by G. M. Dyrek
Brother Albertus, standing sleepily behind him, chanted on, completely flat. The notes hung menacingly in the air, triggering for Volmar the vivid memory of a horrific dream, a nightmare he had had earlier just before waking. He remembered trying to cry out, but no sound would come. In the dream, he was in Jerusalem and the city was engulfed in flames. Innocent men, women, and children were there, walking the streets beside him, droning on and on, eyeless skeletons, shuffling about in rags. Blood fell from the heavens instead of raindrops and seeped into the street’s flooding gutters. It was a shocking apocalyptic scene. Volmar shifted his weight to his other leg and thought to himself how Matthias’s account of the taking of Jerusalem from the Infidels had made him ashamed of his own countrymen . . . and he had to admit, of his own father, for surely his father was there, participating in the ghastly slaughter.
So many lives stained by so many horrific crimes. How could such actions not jeopardize the order of a civilized world? Could this be the Hell on earth the scriptures foretold of as the end times? Was Matthias’s possession of the Spear of Destiny a power too tempting for mere mortals to possess? Volmar joined in with the others as they bowed their heads in prayer. Instead of mumbling the Mass of Matins, Volmar formulated a question and put it to God. “My Father in Heaven,” he murmured. “Is the relic’s power inspired by the Devil? If so, surely it will only hasten man’s downfall. Or is it a gift from You, Father? Is it an artifact of divine knowledge which will, in the end, enhance the lives of all men? Please, Father, I need to know Your purpose for the Holy Relic here on Earth.”
No sooner were the words spoken than a peculiar throaty cry was heard. Brother Hugo rushed into the Sanctuary. Silhouetted in the shadows, his hair was wild and his belt was missing from his cassock. He bent his knee towards the altar and made a quick sign of the cross before blurting out to the others, “There’s been a hanging!”
Time stood still in the high-vaulted sanctuary. The chanting came to an abrupt discordant end. Brother Johannes gripped Volmar’s arm. “A hanging?” he repeated in disbelief.
“Where?” someone said more loudly.
“In the stables.” Brother Hugo’s knees finally gave out, and he collapsed at the Abbot’s feet.
“Be respectful of our brother’s age and the weariness of his mind,” the Abbot said, his voice both solemn and ominous, motioning the others to keep quiet.
At length, Hugo looked up, his eyes narrowed with revulsion. “It’s the traveler, Father, the one you counseled in the Infirmary.” Hugo’s face was flushed and his breathing came quickly. “The man’s gone and hung himself from the rafters in my stables!”
Hushed voices repeated the dreaded word which in turn eerily echoed throughout the great vaulted roof of the austere sanctuary and back again to their intimate circle.
“Matthias hung himself?” Brother Paulus uttered in disbelief. “Why would he go and do a fool thing like that?” He cupped his hands together thoughtfully, suppressing an inner tension that the others around him found impossible to contain.
Brother Albertus blessed himself with an expression of disgust on his face and said aloud what the others were thinking. “This man’s tortured soul is eternally damned. We all know how the church views taking one’s own life. It’s considered a cowardly act of avoidance and not one of martyrdom.”
Volmar remained silent. Even a highly decorated Knight of the Brotherhood such as Matthias would be forbidden to be buried in consecrated ground if he committed suicide. “S” for suicide; could this, in some bizarre ritual, be the meaning of the blood message left at the base of Matthias’s bed? Had he been preparing himself for an act scorned even by his better self?
“God protect us,” cried one of the brothers, and a few others joined in, repeating the same prayer in a despairing lament.
The Abbot pulled a linen handkerchief from his sleeve and patted the beads of perspiration on his forehead. Even in the shadowy glow of candlelight, Burchard had a pale cast to his features, clearly distressed by the news.
Brother Paulus approached Volmar and put his hand on the young monk’s shoulder. Under his breath, he said, “We have lived in splendid isolation in Disibodenberg, but not any more. I fear we’ve been caught up in a game of strange and wicked alliances.”
