“Do you think it was really the sorcerer?” Magdalena whispered so as not to wake the other patients. “Maybe he just died.” She knew she was just looking for reasons to spare her husband the wrath of her father.
“What is this here?” Gently the hangman removed a scrap of black cloth from the clenched fist of the novitiate master. “It looks like Brother Laurentius didn’t set out for paradise without a fight.”
Magdalena bent down to look at the little scrap of cloth. “That might be from a robe,” she said, thinking out loud, “or some other piece of clothing. In any case it isn’t necessarily…” She stopped abruptly to watch Simon, who was crawling around on the floor, evidently looking for something. “What in heaven’s name are you doing down there?”
“The… the Andechs chronicle!” Simon exclaimed. “It’s disappeared. I was reading it just a while ago, and when I fell asleep it must have fallen out of my hand. And now it’s gone.”
“Isn’t that just fine,” the hangman growled. “It’s not enough that this sorcerer kills our only witness; he steals your book, as well, while you sit there snoring. How stupid can you be?”
“Father, stop tormenting him,” Magdalena said angrily. “Can’t you see how sorry he is? Besides, couldn’t you have stayed here and kept watch? But no, you had to go waltzing through the forest as you so often do.”
“Because I’m a wanted man, you fresh little thing. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
Moaning could be heard now from beds farther back in the room. An ashen-faced older farmer with sunken cheeks sat up and stared at them curiously.
“If I may make a suggestion,” Simon whispered, getting up from the floor. “Let’s continue this conversation down in St. Elizabeth’s chapel. There we’ll be undisturbed, and I can tell you in more detail what I learned in the chronicle.” He ventured a smile. “And perhaps I can in some small way make amends for what happened—and avoid the torture rack.”
St. Elizabeth’s chapel was located under the monastery church. Built directly into the side of the mountain, it was an unassuming little church that, even on busy days, was a refuge of silence and meditation.
Sometimes pilgrims visited the chapel because water from the little fountain in the apsis was said to cure eye problems, but now, at ten o’clock at night, it was as quiet as the forest behind it. Small candles burned alongside the altar, casting a flickering light on the few pews where the three sat.
“You think the librarian, the cellarer, and perhaps the sorcerer as well are searching for the relics and treasures hidden during the storming of Andechs castle long ago?” asked Magdalena incredulously.
After Simon told them what he’d learned, he shook his head contemplatively. “It says in the Andechs chronicle that the conquerors found nothing—nothing at all,” he finally replied. “Not until almost two hundred years later did a mouse dash out of a hole in the chapel with a scrap of parchment in its little mouth picturing some of the relics. And that’s how they finally managed to track them down.”
“That’s right,” Magdalena joined in, shivering and pulling her shawl tight over her shoulders. “That’s what that disgusting Brother Eckhart told me, but why should there be more down there than what they found at that time?”
Simon leaned forward in the pew. “The chronicle mentions all the relics kept in the holy chapel,” he said. “But the count’s list contains many more, among them—”
“What is this count’s list?” interrupted Kuisl, who had been listening silently until this point, puffing on his pipe. “This is the first I’ve heard of that. Did the smart-ass nobleman offer to show you around his office? Please stop beating around the bush.”
“Patience, patience: I still haven’t told you the best part.” The medicus raised his hands, grinning, trying to calm Kuisl down. He knew the hangman’s curiosity was insatiable. Now it was Simon’s turn to torture his father-in-law.
“Of course the count didn’t show me around his study,” he finally said smugly. “I had a look around without his permission, and I came across the list and a map—a map, which in my opinion, shows the ancient subterranean passageways and cellars of this castle. It’s quite possibly the same map stolen from the librarian, so we have to at least consider the possibility that the count is the sorcerer and that he, and a number of the monks as well, are looking for the hidden treasure.”
With evident relish Simon noted how Kuisl and Magdalena stared at him in astonishment.
“You searched the count’s study?” Magdalena asked incredulously. “If anyone caught you doing that—”
“Nobody saw me,” Simon said, waving off her remark and trying not to think of his escape onto the window ledge.
“And where is the map now?” the hangman asked.
