The Poisoned Pilgrim_A Hangman's Daughter Tale

by Oliver Pötzsch

  They race through the outer court, storm the tower, search the women’s chambers and the burning stables until finally they reach the chapel in the interior courtyard. A priest stands in their way, wringing his hands, but they push him aside, then run him through with lances. They beat down the door to the chapel. This is where they must be, the legendary treasures the duke had spoken of so often.

  The room is empty.

  No relics, no treasures, not a single accursed coin—everything was hauled away long ago. The men’s hatred is immense. They burn down everything, search the chaos for survivors who can tell them where the costly relics are stored. But there are no survivors; they’ve all been slaughtered. So the men search more and more frantically, leaving no stone unturned—digging, cursing, even mutilating the body of the priest—all in vain.

  The relics have disappeared.

  When they finally withdraw, all that is left of the once proud castle is a smoking ruin, a field of rubble that will soon be overgrown with ivy and moss. The castle will become what it once was.

  Silent stone.

  Not until centuries later will a little mouse reveal the hiding place of the relics. At that point, all the battles, the misery, the knights in shining armor—all will have been long forgotten…

  Only the dream of the treasure lives on today…

  When Simon put the book aside, he could feel the hair at the back of his neck standing on end.

  Now he thought he knew what the count was seeking in the ancient passageways beneath the castle. Could treasures and relics still be hidden down there? Some of the relics had reappeared a few hundred years later, but if this castle was really the seat of the Andechs-Merianer, it was quite possible many other precious items were waiting to be found. Were the librarian and his helper chasing after these treasures? Had they already found them?

  Before Simon could finish his train of thought, he was jolted by a loud wail from one of the beds in back. One of the Twangler brothers was thirsty. Simon brought him a cup of water while casting a glance at the other patients. Some needed bandages changed, and others needed a drink to help them sleep.

  Sleep…

  Despite the excitement, Simon suddenly felt how tired he was. The events of the last few days—the count’s sick son, the quarrel with Magdalena—it had all clearly been too much for him. And now he had to watch a badly injured monk who probably wouldn’t survive the next few hours anyway.

  Simon rubbed his temples and sat down again on the chair alongside Laurentius’s bed. He picked up the little book again but could feel his eyes closing after just a few lines. He struggled to sit up straight in the uncomfortable armchair. The setting sun shone through the tiny windows and cracks in the wooden wall, warming his face, and his head fell forward. No, he couldn’t break his promise to his father-in-law and fall asleep—not now. Where, for heaven’s sake, was Schreevogl? It seemed like hours ago that Simon had sent him to the tavern. Shouldn’t he be coming to relieve him for a few hours? Had Schreevogl forgotten what he’d asked him to find out?

  Once more the medicus cursed himself for running out of his beloved coffee beans. He almost thought he could smell the fragrance of the black ground powder mixing with the stench of dirty straw and reminding him of home. Of Schongau in the summer, when the grain stood tall in the fields… of Magdalena, his children… were they already asleep? Was she still angry at him? He really had to pay more attention to her. All of a sudden, he regretted he’d had so little time for his family in recent days. What did this murder case, the count’s son, and all the other sick people really have to do with his life? Sometimes it seemed to him that, in his concern for others and his thirst for knowledge, he forgot what was really dear to him.

  When Simon’s head fell forward, he dreamed of his two small sons, of an automaton playing music, and of a castle going up in smoke and flames. He could hear the laughter of children and the rushing of a distant river. Seconds later, he was fast asleep.

  He didn’t notice the figure quietly opening the door and tiptoeing to the bed of the novitiate master with outstretched arms. The man smiled at the medicus slumped over in his chair and peacefully snoring. The man had waited a long time at the window, hoping the medicus would fall asleep sooner or later.

  And now he could finally finish his work.

  Brother Laurentius was dreaming, as well, but his were not beautiful dreams. Once again he saw blue flames flickering around his body, he smelled his own burnt flesh, and he heard the sweet melody of the automaton along with his own screams.

