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 light 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.
“And where now, Madame Smarty Pants?” the hangman’s daughter whispered.
Benedikta held up her book, which had burned down about halfway. The flame guttered to the left with a thin trail of smoke.
“The passageway to the right seems to lead out,” she said. “At least that’s where the draft is coming from, so we should-”
She was interrupted by that shuffling, gasping sound. Now it was quite close, coming from a niche nearby. Or was it farther away? A clatter of little stones, then silence again.
Benedikta aimed her pistol into the darkness.
“Whoever or whatever you are, come out!” she cried. “I have a nice surprise for you here. Come and get it.”
Someone giggled.
Simon and the two women held their breath. The giggling echoed through the corridors, making it impossible to tell exactly where it was coming from.
Now came the sound of shoes shuffling over stone.
“Damn it, show your face!” Benedikta shouted. “You damn bastard, I’ll cut your balls off! Je te coupe les couilles, fils de pute!”
/> Despite his fear, Simon was astonished that Benedikta could curse like a longshoreman. Where had she learned to talk that way? His thoughts were interrupted by a rasping, cracking voice coming from somewhere down the corridor.
“The demons, Magdalena. The demons. They have taken possession of me. They…are eating…consuming me…from inside…Can you see the demons, Magdalena?”
“Oh my God, it’s Brother Jakobus!” Magdalena whispered. “He isn’t dead yet!”
“Or perhaps he is,” Benedikta replied. “This voice doesn’t sound like it comes from…the living.”
Simon could smell something now, at first just a faint odor, but then growing stronger and stronger. It was the pungent smell of burning tar, an acrid stench. It came from up ahead, riding on the draft of air. Now heavy, black, billowing clouds of smoke were drifting past them like thunderheads driven by a storm, and the voice was much louder, a rush of wind descending upon them.
“The demons, Magdalena. They…are consuming…me…Can you see them? Can you see them?”
As he spoke the last words, a small, flickering ball appeared on their right. It was rolling toward them, faster and faster, growing larger until it finally filled the entire passageway.
“Can you see them, Hangman’s Daughter?”
Magdalena and the others were so terrified they couldn’t move. Too late, they noticed that the fiery ball was the blazing monk’s robe. The fire was consuming his habit, eating its way through to his body, a living torch racing toward them.
Then, like a fiery nightmare, Brother Jakobus threw himself upon them.
Like gravediggers, the monks pounded away with pickaxes on the chapel floor. Sweat poured down their faces as they hacked away at the floor slabs, smashing them to pieces, then digging them out with their shovels. Weathered memorial slabs, tiles decorated with crosses, inlaid mosaics-everything was pounded to rubble and tossed outside in a pile next to the church. Beneath the slabs they found nothing but dirt.
“Keep digging!” the abbot shouted. “Perhaps it’s hidden somewhere in the ground! It has to be here!”
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