Simon’s secret delight at his father-in-law’s amazement was quicky dampened. “Uh, unfortunately I wasn’t able to take it with me,” he replied. “But I remember it well, especially a few scrawled words,” he said, trying hard to remember. “Hic est porta ad loca infera. That means—”
“This is the portal to the subterranean places,” Kuisl mumbled. “I know that much myself, wiseass. That’s just what we’re looking for, but did you see where the door was?”
Embarrassed, Simon could only shrug. “Uh, unfortunately not. I had very little time and the script was very hard to read.”
Beside him, Magdalena sighed and stretched on the hard church pew. “This whole thing is becoming too much for me,” she groaned. “Up to now we thought the sorcerer was trying only to find the sacred hosts, and that’s why he abducted Virgilius—to extort Virgilius’s brother. And he was able to do just that. So what is the purpose of these underground passages? Why does the count have a map of them? And what for heaven’s sake are Brother Benedikt and Brother Eckhart hiding down there? This just doesn’t make any sense.”
Simon was silent, thinking of the handkerchief with the initial A that they’d found alongside the grave of the old monk. Kuisl and he hadn’t told Magdalena of this discovery so as not to frighten her even more. Was there really a golem brought to life by the hosts, an out-of-control automaton, lurking beneath the monastery?
“I’ll bet my executioner’s sword that the hosts are no longer in the monstrance,” said Kuisl, drawing on his cold pipe. “This sorcerer took them; that much is certain. Tomorrow, at the Festival of the Three Hosts, the prior and the other monks will hold up nothing more than a few dried-out wafers to show the pilgrims. No one will notice a thing.”
“And it’s easy to blame Nepomuk for the murders of Virgilius and Coelestin. He’s probably already confessed on the rack. Damn.” Magdalena crossed herself hastily when she realized she’d cursed in the little chapel. “Now that they’ve found Virgilius’s corpse, not even the abbot is on our side anymore. What luck!”
Simon bit his lip. “And the Andechs chronicle has disappeared,” he said softly. “Perhaps I could have found some reference to the passageways in it, but as it is…” He shook his head, then finally turned to his father-in-law.
“It looks like you’ll have to accept your friend’s fate,” he said mournfully, “even if we find these passageways and learn why the sorcerer needs the hosts. Until we find the real culprit, we can’t prove Nepomuk’s innocence. And I can’t think of anything else we can do to help in the few days before the execution,” Simon added, with a shrug.
“I won’t give up. Ever.” The hangman rose ominously from the pew, his huge body casting a long shadow along the chapel walls in the flickering candlelight. “Damn it. I’m sure Nepomuk hasn’t confessed yet. We’ve known each other a long time, and I can feel it in every bone in my body. You greenhorns couldn’t understand that.” He stomped toward the exit, then turned around one more time. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do now—I’m going to think it through. I always come up with something. You’ll see a man who has been drawn and quartered restored to full health before you’ll see me abandon a friend. Farewell.”
&nb
sp; Kuisl’s footsteps could be heard as he strode down the path through the forest along the monastery wall, but soon Simon and Magdalena were engulfed again in the silence of the chapel.
After a while the medicus cleared his throat. “Magdalena…” he began hesitantly. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you and the children recently…”
Magdalena turned away, occupied more with her scarf and her hair. “You can say that again, you stubborn goat,” she growled. “I almost thought I didn’t have a husband anymore. Matthias was closer to the children than their own father.”
Simon felt a wave of sadness come over him. “Listen, I’m sorry,” he said finally. “It probably just all got to be too much for me—these horrible murders, your sullen father’s constant grumbling, then the count’s deathly sick child…”
“Is the boy getting better?” Magdalena asked softly.
Simon shrugged. “I gave him the Jesuit’s powder I found in the apothecary. Now everything is in God’s hands.” He sighed. “If he dies, I’m probably going to die, as well, and I don’t even want to think about that.” A wan smile came over his lips. “At least I have some clues as to where this damned plague is coming from.”
“What do you mean?” Magdalena inquired curiously.
As Simon sensed that her anger was subsiding, a sense of relief washed over him. They could do almost anything if they stayed together.
