustily towar
d her skirt and another pulled on the strings of her bodice.
Jakob Kuisl kicked the door and it swung inward with a loud bang. Then he stormed in and headed for the group. He grabbed one of the young men, yanked him off the table, and flung him in the direction of the onlookers, where he landed headfirst against a stool that splintered on impact. A second fellow hit the hangman hard over the head with his mug of beer. That was a serious mistake, as he found out only too soon. Kuisl grabbed him by the arm, pulled him down off the table, slapped him hard, and tossed him backward into two other men, all of whom landed in a tangle of arms and legs on the floor. The mug shattered, and a pool of beer spread across the floor at the feet of the astonished spectators.
Jakob Kuisl picked up his daughter like a sack of flour and threw her over his shoulder. She fought back and screamed as if she had lost her mind, but his grip was as solid as a vise.
“Would anyone else like a good thrashing?” he growled, looking around expectantly. The young men rubbed their aching heads and glanced at one another nervously.
“If anyone touches my daughter again, I’ll break every bone in their body. Do you hear?” he said softly, but firmly now. “She may be a hangman’s girl, but she’s off-limits.”
“But she said herself she wanted to dance,” one of the carpenter’s journeymen said sheepishly. “She probably had a little too much to drink…”
One look from the hangman silenced him. Then Kuisl tossed a few coins at the tavern owner, who had retreated against a wall, along with a few respectful others.
“Here you are, Strasser. For the mug and a new stool. If there’s anything left, treat the boys to a few beers. Now, good-bye.”
The door slammed behind him. What remained was a group of young men who felt as if they were awakening from a dream. After Jakob Kuisl had disappeared around the corner with Magdalena, the men started to whisper to one another, and then general laughter broke out.
“Are you crazy, Father?” Magdalena shouted. By now the two had arrived at the main street. She was still draped over her father’s shoulder like a sack. She spoke with a slight slur. “Stop…Put me down at once!”
The hangman flung his daughter in a wide arc into a snowdrift. Then he came plodding after her and rubbed snow in her face until it glowed bright red. Finally, he took out a vial and poured a bitter liquid down her throat until she started to spit and cough.
“For God’s sake, what is that?” she groaned, wiping her mouth. She was still dazed, but she could at least think somewhat clearly again.
“Ephedra, enzian, and a broth made from those brown beans Simon has,” her father grumbled. “Actually, I wanted to take the tonic to Hans Kohlberger because his wife is always so tired and just sits around staring out the window. But it will do for you, too.”
Magdalena shuddered. “It tastes horrible, but it helps.”
She made a face at first, but then suddenly turned serious. What was the matter with her? She could just barely remember sitting down at the table and drinking a beer. She had felt more and more lightheaded. Then she joined the workers dancing, but at this point, her memory blurred. Was it possible that someone poured something into her beer? Or had she just had too much to drink? She didn’t want to worry her father, so she remained silent and just put up with his lecture, which was now reaching its climax.
“It was disgraceful, shameless, the way you behaved in there, you hussy! What are people to think? You…you…” He took a deep breath, trying to calm down a bit.
“Oh, people…” she muttered. “Let the people talk. I’m just the hangman’s daughter; they’ll talk about me, anyway.”
“And Simon?” he growled. “What do you think Simon will have to say about that?”
“Oh, you can just stop with Simon!” she replied, turning her head aside.
The hangman grinned. “Aha, I see that’s what this is all about. Well, you won’t get your Simon back acting like that.”
He didn’t want to tell her he had lent his horse to Simon for the trip to Steingaden with Benedikta, so he switched the topic. “Did you learn anything about the church?”
Magdalena nodded and told him what she had heard from Balthasar Hemerle and the tavern keeper Strasser.
The hangman seemed to mull this over. “I think I have seen one of those monks already…”
“Where?” Magdalena asked, curious.
Her father turned away suddenly and started marching off in the direction of Schongau. “What does it matter?” he grumbled. “What does it matter to us who killed Koppmeyer? Your mother was right when she said that’s no business of ours. Let’s go home and eat.”
Magdalena ran after him and seized him by the shoulders.
“No, you don’t!” she shouted. “I want to know what happened there. Koppmeyer was poisoned! There’s a dusty old grave in the crypt and some strangers prowling around the area, speaking in Latin or some other secret language. What does it all mean? You can’t just go home and put your feet up by the fire.”
