‘Father Urban – his grace, the archbishop.’
The prior stood up and bowed deeply to his eminent guest, who entered accompanied by a man whom Father Urban knew only too well. It was Sixtus, the infirmarius of Schönau monastery, a nondescript, sallow individual who was not called ‘the archbishop’s shadow’ for nothing. Hovering in the background, eager and ruthless, he was always waiting for a glance or a sign from the archbishop to put any of his commands into action immediately. He was not known for being fastidious in his choice of methods.
‘You are very welcome, your grace. May I offer you something?’ Father Urban asked in a pointedly friendly manner.
Ungraciously the archbishop held out his ringed hand to be dutifully kissed. Despite his apparent indisposition, the dignitary looked as healthy as ever, tall and broad with striking grey curls underneath his zucchetto, his bishop’s skullcap. But there was a cruel look to his face, which was disfigured by pock marks. Without returning Father Urban’s words of welcome, he took off his heavy coat and sat down by the fire.
Father Urban turned to Father Sixtus.
‘I am happy to see you, Father Sixtus!’
The priest nodded silently and, as usual, there was that reproach in his eyes which gave one a guilty conscience. It made one reflect with a shudder on possible long-forgotten misdeeds about to be revealed and cause one’s downfall.
The squeaky voice of the archbishop was heard from the fireplace.
‘Why don’t you come and sit down. We can’t be wasting time. What can be of such importance that it could not be discussed in the refectory before our brothers?’
Father Urban remained standing while Father Sixtus sat down next to the archbishop and, full of self-importance, stared at the prior.
‘Actually, I was hoping I might talk to you in private, your grace,’ Father Urban said cautiously.
‘Well, Father Sixtus enjoys my total confidence. Is that enough?’
‘As you wish,your grace. As you know, I am not only the infirmarius but also the bookkeeper of the revenues of this monastery.’
‘Yes, I’m well aware of it. So . . . ?’
‘Unfortunately I have to tell you that recently I have discovered certain inconsistencies.’
‘Inconsistencies?’ the archbishop frowned.
‘Yes, inconsistencies, although this term may be euphemistic for what has been happening over the years and hidden so cleverly in the balance sheets that not even I noticed it, at least not until recently.’
The archbishop exchanged a quick but meaningful glance with his loyal assistant and asked: ‘And what would that be? But, be warned, Father Urban, I can be very unforgiving should your discoveries turn out to be less than truly serious. I cannot tolerate my time being wasted on foolish drivel.’
‘Two thousand acres of the best farmland being sold on the quiet and recorded in a second account book so that the illegal transactions don’t appear in the official books is, with respect, hardly foolish drivel, your grace.’
Now the cat was out of the bag.
The archbishop remained silent. Nobody said a word. One could hear the flutter of an angel’s wing, Father Urban thought.
Finally, Archbishop Konrad von Hochstaden bent towards the fire, reached for the poker and thoughtfully stirred the embers.
‘Do you have proof, Father Urban? Should your claim turn out to be slanderous it could cost you dearly.’
Father Urban took up the two books which he had carefully studied, a grey one and a blue one, and handed the grey one to the archbishop who passed it to Father Sixtus without as much as a glance. Father Sixtus started to leaf through it.
‘The grey book contains the official accounts for last year, the year of our Lord 1241, the way I learned it from our brethren in Bologna. As you can see, each page is initialled by our abbot,’ Father Urban explained.
The archbishop turned to Father Sixtus. ‘Is that so?’
He nodded affirmatively. ‘That is so.’
‘The blue one, on the other hand,’ said Father Urban holding up the book, ‘the blue one contains the secret accounts. The true ones, if you wish.’
This time Father Urban handed the book to Father Sixtus directly, who accepted it gingerly as if it might burst into flames at any moment.
‘Where did you find the blue book?’ the archbishop asked, in a tone as if discussing an unimportant biblical passage.
The prior walked to the writing desk of the abbot, richly decorated with carved foliage.