“Well, I think I know how the plague started,” he said finally. “It doesn’t bring the dead back to life, but at least if we know, then we can do something. I hope very much that Schreevogl has learned some more about it.”
In whispered words he told Magdalena of his suspicion. As he spoke, she moved closer and closer to him until finally she snuggled against his shoulder.
“And do you think that’s how all these people got sick?” she asked hesitantly.
Simon nodded. “There’s a lot of evidence suggesting it. I read about similar symptoms in the book by the Italian, Fracastoro.”
“Then let’s just hope we’re on the culprit’s trail soon.” She drew closer, and Simon could feel how she was shivering. Though it was the middle of June already, nights were unusually cold, and he took his jacket from his shoulder, wrapping it around her.
“Let’s go back to Graetz’s house now and sleep,” he said, helping her up from the pew. “Tomorrow is the Festival of the Three Hosts. I don’t know why, but I’m certain the festival has something to do with all the strange things happening around here—as if the sorcerer has been waiting for just this day.”
“Then it’s definitely best for us to get a good sleep.” Magdalena squeezed his hand, and together they left the chapel, stepping out into the cool night air.
“Tomorrow I’ll have another talk with the abbot,” she said, looking up into the starless sky. Clouds obscured the moon; somewhere a screech owl was hooting. “I think he likes me. Perhaps he’ll help us look for the real culprit even if it’s clear his brother is no longer alive.” Suddenly she stopped.
“Do you hear that?” she asked her husband. “That tinkling sound?”
Simon listened briefly, then shook his head. “It’s nothing—just the wind and the pounding of your anxious heart.” Laughing, he pulled Magdalena away from the chapel toward the lights of the monastery. “Come now; you’re seeing ghosts behind every tree.”
Somewhere far below, the automaton followed its unending, unchanging course. If Simon hadn’t laughed so loudly, perhaps he would have heard the music, too.
The prior bent forward, clinging tightly to his horse’s back, as he rode the lonely, dark country road back to Andechs.
A gust of wind howled through the few remaining hairs of the prior’s tonsure, thunder rumbled across the lake, and a wolf howled in the distance, but Brother Jeremias was too engrossed in his own thoughts to hear any of this. The questioning of Brother Johannes hadn’t gone as expected. The Weilheim executioner had pulled out three more fingernails, crushed his thumbs, set him on the so-called Spanish Donkey, and finally pulled him up in the air with a winch, his arms bent behind his back. Still, the stubborn monk hadn’t confessed. He’d mumbled his prayers and carried on about someone named Jakob who would come to help him. Brother Jeremias wasn’t sure whom he meant by that. Saint Jakob was the patron saint of pilgrims. Did this simpleton really think he’d get help from that saint?
In the evening, they finally suspended the questioning. The next day was, after all, the Andechs Festival of the Three Hosts, famous throughout all of the German Empire. Christian brotherly love simply forbade pulling fingernails off on such a day, so they’d have to put it off until the next day.
Cursing, the prior dug his heels into the sides of his horse, spurring it on. There was so much left to do. The abbot had told him the morning before that he would assign him, Jeremias, the duty of conducting the festival mass. The prior smiled wanly. Evidently the old man had already accepted the fact that someone else would be in charge soon. It was therefore all the more important for Brother Johannes to confess—not only because the Weilheim judge had made it very clear that a successful interrogation was required before the prior could be appointed abbot, but also because Jeremias needed a scapegoat. This miserable affair had to be put behind them as soon as possible. There had been much too much snooping around already. That bathhouse doctor from Schongau was driving him crazy, and Brother Benedikt had told him also that the phony monk had been searching the rooms in the monastery. And that the map had now disappeared, too—the map, so long concealed, that had been in the monastery’s possession for centuries. Had someone already gotten wind of them? The prior had a terrible suspicion.
As the howling of the wolves drew closer, Brother Jeremias finally realized he was in danger. This sounded like no less than the whole pack that had been striking terror into people’s hearts in the forests around Andechs. Grimly the prior grasped the reins and slapped the horse on its hindquarters. “Giddyap, run, you old mare, if you care for your life.”
