The Dark Monk (29 page)

Johann Lechner cleared his voice before beginning to speak again. “It’s not the first time a band of robbers has attacked travelers on back roads,” he began. “The Augsburg merchant Leonhard Weyer was killed by robbers a few days ago the same way. I happened to be in Semer’s Tavern just the night before when he told me about his plan to take the old cow path to Füssen.”

Burgomaster Karl Semer, owner of the tavern on the market square, interrupted him. He was breathing heavily under a red velvet jacket, and his eyes bulged with emotion. “Oh, God, two of my drivers told me recently that they were taking a route different from the usual one, too,” he gasped. “At least one of them has been reported missing, and I haven’t heard a thing about the other yet…” He wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep gulp of port wine. Despite the bitter cold outside, a huge green tile stove made the town council chambers almost unbearably hot.

An anxious murmur came from the back of the room, where the members of the Outer Council and other ordinary residents sat. Almost all of them had sent a wagon with goods to other Bavarian cities in recent days and weeks. Those who could not go by river ferry depended on the Schongau wagon drivers, who had been in bitter competition with those from Augsburg for years. What would happen if other wagons were attacked?

“Just a moment!” said Jakob Schreevogl, raising his voice. “If I understand correctly, all these wagon drivers have decided to take an unfamiliar route. Nevertheless, they were attacked. That means either that highwaymen are roaming all the roads now, which I doubt, or…” He gazed out at the other members of the council. “Someone out there has been spying and giving specific directions to the robbers.”

“Who would that be?” Matthias Holzhofer interrupted. “My men have discussed it only with me.”

“And mine, too,” said Burgomaster Semer. “Nobody here knew this fellow Weyer from Augsburg. Who might he have spoken with?”

“Maybe it was the Augsburgers themselves who killed our people!” cried out the baker Michael Berchtholdt from the back of the room. “Our wagon drivers have always been a thorn in their side. If they had their way, they would be the only ones transporting goods from Venice and elsewhere.”

“Nonsense,” replied Jakob Schreevogl. “Weyer was himself an Augsburger. They aren’t going to kill their own people.”

Berchtholdt shrugged. “Perhaps he was a maverick. Who knows? Someone other Augsburgers had a score to settle with? Those damn Swabian punks!”

There was a murmur of approval in the room.

Johann Lechner tapped his signet ring against his wineglass again. “Quiet! We won’t get anywhere like this!” he shouted. “We can only hope that the two injured wagon drivers can give us information about the bandits. Perhaps that way we can learn who’s behind this.” Before proceeding, he examined the face of each member of the council. “It must be our common mission to put an end to this second gang of robbers as well. I suggest, therefore, sending the hangman out with a group of men again.”

“What? Put the hangman at the head of a group of honorable men again?” Burgomaster Semer shook his head in disbelief. “My son told me about the hunt. It’s outrageous that an executioner was put in charge of honorable citizens. Chasing and executing people is the job of hangmen, bailiffs, and court officers. If they hear of this in Munich or Landsberg, participants in this hunt will quickly lose their rights of citizenship.”

“They’ll lose their rights of citizenship when they ignore directions and slaughter a gang that includes women and children!” Jakob Schreevogl interrupted. “Your son and Berchtholdt’s have blood on their hands—more than the hangman in his entire life!”

“What an outrageous insinuation!” Berchtholdt shouted. “My son kept things from getting worse. Scheller and his bloodthirsty companions were about to kill us!”

“Silence, for God’s sake!” Johann Lechner shouted, louder than usual. Quiet quickly returned to the room. It was rare for the clerk to lose his composure, and after a few moments, he got a hold of himself again. He took a deep breath. “Arguing and brawling won’t get us anywhere,” he finally said. “I’ll send the hangman out again. He has shown that he understands what he’s doing. But this time, only the men who are actually suited for the job will go with him.” He cast a sideways glance at the burgomaster. “Your son and the son of the baker certainly are not; they’ve already demonstrated that. As far as the Scheller gang is concerned…” Lechner paused as if thinking it over. “Hans Scheller has already confessed. In my opinion, further torture is not necessary. With the agreement of the council, I can begin the trial as representative of the elector in the next few days. The execution will take place shortly after—the sooner the better—as an example to the other gangs.”

