Simon blinked, but his eyes had not deceived him. Barely a hundred feet away, someone was watching him from behind the branch of a fir.
At his side, the stranger held a crossbow, with the bowstring tightened and poised to shoot. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a leather uniform, from which a heavy dagger or hunting knife dangled. When he saw that Simon had caught sight of him, he disappeared into the undergrowth.
Simon was so puzzled that he couldn’t speak at first. For moment, he thought he’d seen a ghost. When he calmed down again, he leaned over as far as possible.
“Benedikta, look over there! There’s a man hiding in the underbrush! We’re being—”
At that moment, the branch Simon was standing on broke under him like a brittle bone. He could feel branches brushing past his face, and his heart started to pound. It took him a moment to realize he was really falling. He reached out in all directions in hopes of grabbing hold of a branch. The world around him was a blur of sky, earth, and branches that lashed him as he went by.
Suddenly there was a large ripping sound and Simon’s fall was broken.
He dangled helplessly a full ten feet over the ground, swaying back and forth like a marionette on a string. Looking up, he could see that a sharp branch had slit his jacket open from his waist almost to his collar.
Down below, Benedikta stared up at him open-mouthed. “My God, Simon! What are you doing up there?”
“What do you think? I was falling to my death! Up there in the tree I saw a man with a crossbow observing us, and—”
“Simon, first calm down. Try to grab hold of something close by.” Benedikta pointed to a branch that stood out at a right angle. It was about the thickness of an arm and looked solid. Simon tried to reach it but was just a few inches short. Carefully, he began to rock back and forth, coming closer to the branch each time. Above him, his jacket ripped a bit more. He was able to grab the bough just as the jacket finally tore into two halves with a loud rip. He felt a strong tug, he fell a bit more, and then he was able to get both arms around the bough. He hung there, his legs thrashing the air, and had no idea what to do next.
At this moment, he caught sight of the golden tablet right in front of him.
It was only about the size of a hand, and the bark of the tree had grown over it like a thick lip. It looked as if the tree had been eating away at the tablet, assimilating it bit by bit over the course of centuries. But the words in its center, inlaid in gold, had been unaffected by the wind, snow, rain, and hail and were quite legible.
Still suspended from the bough, Simon mumbled the engraved Latin lines as the crow came fluttering back and settled on the bough next to him, watching over his shoulder with curiosity.
IN GREMIO MARIAE ERIS PRIMUS ET
FELICIANUS. FRIDERICUS WILDERGRAUE
ANNO DOMINI MCCCX XVIII.
Despite the precarious position he was in, he couldn’t help but laugh aloud.
“Ha! This damned Templar,” he shouted so loudly it echoed all through the forest. “The sly, old devil! He did hide the message here—you were right!”
“What are you talking about?” Benedikta craned her neck to see better. “What’s up there? Tell me!”
Simon stopped laughing. His arms had begun to ache as if he were attached to the torture rack with big, heavy rocks pulling him down by the legs.
“A golden plaque up here…” he groaned. “From Friedrich Wildgraf a year before his death. And a saying…”
“What kind of a saying?”
“Damn! First get me get down from here!”
Benedikta grinned. “How about just letting go?”
“Letting go? It’s at least twelve feet down!”
“Oh, come now…ten, at most. Shall I catch you?”
Closing his eyes, Simon counted slowly to three, then let go.
With a loud shout, he fell kicking and floundering into a soft snowdrift at the foot of the tree. The landing was pleasantly soft. He lay there for a moment, checking that nothing was broken, but he seemed fine—something you could not say about his trousers.
“Damn, Benedikta!” he cursed as he thrashed about trying to free himself from the drift. “Who had the crazy idea of climbing up such a tall tree without a rope? I could have broken my neck!”
Benedikta shrugged. “At least it was worthwhile. Now tell me what it says up there on the plaque.”
Simon was about to speak when he remembered the man in the fir tree. In one desperate leap, the medicus extricated himself from the snow. “We have to get out of here at once! The fellow in the tree was armed, and there are surely others here in the forest.” He hobbled down the path as fast as he could, his tattered jacket fluttering behind him. “We’ve got to get back to the monastery! Follow me!”
