The Dark Monk

11

ADAY PASSED and Clara’s condition didn’t change. The next morning she was feverish and coughing. Simon made her a drink of linden blossoms and rosemary mixed with the last honey he could find at home. Once more he cursed himself for not buying more of the Jesuit’s powder the summer before. The Muslim merchant had demanded a high price, however, higher than a mere Schongau medicus could afford to buy in large quantities.

Simon paid Clara Schreevogl a visit both that morning and again in the afternoon, listening to her chest and speaking words of encouragement to the semiconscious child. He didn’t once see Benedikta during this time, and he knew he was secretly trying to avoid her. The last time they were together, something had changed between them; her derogatory remarks about Magdalena had probably angered him most.

Magdalena is a little girl who probably doesn’t know a word of Latin…

It was at that moment that he felt how much he missed Magdalena. What he once thought of as Magdalena’s weaknesses-her quick temper, lack of education, her practicality, and shrewdness, things that were so far removed from Benedikta’s French etiquette and finesse-all that now made Magdalena seem beyond compare, unique.

Once again Simon’s thoughts were interrupted, as they were so often, by Clara’s long, rattling coughing fits. The girl’s chest rose and fell, and she spit up hard green mucus. Simon was glad to see that the phlegm was not red. Red phlegm, he knew, meant certain death in most cases.

As he sat holding Clara’s hand, waiting for the next coughing fit, he wondered why he was so concerned about this one child when people were dying in their beds in Schongau almost every day. But with Clara it was different. A paternal love, nurtured in their adventures almost a year ago, bound him to this girl. He had freed this child from the hands of the devil, and he had saved her once before from a terrible fever. Could he sit by idly now as she died before his eyes? A few times she awoke, smiled at him, mumbled something unintelligible in her sleep, then drifted off again. Simon changed the cheese compress on her feet, wiped the sweat from her brow, and took turns with the Schreevogls in sitting at her bedside. All the while, Maria Schreevogl never stopped running rosary beads between her fingers and praying.

Ave Maria, the Lord be with you…

On the second day, Clara’s condition seemed to improve. Simon knew from experience that the sickness entered its critical stage on about the second day. The fact that the fever was receding was a good sign.

It was Jakob Schreevogl who finally urged him to take a break.

“I don’t think there’s anything more you can do, Simon,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed with the physician. “My wife and I thank you for your concern, but you should leave for Rottenbuch as you had planned.” He stood up and stretched. “But take the hangman along. According to everything you’ve told me, you’re not alone out there.”

Simon shook his head. “You forget that Scheller has his big day tomorrow. Kuisl has to break him on the wheel, and we certainly wouldn’t be back in time for the execution.” He stood up stiffly and looked out the window at a light snow that had been drifting down since early that morning, once again covering the city in a white, whirling shroud. “I’d actually be happy if I didn’t have to be in Schongau on a day like tomorrow,” he said. “We can only hope for bad weather. At least that would spoil Lechner’s plans and his party would have to be canceled.”

Jakob Schreevogl, too, was now looking out the window at the falling snow. “I want you to know that I spoke out in the city council meeting against breaking the prisoner on the wheel. It’s…bestial, a throwback to a time I thought we had outgrown. But the war turned us into beasts again.” He sighed. “As an alderman, I must unfortunately attend the execution. Perhaps I’m one of the few who takes no joy in the spectacle.”

He motioned for Simon to accompany him out of the room, where Maria Schreevogl was still kneeling in prayer. As they descended the stairs, the alderman put his hand on Simon’s shoulder again.

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me and about these words the men were whispering in the crypt-Deus lo vult. I’ve been wondering for a long time where I heard this expression.”

“And?” Simon asked.

“Last night it came to me. It’s the cry the Crusaders made as they rode off into battle against the unbelievers-God wills it. This is how they attempt to excuse all the massacres of the Arabs. God wills it…”

Simon shook his head. “The old Crusaders’ battle cry on the lips of murderers and bandits. Just who are these lunatics we’re trying to track down?” He hesitated. “Do you know the bishop of Augsburg?” he finally asked.

“The bishop of Augsburg?” The alderman frowned. “Well, I’ve seen him once or twice in the Imperial City at large receptions-a young, ambitious man, people say. He’s said to be very literal in his understanding of the Bible, very pious.” Schreevogl smiled wanly. “The pope certainly has his reasons for sending one of his strictest shepherds to Augsburg, this den of iniquity, full of Protestants. But why do you ask?”