Volmar couldn’t help but feel that here, playing before him in all its evilness, was the burden of God’s answer to his question. The Holy Relic and its sordid history now seemed a poor excuse, an inflated lie, to justify man’s selfish greed and self-destructive tendencies. “The story is certainly becoming more complicated,” Volmar answered, allowing no expression to be read on his young face.
CHAPTER 4: HEDGE OF PROTECTION
Sanctuary of Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, Matins
The room was alive with whispered speculations. Abbot Burchard went and stood before the richly adorned high altar and raised his hands, awaiting silence. It took a few moments before an unnatural hush came over the gathering.
In the moment of silence, Volmar prayed to himself. “God give me a discerning spirit.” He then searched the other brothers’ faces, specifically looking for that of Brother Rudegerus. His absence was duly noted. He turned to the Abbot, who met his eyes with the same understanding.
“Please, dear brothers,” the Abbot said, taking charge, “I think we’ve given enough time for idle conjectures, none of which, I’m afraid, will bring us any closer to the facts. We will need to involve the district Magistrate in this. I do not want to risk any confrontations between civil and ecclesiastical justice. Brother Julius, let the Porter know what has happened and ride with Brother Andres to Bermersheim to alert the Magistrate89 of our predicament. We need his help.”
Brother Albertus shook his head. “Father, can’t we simply take care of our own and not involve the outside world?”
“That would be all well and good, my son, but leaving the district Magistrate out of this would further the perception of those who are convinced that our message is only about the next world, and has little bearing on how we live our lives in this world.”
Like the dogs they kept for hunting, Brother Julius and Brother Andres knew the countryside well even though it was blanketed with snow and the river was indistinguishable from the fields. These were sensible men who quietly nodded to one another and took their leave.
“I’d like only three brothers to accompany me to the stables. The rest of you may want to continue your prayers in your cells. We will all meet back here in a short while to further discuss what has happened.”
“Father, it would be blasphemous to lay such a body here in the Sanctuary.” A few of the other brothers nodded in agreement.
“Please, dear brothers, it is premature to discuss burial arrangements when we haven’t even seen the body. For the sake of my sanity and the law of this land we need to proceed cautiously, observing all manners of propriety and care. I do not look forward to opening our gates to the people of Staudernheim and the district Magistrate for an investigation, but it now seems that we have no choice.”
“What do we tell those in the Guesthouse and Infirmary when they wake up, Father?” Brother Albertus asked.
“For now, hold your tongues and let them sleep. It is best if we all refrain from speaking untruths to one another until we know more of this frightful situation.” The Abbot sighed with resignation. “No one, I repeat, no one, will touch the body until a clear verdict has been ascertained by Brother Paulus. God has led us all into this mystery; and we must believe that He will protect us while we try to unravel it. And, regardless of the ruling, I will not allow this man’s body to be desecrated in any way.”
The Abbot searched the faces of the brothers, sensing in them a wide range of volatile emotions. He paused for a moment, trying to decide what else he should say. “I’d like to have someone who is skilled in medicinal arts and someone who is familiar with the goings and comings of all our guests, so I’d like Brother Paulus and Brother Rudege
rus to accompany me. Brother Volmar, we will also need a chronicler to record what has happened, so please retrieve your writing instruments and meet us at the entrance to the stables.”
There was silence, followed by quiet murmurs as the other brothers now noticed that Rudegerus was not among their numbers. Someone in the back mumbled. “I think the Abbot needs to find out where that one was last night.”
“Very well, then,” Abbot Burchard said, ignoring the scandalous accusation. “Brother Paulus and Brother Volmar will accompany me. The rest of you will need to gather your wits and pray for the Lord’s guidance.”