The aldermen nodded. As so often, the remarks of their clerk seemed sound and logical, and a general feeling of satisfaction reigned immediately after he spoke. “You’ll see,” Johann Lechner said, packing his goose quill and inkpot in his leather briefcase. “When Scheller is strung up on Gallows Hill, peace will return to the town. You have my word on that.”

9

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY
, a snowstorm swept over the entire Priests’ Corner, as if the good Lord wanted to bury all life under a white cover. People stayed inside their houses and cottages, and when they did peek outside, it was only to briefly mumble a short prayer and shut their doors against the rattling wind. Traffic on the river, as well as on the roads, came to a halt, and the blizzard took a number of wagon drivers by surprise, leaving them to die lonely deaths, struggling to free their horses from snowdrifts several yards deep. They were not found until days later, frozen stiff alongside their wagons, some torn to shreds by the wolves, their horses having run off in the vast expanse of white.

The blizzard hit Augsburg, too. Since the day after Magdalena’s arrival, she had not been able to leave the hangman’s house for even a minute. Of course, time was of no importance, since a leisurely stroll through town was out of the question, in any case. The apothecary was surely closed in such weather, and the next commercial convoy to Schongau would have to wait until the weather cleared. Magdalena knew that traveling on her own would be suicide.

Thus, during the day, she made friends with little Barbara, who quickly captured her heart. Sitting by the fire, Magdalena whittled a wooden doll for her, singing the same children’s songs she had for the twins at home. She could sense the girl needed a mother. Barbara stared at her with her big eyes, running her hands over Magdalena’s cheeks, and pleaded “Again!” whenever Magdalena got tired and stopped singing. Magdalena often thought about the fact that little Barbara was a hangman’s daughter just like herself, except she had no brothers or sisters and, above all, no mother. How often had she herself sat just like this long ago in the lap of her father? How often had her own mother sung her to sleep with the same children’s songs?

During this time, Philipp Hartmann was working in the room next door, tying together bundles of herbs, making new ropes, and distilling herbal brandy in dark flasks. The aroma of alcohol drifted through the room, almost intoxicating Magdalena. From time to time, the hangman dropped in and patted his daughter on the head or gave her and Magdalena a prune or a dried apple. He avoided touching or making any unseemly advances on Magdalena, but she could sense him staring at her back. When he did so, a chill came over her despite the warmth in the room. Philipp Hartmann was certainly a good man and a good father, and well-to-do, but she loved someone else.

But did she really still love Simon? After the whole business with Benedikta, she noticed how her feelings had cooled—whether out of anger or disappointment, she couldn’t say. It would take time for her heart to warm to him again.

The blizzard raged into the next day, not letting up until evening, so the stores remained closed. Not until the third morning after her arrival could she finally get out to the apothecary. Along the way, she passed the enormous Augustus Fountain, now draped in icicles a yard long, and looked up at the five-story city hall on her left. Magdalena shuddered. How could men make such huge buildings? Patricians wrapped in heavy fur coats streamed out of the portal, absorbed in deep conversation. The snow was still knee-high, but city watchmen were already shoveling narrow lanes through the town square and the surrounding streets. Homes and shops were coming to life. People had been confined for two days, and now they could go out shopping again. They bought fresh bread and meat or fetched pitchers of foaming brown beer from the innkeeper. Magdalena made her way through crowds of quarreling cooks, each trying to buy a rabbit or pheasant for his master, and a group of choirboys on their way to the Augsburg Cathedral.

Finally, she arrived. Straight ahead, between Maximilianstraße and the magnificent St. Moritz Church, was the Marienapotheke, the oldest apothecary in Augsburg. That morning, Philipp Hartmann had told Magdalena that the owner, Nepomuk Biermann, worked closely with him and had the best selection of herbs and other ingredients in town. Hartmann bought several ingredients there that he couldn’t prepare himself, and in return, Nepomuk Biermann ordered from the hangman human fat and leather to treat joint pain and tight muscles.

“Biermann is a strange fellow,” Philip Hartmann said, “but he really knows what he is doing and tries to treat you fairly. Be sure you get to see the herb room—it’s huge.”