Simon shrugged. “Nothing in particular…a suspicion, that’s all. No doubt complete nonsense.”

Jakob Schreevogl shook his hand firmly. “In any case, keep alert. And there’s something else…”

“Yes?”

“This Friedrich Wildgraf. I’ve seen his name somewhere before.” The patrician bit his lip. “If only I knew where!”

Simon nodded. “I feel the same way. It’s like a ghost that keeps coming back to haunt me, but when I try to grab hold of it, it slips away and dissolves into thin air. I think it has something to do with that little book about the Templars you gave me. Could you spare it for two more days?”

“Certainly,” Schreevogl replied. “All I really want is for my Clara to get well again.” They’d reached the front door now, and snowflakes were blowing over the doorsill into the house.

“I wish you much luck. Godspeed!” Jakob Schreevogl looked Simon firmly in the eye again, then closed the door.

The medicus turned to leave. And then he stopped short.

Benedikta was standing down below on the street. She had loaded her things onto her horse and bridled it, and she was waving good-bye.

Magdalena stared up at the benevolent Jesus on the ceiling, knowing he wouldn’t be able to help her, either. Time slowed to a drag. She had been locked in this chapel for three days-three days of waiting, cursing, and sometimes crying. At first she thought of nothing except how to escape, but the only window, no more than a hand’s breadth across and made of some sort of translucent stone, was located about fifteen feet above the altar.

Her cries for help had echoed from the walls of the chapel unanswered. The door was massive and furnished with a lock, an additional bolt, and a peephole at eye level that her jailer, the monk, used regularly to keep an eye on her.

Brother Jakobus was, in fact, the only person she’d been able to talk to during these three days. He brought her food and drink, provided her with blankets, and once a day took away the bucket she had to use to relieve herself under the watchful eyes of all the archangels and evangelists. Before entering the chapel, Brother Jakobus would open the peephole. Magdalena then had to sit on one of the prayer stools visible from the peephole, and only then would he push back the bolt and enter. This was intended to keep her from attacking him when he entered the chapel, and indeed, she soon gave up on the idea. The monk might have been haggard, but he was also very hardy and muscular and, besides that, always carried a dagger at his side, which Magdalena assumed to be poisoned.

At first she refused to say more than just a few words to him, even though Brother Jakobus tried several times to engage her in conversation. With time, however, she became more and more bored in the drafty chapel. By now she knew the ceiling frescos like the back of her hand, as well as how many paces it was from the altar to the door and from the shrine of the Virgin to the altar. The only book here was a dog-eared prayer and hymn book whose Catholic hymns she had practically memorized by now.

On the second day, she started paying more attention to the monk’s diatribes-for the most part, endless, bigoted lectures full of quotes from the Bible. Brother Jakobus approached her with a mix of contempt, hatred, and even…adoration, something that increasingly confused her. Often, he passed his hands through her hair, only to break away a moment later and start pacing furiously among the pews again. More than once, she was afraid he would cut her throat in a sudden fit of madness.

“It was you women who brought evil into the world!” he lectured, waving his finger in the air. “You ate the apple, and since then, we have been living in sin!”

Magdalena couldn’t resist an answer: “Aha, and Adam just stood there and watched?” A moment later, she regretted speaking up.

Brother Jakobus walked over to her and seized her head like a ripe pumpkin he wanted to crush between his hands. “She talked him into it, do you understand?” he mumbled. “Adam had a moment of weakness, but God does not tolerate weakness, not a moment. He punished us all-all of us!”

Once more, she could smell his sweet perfume, but now, for the first time, Magdalena detected another scent behind the fragrance of violets-a vile, overpowering breath. The monk’s whole body stank like rotting flesh; his mouth smelled like a sewer, and his crooked black stubs of teeth jutted out from foul, festering gums. The white tunic he wore under his black hooded cowl was stained with wet spots, which she came to realize were caused by festering ulcers. Magdalena could see that his tonsure was not shaved by hand but, in fact, that his hair on top had fallen out.

Brother Jakobus seemed to be rotting from the inside out.

