‘I confess my vice. All apothecaries are this way. Our profession is to find medicines that work to counter the sicknesses of man. Yet, if you will allow, I wish to ask once more, are they indeed those famed heads that help to cure diseases? I have heard people speak of the relics, but I do not believe I have seen them before with my own eyes.’
‘Very few have seen them, Melchior. We never expose the relics. Yet here they are: the head of St Rochus, who guards against plague and was sent to us by our brothers in Arles; the head of St Walburg, patron saint of those afflicted by dreadful coughing; the head of Erhardus of Regensburg, patron of those with poor eyes and of the blind; then we have the head of St Wolfgangus, who, when prayed to, helps those –’
‘Who suffer from stomach pains,’ Melchior interrupted excitedly. ‘I know of one good, bitter remedy that is also called Erhard’s Cure.’
‘You know the saints well,’ the Prior commended.
‘All Wakenstedes study the lives of the saints diligently. My father insisted that I research everything I could about them and I have made every effort to follow his teachings,’ Melchior replied modestly.
The relic that Wunbaldus was cleaning was presently uncovered. Melchior glimpsed a round head and blackened, wrinkled skin. So this would be the head of St Rochus, whose brain was removed and boiled, Melchior contemplated. He wanted to enquire about the object, but the chamber was suddenly flooded with the sound of beautiful, powerful, clear voices. It was the Dominican Brothers singing before evening mass, although the sound seemed almost to be coming from the room next door.
‘Ecco virgo concipiet,’ Eckell pronounced. ‘Forgive us, Magistrate. Our brothers are already singing, and the evening service is near. We must leave. Wunbaldus, please assist me. We have many more duties before setting out for the Brotherhood of Blackheads.’
‘The holy Father is not really considering …’ Melchior began with hesitation, but Eckell chuckled.
‘Of course he is. I may be old and frail, yet now that the casks have already been taken to the Blackheads’ guildhall the Dominican Prior really cannot be absent from the event. Do not believe that word of the fine taste of the beer made by Tallinn’s Dominicans will only be heard within Tallinn and Livonia. News of our beer’s victory is awaited by all of the monasteries, even as far away as Augsburg. By the way, I sent two casks of beer brewed at Wunbaldus’s hands to our brothers in Magdeburg, and now they are demanding our Lay Brother for themselves.’
‘However, I have given my vow never to leave the town of Tallinn, again,’ said Wunbaldus with assurance.
‘Thus the Magdeburg brothers must make do with their own. I could indeed free Wunbaldus from his oath, but I will never do so, absolutely not. I can say to you that we had never had beer with so fine a flavour brewed here as we have since the day that Wunbaldus arrived at our monastery five years ago.’
Wunbaldus placed his arm beneath the Prior’s and helped him to stand. Mass for the Blackheads and then the evening service awaited the pious brothers. A black head in a reliquary and the Blackheads. The thought dawned upon Melchior in a flash. It was odd that he had never before made this connection. Now that he had thought of it the Apothecary realized he did not know how the Blackheads had come to be given their name. However, Melchior now believed he saw an obvious connection – the Dominicans’ black head and the Blackheads’ association with the Dominicans. This was all very well and interesting, but it could not help solve Clingenstain’s murder.
Melchior addressed Wunbaldus, ‘So, Wunbaldus, you should stop by the pharmacy on more often. Perhaps we have things to teach one another. You can train me in the secrets of your brewing, and I will demonstrate how to make a few stronger-tasting elixirs, perhaps the kind that will help the holy Prior Eckell with his ailments.’
‘Absolutely,’ the Lay Brother agreed. ‘However, I have many tasks to fulfil here at the monastery and gather alms three days each week. Nevertheless, I will certainly stop by.’
‘And the Magistrate and I will no doubt be busying ourselves with catching a murderer,’ Melchior mused.
‘It is unfortunate that I cannot help you with your pursuits in any way other than giving a blessing,’ said the Prior. ‘I have already told you everything I know. Hinricus and I reached Toompea when Clingenstain had drunk himself to the point of senselessness, and it was difficult to make out a word he said. He wished to confess, more down to the emotions that surfaced because of his drunken state than in the manner of a holy, God-fearing man. I went to the Dome Church, and he followed a short time later. Wunbaldus and I returned to the town after his confession.’