Keeping a stranglehold on his growing sense of dread, Volmar grabbed a torch and, for the first time, walked quickly through the hushed nave of the Sanctuary in the direction of the Abbot’s private chamber. The young scribe’s thoughts were racing as fast as his booted feet once he exited God’s Sanctuary. Why would a man returning home after fifteen years hang himself? Surely Matthias knew that the church condemns suicide. None of it made any sense. Paulus was right, it was a foolish man’s recourse. Why would a man leave a heroic battlefield promising an honorable death only to commit suicide in an obscure monastery’s stables? Other questions darted in and out of his thoughts like moths around a light: What of Matthias’s suspicions that he was being followed, and the strange disappearance of Atif’s body? And what, pray tell, was Rudegerus’s involvement in all this? More than likely, Volmar concluded, Matthias’s death had more to do with the Holy Relic’s curse than a wild moment of cowardice. Once Matthias had parted with the Holy Relic and the hedge of protection around him was lifted, he died in mysterious circumstances!
CHAPTER 5: WEARY PILGRIM’S HEART
Abbot’s Quarters of Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, After Matins
As Volmar turned the corner and approached the Abbot’s quarters, he could see that the heavy oak door was left ajar. He stood at the entrance and noticed right away a drop of wax on the floor from a taper someone must have been carrying. He bent down and touched the wax. It still felt warm.
Volmar stood in disbelief on the threshold of the Abbot’s private chamber. His keen eyes picked out each and every detail. The room had been searched, turned inside out. Papers from the desk were scattered about and drawers were dumped onto the floor, their contents strewn everywhere. Even the straw mattress where the Abbot slept had been dragged off of its wooden platform and stood leaning upright against the far stone wall. Toiletry items, too, were spilled and lay in waste beneath the bedside table.
Someone desperately had been hunting for something. Volmar studied the scene in silence. He grasped that whoever had done such a thing knew of the Holy Relic and was hoping to find it in the Abbot’s possession. He was grateful that it was safe in Sister Hildegard’s care. Volmar approached the desk and saw that the drawer he had locked the night before lay wide open. His leather pouch was still there, although there was a tear in its leather stitching. At least he had safeguarded as well all of the notes he had taken of the details concerning Peter Bartholomew and the Holy Spear; for otherwise, the history of the Holy Relic would now be in this thieving scoundrel’s hands.
Volmar then remembered why he’d come. Hastily he gathered a quill and ink and a small clay jar to hold the ink, and rolled up a blank sheet of parchment before tucking it into his leather pouch. As he headed for the door to leave, he stopped suddenly.
Only then did he notice that someone was sitting in the Abbot’s chair. The person was seated with his back to him facing the fireplace. It was difficult to determine the man’s features silhouetted by the glowing embers of last night’s fire. The stranger sitting in absolute stillness sent a chill up Volmar’s spine. Even from this distance he could tell that the man was obviously dressed as a gentleman in fine velvets and brocades.
Volmar spoke with authority. “Sir, the Abbot has been detained. I am his Scribe. My name is Brother Volmar; may I be of service?” There was no answer, not even a simple nod in acknowledgment. Volmar had a sinking feeling. He spoke even louder, in case the stranger was hard of hearing. “Sir, how may I help you?”
The realization did not come in an instant. Somehow Volmar’s mind knew he had to experience the horror in small increments. He went to the firebox, reached for another log, and threw it onto the grate before taking the poker and positioning it onto the center of some ash-covered embers which seemed to have retained a spark of life. Quietly, he blew on them. Cinders flew here and there, spitting and crackling with new life, illuminating the dark corner.
“It’s amazing how a simple fire can warm a soul,” he said, the dread now almost unbearable. Still there was a deafening silence. Slowly he turned and gazed up at the face of the dead man, ashen grey even in the warm glow of the fire. A wave of sadness came over him, deeper than any he had anticipated.
Atif’s hands were folded across his chest, so life-like, and yet Volmar could tell there was no blood coursing through his once nimble fingers. He had to remind himself that this was but a body, a soul-less husk of the man who had taken an afternoon to instruct a mere beginner in the art of swordsmanship and, more importantly, giving him a lesson in how not to give up.
