The Poisoned Pilgrim hd-4

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “Get up, you bastard,” the leader demanded. “Your nap is over. Now we’re bringing you to the dungeon in Weilheim, where the executioner will deal with you. Your elegant coach is waiting for you outside.”

  The other soldiers laughed. The monk whimpered and thrashed about as they pulled him outside to the oxcart with the wooden cage. Behind them the soldiers’ wagon and the district judge’s coach waited.

  It had been a long time since Nepomuk was last out in the sun, so he had to blink to recognize the district judge himself standing alongside his coach, apparently just concluding a long conversation with the prior. The two approached the monk, who was covered with filth. He’d been lying in his own waste for four days, and he could smell it on himself now.

  “So this is the famous warlock of Andechs,” said Count von Casana und Colle, scrutinizing the apothecary as he would an exotic captive animal. Twirling his gray mustache, he turned to the prior. “It’s good you let us know. A matter like this cannot remain just the concern of the monastery, and we must examine everything carefully. I can’t understand why the abbot didn’t call on the district court earlier.”

  “His Excellency Maurus Rambeck is a distinguished scholar,” the prior replied with a shrug. “But he sometimes lacks a… well… broader view.”

  Count von Casana und Colle nodded. “I understand. Well, we’ll surely find a solution for that.”

  Until that moment, Nepomuk had listened to the conversation in silence. Now he turned to his former superior. “Brother Jeremias,” he pleaded, “you have known me for a long time. Do you really believe I’m responsible for these-”

  “What I believe is of no importance,” the prior snarled, his eyes suddenly turning icy. “Only the trial will reveal your guilt or innocence.”

  “But the matter has already been decided,” he burst out. “All these people have already made up their minds. You know what comes next, Brother. The executioner will torture me. You must not allow that. Please…”

  But the prior had already turned away and returned to the coach with the count.

  “I have complete confidence that the high court in Weilheim will reach a just verdict,” Nepomuk heard Brother Jeremias say. “Can I invite Your Excellency into the monastery for a glass of wine in the Prince’s Quarters?”

  “I would be delighted, Your Reverence, but I fear we must put that off till another time,” the count responded. “We have some outstanding taxes to collect in this area, but I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon. Perhaps we can drink the wine then in the room of the new abbot.” He laughed, and the conversation grew fainter as the two walked away.

  Nepomuk took a deep breath, turning his face to the blue sky where just a few white clouds passed by, heralds of a coming storm. The monk knew this was perhaps the last time he would see such a sky. From here on, only Jakob would be able to help him.

  Though Nepomuk prayed fervently that the Schongau hangman’s suspicions were correct, he harbored no illusions about his chances of escaping torture and death at the stake. The mob had found its victim. Why should it spend any more time thinking about the real perpetrator-especially if this perpetrator was as influential and powerful as Nepomuk assumed.

  Suddenly a calm came over him, his trembling stopped, and he murmured a silent prayer.

  “Dear Lord, you are everywhere. Be also in me and make me strong for what is to come. Give the Weilheim hangman a steady hand, and be a light unto the Schongau executioner on his way. No matter what happens, I ask for your blessing.”

  “Get up, you ugly toad. The fire awaits you.” With a loud crack, one of the soldiers opened the front of the crate with a crowbar, then together they lifted the prisoner onto the cart like a calf going to slaughter and squeezed him inside. Nepomuk could hear them hammering nails into the box; then everything turned dark around him except for a few cracks along the top that gave him just enough light to make out the contours of the box. It was narrow and low around him. He sat crouched over and could smell the strong scent of fresh spruce.

  “Giddyup.”

  As the wagon started to rumble forward, Nepomuk had to brace himself on the sides of the box so as not to be flung back and forth. After a while he could hear a growing number of voices outside, nasty, angry voices.

  “Hang the sorcerer! Hang him and burn him! Just like in hell!”

  “Hey, little monk, see if your magic can get you out of this box. Or can’t you do it?”

  “Curses on you, you beast. Holy Mary, punish him with pain, make him suffer and scream at the stake for a long time.”

