The Dark Monk

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “The battle of Hattin was the beginning of the end for the Crusaders. In the same year, Jerusalem fell to invaders. But worst of all, the True Cross was lost in this battle! It was believed that several Templars escaped with the cross and buried it in the sand so it could be retrieved later. But it was never found again.”

  “And do you believe it was the Templars who hid the cross at that time?” Benedikta asked.

  “I don’t just believe it; I know it.” Simon grinned. “For days, I’ve been trying to remember where I’ve seen the name of the German Temple Master Friedrich Wildgraf before. But while we were talking about the Holy Cross, it all came back to me.”

  “Well?” Benedikta asked. “Tell me!”

  With a look of satisfaction, Simon closed the huge book and, from under his jacket, took out the little book about the Templars he’d borrowed from Jakob Schreevogl. “The battle of Hattin is also mentioned in this book by Wilhelm von Selling,” he whispered, looking through the book until he found a soiled page full of scribbled notes. “There’s a note in the margins mentioning several warriors from that battle that I didn’t pay too much attention to at first. Just as in every army today there is a standard flag bearer, there was one person who carried the Holy Cross into battle for the Templars.” He grinned and deliberately paused a moment before continuing.

  “In the battle of Hattin that person was none other than a certain Carolus Wildgraf. I’ll bet anything that Friedrich Wildgraf was a direct descendant of the person who carried the Holy Cross back then.”

  A brief moment later, the shelf above them gave way, sending a jumble of books cascading down on them. A particularly thick volume hit Simon on the forehead, and he fell to the ground. More books tumbled down until the whole world around them comprised nothing but ink and letters.

  Magdalena stumbled through the hole that had opened up, rushing forward with outstretched arms, not knowing where she was headed. She could hear cracking, banging, and the muffled sound of falling objects. When she opened her eyes again, she saw a large roomful of books with shelves reaching almost to the ceiling. The wall behind the shelves had tipped forward along with the contents of the shelves, freeing up an opening behind it. Thick clouds of dust gradually settled on the floor, and behind them, a mountain of fallen books materialized in the middle of the room.

  And then the mountain moved.

  Ready for the worst, Magdalena picked up the heaviest volume she could find. Plato’s Symposium would send whoever came creeping out of that pile of books to kingdom come.

  Two heads pushed through the pile. Magdalena closed her eyes, then opened them again.

  I’m dreaming. It’s all a dream…

  Before her, she saw Benedikta and an ashen-faced Simon trying to extricate themselves from the mountain of books. Blood trickled down the medicus’s forehead. Covered in dust, plaster, and shreds of parchment, the two looked like revenants from the underworld.

  The Symposium slipped from Magdalena’s hands, her knees became weak, and she had to steady herself against one of the shelves. When Simon finally noticed her in the gaping hole, his jaw dropped.

  For a long time no one said a word.

  “You…?” Simon finally managed to say.

  Magdalena struggled to stand up straight, looked angrily at the two sitting in the mountain of books, then folded her arms.

  “Yes, me. And just what are you doing here with this woman?”

  Magdalena had survived imprisonment, poison, and a crazy monk; she had fled through dark passageways and been carted around in a coffin as a living corpse. Over the past few days, her life had come apart at the seams. But of all the things that had happened to her recently, seeing Simon in front of her, stumbling around and covered with scraps of parchment, had to be the limit. She forgot all the frightening things she had been through and directed all of her anger at the medicus and Benedikta.

  “I just want to know what the two of you are doing here!” she shouted. “Just once I leave town, and here you are cavorting behind my back with this hussy from Landsberg!”

  “Magdalena,” Simon said as softly and calmly as possible. “Benedikta is no hussy, and we’re not cavorting around, either. Quite the opposite. We’re locked up here in the Steingaden library for having defiled sacred relics, and we’re about to be either stabbed to death or broken on the wheel by your father. So would you please tell me now what you’re doing here?”

  As Simon’s voice got louder and louder, Magdalena stared at him wide-eyed, only slowly coming to a realization about what was going on.