Nepomuk Biermann’s place was a narrow four-story gabled building that could have used a new coat of paint. Situated among patrician homes, it looked a little like a neglected stepchild. Magdalena passed under a sign that displayed the name of the shop in flowing letters. Opening a narrow but solid door, she was immediately enveloped in a cloud of fragrances—dried herbs and exotic odors that reminded her of their own medicine chest at home. She closed her eyes and inhaled the strange aromas, many of them from another world of plants and spices far across the ocean, from ancient forests where lions and other monsters dwelled, or from distant islands inhabited by cannibals and mythical creatures with feet attached to their heads. There was an aroma of cinnamon, muscat, and black pepper.

When Magdalena closed the door behind her, a little bell rang. Shortly thereafter, a man appeared. Stooped over, he was small and mostly bald, except for a fringe of hair around the sides like a monk. From behind an eyepiece resting on his nose, he stared out at the hangman’s daughter with a disgruntled expression. Evidently, he’d been occupied with something more important than the menial work of waiting on customers.

“Yes?” he asked, looking her up and down as he would an annoying insect. “How can I help you?”

“I was sent by Philipp Hartmann,” Magdalena said. “I’m supposed to pick up a few herbs.”

At once, the man’s expression changed. His toothless mouth broadened into a smile. “Hartmann, huh? Did the Augsburg hangman manage to get a woman, after all?”

“I’m…just helping him at present,” Magdalena stammered, handing Nepomuk Biermann the list of ingredients. Gripping his eyepiece, the pharmacist studied the piece of parchment. “Aha, I see,” he mumbled. “Ergot and artemisia, also daphne, belladona, and thorn apple. What are you going to do with this—send the hangman off into the other world or ride away yourself on a broomstick?”

Magdalena struggled for words. “I…uh…We’re expecting a difficult birth,” she finally said. “The child won’t come and the mother’s in great pain.”

“Aha, I see, severe pain,” Nepomuk Biermann said, holding the glass up to his eye again. “But be careful you don’t give her too much of it all at the same time, or the good woman won’t suffer any pain at all. Ever again.” He grinned and winked his right eye, which peered out like that of a giant fish from behind the eyepiece. “You know,
dosis sola venenum facit—
it’s only the dose that makes the poison. Even old Paracelsus knew that. Did the hangman tell you about Paracelsus, eh?”

Magdalena nodded quickly, and the little man left it at that. Nepomuk Biermann walked toward a low doorway that led from the shop counter to the rear of the building. He motioned for her to follow. “Come along, girl, you can at least help me collect the herbs.”

Magdalena hurried after him. She found herself in a room cluttered with shelves and drawers. High wooden walls divided the room into sections and doubled as shelves. Nepomuk Biermann scurried like a dervish through the narrow corridors, carefully opening labeled drawers here and there. He checked the contents of each drawer against the list in his hand, spooning out a portion and weighing it on a scale that stood on a marble table in the center of the room.

“Ergot, artemisia…” he mumbled. “Just where do I have the damned daphne…? Ah, yes, here it is.”

Biermann couldn’t help but laugh as he watched Magdalena, standing wide-eyed in the midst of the six-foot-high shelves. “Well, you never saw anything like this before, eh?” With a sweeping gesture, he announced, “This is the largest collection of herbs from here all the way to Munich, you can take it from me. Probably not even the venerable Paracelsus had an apothecary shop like this.”

He had just opened another drawer when the little bell up front in the shop rang again. He stopped, annoyed. “Please excuse me,” the little hunchbacked man said to Magdalena, placing the bag of herbs he had already weighed in her hand and scurrying out of the room. “I’ll be right back.”

The hangman’s daughter stayed behind and looked around in wonderment at the fragrant labyrinth.

It was the voice that caught her attention, the demanding voice of a man who was clearly annoyed; he was talking with the pharmacist, and this was not a friendly conversation. Out of sheer curiosity, she walked over to the door leading to the shop up front and listened in.

“I need the same thing that I got once before from you,” the stranger growled.

“The…the same?” Nepomuk Biermann asked. “You know it’s hard to get, and actually, I’m not supposed to sell it. That…could cost me my business.”