‘If I may ask, Father, was Clingenstain wearing his new gold collar when he came to confession?’
‘You mean the one that he purchased from the Goldsmith? Yes, I saw it around his neck at the feast table in the Great Hall of the castle – I was told that Clingenstain had purchased it that very morning – but he was no longer wearing it when he came to confession. At least he had enough sense to appear before the Lord unadorned with jewellery.’
The singing from the church was coming to an end, and it was time for Melchior and Dorn to depart – but Melchior had one more question for Wunbaldus. The Apothecary recalled that Wunbaldus had scolded Kilian in the churchyard. Yes, said the Lay Brother, yes, of course, he had also been on Toompea yesterday.
‘It is my duty to gather alms for the brothers on Toompea. The knights and vassals are usually quite generous, especially so when any merrymaking is under way. But that young minstrel was singing some extraordinarily improper verses, which, while it did please the guards immensely, I deemed it improper and impious – especially so given that our holy Prior was on Toompea at the time.’
‘Good Wunbaldus,’ the Prior said sharply. ‘I can tell you that even when I was a young lad wandering minstrels sang all sorts of vulgar songs to gladden commoners. So it has been, and so it shall remain. A Christian land is made no weaker by this.’
‘None the less, it is still painful for my ears to hear the Holy Mother of God maltreated in such a manner,’ said Wunbaldus assertively.
‘As I heard, a tankard of beer and a couple of pennies cooled your justified ill-temper,’ Melchior remarked.
‘The beer was of no great consequence, but those pennies go towards the good of the monastery and our brothers. What can you do? It is not difficult for me to be led into temptation, but at least I succeeded in putting an end to that profanity.’
‘Be not distressed, Wunbaldus,’ said Melchior. ‘Our Kilian actually has a lovely voice and does not sing badly at all. He has committed himself to becoming a member of some Meistersingers’ guild, which means that he must travel the land and lighten people’s hearts with his art – even those of guards of the Teutonic Order. Not all are able to appreciate the kind of singing that I hear from your brothers now.’
Dorn, who had been unable to get a word in for quite some time, now said, ‘Yes, just as your brothers might sing right here within the monastery walls – although your church is right across the courtyard, is it not?’
‘Doubtless it is so clear because the new passageway is just being built,’ Melchior suggested.
‘Precisely,’ said the Prior. ‘The north end of the church had to be demolished for its construction – from where the Blackheads’ side altar is up to the garden. Since the eastern wall of the passageway was the first section to be built, every sound coming from the north nave can be heard in the lay brothers’ dormitory.’
‘And when the pious Brother Wunbaldus came down from Toompea, he saw no one?’ Dorn asked.
The Lay Brother shook his head slowly. ‘Nothing unusual. I arrived back amongst our holy brothers prior to the evening service when the bells tolled seven times.’
‘So it was indeed, just as our rules stipulate,’ the Prior confirmed. ‘Time can be kept accurately according to Wunbaldus’s comings and goings.’
‘If you will allow, and just so that matters might be crystal clear to th
e Magistrate,’ Melchior interposed quickly, ‘then, as I understand it, the esteemed Prior arrived back from Toompea at … ?’
‘About six o’clock,’ Eckell answered.
‘And Wunbaldus came back at seven?’
‘Slightly earlier. The Blackheads’ mass had just ended. Prior Eckell was serving the Blackheads at their altar while I came here to my chambers to count the day’s alms. The esteemed Prior then stopped by my room, and afterwards I took the alms to our cellarius and reached the church in time for the start of the evening service.’
‘Yes,’ Eckell verified. ‘I remained before the Blackheads’ altar for a moment to speak to Freisinger then bade him farewell and came to Wunbaldus’s chamber to assist him in counting the alms. Go now in the peace of God, and may our great saviour be with you.’
Melchior and Dorn kneeled before the Prior.
Brother Hinricus led the pair back through St Catherine’s Church where the Dominicans were gathering for their evening service. They crossed themselves before the main altar and also glimpsed the Brotherhood of Blackhead’s side altar, which was consecrated to St Mary, along with its new retable.