  “The…library in Steingaden, you say?”

  Benedikta nodded. “We’re being held hostage in the Steingaden Monastery. But now,” she added, pointing to the opening behind Magdalena, “it appears we have at least one way out, and as fast as we can we ought to—”

  “Just a moment,” Simon interrupted. “Can’t you see she needs some rest? Besides, she needs to tell us what’s on the other side.”

  The medicus walked over to Magdalena and squeezed her hand. He could feel her pulse racing, her whole body shaking. Only slowly did the trembling subside.

  The hangman’s daughter dropped down on a pile of books and took a few deep breaths. Then she began her story.

  14

  JAKOB KUISL STRODE with great haste toward the monastery. The soldier had quickly confessed, so torturing him with the red-hot hunting knife hadn’t been necessary. Instead, he branded his cheek with an image of the gallows, gave him a kick in the butt, and sent him packing. He left the soldier with the smashed skull behind as food for the animals.

  Kuisl kept thinking about what the man had told him—his voice cracking and eyes wide open in fear—as the two sat around the fire. The hangman had had everything figured out anyway ever since he’d heard the report from Burgomaster Semer, plus what the head of the Scheller gang told him. Some details had been a bit hazy, but now it all formed a clear picture. He began to run. Simon was in danger; he’d have to warn that brash young medicus as fast as possible! He hoped it wasn’t too late.

  As he raced past some bundled-up travelers stranded on the narrow road with a cart stuck in the snow, he thought only of what might have transpired in Rottenbuch and what role Simon and Benedikta might have played in it. How had the abbot been able to take them along? Rottenbuch was not part of the Premonstratensian district. If the medicus and the Landsberg woman had been guilty of something there, they’d have to stay there until a trial took place. Apparently, this Bonenmayr had enough influence to do whatever he wanted.

  When Kuisl finally emerged from the forest at the Steingaden Monastery, dusk was already descending and snow was falling in heavy, soft flakes from the darkening sky. Here, too, as in Rottenbuch, towering, icy scaffolding and pulleys were everywhere, as well as excavations blanketed in waist-deep snow. Deep-throated bells announced evening prayers, and here and there Premonstratensian monks hurried past on their way to vespers, almost invisible in their white tunics in the driving snow.

  It seemed that construction work had been suspended several days ago due to the huge snowstorm. Kuisl glanced at the unfinished roof beams of the future inn and surmised that Simon and Benedikta had no doubt sought shelter in the monastery next door. He decided to knock on the main door in the hopes of learning something from the cellarer.

  As Kuisl walked toward the multistoried, whitewashed building, a door opened in a wing just a few steps in front of him. A group of people came out, but it was hard to make out anyone in the heavy snowfall.

  The hangman stopped at a distance to allow the procession to pass by. He strained and squinted in the fading light, but still had trouble seeing who they were. The person in front appeared to be Augustin Bonenmayr, recognizable as an abbot by his purple robe. Unlike the others, he wore a white hat, which he gripped tightly in the wind. The two broad-shouldered monks following him were also dressed in white, like all the Premonstratensians, but the third wore a black habit and hood. His strides were li
ght and springy, and though he was a small man, his musculature was visible through the robe. The way he moved while constantly looking around reminded Jakob Kuisl of a ferret.

  A very bad, dangerous ferret, he thought.

  The hangman’s experience as a soldier and warrior told him this man hadn’t spent his life just praying and copying manuscripts.

  Jakob Kuisl was just a few steps away from them when the dark monk turned abruptly to the abbot and said in a harsh voice, “We should have gotten rid of them. This medicus is a clever fellow who can always weasel his way out of every situation. And that hussy—”

  “Silence!” Augustin Bonenmayr interrupted. “Make room in your heart for Christendom’s greatest treasure. In mere moments, we will stand before it. Everything else can wait.”

  Kuisl was startled. He knew the voice of this monk! He had heard it only briefly back in the crypt at the St. Lawrence Church, but he couldn’t forget the strange foreign accent and the hoarse panting. A few moments had been enough to burn the sound of that voice into his memory forever.