‘I found it here,’ he said, pressing a small projection whereupon a secret drawer opened into which the blue book fitted perfectly. To Father Urban’s surprise, the archbishop got up to inspect the compartment more carefully. To demonstrate again, Father Urban closed it and released the mechanism anew causing the drawer once again to spring open.
‘The abbot had not told me about this secret compartment,’ Father Urban said, ‘I brushed against it inadvertently.’
‘You mean to say that the abbot knew about it?’ the archbishop asked, almost with pleasure.
‘It is the handwriting of our abbot that is in the blue book.’
The archbishop looked questioningly at Father Sixtus, who nodded his confirmation.
Konrad von Hochstaden took a step towards Father Urban. ‘Why would you not discuss this with your abbot first?’ he said, eyeing him, ‘would it not have been the more appropriate course of action to confront him with your suspicion? Or do you have reason to mistrust your abbot?’
The last sentence was almost whispered, and Konrad von Hochstaden stood so close to Father Urban that the tips of their noses nearly met. Although the prior felt the closeness to be distinctly uncomfortable, he did not move but replied: ‘Of course not. That’s why the discovery of the blue book came as such a surprise.’
The archbishop stared at Father Urban a little longer, nodded and turned towards the fire again.
Softly, he said: ‘Do you know that Abbot Melchior died two days ago?’
Shocked at the news Father Urban stepped back and made the sign of the cross.
‘Holy Mother of God! The abbot is dead?’
‘Peace to his soul,’ the archbishop said and also made the sign of the cross as did Father Sixtus.
Father Urban had to sit down. ‘Amen,’ he muttered, ‘What happened to him?’
The archbishop turned to Father Urban again, his face impassive. ‘He was deposed by me. Whereupon God took him to Himself.’
‘You deposed Abbot Melchior?’
‘That’s right. I had no choice. He tried to threaten me. I could not allow that to happen. Unfortunately, I did not take into consideration his advanced age when I deposed him. Consequently he could no longer tell us where he had hidden written proof of his crimes. But your discovery – thanks be to God – has brought this to light. Otherwise who knows if we would ever have found the hiding place.’
‘Does the king know about this?’ Father Urban asked, his voice trembling.
‘Nobody knows but us,’ said Archbishop Konrad pointing to Father Sixtus and smiling coldly at Father Urban. ‘And now you, of course.’
‘The king is young and busy trying to consolidate his position in the kingdom that his father, the emperor, has imposed on him,’ he added sneeringly. ‘We therefore do not want to burden his majesty with such trifles. You know that I prefer to take such matters into my own hands. I intend to treat the case with all due discretion. I would not like it to become known that a servant of the Church, and particularly one in such an elevated position, had committed such a wrong. Do you understand me, Father Urban?’
Father Urban fully understood the implications of what he had revealed. The archbishop’s claim to power and his absolute determination to enforce it were unmistakable. It was with a sense of foreboding that he asked: ‘What does Your Grace intend to do now?’
Lost in thought, the archbishop kept turning his golden ring, the sign of his dignity, which was decorated with his coat of arms. The
n he looked up with a stern expression.
‘On my orders Father Sixtus will carry out a thorough audit at Heisterbach monastery. You will continue to carry out your usual duties, Father Urban, as if nothing had happened. But you will report anything unusual to Father Sixtus, however trivial it may seem. I am going to appoint him abbot of this monastery. Henceforth, without my express permission, nobody will enter or leave the monastery until all investigations have been completed. My soldiers will secure all access. This room is to be entered by nobody except Father Sixtus. Do you understand?’
Father Urban bowed before the archbishop. ‘Certainly, your grace.’
Then the archbishop indicated with a condescending gesture that his presence was no longer required. However, Father Urban stood there and cleared his throat.
‘Something else?’ the archbishop asked.
‘Yes, your grace. I think I know where the money went. And who now owns the property.’
Suddenly the archbishop was all ears.
‘How do you know?’