The hangman’s daughter remembered she’d seen these symptoms before in a Genoese merchant who had come to see her father some years ago. The man had staggered into the hangman’s house, evidently in great pain. Most of his hair had fallen off, like balls of wool flying from a spindle, and he was twitching oddly. Her father had spoken of a French disease and sent the merchant off with a phial of mercury and a drink of opium poppies to relieve the pain. When Magdalena asked her father whether the man could be cured, he’d shaken his head. “He’s been sick for too long,” he had said. “If he’s lucky, he’ll die before he’s completely in the grip of madness.”

Was Brother Jakobus in the grip of madness, too? Magdalena wondered what the monk intended to do with her.

At times, he’d gently stroke her head, almost lovingly passing his hand through her hair. Then his mind seemed far off, on some distant voyage. On one such occasion, Brother Jakobus had poured out his heart to her.

“When I was still young, I was in love with a girl like you,” he whispered. “A…whore…And her name was Magdalena. She brought ruin upon herself-and me. I was lecherous, a drunken fool stumbling through Augsburg in search of gratification. But then God sent me a sign. He punished me with this disease, and I collapsed in front of the Dominican Church of Saint Magdalene!” He giggled softly. “St. Magdalene-what a divine irony!” His giggle gave way to a loud coughing fit, and it was a long time before he could continue speaking. “Since then, I have devoted my life completely to the service of the Order. And now God has given me the chance to make up for my past. Magdalena…” Lost in thought, he stroked her cheeks. “My Magdalena is dead, but you can be healed. I will drive the demons out of you like the smoke and stench from a stifling farmhouse parlor.”

While he read verses from the Bible, Magdalena closed her eyes, thinking frantically about how she might escape.

The situation looked pretty bleak at first. The door was impregnable and the window too small. She had no idea how many guards were here assisting Brother Jakobus. Besides, she was unarmed. She estimated she’d been in the coffin for two days. At their last stop, the men had been speaking a Swabian dialect. Was she already beyond the Bavarian border or perhaps still somewhere in Augsburg? Had she been taken away on a ship? All she knew was that she had to be near a large church. At regular intervals, she could hear big, heavy bells tolling-the kind only large congregations could afford.

For the hundredth time, she cursed her stupidity. Why didn’t she tell anyone before she went down into the concealed vault under the cathedral? Capturing her had been an incredible stroke of luck for Jakobus and his accomplices. Clearly, she, along with her father and Simon, had been on the trail of a huge conspiracy with the Augsburg bishop at its head! With the hangman’s daughter as their hostage, the conspirators could now be assured the mysterious Templars’ treasure would not fall into the wrong hands. Magdalena was certain her father and Simon would do everything in their power to free her.

Simon…

She felt a tickle in her lower body just thinking of him. If they were together, they would certainly have figured out how to escape this prison. What she liked most about the physician was how clever he was. Simon was sly, funny, eager to learn things, and well, perhaps just a little bit too short.

Magdalena smiled, thinking of all the things they had been through together. As far as shrewdness was concerned, Simon was even a match for her father, and that said a lot. The medicus had solved the riddle in the crypt under the St. Lawrence Church on his own. But then along came that accursed Benedikta who put herself between them-that elegant, blaséwoman from Landsberg! Even down here in her prison, the thought of Simon and Benedikta together made Magdalena flush with anger. Just let her get her hands on that woman!

Then it occurred to her that she had other problems at the moment.

To get her mind off these things, she thought back again on a conversation she’d had the day before with Brother Jakobus about the treasure. She’d asked the monk several times what the treasure was and if it really was something left behind by the Templars, but he avoided answering all her questions.

“It’s a treasure that will determine the future of Christianity,” he said, looking up to the Savior on the ceiling. “With it, we will finally destroy the armies of the Lutheran heretics! As soon as our master tells the Pope about it, the Pope will join forces with us in a holy war to drive the Protestant princes out of the German Empire. The master knows that the Great War is not yet over!”

“Who is your master?” Magdalena interrupted. “The bishop of Augsburg?”

Brother Jakobus smiled. “Our numbers are legion.”

The nights were cold and damp. Even under the wool blankets and in the warm glow of the candles the monk brought each night, she froze. Her arms and legs were stiff and tingled from lack of movement. The only indication it was day or night was the narrow beam of light that came through the little shuttered window. She was in despair.

Then, on the third day, something happened.

It was around noon. She had gotten up from the cold stone floor and was dozing on one of the pews when, half asleep, she rolled off the narrow bench onto the floor again. Sitting there, with blankets around her shoulders, cursing, she noticed a small bundle hidden under a pew. She hesitated for a moment, then quickly picked it up.

