As if he wanted to check to see what was behind it, the hangman thought.
Looking down from the balcony, he could see that the stone slab had been pushed aside again, even though he had replaced it the last time he was there.
He reached under his coat for the heavy, larch-wood cudgel that he always carried with him. He had avoided using it in the tavern, knowing that one blow from this weapon could smash the skull of any opponent like a walnut. Now he took it out and weighed the warm wood in his hand. He would need it today—that much was sure.
His feet groped for the flight of steps that led down from the portal. As silent as a cat, he slipped down and scurried over to the hole in the floor. He could hear voices below, echoing strangely—the intruders were no doubt in the back part of the crypt, where the sarcophagus stood.
The hangman paused for a closer look at the heavy stone slab, which lay on the floor off to one side. Whoever was down below must have just arrived; after all, he and Magdalena had just a few moments ago seen the light of torches in the church.
The hangman looked around again in the darkness, then climbed slowly down the stone steps until he reached the storeroom.
The oaken table along the opposite wall had been moved aside, and through the low entryway behind it, he could see the flickering light of a lantern and hear the voices clearly now.
“Damn! There has to be some hint here—something!” one of them hissed. His voice sounded strangely hoarse, as if the man had difficulty speaking. “This is the right grave, so he hid it here somewhere.”
A second, darker voice replied with a Swabian accent. “There’s nothing here, by God, nothing but bones, dust, and this marble slab with the inscription.” His voice fell to a low whisper. “I swear, I hope God does not punish us for disturbing the rest of the dead.”
“Don’t waste your time thinking about that…Think instead about solving this blasted riddle. That’s the only reason the Master summoned you to help us here. Don’t forget that, you fat, mollycoddled old bastard! If it had been up to me, you’d still be dusting off books in some cellar. So stop your whining and keep looking! Deus lo vult! God wills it!”
Not until that moment did Jakob Kuisl notice an unusual accent in the first stranger’s hoarse voice. He had to be a foreigner.
“All right, then, let’s have another look around the next room,” the anxious Swabian voice said. “Maybe I overlooked something in one of the boxes. The heretic could have hidden it there among all the rubbish.”
By the sound of the voices, Jakob Kuisl could tell that the figures were heading now toward the exit. He stepped back against the wall right next to the doorway. As the steps came nearer, a warm circle of light slowly moved in his direction. A sinewy hand, then the sleeve of a black cowl, emerged with an iron oil lamp.
Jakob Kuisl reacted fast. He brought the cudgel down hard on the hand so that the lantern fell to the ground and went out. The monk carrying the lantern barely had time to shout because Kuisl yanked him forward and struck him directly on the back of the head with his cudgel. Groaning, the fat man sank to the ground. For a moment, it was quiet; then the hoarse voice spoke up again from the other room.
“Brother Avenarius? What is the problem? Are you…”
The voice broke off, and all that could be heard was a soft rustling sound.
“Your Brother Avenarius is not feeling very well,” Kuisl called back into the silence. “But still, he’s better off than Koppmeyer. You killed him, didn’t you?”
He waited for a reaction, but when no sound came from the other side, he spoke again.
“I don’t like it when people are poisoned in my district. There’s only one person here allowed to kill other people, and that’s me.”
“And who are you that you think this is any business of yours?” the voice with the foreign accent hissed back at him from the other side.
“I’m the hangman,” Kuisl replied. “And you know what fate is reserved here for people who poison others. The wheel. But first I’ll string you up and probably cut you up, too.”
There was hoarse laughter in the other room.
“And how does the hangman die? Well, no matter, you’ll find out soon enough.”
Jakob Kuisl growled. He had had enough of this idle banter. The man on the ground next to him groaned—apparently the blow hadn’t been hard enough and he would come to soon enough. Just as the hangman was preparing to strike him again, he felt a draft of air. A shadow sprang out of the doorway and swung at him from the side. Kuisl jumped back and felt a curved blade slice into his left forearm. He took a swing with the cudgel again, but the heavy larch-wood club whizzed past his opponent’s head, just missing him. Kuisl picked up his foot and kicked the man hard right between the legs. He was happy to hear the man groan in pain and step back. In the darkness, Kuisl could see nothing but a black outline. The man in front of him seemed to be wearing a monk’s cowl and gripping a curved dagger like the ones Kuisl had seen before carried by Muslim warriors. But there wasn’t any time to look at him more closely, as he was preparing to attack again and this time lunged toward the hangman’s chest. Kuisl stepped back and drove off his opponent with his cudgel. When he took another step forward, he stumbled over something soft and large—the fat Swabian he had put down earlier, still lying on the ground in front of him.
He was about to fend his opponent off with a few more blows when he heard a soft scraping sound behind him. In the next moment, a thin rope came down around his neck.
But weren’t there only two of them?
Kuisl put his hands up to his neck, but the leather cord was already cutting deep into his skin. He gasped for air like a fish out of water, and everything turned black. In a desperate move, he threw his whole weight backward and could feel how he hit against something—the wall! He planted both feet firmly on the ground and tried to crush the man behind him between his broad back and the wall. Finally, the pressure on his neck decreased and air started streaming into his lungs again. He gasped and coughed, then with a loud roar, wheeled around, ready for the next blow. His left hand clawed at a piece of soft, velvety material and then tore it to pieces. With his right hand, he searched for the cudgel he had lost earlier. Then he crouched down, looking frantically around the dark room.