‘I found other documents in the secret drawer.’
‘Where did the money go?’
‘Into the planned construction of the cathedral in Cologne.’
‘And who is presently the supposed owner of these properties?’
‘Forgive me, your grace, it is . . .’ Father Urban hesitated, sweat running from his forehead.
‘Speak. Do not fear the truth. This matter will remain between us.’
‘The present owner of those properties is your brother, Count Lothar von Hochstaden.’
The archbishop did not seem unduly shaken. ‘Where are the documents at the moment?’ he asked with a stony expression.
‘In my cell. Under my mattress.’
‘Then go and fetch them! Immediately!’
Father Urban had rarely seen the archbishop so nettled. He hastened out of the room.
Father Urban hurried through the corridors, his habit fluttering.
Gasping from the effort, agitation and anguish, he pushed open the door of his cell. The fire which had been smouldering flared up as the draft caught it. With a groan Father Urban bent down and pulled out the documents which he had hidden under his straw mattress. He rolled them up and thrust them under his scapular. Then he hurried out again. Before turning the corner to hurry to the abbot’s hall, he suddenly hesitated, turned around and ran to the infirmary. He walked through it without as much as a glance at the patients.
Anna had retired to her cell after the vigil and tried in vain to sleep. She could not stop thinking about her parents’ visit and had a guilty conscience because she had not even said goodbye to them. Suddenly she heard steps in the corridor. The cell door opened, and there was Father Urban standing in front of her bed. Anna blinked at him in surprise and quickly sat up. He grabbed the girl urgently by the shoulders. ‘Now listen to me carefully, Anna! You must be gone from here immediately!’
‘Now? But why?’
‘Right now I do not have much time for explanations. At the archbishop’s behest there is going to be an official canonical investigation. God only knows what will happen to us if they find out about you . . .’
Now Anna was seized by fear as well.
‘Please, Father Urban, what am I to do right now?’
‘Set out for your parents’ village and remain there in hiding!’ he urged. Use the gate at the far end of the cemetery; the key should still be in the lock. I will follow you as soon as I can and explain everything.’
‘And what about you? And the sick ones?’
‘Do not worry about me. The sick will be well cared for in my charge. God bless you, my child!’
He quickly made the sign of the cross on Anna’s forehead and hurried off through the door.
Anna stood there, bewildered. Then she resolutely pulled the sheet from the straw mattress and, folding it into a bag, gathered her few belongings into it as fast as she could.
The archbishop was pacing restlessly as a lay brother brought him and Father Sixtus a jug of wine and three cups. Konrad von Hochstaden waited until the servant had closed the door behind him. Then he quickly took a pouch from his doublet.
‘Quickly, Father Sixtus, pour out the wine.’
Father Sixtus did as he was told. Then the archbishop took something from the pouch and put it into the hand of Father Sixtus. The priest turned to the firelight and looked at the powder that shone brightly in the glass vial.
‘How much?’
‘All of it,’ answered the archbishop, ‘but be quick!’
Father Sixtus removed the stopper of the vial more expertly than one would have thought possible considering his fat, ringed fingers and allowed the contents to trickle into a cup filled with wine. No sooner had he emptied the vial than the door of the hall was thrown open and Father Urban, out of breath, came rushing in. Father Sixtus quickly hid the vial in his wide sleeve.
Father Urban closed the door and just stood there.
‘Do you now have all of the missing items?’ the archbishop asked him in a measured tone.
‘I have everything I found in the secret compartment, your grace!’ Father Urban answered and took the rolled-up documents from beneath his scapular.
The archbishop pointed to the desk and took the cup of wine which Father Sixtus handed him.
‘Leave the papers here for the moment. Let us drink in the hope that nothing of what was discussed here will ever be revealed to the outside world.’
Father Sixtus handed Father Urban the second cup while he held the third and raised it in a toast. ‘Ita nobis deus adiuvat!’