Jeremias bent forward over the saddle to offer as little resistance to the wind as possible. When he was made abbot, he would send men out to deal with these beasts once and for all. And there were some things in the monastery that would change. For a long time, Jeremias had been dreaming of tearing down the old building and bringing in skilled tradesmen from Wessobrunn, and from the other side of the Alps, to build him a new monastery like the neighboring ones at Steingaden and Rottenbuch—bigger and more impressive. He wouldn’t allow the Holy Mountain to look like a storm-ravaged ruin dating back to the Great War. But to do that, he needed money, lots of money. The prior smiled.
Soon money would be no problem; in a few years, his dream would be realized—as long as nothing unexpected happened and their little hiding place wasn’t discovered…
If only for this reason, Johannes had to confess. For the good of the church. So that peace and order would reign again.
The wolves were so close now that Brother Jeremias could see their eyes shining in the dark. He could feel the horse tremble beneath him, its coat dripping with sweat. Soon the path would head up the steep slope of the Kien Valley and the horse would have to slow down. The wolves were gaining on them; the prior could hear the howling and panting closing in.
With a wild cry, he suddenly whirled around, pulled an ivory-handled flintlock pistol from under his robe, and fired. The shot flashed through the darkness, and there was a loud report followed by howling. The wolves pulled back.
Breathing heavily, the prior put the pistol back under his robe and concentrated on the path in front of him. It was now so dark between the trees he could scarcely see branches that had fallen across the path. He trembled. The Weilheim judge had given him the weapon and gunpowder just the day before, a personal gift meant to seal the bond between them. Never did the prior think he would have to use the pistol so soon, but now, feeling the cold iron of the barrel beneath his robe, he noticed he’d really enjoyed using it.
He had… enjoyed it. Th
e cool feel, the recoil, the tortured cries of the wolves…
Reaching for the weapon again, he turned around, but the wolves had disappeared.
A shame.
After what seemed an eternity, the lights of the houses at the foot of the monastery appeared. The prior slapped his horse one more time, and finally, bathed in sweat, he reached the outer gate, which the gatekeeper opened with a respectful nod.
After Jeremias had dismounted, he reached down again to touch the cool weapon between his legs. He smiled and absent-mindedly crossed himself.
Perhaps he would be able to use the pistol again sometime soon.
15
ANDECHS, NOON ON SUNDAY, JUNE 20, 1666 AD
SHORTLY BEFORE THE noon bells, pilgrims gathered on the square in front of the church, though many had been there since dawn. Amid the tightly packed crowd were brightly colored flags showing the coats of arms of many cities and villages. Simon stood wedged among a few pale, exhausted city people from Munich and a crowd of pilgrims from Augsburg who kept reciting the Lord’s Prayer and Ave Maria endlessly in their Swabian dialect. By now, over a thousand pilgrims must have crowded into the little square, and below the monastery even more were pressing up the narrow road. The pilgrims kept looking up toward the bay window of the church where the Three Holy Hosts were to be displayed at noon.
Jakob Kuisl stood alongside Simon, yawning. As so often in the past, he’d spent half the night wandering through the forest, thinking, and hadn’t returned to the knacker’s house until the early morning hours. In his black coat, the hangman tried to seem as inconspicuous as possible amid all the worshippers—which, in view of his size, was a rather hopeless undertaking. Nevertheless, Simon had been unable to dissuade him from attending the “Weisung,” or display of the hosts. Later they planned to attend mass, then join the crowd of pilgrims and monks circling the church with the monstrance. Both men still hoped something would happen that day to help them in their search.
Simon rubbed his reddened eyes sleepily. He’d been summoned by Count Wartenberg in the early morning hours. Though he was convinced he was heading for his own execution, his fears had proven groundless. The Jesuit’s powder seemed to have worked. The boy’s fever had broken, and he was clearly on the road to recovery. When, once or twice, the count gave Simon a sidelong glance, the medicus feared his search of the study the day before had in fact not escaped notice. And when the count patted him on the shoulder, Simon had to be careful not to wince.
The Poisoned Pilgrim Page 33