The Dark Monk (10 page)

“You shouldn’t be traveling alone,” he remarked with concern. “A band of robbers is marauding about the countryside at present. A defenseless woman like yourself—”

“I am not as defenseless as I appear,” she interrupted him dryly. Then she pointed to his empty hands and changed the topic. “But you don’t have your bag with you today. Aren’t there any sick people to heal? What else brings you here? Have you come to pray?”

Simon couldn’t suppress a smile. “Unfortunately not. Although I do believe the priest wished I would come to church more often.” He hesitated before continuing. “No, it has to do with your brother.”

“My brother?” Benedikta looked at him with surprise.

Simon nodded, looking around to see if there were other parishioners praying in the church.

“It seems your brother discovered something down in the crypt of the Saint Lawrence Church,” he whispered finally. “Perhaps he was silenced for this reason.”

“But what are you looking for in Saint Michael’s Basilica?” she persisted.

“Well, I hope the priest here can tell me more about the Saint Lawrence Church. After all, it’s part of his parish.”

Benedikta nodded. “I understand,” she said. After hesitating a few moments, she continued. “Would you mind if I came along with you to see the priest? I’d like to learn more about my brother’s death.”

Simon shrugged. “Why not?” he said. “Come along. He’s probably just now preparing for mass.”

They came across the priest in the vestry, holding a dripping chalice to his mouth. Apparently he was sampling the wine to be used in the mass.

“The blood of Christ,” Simon murmured, loud enough so the priest could hear him. “What a blessing that the Savior left us such a delicious legacy.”

Pastor Elias Ziegler was startled but quickly pulled himself together. He turned toward the uninvited guests, noticeably angered. He was small and stocky, with a fleshy face and a crooked nose covered with spider veins. Indeed, it looked as though he often found it necessary to test the quality of the communion wine.

“As you surely know, the communion wine turns into the blood of Christ only after it has been consecrated,” he declared dryly. “In its present condition, it is only wine, though a relatively good one.” The priest wiped his mouth and put the chalice down on a silver tablet next to the hosts. Then he wiped his wet fingers on his cassock. His speech sounded a bit slurred. “I assume there is a reason why you have come to disturb me in my preparations for the mass. And with a woman, too, here in the vestry.”

“We’ll make it brief, Your Excellency,” Simon said. He introduced himself and Benedikta. When the priest heard the name
Koppmeyer,
his ears pricked up.

“Andreas Koppmeyer?” he asked. “The priest at Saint Lawrence Church? I have heard of his death. My condolences to his sister. Does anyone know yet what—”

“I would like you to arrange my brother’s funeral,” Benedikta interrupted. “Is that possible?”

“But…of course.” The priest, too, seemed impressed with her genteel, assured manner. As the head of the largest church in the region, he was accustomed to acting in a high-handed, arrogant manner. But this woman demanded respect. A single sentence from her sufficed to shrink him back to normal size.

“I’ll make all the necessary preparations,” he mumbled. “Don’t worry. When do you want the burial to be?”

They agreed it would be on the following Saturday. Finally, Simon asked the priest the question that got to the heart of his visit. “The Saint Lawrence Church…” he began. “Benedikta Koppmeyer, as sister of the deceased, would like to know more about the church he worked in for so many years. And about its past. Are there documents here in the basilica?”

Pastor Ziegler shook his head. “I’m sorry, there aren’t. The church doesn’t belong to Saint Michael’s parish. You would have to inquire in Steingaden.”

“Steingaden?” Simon asked with surprise.

The priest nodded. “The Saint Lawrence Church belongs to the Premonstratensian Diocese in Steingaden. So far as I know, the diocese purchased the church many years ago, and if the Swedes didn’t burn the relevant papers, then they would have to be there still.”

“And who did the church belong to before that?” Simon asked, trying to sound as innocent as possible. “The parish of Saint Michael?”

The priest laughed. “I shall have to disappoint you once again. We really never had anything to do with the Saint Lawrence Church. No, if the rumors are correct, the church formerly belonged to the Knights of the Teutonic Order, the Templars. But that was very long ago. Why are you so interested in that?”

“My brother always loved his church,” Benedikta said. Her smile could have melted the January ice outside. “I only wanted to know more about the place that had meant so much to him. Perhaps you’d learn something you could use for the funeral sermon.”