Afternoon had slipped into evening, and the hour had now come when Melchior and Dorn had to set off for the Blackheads’ guildhall.
13
THE GUILDHALL OF THE BROTHERHOOD OF BLACKHEADS
16 MAY, EVENING
THE CUSTOM OF holding a Smeckeldach competition was said to have been around as long as Tallinn’s guilds themselves, and each guild regarded it an honour to offer the very best brew that had been chosen at their own drinking festivities. Melchior could not remember whether it had been the Great Guild, St Olaf’s or St Canute’s that had been the first to hold such beer-tastings, but a number of such events had now become established throughout the year. The most important, however, was held under the roof of the Brotherhood of Blackheads. The men attending these events were chosen with care – only those whose judgement was deemed the very best were selected, and it was nothing to do with an invitee’s profession. When, a few years back, the Commander of the Order had heard that such a competition was being held in Lower Town he had the guild informed that their members had forgotten to invite their local lord. Spanheim, whose origins were less lofty than some previous commanders, would happily sit at the same table as the townsfolk – particularly when the Blackheads arranged such a hearty feast to go with it. Master Freisinger believed the Blackheads’ feast table to be crucial to the success of the event, and no expense was spared to make sure that everything was of the highest quality. It was highly unlikely that anyone besides himself and the other hosts would be able to count the number of boars, lambs, ducks or swans that had been heaped upon the table. The Town Council’s cook had been working at the guild for several days to assemble such an opulent feast, and, as Melchior was aware, Freisinger had personally visited each and every butcher in town and picked out only the finest cuts of meat.
The rules of Smeckeldach stipulated that guilds compete over two separate days with a day off in between for rest and recovery and to allow the samplers’ thirst to be properly restored. On the first day the Dominicans and members of the Great Guild would each present four types of beer that had been brewed at locations around the town or, as the Dominicans did, had been brewed by themselves. All competing beers were to be produced according to old German traditions, and if anyone loudly criticized any of the beers then not one of the four could be declared winner.
Melchior counted about fifty men gathered at the Brotherhood of Blackheads’ guildhall that evening, the most esteemed amongst them being the Commander of the Order, the Dominican Prior and the Tallinn Town Councilmen. The rules of Smeckeldach also prescribed that there could not be two guests of honour at any one time; this distinction could not be shared. Thus Commander Spanheim – as the chief judge – sat slightly apart from the long table in his place of honour, and Freisinger himself assumed the duty of serving the Knight. The Blackhead hosts and the devout Brother Wunbaldus attended to the other guests’ beer steins.
Melchior could not enjoy the beer particularly that evening. Of course, he was not the only man there somewhat perturbed by Clingenstain’s murder, but he felt a black emotion rising up from the depths of his soul, could sense the pain it imparted even before it arrived. Melchior had visited the Dominican Monastery, he had seen the chessboard, and his father’s face once again appeared from Heaven in his mind’s eye, causing him pain, even though he tried with all his might to push it as far away as he could. But the stabs of pain bursting from his soul would not pass. Melchior was of Wakenstede descent, and there was no escape from the curse. The symptoms that signalled his pain were seemingly insignificant –merely flashes of memory, different each time. Sometimes they came by day, sometimes by night.
But despite this approaching sense of dread Melchior sipped every brew placed before him out of duty and called his decision out to Spanheim in a loud voice when it was asked of him. So far he had had to praise all of them truthfully and with enthusiasm: the Great Guild’s mark beer, the Hamburg-style brew, Tallinn beer and the six-veering beer. Nevertheless, Melchior shouted with even greater resonance when Wunbaldus began to tap the Dominicans’ spring brews, including a laurel beer and his bock, which now stood triumphantly like a flag-bearing knight atop his enemy’s tower. The pious Wunbaldus himself kept modestly to the shadows behind the Prior and Brother Hinricus, while words of praise were aimed in his direction.