It was the little bag of herbs she’d been carrying around with her for the last four or five days since her visit to the apothecary in Augsburg. It must have fallen off her waistband and wound up under the bench. She’d completely forgotten it.

Carefully, she untied the string and looked inside. There was a sharp aroma of herbs. Everything she’d hastily stuffed into the bag at Nepomuk Biermann’s apothecary was still there-a little crumbled, perhaps, but still useable.

Magdalena rubbed the dried herbs between her fingers, thinking.

And in her mind a plan began to take shape.

From the top of the stairs leading to Schreevogl’s front door, Simon looked down at Benedikta, who stood at the foot of the stairs in full riding costume. Her horse was saddled, and she was holding the reins in her hand. The sorrel pranced around nervously, and the saddlebags on both sides were filled to the brim.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Benedikta said, patting her horse to calm it down. “I was told I might find you here. I’d like to say good-bye.”

“You’re leaving?” asked Simon, his mouth falling open.

The merchant woman swung up into the saddle. “After our last meeting, I had the feeling it would be best for me to go. And to be honest, I don’t really put much faith in all this talk about treasures and murderers. It won’t bring my brother back, so I wish you farewell!”

“Benedikta, wait!” Simon hurried down the stairway. “I didn’t really mean what I said two days ago in the tavern. I was no doubt too harsh. It’s just that…” He hesitated and eyed the refined lady from Landsberg again. With her fur coat, billowing skirt, and cape, she looked so different from all the Schongau women who were always chasing after him. She was a visitor from another world who would leave him now-alone in this filthy little provincial dump.

“What’s the matter, physician?” She looked at him, waiting.

“I’m sorry, I was a fool. I…I would be really happy if you could stay and help with the rest of my search.” The words simply tumbled out before he’d had a chance to think them through. “It’s very possible that I’ll urgently need your self-confident, refined demeanor once again! The superintendent in Rottenbuch probably won’t want anything to do with a little field surgeon, but with you…”

“Rottenbuch?” Benedikta asked with curiosity. “The riddle points to Rottenbuch?”

Simon sighed. Without noticing, he’d already made a decision. “Let’s go to one of the quiet side rooms at Semer’s Tavern,” he said. “I’ll explain everything else to you there. We need to set out today.”

Benedikta smiled and looked down at the medicus, who kept shifting around, trying to get out of the way of her nervous horse.

“All right,” she said finally. “I’ll stay. But this time, let’s rent an obedient fast horse for you here at the post house. Do you think we might have to flee from robbers again?”

The monastery of Rottenbuch was only ten miles from Schongau, a journey of less than two hours.

Benedikta rode so fast and gracefully that Simon had trouble keeping up and not falling off his horse. As they raced past snow-covered trees, Simon often had to squint or close his eyes briefly in the light flurries and let the horse take its own pace-it seemed to know better than he where they were headed.

They had rented a young gray for a few silver coins in the post station at Semer’s Tavern. Benedikta had paid, and Simon was embarrassed when she took out her purse and handed the coins to the postmaster. The medicus couldn’t help grinning. This woman wouldn’t let herself be bossed around by a man, and she didn’t demand any favors, either. In these matters, Simon thought, she was just like Magdalena. Perhaps they weren’t so different, after all, and perhaps under different circumstances, Magdalena could have become another Benedikta.

They arrived at their destination in less than two hours, leaving the forest and entering a snow-covered landscape dotted with houses, churches, walls, and archways. For a mile around, men had wrested open land from the surrounding wilderness, and at its center was the Rottenbuch Monastery. On a road entering the cleared land from the opposite side, Simon could see a group of silent monks giving alms to a wailing beggar. A farmer was pulling a calf on a rope across the paved main street of the town. Ladders and scaffolding lay against many of the as-of-yet unplastered buildings while workers rushed around with buckets, shovels, and trowels. Just as in Steingaden, people were obviously busy here removing the rubble of war and building a new, larger, and even more beautiful monastery.

Simon and Benedikta rode through a gate toward the wide square in front of the Augustinian Canon Monastery. A huge clock tower rose up in front of them. On their left was the church and, next to it, the monastery, which in contrast to the other buildings was already resplendent in a fresh coat of stucco. After they’d found a place to stay and a stable for the horses, they went in search of the superintendent.

