by G. M. Dyrek
With tears welling up in his eyes, Gabe swung the Iron Gate wide open and took off towards the kitchens. The boys knew Brother Johannes’s schedule by heart. Often they would follow him on his rounds, observing his gentle manner from a safe distance, somehow taking comfort in their deformed caretaker’s routines. Sure enough, Brother Johannes came around the corner of the stables pushing a wheelbarrow, carrying food scraps to discard from the kitchen, just as Gabe anticipated. Johannes was whistling, enjoying the prospect of having a meal of roast fowl. The cook, in honor of the Magistrate’s unexpected visit, was preparing a rooster that was left mysteriously on his doorstep overnight. The cook had promised to save Johannes a wing after serving the Abbot and the Magistrate their special meal.
“Come quick!” Gabe said, running up to the old monk and tugging fervently at his sleeve.
Johannes was flattered to see the boy trust him enough to approach him. He’d been secretly praying for months for the boys to get over their fear of him. “What is it, little Gabriel?”
Gabe blurted out, “Your friend is hurt!”
Propelled by fear, Brother Johannes had little difficulty keeping up with Gabriel. Soon, the two arrived behind the stables. Brother Johannes knelt beside Michael and met the boy’s eyes with an understanding that the situation was serious. Volmar retched suddenly and barely had time to twist to his side, before vomiting violently. Thankfully, his stomach was nearly empty and all that surfaced was colorless bile with the same peculiar stench of bitter almonds.
“Brother Volmar!” Johannes cried, lifting him up with his rough hands. Volmar’s legs buckled. Brother Johannes knelt with Volmar’s limp body over the water trough. He broke the thin layer of ice with his fist and splashed the water all over the young monk’s face. “Your heartbeat sounds as if you’ve swallowed a hundred crickets. What happened?”
Brother Volmar formulated the words in his head. “I must find the Magistrate and the Abbot.” A thick fog swirled about, causing mischief with his thoughts. “I must tell them of the fighting cock, the poisoned silver claw, and the bloody gash in Matthias’s leg.” Yet his words came out all garbled.
“Don’t you worry, little brother, I’ll carry you myself to see Brother Paulus, he’ll know what to do. Come along boys, I need your help.”
CHAPTER 6: OLD WOUNDS
Abbot’s Personal Quarters at Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, Before Prime
wolfe sat across the table from the Abbot. There had been much to discuss after Atif’s body was removed and taken to the Infirmary. Wolfe was prepared to make an arrest when the murderer returned for the fake relic at the well. He sat closest to the fire smoldering in the grate. There was a fine dew of sweat breaking on his high forehead. “Did you say that Matthias knew Symon of Bermersheim?”
“He knew of him—there is a difference,” the Abbot answered, nodding to Brother Andres, the cellarer, who placed on the table in front of the two a platter of a roasted capon93 and refilled their wine goblets. The Abbot lightly touched Brother Andres’s arm and requested, “Before returning to the kitchen, would you please find Rudegerus and ask him to come here right away? We need to talk to him.”
The Magistrate stared down at the glowing ashes, taking in the pungent smell of the fresh fowl and wondering if it would be rude to say he had suddenly lost his appetite.
The Abbot lifted the carving knife and slowly started apportioning the breast meat of the bird, neatly cutting thin regular slices. He addressed the Magistrate, finishing his thoughts. “Brother Volmar fears that Symon of Bermersheim is also a key player in Brother Gerard’s secret society. Volmar’s father went to the Holy Land in 1098 and never returned.”
Wolfe heaved a deep sigh. “What else do you know of this young monk’s family?”
“Not much, really. Ten years ago, he showed up at our gates carrying his little sister Anya’s dead body in his arms. As far as he knew, he had no other relations. For months I inquired of Volmar’s family and all I found out was that Volmar’s father’s name was Symon and he had left to fight in the Holy War for Jerusalem. His mother died of the same fever as her daughter. I did not know until yesterday that Symon fought as a fellow brother in the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John in Jerusalem. Volmar knew this and never shared it with me.”