“Oh yes I can,” Jakob Kuisl said, marching forward.
Suddenly, Magdalena’s voice became soft and cold. “And suppose they pick up some innocent man for Koppmeyer’s murder and throw him in the dungeon? Just like they did back then with Stechlin?” Magdalena knew this was a sore spot for her father. “It was really poison that killed the priest, wasn’t it?” she added. “So it’s quite possible they’ll have you torture someone, just like the midwife the last time, only because she knew something about poison. Is that what you want?”
The hangman stopped in his tracks. For a while, the only sound that could be heard was the cawing of a crow.
“Very well,” he said finally. “We’ll have another look around the Saint Lawrence Church. Right away. Only so you’ll be able to sleep soundly again.”
The stranger watched the two as they walked down the main street toward the St. Lawrence Church. He struggled to calm himself by reciting the Lord’s Prayer. His plan had failed. He was dying to pry information out of the hangman’s girl about what her father had found in the crypt.
Magdalena…
A distant memory flashed through his mind, then vanished.
He shook his head. He would have to talk again with this clerk. After all, he had paid good money to make sure the hangman stayed out of their way. It certainly appeared now that this stinking butcher from Schongau could do as he pleased.
Under his black coat and white tunic, the man fingered a golden cross that hung directly over his heart. He would need strength. His brotherhood had never approved of the common folk learning to read—you could see what that led to. The people became rebellious and didn’t do what they were supposed to. He had learned in the tavern that the hangman, despite his origins, was smart and educated, and that made him dangerous. More dangerous, in any case, than that nosey little doctor’s assistant who kept running after his master like a little poodle.
The stranger kissed the cross and put it back under his tunic. He had made a decision: He couldn’t rely on the clerk; he would have to act himself. They would get rid of the hangman at once. The danger that he would meddle in their affairs was too great. Now the man would have to tell the others.
The sound of his steps was muffled by the soft, powdery snow.
The hangman and his daughter walked toward the St. Lawrence Church, its wind-battered tower almost obscured by rising clouds of fog in the gathering darkness. Though there was no wind, it was bitter cold. Magdalena could see light from torches inside the rectory through slits in the shutters. The housekeeper and the sexton were evidently still awake. Jakob Kuisl headed directly toward the church while Magdalena tugged nervously at his arm.
“Look over there,” she whispered, pointing at the church.
The door to the church was chained shut, but for a moment the light from a torch appeared in the windows. It was just a brief flicker, but Kuisl had seen it clearly.
“What in God’s name…?” he grumbled. He walked around the churc
h, Magdalena at his heels. They discovered fresh footprints leading from the cemetery gate toward the apse.
The hangman stooped to examine the footprints. “There are two of them,” he whispered. “Solid shoes, good boots. They’re not workers or farmers from around here.” His eyes followed the footprints, which led to a shaky scaffold the workmen had constructed back in autumn and, high above, to a church window that had been forced open.
“We need to go and get help,” Magdalena said anxiously.
Her father laughed softly to himself. “Who shall we ask? Magda? The skinny sexton?” He walked over to the scaffolding. “I’ll have to deal with it myself,” he said, turning around once again to look at Magdalena.
“You stay here, do you understand? No matter what happens. If I’m still inside when the bells toll again, you can go and get help if you want. But not before.”
“Shouldn’t I come along with you?”
“Nothing doing. You’re no help to me. Go and hide behind the gravestones and wait for me to come back.”
That said, he began to climb the bars of the scaffolding. It creaked and swayed, but it held. In a short while, the hangman reached the second platform and was working his way across the icy boards to the window that had been forced open. Then he slipped inside.
Though darkness was just beginning to fall outside, it was already pitch black in the church. Jakob Kuisl squinted; it took a while for his eyes to get accustomed to the dark. He could feel the smooth, freshly planed flooring of the balcony beneath his feet and hear hammering and whispering voices from somewhere below. Finally, he could vaguely make out the flooring and walls of the church. Just one look showed that the mason, Peter Baumgartner, had spoken the truth—up here in the balcony, the wall was emblazoned with the red cross pattées of the Templars. The crosses had recently been painted over, but in a few places someone had taken the trouble to wipe off the white lime wash.
The Dark Monk Page 9