  Kuisl tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He ducked behind a small snowdrift, but he was a big man and his hat stuck out over the drift. Suddenly, the dark monk turned in his direction. He stopped in his tracks and stared intently through the falling snow straight ahead. Slowly, the hangman turned to one side, hoping it was as hard for the monk to see in the snowfall as it was for him. The sound of footsteps in the snow receded, and the murmur of voices became fainter until finally dying away. Kuisl waited a moment, then set out after the group. By now his overcoat was covered in a thin layer of snow, so the monks didn’t notice the almost invisible colossus who followed them silently in the falling darkness.

  After Magdalena had finished telling her story, they all grew quiet for a moment.

  “The bishop of Augsburg is the leader of a secret order that will stop at nothing to steal the treasures of the church!” Simon shook his head. “And right at his side the abbot of Steingaden. No court of law in the world would ever believe this!” He gazed through the barred window; night was falling. “In any case, we don’t have much time. We can assume that Bonenmayr is already in Saint John’s Chapel to see the fruition of his life’s dream. And after that, the dark monk won’t waste any time getting rid of us.” He quickly summarized for Magdalena what they’d learned, then pointed to the stone archway that had opened up when the wall of books collapsed.

  “We can assume it’s an old secret passageway leading from the monastery down into the Guelphs’ tomb,” he said. “It obviously hasn’t been used for a long time. There must be another way in, or this monk wouldn’t have been able to bring you something to eat every day.” He looked at Magdalena and pointed at the entrance. “And do you think something is lurking around down there, lying in wait for us?”

  Magdalena nodded, glancing again at the opening from which cold, moldy air streamed into the room. All that could be seen from the library were a few steps of a winding staircase and then nothing but darkness.

  “Even if it’s the devil himself prowling around down there,” said Benedikta, “we still have to go. There’s no other way out!” She pulled a little pistol out of her dress and began filling the weapon with powder. “At least the pious abbot did not search my skirt, so we still have one more shot.” She grinned and pointed the loaded pistol toward Magdalena before placing it back inside her clothing.

  Simon walked over to the top of the spiral staircase. “Aren’t there any torches down there? I can’t see a thing.”

  Magdalena walked over to join him. “It’s strange,” she murmured. “From here you should be able to see at least one torch. They’re attached to the walls at regular intervals. Someone must have extinguished them…”

  “Or the wind blew them out,” Benedikta said, looking around. “In any case, we should take a few of these along,” she said, reaching for a few especially large books nearby.

  “What are you doing?” Simon cried. “Are you really going to—”

  “These parchments are centuries old. They’ll burn like the dickens,” Benedikta interrupted. “If you grab them by the cover, they make wonderful torches.”

  Horrified, Simon pointed at the book in Benedikta’s hand. “But those are the Confessions of Saint Augustine! The book includes commentaries! It’s a sin to burn a book like that!”

  Benedikta tossed the thick book to him and stuffed four others under her left arm. “That should be enough. Of course, if you want to, you can grope around in the dark and let someone creep up on you and slit your throat from behind.” Heading for the entrance, she added, “Now, follow me. Before the abbot comes back.”

  She took one more step and disappeared in the darkness.

  Augustin Bonenmayr’s nerves were shot. Again and again, he removed the pince-nez from his nose and polished them frantically.

  “It must be here! Keep looking!” He kept blinking, as if that might help him see in the darkness. “The cross lies somewhere here at our feet!”

  Along with Brother Nathanael and the two novitiates, Johannes and Lothar, the abbot had hurried over from the library to St. John’s Chapel in search of a clue, a secret chamber, anything that might lead them to the True Cross. For an hour they had been tapping on the walls, scanning for some kind of sign, but all they had seen so far were cold, bare walls. Augustin Bonenmayr looked around again, trying to figure out whether they had overlooked something.

  The chapel was a small room built of sandstone blocks with a small altar to Mary on the east side. Modeled after the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, its circular form gave it the appearance of a stout, fortified tower from the outside. Above the portal hung a painting of Christ standing between Mary and John; a recumbent lion crouched on a stone slab on each side of the door.