“Oh, of course.” Elias Ziegler nodded solicitously. “I’ll see what I can do. Does anyone yet know why—”

“Please excuse us now,” Benedikta mumbled. “I am still overwhelmed with grief and need to be left with my prayers.”

The priest nodded respectfully and watched as the two left the vestry and disappeared outside. Then he turned back to sampling the wine. It was too bad he had to use such good wine for the Eucharist, only to transform it into the blood of Christ.

“We must go to Steingaden,” Benedikta whispered as they hastened through the basilica. “Today, if possible.”

“Do you want me to come along?” Simon asked, uncertain what to make of this plan.

“Naturally. I want to know why my brother had to die. Is that so difficult to understand?”

“No, no. But today?” In the meantime, they had left the church and were standing in front by the portal. Snow blew in their faces. Simon pointed up. “It’s snowing again. It will be hard for us to make progress,” he said with concern.

“Well, I have a horse that will get me there safely and comfortably, even through knee-deep snow,” Benedikta said, then looked at him questioningly. “And you? As the town medicus, you must surely have a horse as well. You are the town physician, aren’t you?”

“Ah, sure, sure, but…”

“Well, then that’s that,” Benedikta said before running down the steps. “Let’s leave in two hours.”

Simon looked at her perplexed, then shrugged and followed her.

“Do you always make such rash decisions?” he asked when he caught up with her.

“I wouldn’t be a successful businessperson if I always weighed and debated everything,” she said. “I’ll leave that to the men when they get together for their night out at the pub.”

Simon grinned. “I hope I never have to do business with you. You would probably palm three barrels of overpriced wine off on me in a blink of an eye.” This was the first time Simon had heard her laugh, and he could feel how much he wanted to please this self-confident, worldly woman.

But now he needed a horse, and he had an idea where he could get hold of one.

Not far from St. Michael’s Basilica, Magdalena was standing on a street corner watching as the two walked down the little road on their way back to Schongau. Only a few minutes before, slightly tipsy, the hangman’s daughter had left the house of Balthasar Hemerle, and now she intended to pay a visit to the tavern keeper in Altenstadt to ask him about the strangers who were there the previous Sunday.

The sight of Simon together with the strange woman from the city hit her like a blow to the stomach. The two seemed to be having an animated conversation, and after a while Simon even placed his cloak over Benedikta’s shoulders. Magdalena thought she could hear soft laughter in the distance. And as much as she tried, she was unable to dispel her suspicions.

The alcohol in her body added to that feeling, overwhelming her with a grim wave of hatred, jealousy, and sadness. Furious, she pulled her bodice tighter and trudged off in the direction of the tavern. Her father had suggested she make eyes at the workmen. He could depend on her doing just that.

“You want
what?
” The hangman took his pipe out of his mouth and gave Simon a look of disbelief. Simon had found the hangman in the stable next to his house, cleaning out fresh, still-steaming manure. At the hangman’s side, the cow, Resl, watched the nervous young medicus with a dumb stare as he tried not to lose his balance while hopping through the clumps of manure and frozen puddles of urine on the ground. Simon was nervously clutching a felt hat with ostrich feathers and was wearing his best Sunday clothes—a wool coat he had hastily brushed off and, under it, petticoat breeches, a shirt with shiny cuffs, and a knee-length jacket of the finest French cloth. Now he was standing in front of the hangman, nervously repeating his question.

“Would it be possible for you to lend me your horse?” he mumbled. “Only until tomorrow.”

Jakob Kuisl looked at him, thinking it over. Then he broke out in laughter. “My old Walli? That dumb critter? She’ll eat your fine hat like celery and throw you before you even know what happened.” He shook his head, grinning.

Simon glanced nervously at the skinny mare sullenly chomping on some hay at the rear of the stable. It was quite possible that the hangman was correct.

“And just where do you intend to go, all dressed up like that? To Venice, to the carnival?” Kuisl asked, examining Simon’s clothing from top to bottom.

“I…I’m going to Steingaden, to the monastery. Maybe I’ll learn something more there about the hidden crypt in the Saint Lawrence Church.”

In halting words, he told the hangman of his visit to St. Michael’s Basilica and what he had learned there. When he was finished, he casually added, “Benedikta Koppmeyer will accompany me, by the way. She wants to learn more about the death of her brother.”