Putting on a serious face, Simon addressed one of the monks entering the church. “Brother, may I have a word with you? We are looking for the venerable leader of this wonderful monastery. Could you direct us to him?”

“Do you mean our Right Reverend Brother, Superintendent Michael Piscator? You are in luck.”

The monk pointed to a somewhat stout elderly man dressed in the typical white alb of the Augustinian canons. Standing nearby among some laborers, he seemed to be giving directions to the construction foreman. “You can see him engaged in his favorite pastime,” the canon said, winking. “Building churches, for him, is the highest form of worship.” With a grin, he disappeared through the portal to the monastery.

Simon couldn’t help but think of the Steingaden abbot, Augustin Bonenmayr, who had devoted himself, just like the superintendent in Rottenbuch, to the construction of his monastery. Simon was certain that if the church authorities continued in this way, the most beautiful monasteries in Bavaria would soon be standing in the Priests’ Corner.

“Your Excellency?” Benedikta walked toward the group and curtsied to the superintendent.

Like so many monks, Brother Michael had a weakness for the fair sex. He paused, then made a slight bow and offered Benedikta his hand, which was adorned with the signet ring of the monastery. “I’m honored, beautiful lady. How can I help you?”

The workmen and architects packed up their plans, disappointed, while Benedikta kissed his signet ring. Simon rushed to her side, doffed his hat, and went through the same routine that had been so successful in Wessobrunn.

“Allow me to introduce the lady. Before you stands none other than Madame de Bouillon, royal dressmaker to the mistress of the French king,” the physician declared. “She has made the long trip from Paris in order to view the famous relics of Saints Primus and Felicianus here in Rottenbuch.” Simon lowered his voice to a whisper as he leaned toward the superintendent. “She made a vow not to share her bed again with her husband until she’d kissed the bones of the martyrs.”

Benedikta glanced at Simon in astonishment, but Simon maintained a serious face.

“The poor man,” Brother Michael sighed. “What a waste! But may I ask how the lady came to choose these two particular saints for her long pilgrimage?”

“She gave her newborn twins the names Primus and Felicianus,” Simon continued in a firm voice. “But they’ve fallen seriously ill, and now she hopes through her pilgrimage to be heard by our beloved Virgin Mary.”

“Get a hold of yourself, damn it!” Benedikta whispered in his ear. “You’re really going too far. Nobody will believe that stuff!”

But the superintendent nodded sympathetically. “What a misfortune! I’ll guide you to the relics personally! Follow me.”

Simon cast a surreptitious glance at Benedikta and grinned. Then they followed Brother Michael’s clipped steps to the church. Huffing and puffing, he pointed toward the scaffolding, where workmen were replacing old, broken church windows with stained glass.

“In a few years this monastery will be a jewel in Bavaria, believe me!” the superintendent said. “An incomparable pilgrimage site! We will house not just the relics of Saint Primus and Saint Felicianus here, but two teeth of Saint Binosa, some hair from the Virgin Mary, a knuckle belonging to Saint Blasius, the skull of Saint Lawrence, and the collarbone of Saint Brigida…to name only a few of the most important.”

He opened the church door, and Simon cast his eyes on a splendor that had to look like heaven on earth to the simple people in the area. Bright paintings of angels and saints on the ceiling gave the impression of infinite heights, marble slabs memorialized the former superintendents of Rottenbuch, and a huge organ with pipes as big as a man was enthroned over the portal. On the east wall opposite them, an altar at least twenty feet high depicted the Ascension of Mary, flanked by the apostles Peter and Paul. At the sides, two skeletons stood upright in glass coffins, each with a sword in hand and a laurel wreath on its bare skull.

“Saints Primus and Felicianus…” Brother Michael whispered, pointing at the skeletons. “Aren’t they beautiful? We placed them there during the dedication ceremonies for our new altar at this site. They look down on us protectively and benevolently.” He turned away. “But now I shall leave you alone with the relics.”

“Ah, excuse me,” Simon whispered, “but Madame de Bouillon promised she would kiss the bones of the saint.”

“Kiss?” The superintendent looked at Simon, bewildered.

“Ah, oui,” Benedikta interjected with her best French accent. “I must…how do we say it…embrasser…kiss the sacred bones with my lips. Only in that way can the vow be honored.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry, madame, but that’s not possible.” The superintendent pointed up at the high altar. “As you can see yourself, the bones are up there, beyond our reach. Moreover, the coffins are sealed. Send a kiss with your hand, and I’m sure God will understand.”