  Groaning softly, the monk tossed and turned in his bed. Ever since the unimaginable had happened, he’d hovered between sleeping and waking. In his waking moments, the pain surged like acid through his body; then merciful unconsciousness returned, followed again by short moments of lucidity. How many hours had passed since that nightmare? How many days? He didn’t know. People came and went around him; they laid cool compresses on his wounds and poured wine and water between his lips, but every time he tried to open his mouth to speak, all that came out of his burned throat was a rattle.

  Except for once.

  But the Schongau medicus hadn’t understood him; he hadn’t been able to make out his words; he didn’t know the danger.

  Last night, in despair, the Brother had wandered through the forests around the monastery. Fear was nagging at him; the crime they committed would finally be exposed. This golem was like an avenging angel pounding loudly again and again on the door of his conscience. Laurentius, who had heard the melody, knew the automaton was going about its work somewhere down below. This creature would never rest until someone went down there and smashed it into a thousand pieces.

  And then that someone would discover what they’d hidden down there so well. That mustn’t happen.

  Brother Benedikt had assured him that the passage to their hiding place had been sealed, but Laurentius knew there were other entrances to the castle. He’d read about them himself in the library. It was a true labyrinth. Sooner or later the melody would lure someone into one of these passageways and the secret would come to light. Then they would all face the fire or be boiled alive in oil. Laurentius had read this punishment was used centuries ago in cases of high treason and counterfeiting, and wasn’t their crime worse—much worse—than both these crimes together?

  He had to remove everything down there secretly. But how? Brothers Eckhart and Benedikt were watching him like hawks; he could feel their eyes burning into him. Never would they allow him to destroy their life’s work.

  After wandering for hours through the rock-strewn Kien Valley, Laurentius finally had an idea and found another secret entrance. God Himself seemed to be handing him the key to atone for his crimes. Lying in the hospital bed now, he never thought he would have to pay in this way, with so much pain. Laurentius had passed through all the rings of Dante’s inferno and experienced every type of pain, but perhaps things would work out now.

  He was awakened by an unfamiliar sound and listened attentively, but all he could hear through the bandages were muffled sounds, then silence. Suddenly a hand clamped down over his mouth and nose, pushing him gently but relentlessly into the pillows.

  “Mmmmmmm…” Laurentius tried to seize his attacker with his bandaged fingers, but he was too weak; all he could manage was a feeble twitch. The strong hand remained on his face, blocking his air, smothering him. He had to breathe, he simply had to breathe, but he was immobilized, wrapped in dozens of blankets. He couldn’t speak or hear or see anything—just this hand over his face that wouldn’t let go. Quivering and thrashing about, he was finally able to grab the end of a sheet and clutch it tightly, tugging at it until the material ripped, leaving only a scrap of cloth in his hand. He could feel every fiber of the soft sheet, smooth and firm like a woven tapestry or a freshly fluffed pillow. Memories of his childhood looped through his mind: his mother, his first days as a novitiate.

  As he slowly sank into a soft darkness, the urge to breathe subsid
ed, giving way to a feeling of unbelievable relief. Laurentius realized he was dying.

  This time he wouldn’t wake up.

  The murderer arose, passed his hand almost lovingly over the bandaged face, then turned toward the medicus still sunk down on his chair, dreaming of beautiful things with a blissful smile on his lips.

  Hesitantly the man passed his hand over the medicus’s soiled jacket, up to the expensive but somewhat worn lace collar, and over his cleanly clipped goatee. All it would take was some gentle pressure, a small cut with a knife, and he would have dispensed with one more of the master’s problems.

  But he couldn’t.

  As he lowered his arms with a soft sigh, he noticed the little book on the floor in front of him. He picked it up, began leafing through it, and quickly realized what it was.

  This would surely interest the master.

  Hastily he put the book in his pocket and disappeared as silently as he’d come. He could still hear Simon snoring as he turned the next corner.