  Suddenly something struck the box from outside. This was followed by a hail of stones and then a loud thud. The noise swelled to a roar of shouting voices as more stones came raining down and the mob seemed to lose all control.

  “Stop this,” the captain of the guards could be heard shouting. “This man will not avoid his just punishment, but it will be the district judge who punishes him and not you.”

  Nepomuk pulled his legs to his chest and put his hands to his ears to keep from hearing the rest, but he could still feel how the crate was being pummeled.

  My God, this box is not a prison at all, it’s protecting me, he thought. Without this box people would have no doubt ripped me to pieces long before.

  A while passed before the pounding relented, then finally stopped completely. Removing his hands from his ears, Nepomuk heard just the squeaking wagon wheels and chirping birds now-thrushes, finches, and blackbirds singing in the forest. A narrow strip of sunlight fell through a knothole in the wood and directly onto Nepomuk’s face.

  It was a gorgeous day.

  But distant thunder announced the coming storm.

  Just a few hours later, three cloaked figures moved through the little streets below the monastery, hunched over in the torrential rain striking their woolen capes obliquely and soaking them to the skin. Lightning flashed through the sky, followed immediately by earsplitting thunder. Dusk had turned into pitch-black night, and only a few lights were still burning up in the monastery. Simon looked up anxiously, squinting in the face of the driving rain.

  “Couldn’t we have left a bit later?” he complained. “What a deluge. If we don’t watch out we’ll be washed down into the Kien Valley.”

  The Schongau hangman turned around with a look of contempt. “What are you? A man of salt who will dissolve in the rain? It’s just water, not pitch or sulfur; your fine jacket will dry out again, and life will go on.”

  “It certainly isn’t healthy to stomp through the rain in such weather.” Simon sneezed, as if to support his point.

  “You could have stayed with the knacker in his comfy little house,” Kuisl snarled. “It would have been better that way. What a group-a silly bathhouse doctor and my own daughter. I’d feel a lot better if I had a few of my men from the war here now.”

  “But this isn’t a war. We’re in Andechs,” whined Magdalena, who, following Simon closely, was barely recognizable beneath her soaked headscarf. “And if you were any kind of a leader you would at least have let your troops in on your plans. Who is the damned sorcerer, anyway?” She was working herself up into a frenzy now. “Damn it all. You’ve been stringing us along since yesterday. Admit that you like keeping us in suspense.”

  Kuisl grinned. “Let your father enjoy this moment. Besides, it’s dangerous to know too much in Andechs these days. It’s for your own good. You’ll have to put up with it just a bit longer.”

  Simon and Magdalena followed the hangman up to the monastery. They forgot their argument earlier that day as soon as Kuisl told them they might that very night unmask the person who stole the hosts. In the meanwhile, the knacker and his mute assistant would care for the two sleeping boys. Magdalena had simply told the two men that she and Simon had to take care of the sick pilgrims, but now, in the silence and darkness occasionally punctuated by flashes of lightning, the hangman’s daughter wondered whether it wouldn’t have been better for them to stay back in the house
on such a night, too.

  Suddenly Kuisl turned sharply to the right, and the couple quickly realized where he was headed.

  “The watchmaker’s workshop,” Simon groaned. “What in heaven’s name do you think we’ll find there?”

  “I sent for someone to meet us,” the hangman replied without turning around. “I sent him a message, and if I’m right, he’ll show up.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” asked Magdalena.

  “Then I’ll head for Weilheim, give the executioner hell, and rescue Nepomuk from the dungeon all by myself.”

  Magdalena cringed. “Then let’s just hope you’re right. I don’t want to see my father cut up into pieces, skewered on a spear, covered with tar, and set out on display all around Weilheim.”

  The front of the watchmaker’s house had seemed so inviting in bright daylight but now appeared gloomy in the rain and dark. Low-lying and tilting to one side, the house-with its garden in front and low wall-didn’t seem to fit in with its surroundings. The door looked locked, but when Kuisl gave it a push it swung open with a grating sound.