Everything became indistinct, and individual shadows blurred into others—a single, huge form.
Suddenly, he felt a numbness pulsating from his injured left arm into every corner of his body. He tried to move his fingers, but he couldn’t. He was paralyzed.
The curved dagger was poisoned!
As he slid down the wall of the crypt behind him, he noticed a strong perfume that reminded him of violets, or a large, colorful field of flowers. Wide-eyed, but unable to move even his little finger, he could only watch as three men in black cowls bent over him, whispering.
The third man…must have followed me…Where is Magdalena?
Jakob Kuisl felt the two strangers pick him up and carry him away.
When Simon awoke, he was lying in a bed covered with fresh sheets and staring at a ceiling made of freshly planed spruce. From somewhere outside, he could hear the muffled sound of construction: hammering, sawing, men calling back and forth to one another. Where in the world was he?
He sat up and felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his head. Reaching for his forehead, he could feel a fresh bandage, and the memory came back to him. He had been attacked by robbers! Benedikta had…Yes, that’s right, Benedikta had shot them; then he remembered the wild ride through the forest and how, finally, everything went black. He must have struck the branch of a tree. Strong arms had helped him back up on his horse, and he remembered the voices, but then everything went black again.
Thirsty, Simon looked around and spotted a knee-high nightstand on one side of the bed with a clay pitcher on top. Not only the wooden ceiling, but also the night table seemed freshly constructed, as did the wide bed. There was a fragrance of resin and fresh-cut wood in the air. A small stove
was crackling in a corner, but otherwise the room was empty. The shutters were closed, but judging by a narrow, bright ray of light entering the room, it had to be daytime.
Simon reached for the pitcher and tested the contents: something bitter and aromatic, a bit like mint—apparently a medicine that someone had put out for him. He was drinking in deep gulps when a creaking sound announced a visitor. In the doorframe stood Benedikta, smiling.
“Well, have you had a good sleep?” She pointed to his bandage. “We didn’t have a doctor here to do that, but I think the canons here know how to sew things up with needle and thread.”
“The canons?” Simon looked at her, bewildered.
Benedikta nodded. “The Premonstratensian canons. We’re at the monastery in Steingaden. As we were fleeing from the robbers, you hit your head against a tree. I put you on the horse and brought you here—it was only a few miles.”
“But the men…the voices…” Simon could feel the stabbing pain in his head getting worse. Benedikta looked down at him sympathetically, and he felt how he was starting to blush. He must be a pathetic sight: pale, bandaged up, and dressed only in a dirty linen shirt.
“What voices?” she asked.
“When I was unconscious…Who helped me back on the horse?”
Benedikta laughed. “It was me! But if it makes you feel any better, it was the monks who undressed you later.”
Simon smiled. “If it had been you, I would surely have remembered.”
She raised her eyebrows in feigned indignation and turned to leave. “Before we cross the boundaries of decency, it would probably be better if we stop and think about why we are actually here,” she said. “The abbot is waiting to see us, but naturally, only if your injury permits,” she added with a slightly derisive smile. “I’ll wait outside for you.”
The door closed, but Simon lay still a moment to collect his thoughts. This woman…confused him. When he finally got up and dressed, the headache was still bothering him, but after checking the bandage with his hands, he could see that the monks had done their work well. He could feel a neat suture; eventually a little scar above the hairline would be all that remained.
The medicus carefully opened the door and was at once blinded by the dazzling winter light. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the snow sparkled and glittered in such bright light that it took a while for his eyes to adjust. Then he looked out at the largest construction site he had ever seen.
Before him lay the Steingaden Monastery—or rather, what was being rebuilt in new splendor after the attack by the Swedes. Simon had heard that the current abbot, Augustin Bonenmayr, had ambitious plans, but only now could he see with his own eyes just how ambitious they were. Tall newly built structures stood all around. Many of the buildings sported new roof timbers, most were still covered with scaffolding, and white-robed monks and numerous workers scurried back and forth with trowels and wheelbarrows full of mortar. On Simon’s left, three men were calling loudly back and forth to one another as they tugged on a pulley, and somewhat farther away, an oxcart approached on a newly paved road, bringing freshly cut boards. The air smelled of resin and mortar.
Seeing Simon’s astonishment, Benedikta explained what was going on. “One of the foremen showed me around a bit. In the area where we were sleeping, they are building a new tavern, and right next to it will be the Latin school…” She pointed to a small building on the other side of the park. “There’s even a plan to build a theater here.” She walked ahead as she continued speaking. “I had a talk with the prior this morning. Abbot Bonenmayr plans to make the monastery the most beautiful in the entire region—at least as beautiful as the one in Rottenbuch, he says. He’s over there in the abbey and will receive us at noon.”