Sighing, Benedikta ran after him.
Forty feet above, the stranger with the crossbow watched them leave. He raised his hands to his mouth and mimicked the caw of a jaybird.
Court Clerk Johann Lechner sat in his office, chewing on his quill pen and double-checking the city’s ledgers. The result was disastrous. The constant attacks in recent days had brought traffic almost to a standstill. All commercial goods transported along the major highways from Augsburg over the Brenner Pass and the Fern Pass had to be stored temporarily in Schongau. While the city collected a nice tax on every single bale, the Ballenhaus, the storage warehouse, and the Zimmerstadel down on the Lech were practically empty now. And the recent snowstorm had delivered the final blow. Schongau was bleeding to death, and the clerk had no idea where to get the money to pay the city’s long-overdue bills.
Johann Lechner sighed. The council had raked him over the coals that morning. The patricians respected him, but only as long as he was looking out for their interests, and Lechner had to wonder—and not for the first time—why he actually did so. The daily squabbles with these fat, pompous gas bags—who had nothing to think about but their next glass of wine, or their next shipment of salt or wool, or about how strenuous the trips to Munich and Augsburg were by coach—were the cause of all the miserable, unending paperwork. The city was a clock that had to be wound every day, and if it weren’t for him, Lechner was sure Schongau would wither away and become just another small provincial town.
That made it all the more important for him to put his foot down, to do something to make it clear that nobody could just come along and spit in the town’s face, and certainly not a band of filthy, ragged highwaymen and cutthroats.
There was a knock on the door. Lechner drew a line under the last entry and straightened his cap before calling out for his caller to enter.
Jakob Kuisl had to stoop to avoid bumping his head on the low doorway. His huge form completely filled the opening.
“You called for me, Your Excellency?”
“Ah, Kuisl!” Johann Lechner said, motioning for him to take a seat. “How strange…I was just thinking of you. Well, how was the excursion with Burgomaster Semer?”
“You know…?”
“Of course I know. We talked about it in the council meeting. The other gentlemen are not exactly pleased that you are giving Semer special treatment. Now his business is booming, and the rest are sitting around twiddling their fingers. Or were you attacked?”
Kuisl shook his head. “No, there were no crooks or gangsters anywhere. But we also didn’t tell anyone which route we were going to take.”
The clerk frowned. “Do you really think someone on the city council is listening in on the others and sending thugs out to get them?” Johann Lechner smiled, toying with the goose quill. “Tell me frankly, who do you suspect? That ambitious fellow Schreevogl or one of the four burgomasters—or perhaps, me? Are you going to put me on the rack and make me confess?”
Kuisl didn’t react to the clerk’s scornful tone. “The city council is the place where town leaders discuss business,” he replied simply. “If anyone wants to listen, that’s the best place to do it. All the patricians are equally suspect.”
Amused, the clerk shook
his finger at the hangman. “The aldermen a group of murderers? Kuisl, Kuisl…It would be best to keep that idea to yourself. Executioners have been strung up on their own gallows for voicing suspicions far less serious than that. Besides, you’re forgetting the merchant from Augsburg—this Weyer fellow. He wasn’t at the council meeting, but he’s dead and buried now just the same.”
Jakob Kuisl shrugged. “We’ll see how it all fits together. Semer, in any case, didn’t talk to anyone and arrived safe and sound in Landsberg.”
“I hear you asked the burgomaster a favor,” Lechner said, abruptly changing the subject. “You wanted him to make some inquiries for you.” The clerk looked up at the ceiling, feigning indignation. “The burgomaster is now the hangman’s messenger boy, o tempora, o mores! What’s the world coming to? Can you let me know what’s so important you absolutely must know it, Kuisl?”
“No.”
The clerk paused, stunned. “I beg your pardon?”
Kuisl shrugged. “That’s my business. I’ll let you know when I have news.”