  The hangman removed a lantern from under his cape and gazed at the strange objects before him-the crocodile on the ceiling, the broken furniture, the burn marks on the floor. Everything was just the way he’d found it the night before.

  “We’re a bit early,” Kuisl said. “I’ve summoned our friend to come when the bells toll eleven o’clock, but I thought there would be no harm in arriving a bit early.” He grinned. “Not that we should expect any surprises.”

  “What friend?” asked Simon, shaking the water from his hair. “By all the saints, won’t you tell us? I can’t think of anything more fun than to prowl around a haunted house, in thunder and lightning, where one man has been burned alive and another was presumably abducted by a golem.”

  Without answering, Kuisl motioned his son-in-law to approach the narrow staircase leading to the second floor. “Come now, you coward,” he said with a mischievous smile. “I’ll show you something you’ll like. I promise.”

  “Your word in God’s ear. If I must.”

  The three of them passed through the assistant’s bedroom and up a narrow staircase into the small library Kuisl had discovered the evening before. When Simon saw the books, his mood changed dramatically. His fear vanished as he enthusiastically removed one after the other from the shelves and started leafing through them.

  “This… this is a real treasure,” he gasped. “Just look.” He held up a stained folio volume. “The Opus Maius of the Franciscan Roger Bacon, with illustrations. It must be worth a fortune. And look here… Agrippa’s De occulta philosophia.”

  “Wonderful,” Magdalena replied dryly. “But unfortunately we’re not here to read but to catch a madman. Put the damned books back on the shelf and stop shouting.”

  “Fine, fine, I just thought…”

  At that moment, Simon’s eyes fell on the front cover of the Opus Maius, imprinted with a golden stamp.

  Sigillum universitatis paridianae salisburgensis…

  “A book from Salzburg University?” The medicus frowned. “But why…” Something about the stamp puzzled him, but just as he started to examine it more closely, he heard something downstairs. The door creaked, and a moment later the church bells struck the eleventh hour.

  “Ah, our friend has arrived,” the hangman said. “I was right after all. Let’s go downstairs and greet him.”

  Kuisl quietly descended the stairs into the assistant’s room with Simon and Magdalena close behind. Once downstairs, they tiptoed toward the half-open door of the workshop. Through the small opening, Kuisl saw a light moving quickly back and forth through the room; then he heard a soft, grating voice.

  “Virgilius? Virgilius? Are you here?” the voice said. “Do you have the monstrance?”

  Simon cringed. The voice sounded familiar, and now he saw the man, as well. A monk in a dark robe stood with his back to them, holding a torch to light the room. His hood came down over his face, and he was bent over like a bloodhound intently sniffing the floor.

  “My God, the sorcerer,” Magdalena whispered. “That’s the man from up in the tower…”

  Simon placed his hand over her mouth, but it was too late-the stranger had heard her. He briefly turned his masked face in her direction, then ran as fast he as he could toward the exit.

  “Stop, you scoundrel!” Magdalena called to him. “You just wait and I’ll show you what happens when you try to throw a hangman’s daughter from a tower.”

  She reached for one of the two copper hemispheres on the ground in front of her and flung it at the departing figure. There was an earsplitting sound, like that of a ringing bell; then the man staggered a few steps and collapsed onto the floor, stunned. The torch rolled to one side, flickered one last time, and went out, plunging the room into complete darkness. Not even the hangman or his lantern was visible.

  Paralyzed for a few seconds, Simon strained to see what lay in front of him in the darkness. When he finally made out a vague outline, he reached for the second half of the sphere and ran toward the shadowy figure, which, staggering and moaning, seemed to be trying to stand up.

  “Stop!” Simon cried out into the darkness. “In the name of the monastery, you are under arrest.”

  The dark figure hobbled toward them now, gasping, and Simon brandished the heavy copper bowl in his hand, prepared to bring it down on the warlock’s head at the slightest hint of resistance.