“Symon was a fool to leave his wife with two small children. Anya was still an infant and Volmar was only three years of age. It was just like Symon to be so cavalier with Katherina’s welfare and the lives of his children. It does not surprise me that he would serve as an influential leader in a brotherhood that is after this Holy Relic and the power it possesses.”
“You speak as if you know this man well.”
The Magistrate looked visibly ill at ease. “Let’s just say, Father, that I once knew Symon; and yes, I agree with Matthias’s assessment that he is the devil incarnate. He could very likely be a part of this evil scheme to retrieve the Holy Relic.”
The Abbot served a portion of the roasted fowl onto the Magistrate’s plate. “Volmar has a gentler soul. I have a hard time detecting any vice in him such as what you and Matthias attribute to his father. Oh, don’t get me wrong, there is a fire that burns in him which might consume a lesser mind. He is methodical and detailed. He rules with his mind, yet acknowledges his heart and keeps it there as a scale to measure the degree of right and wrong in everything he experiences. In this way, he exercises so much more control over his emotions than most and certainly more than what has been ascribed to Brother Symon. For him to have the seed of greed and power planted in him is hard to believe. If anything, my Lord, he has your sense of order and justice, and your desire to right terrible wrongs.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Wolfe, you two share the same walk, the same square shoulders, and look at your eyes—can’t you see? They’re the same vibrant blue. The older Volmar gets, the more he looks like you.”
“Forgive me, Father. I am no longer hungry.” The Magistrate pushed his plate away.
The Abbot stared down at his plate, his fingers laced, waiting patiently for the rest of the story to be told.
The Magistrate got up and stoked the fire. Slowly it came to life, as his memories were also stirring. “Symon and I grew up together and were close friends a long time ago. When we came of age, we both shared affections for Katherina, Volmar and Anya’s mother.” In the rising flames he could almost make out Katherina’s youthful face; it had been so long ago, he’d almost forgotten how beautiful she had been. In every aspect of his business and other affairs, he ran things with a cool, ruthless efficiency. Discipline and obedience were paramount in his world and, until now, he had kept at bay the ordeal he faced nearly eighteen years ago. He kept his voice low, as if by speaking louder her image would become unbearably real and overpower what he knew he must now confess.
“Katherina had told Symon that she did not love him and wanted to marry me instead. However, he deceived her and went to her father, convincing him that she should not marry beneath her status. So her family conspired with Symon and forced Katherina to marry him, even though she loved and wanted me.”
Wolfe leaned back in his chair and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. This was a secret no one else knew anything about. It was amazing how secrets could be infused with so much more than simply the truth. Now, as he stretched across great spans of time to try to turn his feelings into words, he realized that the old wounds were still as raw and painful as they had been all those many years ago. “You see, my family was not of the noble class. Our fortunes, which are considerable, were made through trade and business dealings, not through birth.” Flames licked and spitted, illuminating his features. “All of this happened a lifetime ago. The night before the wedding Katherina came to me. She was a great beauty. That night I held her, unwilling to let her go. I have since realized that it was an act of love and revenge; the son she had in due time was mine, not Symon’s.”
“I see,” the Abbot said, thin
king back to the day Volmar came to the monastery. “I suspected as much, for over the past ten years you have often inquired about Volmar’s health and how he was getting on here at the monastery. I took such interest to be more than idle curiosity. I’ve often wondered how Volmar’s mother managed without her husband for four years until her death. You supported them, did you not?”
“Symon left for the war after a terrible argument with Katherina. He was a man ruled by his insane jealousy,” Wolfe continued darkly. “She was abandoned, yet she wasn’t free to remarry, nor was there any security left in her marriage to him. It was a trap he’d set for her out of spite. Katherina became like an island unto herself, completely surrounded by water. My financial help was but a foot bridge.”
The Abbot shook his head in resignation. “How about her own family, surely they would take her in and care for her in her time of trial.”
