The Dark Monk

by Oliver Pötzsch

  At first she refused to say more than just a few words to him, even though Brother Jakobus tried several times to engage her in conversation. With time, however, she became more and more bored in the drafty chapel. By now she knew the ceiling frescos like the back of her hand, as well as how many paces it was from the altar to the door and from the shrine of the Virgin to the altar. The only book here was a dog-eared prayer and hymn book whose Catholic hymns she had practically memorized by now.

  On the second day, she started paying more attention to the monk’s diatribes—for the most part, endless, bigoted lectures full of quotes from the Bible. Brother Jakobus approached her with a mix of contempt, hatred, and even…adoration, something that increasingly confused her. Often, he passed his hands through her hair, only to break away a moment later and start pacing furiously among the pews again. More than once, she was afraid he would cut her throat in a sudden fit of madness.

  “It was you women who brought evil into the world!” he lectured, waving his finger in the air. “You ate the apple, and since then, we have been living in sin!”

  Magdalena couldn’t resist an answer: “Aha, and Adam just stood there and watched?” A moment later, she regretted speaking up.

  Brother Jakobus walked over to her and seized her head like a ripe pumpkin he wanted to crush between his hands. “She talked him into it, do you understand?” he mumbled. “Adam had a moment of weakness, but God does not tolerate weakness, not a moment. He punished us all—all of us!”

  Once more, she could smell his sweet perfume, but now, for the first time, Magdalena detected another scent behind the fragrance of violets—a vile, overpowering breath. The monk’s whole body stank like rotting flesh; his mouth smelled like a sewer, and his crooked black stubs of teeth jutted out from foul, festering gums. The white tunic he wore under his black hooded cowl was stained with wet spots, which she came to realize were caused by festering ulcers. Magdalena could see that his tonsure was not shaved by hand but, in fact, that his hair on top had fallen out.

  Brother Jakobus seemed to be rotting from the inside out.

  The hangman’s daughter remembered she’d seen these symptoms before in a Genoese merchant who had come to see her father some years ago. The man had staggered into the hangman’s house, evidently in great pain. Most of his hair had fallen off, like balls of wool flying from a spindle, and he was twitching oddly. Her father had spoken of a French disease and sent the merchant off with a phial of mercury and a drink of opium poppies to relieve the pain. When Magdalena asked her father whether the man could be cured, he’d shaken his head. “He’s been sick for too long,” he had said. “If he’s lucky, he’ll die before he’s completely in the grip of madness.”

  Was Brother Jakobus in the grip of madness, too? Magdalena wondered what the monk intended to do with her.

  At times, he’d gently stroke her head, almost lovingly passing his hand through her hair. Then his mind seemed far off, on some distant voyage. On one such occasion, Brother Jakobus had poured out his heart to her.

  “When I was still young, I was in love with a girl like you,” he whispered. “A…whore…And her name was Magdalena. She brought ruin upon herself—and me. I was lecherous, a drunken fool stumbling through Augsburg in search of gratification. But then God sent me a sign. He punished me with this disease, and I collapsed in front of the Dominican Church of Saint Magdalene!” He giggled softly. “St. Magdalene—what a divine irony!” His giggle gave way to a loud coughing fit, and it was a long time before he could continue speaking. “Since then, I have devoted my life completely to the service of the Order. And now God has given me the chance to make up for my past. Magdalena…” Lost in thought, he stroked her cheeks. “My Magdalena is dead, but you can be healed. I will drive the demons out of you like the smoke and stench from a stifling farmhouse parlor.”

  While he read verses from the Bible, Magdalena closed her eyes, thinking frantically about how she might escape.

  The situation looked pretty bleak at first. The door was impregnable and the window too small. She had no idea how many guards were here assisting Brother Jakobus. Besides, she was unarmed. She estimated she’d been in the coffin for two days. At their last stop, the men had been speaking a Swabian dialect. Was she already beyond the Bavarian border or perhaps still somewhere in Augsburg? Had she been taken away on a ship? All she knew was that she had to be near a large church. At regular intervals, she could hear big, heavy bells tolling—the kind only large congregations could afford.