Stoically Volmar approached his friend, went to his knees, and held Atif’s cold, gray-green lifeless hand in his. He prayed, “O God, be merciful. Bring comfort to this weary pilgrim’s heart.” Volmar forced himself to peer up at Atif’s discolored features, then at his chest. Out of respect, he closed Atif’s eyelids. He did not need any medical knowledge to see that his friend had died from a knife wound to the chest as Sophie had described and that his death was at least a day old. The wound appeared sharp, not jagged, indicating that it had been the result of one single thrust. The murderer knew exactly how to kill.
Atif’s mouth hung partially open as if he had one more secret to impart. Volmar reached inside the Arab’s hidden pocket and retrieved the small codex. One look confirmed his and the Abbot’s suspicions. The Emperor had in fact granted Atif his freedom, but at what cost? He slipped the codex into his leather pouch. He felt around in the pocket for Atif’s rosary and confirmed its absence. In his own blood he must have wanted to communicate one more word.
“Your death, my friend,” Volmar said soberly, “will be as a thorn in my side. I will personally hunt down the man who did this to you and will bring him to justice. The forces of darkness have misjudged my determination.”
The Abbot’s window suddenly blew open, its leaded-diamond pane knocked against the wooden frame by a harsh cold wind. It threatened to put out the fire. Volmar shivered, rose and went to close it. In the courtyard below he noticed at least a dozen or more yellow lights illuminating the misty white flurries of snow sweeping through the Abbot’s withered garden. He squinted through the slanting snow below, a view all the way to the Porter’s gates. He could tell that villagers dressed in heavy dark cloaks were making their way up the hillside to the stables. Several more seemed to be coming up the hill, their lanterns swinging, like many rips in a black cloth. Volmar knew their intentions: To shed light on this sickening gloom which seemed to be spreading. Could outsiders be the only ones capable of unraveling the evil lurking in the recesses of this once holy stone fortress?
Volmar stared back down into Atif’s face and for the first time felt as if Disibodenberg had somehow abandoned its calling as a center of civilized life. The sight was so unnerving, he couldn’t move. How could God’s people fumble something so central to their mission? They alone in this dark, dismal world were obligated to ensure that the Devil could not establish his kingdom in places consecrated to God. And now instead of peace, there was discord; instead of godliness, there was strife; and instead of charity there was senseless slaughter.
CHAPTER 6: DEEP-SEATED FEAR
Cloister of Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, After Matins
Volmar closed the gate to the Abbot’s garden and headed off towards the stables. Now more than ever he was determined to
make sense of what was happening. The shock was absolute: A possible suicide and now a cold-blooded murder. The Devil walked amongst them. The wind gathered strength as it blew great white clouds of snow onto the cobbled path that led to the Cloister. Volmar screwed up his eyes against the blinding ice pellets and walked on, nearly bumping directly into Rudegerus.
“Why aren’t you at Matins, Brother Volmar?” Rudegerus’s words were carefully enunciated and held a certain disdain.
Volmar noticed the color rise in Rudegerus’s face. An odd smell emanated from him, covering up what seemed to be a much more disagreeable smell. With a puzzled grimace, Volmar answered, “I was, and where were you, Brother Rudegerus?”
There was no answer for a moment, then Rudegerus mumbled barely above the whistling of the wind in the white air. “I was detained by business.”
Volmar looked hard at Rudegerus. His face was marred by heavy shadows which ringed his eyes and gave his crooked nose a more pinched, sickly look. “The Abbot has requested our presence at the stables. I’m not sure if you heard the news, but the traveler the Abbot and I spoke with yesterday evening, Matthias, has been found dead there.” Volmar said this taking in finally what his eyes and nose were sensing. Rudegerus had recently washed. There was that faint smell of a freshening herb and his hair was slicked back, wet from having been recently cleaned. Three in the morning was an odd time to be bathing, he thought.