  The man turned toward the exit, but when Magdalena ran after him, he wheeled around again and struck her so hard she staggered backward.

  “Simon, stop him,” she panted. “He mustn’t get away.”

  Simon was still holding the half sphere over his head, but as he prepared to throw it, another large shadow appeared in front of the open door.

  The Schongau hangman.

  “Stop at once!” he called out. “All three of you, or I’ll whip you so hard you’ll have to crawl through the church on your knees.”

  With his left hand, Kuisl slammed the door closed, and with his right he raised his lantern, shining it directly in the face of the monk whose hood had fallen from his head during the fight.

  When Simon finally recognized the man, he had to clench his jaw tight to keep from screaming.

  It was the abbot of Andechs, and he was very angry.

  10

  SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT IN ANDECHS, THURSDAY, JUNE 17, 1666 AD,

  "Greetings, Your Excellency,” Kuisl exclaimed, bringing the lantern close so Simon and Magdalena could see the pale face of the abbot bathed in sweat.

  Maurus Rambeck was panting, his robe was covered with dirt and torn at the seam, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his forehead. Nevertheless, he tried to radiate the dignity befitting his office.

  “What… what do you scoundrels think you are doing?” he growled as he rose to his feet, rubbing the wound on his head. “An attack on the Andechs abbot. Are you crazy? That could cost you all your heads.”

  “Or perhaps could cost you your own head,” the hangman replied dryly. “We shall have to see. By the way, if you’re looking for your brother in the flesh, Virgilius, I must disappoint you. He isn’t here. The message was from me.”

  “Brother in the flesh?” For a moment Simon was unable to speak. He still couldn’t believe the person before him, who looked like a beaten highwayman, was really the Andechs abbot. Had they made some mistake? Had everything just been a huge misunderstanding? If so, they could expect a severe punishment. They had, after all, almost beaten to death the highest dignitary in the monastery.

  “Your Excellency, I… I don’t understand-”

  “Perhaps the abbot himself can explain what he’s doing here,” Kuisl interrupted. “In my letter this noon I merely introduced myself as his brother Virgilius and wrote that the monstrance and the hosts were hidden here.” He spat out loudly. “The fact that His Excellency comes to the lion’s den completely unaccompanied reveals that he probably knows much more
about this than all the rest of us together. And about the robbery of the hosts. After all, he stole them himself, didn’t he?”

  Flinching and startled, Rambeck quickly got control of himself again. “What nonsense,” he snorted. “What is this all about?” he asked in a threatening tone, turning to Simon. “I demand an explanation, Doctor. I enter this house unsuspectingly as the abbot of this monastery and am attacked by a gang of hoodlums.”

  “Ah, I wouldn’t call us a gang of hoodlums, Your Excellency,” Simon replied, still noticeably confused. “The young woman on my left is my wife, and the monk here, as you already know, is Brother Jakobus, a Franciscan who helps me in caring for my patients,” he said, pointing to Kuisl.

  “To hell with Brother Jakobus,” the hangman said angrily. “It’s time to put an end to this silly masquerade. I’m the Schongau executioner, and the estimable bathhouse surgeon is my son-in-law.”

  Now it was Maurus Rambeck who looked completely confused. “Schongau executioner? Son-in-law? But why-”

  “We’ll tell you about that later,” Magdalena interrupted. “For now, I’d really like to know why the abbot is searching for Virgilius.”

  Kuisl placed the lantern down on an overturned table and crossed his arms. “For God sake, because he’s his brother,” he grumbled. “I already told you. I learned it today from Nepomuk, one of the few who knew. Virgilius himself must have told him. The two Rambecks were students at the same time at Salzburg University.”

  Simon groaned softly. “That explains all the books upstairs. They come from the university. Damn, I knew that the abbot was also there for a few years. When I saw the seal on Roger Bacon’s Opus Maius, I should have connected the two.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, my dear son-in-law,” Kuisl replied, “it took me a while to remember that, as well. You told me that back when we visited the abbot for the first time. Thanks to Saint Anthony, it occurred to me again today.”