“Mais non!” Benedikta exclaimed. “I must kiss them. Mes enfants…my children…” She raised her hands to her neckline. “Otherwise, they will never regain their health!”

But Brother Michael couldn’t be moved. “Believe me, it’s impossible. But I’ll include your children in my prayers of intercession at evening mass. Tell me their names, and I-”

“My dearest Brother Michael! The workmen told me I would find you here. What splendid windows you have installed here!”

The voice came from the church portal. When Simon turned around, his heart almost stopped. Approaching them with hasty steps, arms outraised in greeting, was none other than Augustin Bonenmayr, the abbot of Steingaden.

Now Michael Piscator also recognized his colleague from the Premonstratensian monastery. “Your Excellency, to what do I owe this honor?”

Bonenmayr gave the Rottenbuch superintendent a hearty handshake.

“I have some errands to run in Schongau and Peißenberg. The new chapel in the pasture near Aich is in dreadful condition! And whose job is it to care for it?” He sighed. “I thought that, on my way there, I might stop for a rest here. There’s so much to discuss concerning the renovation of our monasteries. You must tell me the name of your glazier. Is he from Venice? Florence?”

Brother Michael smiled. “You’ll never guess. Promise me you’ll stay the night, and then perhaps I’ll tell you the name of this artist.”

“If you insist…” Only now did the Steingaden abbot notice Simon and Benedikta, who were trying to slip away unnoticed behind the columns. “What a coincidence! The young widow from Landsberg!” he called to them. “And Simon Fronwieser! Well, have you made any progress in your investigations of the murder? Or are you applying for a position as physician here in Rottenbuch as well?”

Michael glanced from Bonenmayr to Benedikta and Simon, who came to a sudden stop between two columns as if they had been hit by a bolt of lightning. “Landsberg? Murder?” the superintendent asked, perplexed.

“Thank you. We…we…have figured everything out,” Simon stuttered. “But we don’t wish to disturb you gentlemen any further. Your Excellencies certainly have things to discuss.” He pulled Benedikta along with him, leaving the two gentlemen alone in the church.

Outside, in the church courtyard, Simon began to curse so loudly that some monks turned around to look. “Damn! What bad luck! The Steingaden abbot will certainly tell Brother Michael who we really are, and then this whole masquerade is over!”

“A masquerade that began with you!” Benedikta snapped.

“Oh, come now, what should we have said in Wessobrunn, and now here in Rottenbuch-‘Good day, we’re looking for the treasure of the Templars? Can we desecrate some of your holy relics?’ ” Simon talked himself into a rage. More and more monks turned around to stare and whisper.

Benedikta finally softened a bit. “In any case, the superintendent won’t let us open the coffins, and we can forget getting any help from him.”

“So much the worse,” Simon grumbled. “Then we’ll never learn whether a message is concealed in the relics. What now?”

Benedikta looked up at the church’s window frames, where workmen were just beginning to insert the new stained glass. The men were standing on a rickety scaffold, carefully raising the colorful windows on a pulley. Simon was certain that each window was worth a fortune.

“If the superintendent doesn’t open these coffins for us, we’ll just have to do it ourselves,” Benedikta said. “Primus and Felicianus could certainly use a little fresh air.”

“And just how do you intend to do that?”

Benedikta pointed again at the open windows. “We’ll pay a visit to the two dusty old gents tonight,” she said. “The glaziers certainly won’t finish their work today, and I can’t imagine that the church is guarded overnight. No doubt, the superintendent thinks that lightning will strike any grave robber and send him running.”

“How are you so sure that lightning won’t strike us?” Simon whispered. “Stealing religious relics is a sin that…” But Benedikta had already charged off.

Neither of them noticed the two figures hiding among the other monks. Like long shadows, they slipped away from the group and went back to following Simon and Benedikta’s trail.

In his cell in the Schongau dungeon, the robber chief Scheller was turning the poison pill in his fingers, looking out at the snow falling in front of his barred window. Behind him, many of his companions were dozing in expectation of their imminent deaths. The women whimpered and fathers said their farewells to their children in whispered voices, telling them about a paradise that was also open to robbers and whores where they would all see one another again. They spoke of a better life in another world and made the sick ten-year-old boy swear to God and to the Virgin Mary that he would lead a respectable life. They had robbed and killed, but now most of them had become penitent sinners. Some of them prayed. The next morning, the local priest would come and take their last confessions.