All that Simon could do was nod and jog along behind her. Benedikta had taken charge of everything as a matter of course, and Simon could see now why her brother would seek her advice. Behind her refined facade, Benedikta had an extremely direct way about her. He thought about the pistol and the shots she had fired the previous afternoon.
They met the abbot in the cloister between the abbey and the church. Augustin Bonenmayr was a gaunt man with a narrow face. On his nose he wore a pince-nez rimmed in brass, which he was using at the moment to study frescoes in a passageway leading from the chapel. In one arm he was carrying a bundle of parchments, and on his belt dangled a gigantic bundle of keys, along with a plumb line and a carpenter’s square. He looked more like a master builder than the leader of a great monastery.
When he heard the footsteps of the newcomers, he turned around to greet Simon and Benedikta.
“Ah, the young lady with the question! I have been informed of your arrival,” he said, removing the pince-nez. His deep voice resounded through the cloister. “And you must be young Fronwieser.” The abbot approached the medicus with a warm smile and extended his hand. Like all members of the Premonstratensian Order, he wore a white tunic, and a purple sash around his waist identified him as the abbot of the monastery. Simon knelt down and kissed a golden signet ring decorated with a cross.
“If you will permit me to say it,” Simon mumbled, still kneeling, “I have never seen such a magnificent monastery.”
Augustin Bonenmayr laughed and helped him to his feet. “Indeed, we shall rebuild everything—the mill, the brewery, a school, and of course, an abbey. We intend this to be a place of pilgrimage for the many who seek the closeness of God.”
“I am certain that Steingaden will be a showpiece in the Priests’ Corner,” Benedikta said.
The abbot smiled. “People again feel the need for places worthy of a pilgrimage, places where we can feel just how great God really is.” He stepped out of the chapel into the cloister. “But you have not come to talk about pilgrimages, have you? I have heard that you are here on a far sadder mission.”
Simon nodded, then briefly stated the purpose of their visit. “Perhaps the reason for the priest’s death has something to do with the history of the Saint Lawrence Church.”
The abbot frowned and turned to Benedikta. “Do you really think your brother was poisoned because of some dark secret having to do with his church? Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?”
Before Benedikta could answer, Simon interrupted. “Your Excellency,” he said matter-of-factly, “it is said that the Saint Lawrence Church is the property of your church. Are there any building plans? Or does someone know at least who the former owner was?”
Augustin Bonenmayr rubbed the bridge of his nose where the pince-nez had rested. “The monastery owns so many properties that I really don’t know about each individual one, but perhaps we can find something in our archives. Follow me.”
They walked along the cloister wall toward the abbey. On the second floor, they came to an unmarked, low door with two huge locks. As soon as the abbot opened them, Simon was confronted with the musty odor of old parchment. The room was at least twelve feet high. Individual shelves were recessed into niches and filled to the ceiling with books, folios, and rolls of parchment bearing the seal of the monastery. The room itself was covered with cobwebs, and a thin layer of dust had settled on a finely polished walnut table in the middle.
“Our centuries-old monastery library,” Bonenmayr said. “A miracle that it has survived and not fallen victim to fire. As you can see, we are rarely here these days, but the order is still the same. Wait…”
Taking a ladder from a corner, he climbed to the top of the next-to-last shelf.
“Lawrence Church, Lawrence Church…” he muttered to himself, looking around at the individual shelves. Finally, he called out in surprise. “Well, good heavens, here it is right in front of me.” He came down with a tattered roll of parchment with bits of red sealing wax still clinging to it.
Simon looked at the broken seal in surprise. “The roll has evidently been opened already,” the medicus said, passing his finger over the edges of the parchment, “and not too long ago. The wax is still shiny where the pieces broke off.”
Each standing to one side of the abbot, Benedikta and Simon stared at a document that was beginning to crumble at the edges. The writing was faded, but still legible.
“Here it is.” Bonenmayr pointed with his right index finger at a passage in the middle. “The monastery of Steingaden purchased the following properties in the year of our Lord 1289: two properties in Warenberg, two in Brugg, one in Dietlried, three in Edenhofen, one in Altenstadt, and…Indeed, that’s the Saint Lawrence Church in Altenstadt!” Bonenmayr whistled appreciatively. “Really a big transaction. It cost us two hundred and twenty-five denarii. That must have been a tidy sum back then.”
“And who was the seller?” Simon persisted.
The abbot’s finger moved up to the top of the parchment. “A certain Friedrich Wildgraf.”
“What was he?” Simon asked. “A merchant? A patrician? Please tell us.”
The abbot shook his head.
“If what I see here is correct, Friedrich Wildgraf was no less a person than the provincial master of the Order of the Knights Templar in the German Empire, an extremely powerful man at the time.”
Bonenmayr raised his eyes and looked into Simon’s petrified face.
“What is the matter?” he asked anxiously. “Are you not well? Perhaps I should explain to you first who the Templars were.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Simon said. “We know about them.”
Just half an hour later they left the monastery. From a safe hiding place, a figure watched as they disappeared with their horses into the trees. Turning away, the man fingered a rosary in his sweaty hands once again, one pearl after the other. Many years had passed, but now he felt they had almost reached their goal. God had chosen them.
The Dark Monk Page 10