Father Urban nodded. ‘Ita me deus adiuvat!’ He then drank, draining the cup to the dregs as did his two guests.
Morning was breaking when Anna sneaked into the stables of the monastery with the bag into which she had put her few possessions over her shoulder.
She heaved the prior’s saddle off the bar where it sat and walked towards the box of a white horse who calmly allowed himself to be saddled and bridled. She tied the bag to the pommel and carefully led the horse to the back door of the stable, her hand laid on his nostrils.
Warily she peered out through the cracks in the planks. The first rays of light were breaking through the clouds. Not hearing or noticing anything suspicious, she pushed the door open. There was nobody to be seen. The large courtyard lay deserted. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and led the horse out.
Soon she reached the cemetery and, leading the horse, walked through the headstones to the gate at the back. Fervently she hoped that the key would be in the lock, as the prior had told her. She had nearly reached the gate, when lifting her head to look out from beneath her hood she froze: before her stood a knight, with drawn sword. ‘Nobody leaves the monastery by order of the archbishop!’ he uttered gruffly. ‘Who are you anyway?’
With the point of his sword the knight lifted the hood from her head, and a wide grin spread over his face.
‘Well, well, who do we have here? It’s the little novice with the cloven hoof! You wanted to slip away quietly, didn’t you? But not if I can help it.’
Hatred flashed in the eyes of Gero von Hochstaden as he put the point of his sword to her throat.
‘Kneel down!’
Reluctantly Anna obeyed.
‘What do they call you, little monk?’
‘Brother Marian,’ said Anna miserably.
‘Where were you off to so early in the morning, Brother Marian? Have you stolen some treasure of the monastery thinking you might get away unseen?’
‘Sir, there is no such thing as a monastery treasure,’ Anna replied, but Gero von Hochstaden wasn’t listening.
Without taking his eyes off Anna he ripped the bag from the pommel, scattering its contents to the ground. When nothing of value came to light except for some laundry, a spare habit, writing materials and a book about herbal medicine he pushed Anna roughly against the monastery wall. With his sword blade carefully protecting his abdomen fr
om any unpredictable attack from Anna’s feet, he touched her with its point almost playfully.
‘Now you are coming along to the archbishop,’ he commanded, ‘and if you try to run, you will get to feel the point of my sword. Understood?’ All the time he kept looking at Anna’s eyes, but keeping his left thumb between his fore and middle finger.
He is afraid of my evil eye, Anna thought.
Finally, Gero von Hochstaden turned away and said: ‘On we go to the archbishop! Come on, what are you waiting for!’
It took Anna a moment to realise that, this time, she had escaped with her life. She had been prepared for the worst. But now that she was being brought to the archbishop it could only mean that somehow her secret must have become known. Did Father Urban speak and reveal her true identity? This she could hardly believe as, all these years, he had been like a father to her.
She walked ahead of the knight. He led the white horse by the bridle and kept poking Anna in the back with his sword to drive her on. Maybe he wanted to provoke her. But Anna did not make the mistake of trying to flee. This would have given Gero von Hochstaden a reason to kill her. And this favour she had no desire to offer him.
When they reached the building adjoining the abbot’s reception hall, there were two armed guards standing by the wall. They were passing the time throwing their knives at a circle they had drawn on the wooden door. One of them had a shaved skull and the other was a haggard individual with brown hair and an eye patch. The one with the shaved head pulled his knife from the wood and pointed it at Anna. ‘What kind of a young one have we got here! Where might you be from?’
Gero pushed Anna in the back so that she stumbled into the arms of the haggard one who pushed her away roughly.
‘Wanted to abscond, the little monk did,’ sneered Gero and pushed Anna back again. The fellow caught her roughly by the scruff of the neck and held her until Gero had tied the white horse to a ring on the wall.
Gero nodded to him and took charge of Anna again.
‘Keep your eyes open,’ Gero ordered the two guards. ‘And if you see anyone else trying to run off, hold them and bring them to me.’
The Apothecary's Secret Page 3