Lechner was silent for a moment; then he nodded. “As you will.” He pushed the papers in front of him to one side and pulled a large notebook from a bookshelf alongside the desk. “Let’s get to the reason I asked you to come.” He leafed through the book as he continued. “Scheller and his gang had their trial today, and—”
“They had what?” Kuisl sat bolt upright in his chair.
“Don’t interrupt me,” Lechner said, giving the hangman a severe look. “As I said, we put the gang on trial this morning in the Ballenhaus. It lasted just a quarter hour. Your presence wasn’t necessary.”
“And Burgomaster Semer?”
“He was informed and agreed to the procedure. The execution is set for this coming Saturday; that’s in three days.” He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, I was not successful in arranging the type of execution you requested. You’ll have to torture Scheller on the wheel.”
Kuisl could no longer stay seated. “But you gave me your word!” He jumped up so violently that his chair tipped backward and crashed to the floor. “I’m indebted to Scheller!”
The clerk shook his head as if he were speaking with a child. “Please, Kuisl! Indebted…to the head of a band of robbers?” He pointed at the chair on the ground. “Now please pick it up. We still have some things to discuss.”
Jakob Kuisl took a deep breath and stood there, his arms crossed.
“Believe me,” Lechner continued, “it’s the best thing for the city. We have to set an example. Every gang of robbers from here to Landsberg will hear Scheller scream. It will be a lesson to them. Besides”—he tapped his goose-quill pen on the document in front of him—“the execution will bring money back into the city coffers. We’ll have a big celebration with dancing, music, mulled wine, and roasted chestnuts. People need a change of pace after these cold, anxious days.” He leafed through the pages of the book. “You see, there are some things that have to be done. First, the execution site has to be cleaned. Also, I’ve checked and one of the beams is rotten. And down below, in the square, we’ll need some gallows—at least three of them. And seats with canopies for the patricians so the fine gentlemen don’t freeze their behinds off in the cold. I’m afraid the hunt for the other gangs of robbers will have to wait a bit.”
The hangman, who had listened stoically to Lechner’s words, stirred again. “And what about the children and the women?” he asked.
The clerk nodded. “They’ll go free, as promised. We’ll hang only the men and older boys. Scheller will be tortured on the wheel. Believe me, there were people on the council who wanted to hang the women and children, too.” He smiled at Kuisl. “You see, I’m trying to meet you halfway. Now get started. By Saturday noon everything has to be ready.”
With a nod, Lechner dismissed the hangman, who headed for the exit as if in a trance. After he closed the door behind him, the clerk groaned. He would never understand this pigheaded Kuisl! Torture on the wheel paid a full thirty guilders, yet Kuisl reacted as if he were being asked to string up his own daughter. Lechner watched out the window as the large man walked away. A strange man, this hangman, he thought. Strong, bright, but a little too sentimental for his job.
And definitely too curious.
Once more, Lechner removed the letter from under the table. Written on the finest stationery, it had arrived that morning. He could see from the seal that the messenger who had been here a few days earlier had spoken the truth. Someone very powerful wanted to do everything possible to keep the hangman from asking too many questions in Altenstadt.
Johann Lechner cast a final glance at the seal, just to make sure it was genuine, then held the letter over a candle on his desk. Flickering, the fire ate its way through the thin paper until there was nothing left but ashes. The instructions in the letter had been clear. No proof, no written documents, no evidence that would reveal the identity of the client.
Johann Lechner counted out the freshly minted coins that had accompanied the letter. The money would help the city, as would the executions. Once again, the clerk was at peace with himself and the world.
Simon and Benedikta arrived in Schongau early in the evening. During the entire trip back, they’d been wondering about the strange words on the plaque, but also about the man who had watched them from the top of the fir. Was he part of the same gang that had been spying on them on the way to Wessobrunn? But why, then, hadn’t the robbers attacked? Why were the two of them being observed and followed?
Simon escorted Benedikta to her quarters at Semer’s inn, where she convinced him to remain a while for a glass of wine in the tavern.