  Otherwise, the room was bare—and empty. Bonenmayr mumbled a soft curse.

  Under his supervision, the monks had already tried to move the holy figures and pry up the large slabs beneath the lions. They had tapped along the walls searching for secret entrances and examined the flooring for trapdoors. They’d even checked underneath the vaulted chapel roof.

  Now they were starting over again.

  The abbot shouted and cursed, he kicked the altar, but all to no avail. St. John’s Chapel was not divulging its secrets.

  “The treasure of the Templars in the house of the baptist in the grave of Christ,” Bonenmayr whispered, agitated. “The solution to the riddle is here! It must be here in the Chapel of Saint John! These accursed Templars…” He bit his lips and uttered a deep sigh. “We’ll dig up the floor,” he said finally.

  Brother Johannes stopped tapping the walls and stared wide-eyed at the abbot. “But, Your Eminence!” he cried. “This is a holy place!”

  “This is a hiding place for the damned Templars!” Bonenmayr shouted. “I won’t let them trifle with me any longer, not on my own property! We’re going to dig right here! Go and get the pickaxes—at once!”

  Simon and Magdalena followed Benedikta down the steep winding staircase into the darkness. At the very next turn, Simon knew that Magdalena’s suspicions had been right. He reached for the tip of one of the torches; it was still hot. Someone must have extinguished it just moments ago.

  The opening in the wall above them was now no more than a faint glow, and even that disappeared after the next turn. Benedikta stopped, pulled out a box of matches, and soon they saw a flickering light in front of them—she’d set fire to one of the books. Simon felt a twinge in his heart; he didn’t want to know which precious book had just met a fiery death. Aristotle? Thomas Aquinas? Descartes? He looked uneasily at the Confessions of Saint Augustine he held in his hands. He couldn’t yet bring himself to set fire to the masterpiece.

  Holding the burning book, Benedikta led the way. At the bottom of the staircase, the corridor extended to the intersection where, not even an hour ago, Magdalena had stood looking for a way out.

  “Which way?” Benedikta
whispered.

  Magdalena looked around. “The chapel where I was held prisoner is to the left. The way straight ahead leads to the crypt of the Guelphs, but there’s no way out there, so let’s go right.”

  Now Magdalena, too, had set fire to a book and, along with Benedikta, entered a corridor even narrower than the others. In the flickering light, Simon imagined he was looking at two sisters—the older one wearing a finely woven fur overcoat, her red hair up in a bun, and the other, with shaggy black hair, wearing a dress tattered from her long imprisonment, her eyes fiery with youth. Both had the same determined look on their faces.

  Magdalena seemed to have regained her old self-confidence now, casting a sideward glance at Benedikta. “In that black coat you’re slower than a fat bear in hibernation,” she whispered. “You’d better let me go first. I’m younger and quicker.”

  “Petite garce!” Benedikta hissed. “I hardly believe you could save us if we’re ambushed in here. You forget I have our only weapon.” She pulled out the pistol and stepped back a pace.

  The hangman’s daughter scoffed at the little handgun. “That’s just a woman’s toy. You couldn’t shoot a chicken off the top of the manure pile with that little thing. You should see the weapons my father brought back from the war.”

  “But your father is unfortunately not here to protect his dear little girl!”

  Simon lifted his hands, pleading. “Ladies, please! Let’s just get out of here first, and then you’ll have plenty of time to bash each other’s heads in.”

  Benedikta cast Simon a scornful gaze. “For once, you’re right. We’ve wasted enough time with this.” Then she quietly stepped out in front of the little group.

  Magdalena and Simon followed her down the narrow passageway. Extinguished torches hung in rusty sconces along the wall at regular intervals; in one corner they found an empty black pitch bucket no doubt used to prepare the torches. They passed a number of niches and small passages leading off on both sides, but they continued down the main corridor. At one point, Magdalena bumped into Benedikta, who had stopped suddenly at an intersection. Two corridors forked away from this spot, both the same size.