  For the hundredth time, she cursed her stupidity. Why didn’t she tell anyone before she went down into the concealed vault under the cathedral? Capturing her had been an incredible stroke of luck for Jakobus and his accomplices. Clearly, she, along with her father and Simon, had been on the trail of a huge conspiracy with the Augsburg bishop at its head! With the hangman’s daughter as their hostage, the conspirators could now be assured the mysterious Templars’ treasure would not fall into the wrong hands. Magdalena was certain her father and Simon would do everything in their power to free her.

  Simon…

  She felt a tickle in her lower body just thinking of him. If they were together, they would certainly have figured out how to escape this prison. What she liked most about the physician was how clever he was. Simon was sly, funny, eager to learn things, and well, perhaps just a little bit too short.

  Magdalena smiled, thinking of all the things they had been through together. As far as shrewdness was concerned, Simon was even a match for her father, and that said a lot. The medicus had solved the riddle in the crypt under the St. Lawrence Church on his own. But then along came that accursed Benedikta who put herself between them—that elegant, blasé woman from Landsberg! Even down here in her prison, the thought of Simon and Benedikta together made Magdalena flush with anger. Just let her get her hands on that woman!

  Then it occurred to her that she had other problems at the moment.

  To get her mind off these things, she thought back again on a conversation she’d had the day before with Brother Jakobus about the treasure. She’d asked the monk several times what the treasure was and if it really was something left behind by the Templars, but he avoided answering all her questions.

  “It’s a treasure that will determine the future of Christianity,” he said, looking up to the Savior on the ceiling. “With it, we will finally destroy the armies of the Lutheran heretics! As soon as our master tells the Pope about it, the Pope will join forces with us in a holy war to drive the Protestant princes out of the German Empire. The master knows that the Great War is not yet over!”

  “Who is your master?” Magdalena interrupted. “The bishop of Augsburg?”

  Brother Jakobus smiled. “Our numbers are legion.”

  The nights were cold and damp. Even under the wool blankets and in the warm glow of the candles the monk brought each night, she froze. Her arms and legs were stiff and tingled from lack of movement. The only indication it was day or night was the narrow beam of light that came through the little shuttered window. She was in despair.

  Then, on the third day, something happened.

  It was around noon. She had gotten up from the cold stone floor and was dozing on one of the pews when, half asleep, she rolled off the narrow bench onto the floor again. Sitting there, with blankets around her shoulders, cursing, she noticed a small bundle hidden under a pew. She hesitated for a moment, then quickly picked it up.

  It was the little bag of herbs she’d been carrying around with her for the last four or five days since her visit to the apothecary in Augsburg. It must have fallen off her waistband and wound up under the bench. She’d completely forgotten it.

  Carefully, she untied the string and looked inside. There was a sharp aroma of herbs. Everything she’d hastily stuffed into the bag at Nepomuk Biermann’s apothecary was still there—a little crumbled, perhaps, but still useable.

  Magdalena rubbed the dried herbs between her fingers, thinking.

  A
nd in her mind a plan began to take shape.

  From the top of the stairs leading to Schreevogl’s front door, Simon looked down at Benedikta, who stood at the foot of the stairs in full riding costume. Her horse was saddled, and she was holding the reins in her hand. The sorrel pranced around nervously, and the saddlebags on both sides were filled to the brim.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Benedikta said, patting her horse to calm it down. “I was told I might find you here. I’d like to say good-bye.”

  “You’re leaving?” asked Simon, his mouth falling open.

  The merchant woman swung up into the saddle. “After our last meeting, I had the feeling it would be best for me to go. And to be honest, I don’t really put much faith in all this talk about treasures and murderers. It won’t bring my brother back, so I wish you farewell!”