“Katherina told them the truth and instead of forgiveness she found condescension. They did not want their kinsmen to know of her transgression. Her family essentially disowned her. I suppose, the health of a heart has much to do with the body’s defenses against fevers. By the time I found out about her fever it was already too late.” He paused and cleared his throat, remembering how with a soft pass of his hand, he had closed her eyes forever. “Anya was infected and I knew her only hope was to come to you and Brother Paulus here at the monastery for treatment. I was the stranger who found the two still clinging to their mother’s corpse hoping she would awaken. Anya would not let go of her brother, so I dropped both of them off at your gates on that bitter November night ten years ago. I knew you would find in Volmar an able and willing mind. At the time it was important that his illegitimacy and how it ruined his mother’s life not sour his impressionable spirit. He has flourished under your tutelage. I owe to you a great debt. Thank you.”
“I believe it is I who should thank you; for I see now, you’ve been our faithful, anonymous donor here at Disibodenberg for these past ten years.”
“And I will continue to give to those who value and cherish my only son. Volmar has found a home here at the monastery and you, more than I, have been his real father.”
Abbot Burchard glowed with astonished pleasure. The words gave him an unbelievable sense of pride and accomplishment. “He is your son, my friend, and as you can see from the investigation, he possesses your passion for justice.”
The Magistrate stared down at his plate. “I feel that perhaps my appetite is returning, how about yours?”
“Mine too, my friend,” the Abbot answered, tucking a napkin under his chin. “Shall we bless our food and enjoy what little time we have left until the bells of Prime?”
CHAPTER 7: THE DEVIL PROWLS
Abbot’s Personal Quarters at Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, Before Prime
There was a knock at the door. The Abbot frowned. “Wolfe, I believe Rudegerus has received our message. Enter,” he announced louder still, drawing his napkin to his lap.
Brother Andres entered the private quarters of the Abbot. The two men were seated by the blazing fire, two silhouettes of black, with halos of golden light touching their outlines.
The Abbot rose. “Were you able to find Brother Rudegerus?”
Brother Andres shook his head as he approached the Abbot. “May I speak with you in private for a moment, Father?”
“Of course, please excuse us,” the Abbot said, placing his napkin by his plate.
“Rudegerus is talking out of his mind, Father. He says that I should call him Balaam and told me he would pay for the donkey so that he may leave the monastery. I don’t know what to make of it all.”
“Where is he now?” the Abbot asked, glancing at the water clock which indicated that Prime would follow in less than three quarters of an hour.
“He’s right outside, Father.”
“Good. Please show him in, Brother Andres, and thank you for your concern.”
The Abbot reached for another chair and pulled it to the table. This chair matched the others, with a heavily carved back and lion heads sleeping on the arm rests. “We have plenty to share with you, Rudegerus. Come join us in our modest meal and conversation.”
“Father, I have sinned and am unworthy to be in your company.” Brother Rudegerus hung back, his eyes wild and wide.
“I understand that your life has been threatened by an elderly man in the Sanctuary.” The Abbot decided to take a direct approach. It would serve the investigation better, and time was of essence. There had already been too many words spoken around the issue of Matthias’s death. Now they needed to speak frankly and to the point.
“Father, I have sinned. The Lord made it clear to Balaam when he spoke through a donkey of the seduction of greed. He who loved the wages of wickedness would be rebuked for his wrongdoing. God help me,” Rudegerus pleaded, thumping his chest over and over.
The Magistrate interrupted, saying, “Brother Rudegerus, this greed you speak of, is it for a Holy Relic?”
“Father,” the monk said, turning to his Abbot, “it is more sinister than that.” Brother Rudegerus fidgeted, rubbing his hands together as if they were very cold and needed the warmth of contact.
The Abbot waited patiently, cutting from the platter the rooster’s claw. In all his years as an Abbot, he’d learned it is better to listen more than talk. In silence, he served what he thought would be an indulgence to Brother Rudegerus.