“Ah, I see.” Jakob Kuisl nodded. He spat into the manure, then picked up the rake and started spreading fresh straw in the stable. “That explains the fancy costume. Go ahead, then, and as far as I’m concerned, you can take Walli. I need her only to drive condemned people up the hill to the gallows. And there aren’t any hangings at the moment. But watch out. The beast is as stubborn as a mule—and mean!”

“I…know how to handle horses,” Simon reassured himself. Now, in any case, it was too late to bow out. Benedikta was waiting for him in front of the Stern and he was already late. It had taken him longer than expected to get dressed. Simon was proud of the wardrobe he managed to maintain despite his pathetic salary. Often, the daughters of rich patricians would slip him some money or give him some fine cloth. In spite of his small stature, he was considered a man of the world in Schongau, even though Magdalena kept telling him that it didn’t mean very much in a little Bavarian city.

“Well then, thank you very much!” he exclaimed, a bit too cheerily as he groped his way toward the back of the filthy stable, carefully trying not to soil his jacket.

Walli was waiting for him in her stall. The old, emaciated horse stared at him angrily, stoically chewing on some bits of straw. She appeared not to want to have anything to do with the two-legged creature in front of her. As Simon approached, the horse snorted briefly, reared up on her hind legs, and started drumming nervously against the wooden siding of her stall with her front hooves.

“The bridle is hanging in the corner,” the hangman mumbled, without looking up. “I hope you can manage by yourself. I have to leave. Lechner wants to talk with me about something. Orders from higher up.” He put the pitchfork away, brushed the dirt from his callused hands, and turned toward the door leading to the living room. “Probably one of the aldermen has complained to him again about my selling medications to people illegally. Damn fools!” Then he turned around again. “By the way, if Walli is bad and snaps at you, just pull her ears. Then she’ll calm down for sure.” Cursing under his breath, he stomped out of the stable and into the main room of the house.

Simon stared at the horse in front of him, and the horse stared back with little, evil eyes. The medicus gulped. Finally, he took the bridle from a hook and opened the door to the stall with soothing gestures and gentle words. Benedikta would just have to wait a bit.

Jakob was still cursing as he made his way up to town with clean hands and a fresh shirt. It always spelled trouble when he was summoned by the court clerk, Johann Lechner. Lechner was considered the big wheel and the secret man behind the scenes in Schongau. On the city council, four aldermen alternated as chair every quarter, but the court clerk was the official representative of the elector’s caretaker in town. And since the caretaker, Count Sandizell, rarely came to town—to say nothing of the elector himself—Lechner could rule like a king without a throne. He was actually only responsible for the elector’s interests but, through careful maneuvering, had always been able to meddle in the affairs of the town.

The hangman entered the town through the Lech Gate and turned right into the Hennengasse. Snowflakes were blowing in his face, making him squint. He stayed clear of the main streets, as he was not a welcome sight in town. The few people he passed in the driving snow looked away and made the sign of the cross, muttering. As executioner, Jakob Kuisl was not allowed to marry in the Christian church, would never receive a Christian burial, and his children would not be baptized. When he drank his beer in the dark taverns behind the Ballenhaus, he sat at a table by himself, ostracized. Nevertheless, people often came to him in secret to be treated for various ills or to obtain surefire magic amulets. Jakob Kuisl sighed. He had long ago given up trying to figure out human behavior.

Finally, the hangman stood before the ducal castle that directly bordered the western city wall. The building was in disrepair: One of the guard towers was missing a roof, and snow was falling directly onto the charred rafters. A bridge with rotting railings spanned a moat overgrown with weeds and led into the interior of the compound.

Just as Kuisl was about to cross the bridge, he heard a whinnying and hoofbeats. From the interior courtyard, a black steed emerged, heading right for the hangman at a fast gallop. The rider was dressed in a black habit and cowl that almost completely concealed his face. He seemed not to notice Jakob Kuisl and continued galloping directly toward him so that he could avoid a collision only by jumping aside at the last moment. A corner of the rider’s coat brushed Kuisl’s face, and just as the hangman’s nose detected the fragrance of an expensive, exotic perfume, the figure disappeared around the next corner. The hangman cursed the unknown rider, then continued the few steps across the bridge to enter the building.