“Is it possible these are the same men who were hanging around this area a few days ago?” Simon asked. “The same ones who ambushed the hangman in the crypt? Magdalena told her father about a few black-robed strangers in Strasser’s Tavern in Altenstadt who were speaking Latin. Perhaps they’ve been following us the entire time, and—”
“Magdalena is a little girl who probably doesn’t know a word of Latin,” Benedikta interrupted. “Perhaps they were just itinerant Benedictines saying their prayers before they ate.” She winked at him. “You’re beginning to look at every stranger like a murderer.” She put her hand around Simon’s arm, but he quickly pulled away.
“Don’t you sense that our every move is being watched?” he asked with alarm. “A highwayman who doesn’t attack, the man in the fir…That can’t all be a coincidence!”
“I think you’re just imagining things!” Benedikta laughed. “Now I’ll tell you what I think. The man you saw yesterday in the yew forest was a highway robber. We escaped. And the man in the fir tree was nothing but a figment of your imagination. You can’t even give a good description of what he looked like.”
“I know what I saw.” There was a long pause. When Simon spoke again, he decided to put all his cards on the table. “You’re right,” he said. “Perhaps it’s all just my imagination. Perhaps Andreas Koppmeyer was murdered for some completely different reason. Tell me, Benedikta, your brother surely must have left a will. What does it say?”
Benedikta stared back at him in astonishment and took a deep breath. “So that’s what you think!” she finally blurted out. “You suspect me of having killed my brother! You have no doubt been harboring this suspicion for a long time, haven’t you?”
“What does the will say?” Simon persisted.
Benedikta looked at him angrily, with her arms crossed. “I can tell you. I’m inheriting a leather-bound Bible from my brother, an old armchair, and a cookbook he wrote himself. And forty guilders that will hardly make up for the losses my wine business has incurred in the meanwhile.” She leaned over to Simon. “Those are his personal bequests. Everything else goes to the church!”
Simon winced. He hadn’t once stopped to think that the priest’s possessions would, in fact, for the most part, revert back to the church after his death. In all likelihood, Benedikta had probably inherited no more than these
few worthless things.
“And if that were the case,” she continued, now in such a rage that other guests turned around to look at her, “why on earth would I want to hang around Altenstadt near the scene of the crime? Wouldn’t I have just poisoned my brother, gone back to Landsberg without anyone noticing, and waited there for news of his death? Nobody would have suspected anything.” She stood up quickly, knocking over her chair. “Simon Fronwieser, you’re really out of line.” Benedikta ran out, slamming the door behind her.
“Well, Fronwieser?” The brewer’s journeyman, Konstantin Kreitmeyer, looked over at him and grinned. “Trouble with women again? Better stay with your hangman’s daughter. She’s crazy enough for you.”
Some other brewer’s journeymen at Kreitmeyer’s table laughed and made a few obscene gestures.
Simon swallowed the rest of his wine and stood up. “Oh, shut your mouths!” He put a few coins on the table and left the tavern to a further chorus of lewd remarks.
Instead of turning into the Hennengasse and going home, Simon headed toward the Lech Gate. He couldn’t possibly sleep the way he felt now. He had acted like such a fool with Benedikta! How could he even imagine she’d poison her own brother? Further, the journeyman’s words had set him thinking of Magdalena again. Was she already on her way home from Augsburg? Perhaps her father had heard from her. Simon longed for a hot cup of coffee. The only thing awaiting him at home was work and a carping father who was fed up with his son’s escapades. The last time Simon visited the hangman, he brought Anna Maria a little bag of coffee beans, and he wondered now whether the hangman’s wife would brew him a cup of his favorite drink. He decided to pay the Schongau executioner a visit.
Before long, he was down in the Tanners’ Quarter, knocking on the front door of Kuisl’s house. The moment Anna Maria Kuisl opened the door, he could see something was wrong. The face of the otherwise vivacious woman seemed pale and drawn.
“It’s good you have come,” she said, motioning for Simon to enter. “Maybe you can cheer him up a little. He’s started to drink again.”
The Dark Monk Page 28