The monk stared down at the claw on his plate. His face went deathly white. The Abbot sensed something had gone amiss. “Brother Rudegerus,” the Abbot said, reaching for his arm. He looked across at the Magistrate, who shared his worried expression. “You do not look well.”
Rudegerus finally spoke but in a voice barely audible. In his eyes the rooster’s claw became animated and lunged forward at his throat. “Satan and his dominions have all been released from prison! I will not be poisoned as Matthias was! Leave me alone, you fiend!”
Rudegerus stood up. He stood menacingly over the table, lifted the platter and flung it into the burning flames. The sizzle of burning fowl sickened the air. In a mad fit he snatched the Magistrate’s plate and the Abbot’s plate and shattered them both across the iron grate. His eyes were blazing, his voice shrill. “In death how can a rooster still kill?” Suddenly he turned to the carved wooden chair he had been seated in. In his mind’s eye he saw the lions’ heads on the chair rear up and roar. Brother Rudegerus backed away, quoting Scripture. “Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the Devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour . . .”
The Abbot took hold of Brother Rudegerus’s shoulders and hugged him fiercely, finishing the passage of Scripture in I Peter. “Resist him, standing firm in the faith. The God of all Grace will Himself restore you and make you strong.”
Brother Rudegerus collapsed, sobbing. He crawled to the far corner where the shadows were the darkest, and curled into a ball. There, he rocked back and forth, in a state unreachable by human touch or voice.
CHAPTER 8: A GHASTLY REVELATION
Anchorage at Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, Before Prime
Hildegard bent over Jutta, humming a pleasant melody, hoping it would help lift her Anchoress’ spirits as well as her own. She couldn’t seem to get out of her mind an image of Volmar in the Infirmary, with Death sitting patiently at his feet. She’d seen Death’s gaunt face a couple of times before, at Jutta’s mother’s and Uda’s bedside, and now standing between earth and Heaven with a drawn sword in his hand, at Volmar’s bedside. It was more alarming now, for it was not in keeping with the other glimpses of the future she had had of this young Scribe growing old beside her.
Jutta seemed to be responding to her ministrations. Her fever finally broke. Gently, she dabbed the sweat from Jutta’s body. The fire Hiltrud had made warmed the common room. It had been wise for her and Hiltrud to move Jutta’s bed beside the hearth that first night to take full advantage of its life-
giving properties. Jutta had gone far too long without eating. Hildegard knew her despondency had something to do with the physiological effects of lack of nourishment, and wasn’t only due to her long exposure to the cold. When she awoke, she would certainly be delirious and impossible to force-feed.
Try as she might to avoid it, Hildegard’s mind kept coming back to Volmar. If her vision were true, a sudden death for Volmar would mean he was bound to die traumatically, before his time. She was overcome with guilt and anger. Was she the mistake, the reason, his timing was not in keeping with his true destiny? These fears plagued her as she prayed, “Enough, my Lord! Withdraw your hand. I beg of you, show mercy.” She repeated this simple prayer in her mind over and over as the melody she hummed turn sad.
The melancholy tune brought tears to Hiltrud’s eyes. The servant girl sat across the room, mending a monk’s cassock. She was too distraught and was unable to return to bed, especially after Hildegard confirmed the fact that there had been two unexplained murders in the monastery. Hiltrud knew the only way to deal with it was to stay focused and busy.
Suddenly a man appeared in the doorway to the sleeping chamber. His silhouette cast a chilling shadow across the common room, and the air filled with the smell of evil. He was dressed in rags and wore a snow hood pulled down over his head, obscuring his face. Through the cutaway eye holes he glared into the room, taking in the presence of the three women.
Hiltrud saw him first. She looked up and screamed, pricking her finger on the needle. The sudden pain and the terror of seeing a stranger lurking in the Anchorage was too much. Overcome by fear, she slumped forward in her chair.
“Where is he?” the hooded man said, raising his cane menacingly. “I saw him come through the window and have waited long enough in the bitter cold for him to come out.”