  “Benedikta, wait!” Simon hurried down the stairway. “I didn’t really mean what I said two days ago in the tavern. I was no doubt too harsh. It’s just that…” He hesitated and eyed the refined lady from Landsberg again. With her fur coat, billowing skirt, and cape, she looked so different from all the Schongau women who were always chasing after him. She was a visitor from another world who would leave him now—alone in this filthy little provincial dump.

  “What’s the matter, physician?” She looked at him, waiting.

  “I’m sorry, I was a fool. I…I would be really happy if you could stay and help with the rest of my search.” The words simply tumbled out before he’d had a chance to think them through. “It’s very possible that I’ll urgently need your self-confident, refined demeanor once again! The superintendent in Rottenbuch probably won’t want anything to do with a little field surgeon, but with you…”

  “Rottenbuch?” Benedikta asked with curiosity. “The riddle points to Rottenbuch?”

  Simon sighed. Without noticing, he’d already made a decision. “Let’s go to one of the quiet side rooms at Semer’s Tavern,” he said. “I’ll explain everything else to you there. We need to set out today.”

  Benedikta smiled and looked down at the medicus, who kept shifting around, trying to get out of the way of her nervous horse.

  “All right,” she said finally. “I’ll stay. But this time, let’s rent an obedient fast horse for you here at the post house. Do you think we might have to flee from robbers again?”

  The monastery of Rottenbuch was only ten miles from Schongau, a journey of less than two hours.

  Benedikta rode so fast and gracefully that Simon had trouble keeping up and not falling off his horse. As they raced past snow-covered trees, Simon often had to squint or close his eyes briefly in the light flurries and let the horse take its own pace—it seemed to know better than he where they were headed.

  They had rented a young gray for a few silver coins in the post station at Semer’s Tavern. Benedikta had paid, and Simon was embarrassed when she took out her purse and handed the coins to the postmaster. The medicus couldn’t help grinning. This woman wouldn’t let herself be bossed around by a man, and she didn’t demand any favors, either. In these matters, Simon thought, she was just like Magdalena. Perhaps they weren’t so different, after all, and perhaps under different circumstances, Magdalena could have become another Benedikta.

  They arrived at their destination in less than two hours, leaving the forest and entering a snow-covered landscape dotted with houses, churches, walls, and archways. For a mile around, men had wrested open land from the surrounding wilderness, and at its center was the Rottenbuch Monastery. On a road entering the cleared land from the opposite side, Simon could see a group of silent monks giving alms to a wailing beggar. A farmer was pulling a calf on a rope across the paved main street of the town. Ladders and scaffolding lay against many of the as-of-yet unplastered buildings while workers rushed around with buckets, shovels, and trowels. Just as in Steingaden, people were obviously busy here removing the rubble of war and building a new, larger, and even more beautiful monastery.

  Simon and Benedikta rode through a gate toward the wide square in front of the Augustinian Canon Monastery. A huge clock tower rose up in front of them. On their left was the church and, next to it, the monastery, which in contrast to the other buildings was already resplendent in a fresh coat of stucco. After they’d found a place to stay and a stable for the horses, they went in search of the superintendent.

  Putting on a serious face, Simon addressed one of the monks entering the church. “Brother, may I have a word with you? We are looking for the venerable leader of this wonderful monastery. Could you direct us to him?”

  “Do you mean our Right Reverend Brother, Superintendent Michael Piscator? You are in luck.”

  The monk pointed to a somewhat stout elderly man dressed in the typical white alb of the Augustinian canons. Standing nearby among some laborers, he seemed to be giving directions to the construction foreman. “You can see him engaged in his favorite pastime,” the canon said, winking. “Building churches, for him, is the highest form of worship.” With a grin, he disappeared through the portal to the monastery.

  Simon couldn’t help but think of the Steingaden abbot, Augustin Bonenmayr, who had devoted himself, just like the superintendent in Rottenbuch, to the construction of his monastery. Simon was certain that if the church authorities continued in this way, the most beautiful monasteries in Bavaria would soon be standing in the Priests’ Corner.