  “And you really don’t know where your father is now?” Michael Graetz stared at Magdalena in disbelief. During the last half-hour she’d told him all that had happened in the monastery up to that point. She told him also about Kuisl’s friend Nepomuk and her father’s plan to prove his innocence. Graetz had listened in astonishment, shaking his head from time to time, while the children slept on peacefully in the next room.

  “I really have no idea where he is,” Magdalena replied. “Perhaps he learned something in the monastery and the sorcerer got hold of him.”

  “Your father?” The knacker laughed. “If half the stories I’ve heard about him are true, this sorcerer can count himself lucky if he leaves the Holy Mountain in one piece. But we’ve got to go and look for him,” he added, suddenly turning serious. “And you’ve got to tell Simon, too, before he starts getting worried.”

  “Simon?” Magdalena sneered. “With all his work, he doesn’t even notice when I’m standing right in front of him, and he evidently doesn’t care for his children, either. I’m sick and tired of him.”

  “You mustn’t be so tough on him,” Michael Graetz said. “My Ani, God rest her soul, always complained, too, when I disappeared for a few days. Believe me, girl, that’s the way we men are. We crawl into a hole in the ground and then can’t find our way out until someone comes and gives us a hand.”

  Magdalena couldn’t resist a smile. “Maybe you’re right, but you men don’t make it easy for us.”

  A soft whine came from the next room, but then the sound died away just as quickly.

  “What happened to your own children?” asked Magdalena in the silence that followed. “Have they all grown up and moved out?”

  Graetz shrugged. “Most of them died early; only Hans and Lisl lived to see their tenth summer, but Lisl died of the Plague a few years back, and Hans became a drummer boy for a group of dragoons and went off to war.” He sighed. “Since the death of my wife, all I have left is Matthias; he’s something like a son to me.”

  “You certainly scold him as if he were your own.” Magdalena grinned. “A strapping young fellow. If I wasn’t already married I could easily fall for him.”

  “Then you’d have a husband who wouldn’t talk back.” Graetz stood up abruptly and wiped his hands on his apron. “But now I’ve got to go help Matthias with the work, and you really should go back to Simon and put an end to your quarrel. Save your arguments for later. You have a lot more important things to talk about now, and in the meantime, I’ll keep an eye on the children.” He stopped to think for a moment. “If your father still doesn’t show up today, let me know. Matthias and I know some people in the village we can trust, and we can go out to look for him together. I may be a dishonorable knacker, but I won’t abandon my family.”

  “Thank you, Michael, I know that.” Magdalena smiled, squeezing his hand. Suddenly she felt ashamed for having said earlier that her children would become something better.

  After a final nod, she turned toward the door and hurried down the narrow path toward the monastery, a huge black silhouette now in the setting sun. Magdalena quickened her steps to reach the clinic before nightfall. The shadows of the trees lining the path seemed to reach out to seize her, and she kept looking about anxiously as she ran up the mountain. Finally she arrived, breathless, at the outer walls of the monastery.

  She felt somewhat safer here among the exhausted pilgrims arriving at the monastery and seeking a place to spend the night. The next day, for the Festival of the Three Hosts, there would be more happening at the Holy Mountain than all the rest of the year combined. A feeling of joyful expectation was already in the air, mixing with the aromas of fresh-baked bread and meat roasting on the fire. Some merchants had started setting up stands along the monastery walls, and another group of pilgrims bearing torches came up from the Kien Valley.

  As Magdalena passed through the outer portal and turned toward the clinic, she felt someone approaching her from behind. She hadn’t heard a sound—it was more a feeling, a slight twinge in her shoulders. She turned quickly in the narrow lane, but it was already too late.

  Hairy hands covered her mouth and dragged her between two dilapidated sheds. She struggled to scream, but the stranger’s grip was too strong. Finally she was able to bite her attacker on the finger.

  “Ouch,” said a familiar deep voice. “How dare you bite your own flesh and blood, you viper.”