Melchior also noted Master Goldsmith Casendorpe, Merchant Tweffell and Gallenreutter, the Master Mason of Westphalia, sitting at the table. Even Kilian was present and rotating through the acts of playing his lute, voraciously devouring the feast and knocking back beer. Every man who had come into contact with the unfortunate Clingenstain on Toompea yesterday was at the feast, and Melchior observed each one of them closely. He watched their faces and strove to read their thoughts; when they spoke tried to catch what they were saying. Melchior had come to the conclusion that if Clingenstain had had some kind of arcane connection to the town then these same men must hold the key to it – or if not a key then at least a map to someone who knew where this key was hidden.
He watched these men and tried to guess what was going on in their minds because it was in this way that he strove to dispel his own dreadful secret. It was in this way that he resisted the curse – by directing his mind elsewhere. The profession of apothecary was both the Wakenstedes’ joy and their despair – the key to breaking their hex. Yet perhaps this was also wrong, as thus far not one single afflicted Wakenstede apothecary had found the cure to their dreadful torment.
Goldsmith Casendorpe appeared to be in a particularly good mood that evening – entering into conversation with their host Freisinger and patting him on the shoulder at every opportunity – which Melchior put down to the impending wedding. Melchior was sitting next to Pastor Mathias Rode of the Church of the Holy Ghost. The Pastor was a quiet and dignified man even at an event such as this – even though, as most people in the town were aware, beer could occasionally so unfurl the sails of the clergyman’s tongue that even sailors would wince in embarrassment. Master Mason Gallenreutter of Westphalia had, on the other hand, already drained several tankards of beer, and his banter seemed to know no bounds. He did his best to rattle off all sorts of tales to any open ear within range and make his presence known in other ways, often in a more thunderous tone than was customary in Tallinn. Melchior detected, though, that when Gallenreutter was not actually talking in a brash voice then he instantly switched to looking completely sober, his gaze darting around the table as if searching for the best person to whom to tell his next story.
The Smeckeldach had reached the point at which no one had any further doubts over the evening’s best beer. Commander Spanheim arose from his seat and proclaimed, ‘The damn truth, it is, devil knows – pay me no heed, Father – and may all the saints bear my witness, that – and now definitely pay attention, Father – that the Dominicans�
� beer, this bock, is certainly the best to my liking and to everyone else’s, too, it seems. Satan’s steaming grandmother, do tell, where did you find such a brewer?’
The question was meant for the Prior, who had difficulty making himself heard over the hubbub. The esteemed head of the Dominican Order still had a tired and beleaguered air about him, although he was drinking the beer like a much younger man.
‘That brewer is none other than our Lay Brother Wunbaldus. He genuinely possesses a gift for many practices that are essential to our poor brothers,’ the Prior spoke, and shouts of praise trumpeted from dozens of mouths around the table. Merchant Tweffell was also forced to acknowledge that the Dominicans had triumphed over the Great Guild that evening. While Wunbaldus refilled the men’s flagons Master Blackhead Freisinger officially declared the Dominicans’ bock to be the very best, as such was the opinion and the will of all present. The men naturally began to demand that Wunbaldus reveal where he had learned this art, and Master Mason Gallenreutter entreated him to do so at characteristic volume.
‘Tallinn might sit at the edge of the world when you look from Westphalia, but when it comes to beer, this town … well, it tastes like that made by the Warendorf Town Council’s Master Brewer,’ he declared. ‘Or no, wait, the flavour even seems to remind me of one particular English brew that I tried once in London. Where have you studied this art, Wunbaldus?’
‘Here and there,’ the Lay Brother replied self-effacingly. ‘I have roamed much through this wide world.’
‘We Dominicans have a wandering way of life, Master Mason,’ Eckell also affirmed. ‘It is our duty to bring all that is good in one place with us to another – and to proclaim the Word of the Lord at the same time.’
Gallenreutter, who was sitting on Melchior’s other side, nudged him playfully and chuckled, ‘Yes, the devout brothers do not only surpass all others at trading herring and selling indulgences.’
Freisinger overheard the mason and shouted in response, ‘Hey, do not mock our holy brothers. A poor monastery would be a scourge to all – to our overlord, to the merchants, to the bishop and to the farmers who should all support the brothers’ work. Such a monastery would benefit no one.’
Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church Page 12