  “Your Excellency?” Benedikta walked toward the group and curtsied to the superintendent.

  Like so many monks, Brother Michael had a weakness for the fair sex. He paused, then made a slight bow and offered Benedikta his hand, which was adorned with the signet ring of the monastery. “I’m honored, beautiful lady. How can I help you?”

  The workmen and architects packed up their plans, disappointed, while Benedikta kissed his signet ring. Simon rushed to her side, doffed his hat, and went through the same routine that had been so successful in Wessobrunn.

  “Allow me to introduce the lady. Before you stands none other than Madame de Bouillon, royal dressmaker to the mistress of the French king,” the physician declared. “She has made the long trip from Paris in order to view the famous relics of Saints Primus and Felicianus here in Rottenbuch.” Simon lowered his voice to a whisper as he leaned toward the superintendent. “She made a vow not to share her bed again with her husband until she’d kissed the bones of the martyrs.”

  Benedikta glanced at Simon in astonishment, but Simon maintained a serious face.

  “The poor man,” Brother Michael sighed. “What a waste! But may I ask how the lady came to choose these two particular saints for her long pilgrimage?”

  “She gave her newborn twins the names Primus and Felicianus,” Simon continued in a firm voice. “But they’ve fallen seriously ill, and now she hopes through her pilgrimage to be heard by our beloved Virgin Mary.”

  “Get a hold of yourself, damn it!” Benedikta whispered in his ear. “You’re really going too far. Nobody will believe that stuff!”

  But the superintendent nodded sympathetically. “What a misfortune! I’ll guide you to the relics personally! Follow me.”

  Simon cast a surreptitious glance at Benedikta and grinned. Then they followed Brother Michael’s clipped steps to the church. Huffing and puffing, he pointed toward the scaffolding, where workmen were replacing old, broken church windows with stained glass.

  “In a few years this monastery will be a jewel in Bavaria, believe me!” the superintendent said. “An incomparable pilgrimage site! We will house not just the relics of Saint Primus and Saint Felicianus here, but two teeth of Saint Binosa, some hair from the Virgin Mary, a knuckle belonging to Saint Blasius, the skull of Saint Lawrence, and the collarbone of Saint Brigida…to name only a few of the most important.”

  He opened the church door, and Simon cast his eyes on a splendor that had to look like heaven on earth to the simple people in the area. Bright paintings of angels and saints on the ceiling gave the impression of infinite heights, marble s
labs memorialized the former superintendents of Rottenbuch, and a huge organ with pipes as big as a man was enthroned over the portal. On the east wall opposite them, an altar at least twenty feet high depicted the Ascension of Mary, flanked by the apostles Peter and Paul. At the sides, two skeletons stood upright in glass coffins, each with a sword in hand and a laurel wreath on its bare skull.

  “Saints Primus and Felicianus…” Brother Michael whispered, pointing at the skeletons. “Aren’t they beautiful? We placed them there during the dedication ceremonies for our new altar at this site. They look down on us protectively and benevolently.” He turned away. “But now I shall leave you alone with the relics.”

  “Ah, excuse me,” Simon whispered, “but Madame de Bouillon promised she would kiss the bones of the saint.”

  “Kiss?” The superintendent looked at Simon, bewildered.

  “Ah, oui,” Benedikta interjected with her best French accent. “I must…how do we say it…embrasser…kiss the sacred bones with my lips. Only in that way can the vow be honored.”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, madame, but that’s not possible.” The superintendent pointed up at the high altar. “As you can see yourself, the bones are up there, beyond our reach. Moreover, the coffins are sealed. Send a kiss with your hand, and I’m sure God will understand.”

  “Mais non!” Benedikta exclaimed. “I must kiss them. Mes enfants…my children…” She raised her hands to her neckline. “Otherwise, they will never regain their health!”