  “For God’s sake, Father,” Magdalena scolded, relaxing a bit as Kuisl cursed and released her. “Why do you have to scare me like that? Couldn’t you have just said ‘good day’ like any other reasonable person?”

  “While you run around shouting and drawing attention? Stop talking nonsense. In any case, I’m—”

  “Wanted,” Magdalena interrupted her father. “I know. Semer can’t wait to get his hands on you.”

  “Semer?” Kuisl sucked on his bloody finger. “What do you know about Semer?”

  The hangman was wearing ripped trousers, a simple black jacket, and an old coat that Magdalena had known since childhood. She had to smile when she thought of her father in the threadbare Franciscan robe. With his large frame, he would really have made a good monk.

  “Karl Semer paid a visit to your cousin,” she finally replied.

  “Graetz? For heaven’s sake, why?”

  “If you want to know, just be still and listen to me.”

  After Magdalena had told her father about the threatening visit from the Schongau burgomaster, Kuisl angrily pounded his fist against the wall of the shed.

  “Damn, that’s all I needed,” he blustered. “Now I know why the hunters and a few other bailiffs were prowling the back lanes around the monastery. Semer probably promised them a nice reward if they catch me. But they can wait for that until hell freezes over.” He looked at his daughter, worried. “Did Simon tell you what happened up in the monastery?”

  “I was just looking for him. Evidently they found Virgilius dead. Is that true?”

  The hangman nodded. “Let’s go find your husband. We have to talk about what to do next. I’ll tell you all the rest along the way.”

  As they headed for the clinic, Kuisl told her about the monstrance being found and the dying Laurentius.

  “We can only hope the Brother is still able to talk,” the hangman said softly. “And that the damned sorcerer doesn’t get to him first. Pray that your husband keeps a sharp eye out and doesn’t fall asleep, or he’ll be sorry he ever had an executioner as a father-in-law.”

  Magdalena nodded and tried not to think about what her father meant by that. She knew he was subject to sudden fits of temper, but thank God he could calm down just as fast afterward.

  They hurried along until the clinic finally appeared before them. The horse stable was already completely enveloped in darkness, with no sign of a light inside.

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Kuisl growled. “Either Simon has eyes like a cat or he’s fallen asleep, the idiot.”

/>   “Perhaps it’s all been too much for him recently,” Magdalena whispered, suddenly feeling sorry for her husband. Why did her father always have to be so hard on him?

  Without replying, Kuisl reached under his jacket and pulled out a torch, which he lit with a tinderbox he’d brought along. Then he silently opened the door to the clinic.

  In the torchlight, Magdalena could vaguely see about two dozen beds scattered throughout the room. In most, sleepy figures coughed, thrashed about, or lifted their heads before falling back onto the bed again. In the rear, the hangman’s daughter caught sight of her husband huddled down on a chair alongside a bed. His chest rose and fell in rhythm.

  And he was snoring.

  “I should have guessed. Damn!”

  The hangman hurried over to the peacefully sleeping medicus and shook him awake. “Didn’t I tell you to keep a lookout?” he growled. “And here you are snoring so loud it sounds like you’re sawing down the whole Kien Valley forest.”

  “What?…? What?” Simon rubbed his eyes. It took him a while to recognize who was standing in front of him.

  “My God, Kuisl,” he finally said. “I’m… I’m sorry. But the last few days…”

  But the hangman had already turned to the lifeless body of the novitiate master. He held his ear to his chest, then felt his pulse.

  “Damn,” he whispered. “The man’s dead. Now we’ll never find out where he found the monstrance and who did this to him.”

  “That’s… that’s impossible,” said Simon, jumping up and feeling for Laurentius’s pulse. He tore the bandages from the monk’s burnt face and held the little copper disk in front of his nose. When it didn’t fog up, he fell back on his chair, crushed.

  “It must have happened just in the last hour,” he said remorsefully. “I was reading for a while, then probably my eyes closed.”

  “And the sorcerer waltzed in here and killed our only witness,” the hangman spluttered. “It didn’t take much to do that.”