Hans Scheller stared at the little pill and thought back on his life so far. How had it come to this? He’d been a carpenter in Schwabmünchen with a wife and child. As a young boy, he’d witnessed the execution of the notorious murderer Benedikt Lanzl, who had screamed for two whole days while being beaten by the hangman. Tied to a wheel, the highway robber and arsonist had become the focal point of a spectacle unlike anything little Hans had ever seen before. At night, he could still hear Benedict Lanzl’s scream in his sleep.

Sometimes Hans Scheller could even hear it today.

Never did he dream that one day he, too, would stand up there on the wooden platform. But God’s ways were inscrutable.

Hans Scheller sighed, closed his eyes, and gave himself up to the memories that came flooding back. A laughing boy, his face smeared with porridge…his wife bent over the washtub…a field of barley in the summer, a good glass of beer…the smell of freshly cut spruce…

There was much that was wonderful about the world, and he could leave it behind without regrets. But he still owed the hangman something.

The night before, something occurred to him, a small matter he’d overlooked until then. But now, after everything Jakob Kuisl had told him, it suddenly seemed important.

He would tell the hangman the next day at the gallows.

Hans Scheller leaned against the ice-cold wall of the cell, fingering the pill, and whistled an old nursery tune. He was almost home.

He was called Brother Nathanael. This was the name the order had given him long ago-he’d long forgotten his real name. Where he came from, the sun burned brightly with a shimmering, unending heat, and thus the snow drifting down now in soft flakes seemed, to him, like a personal messenger from hell.

He was freezing under his thin tunic and black-hooded coat, clenching his teeth but not complaining. His former master had trained him to be tough. He was a guard dog of the Lord, and his command was to follow the woman and the man. And if they found the treasure, he was to kill them quickly and silently, retrieve the treasure, and report back to the brotherhood. That was his assignment.

Trembling with cold, he played with the dagger in his hand and pressed his back against the frost-covered wall of the monastery. Snowflakes melted as they fell on his brown, scarred face. He was from Castille, near the magnificent city of Salamanca, and his task at the moment seemed to him like a test from God. The Lord himself had sent him to this inhospitable, remote region and, as an additional punishment, had sent him Brother Avenarius.

The short, plump Swabian standing next to him and mumbling his prayers had been personally assigned to him and Brother Jakobus in Augsburg by the master. Brother Avenarius was second to none in his knowledge of the written word-he knew all about the treasure and was an expert in solving riddles-but as a comrade-in-arms, he was about as useful as an old woman. Once again, he started whining.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Why can’t we go back to our quarters?” His thick Swabian accent sometimes drove Brother Nathanael crazy. “Who can say whether the two will really try to break into the church tonight?” the Swabian lamented. “And even if they do, we can catch up with them again in the morning! So what are we doing here?”

Nathanael ran the dagger along his fingers-from his index finger, to his middle finger, to his ring finger, and back, a little nervous routine he could repeat for hours. It calmed his mind.

“I keep telling you we can’t let him out of our sight! The matter is too important. Besides, if you’d only solved the riddle before they did, we’d be back in Augsburg by now!”

Brother Avenarius looked to the ground with embarrassment. “I’ll admit I underestimated the physician,” he grumbled. “Who would have suspected that the words primus and felicianus referred to the two saints? At least I figured out before he did that the inscription referred to the Wessobrunn Prayer.”

“And how was that of any help?” Nathanael was running the dagger through his fingers faster and faster. “We searched the entire damned monastery for the book, and it was in the bell tower!”

“But I had no way of knowing that,” Brother Avenarius whined.

Brother Nathanael let loose with a curse to heaven and went back to playing with his dagger. Things had not gone as planned. Everything had looked so simple at first. It was just two weeks ago that the local master had summoned him and Jakobus, telling them that the greatest treasure in all of Christendom had been found, not in some far-distant place, but right nearby. It was a sign from God; he was one of the chosen!

Never would he have dared to hope God would choose him for this task! Cast into this world as a filthy little orphan, Nathanael had found a home among the Dominicans in Salamanca, where his special abilities were soon recognized. He was intelligent and well read, but he’d also retained much of the toughness and smarts he’d picked up from his days on the street-qualities the other monks lacked. Soon the Brotherhood had come to him. They had often recruited soldiers from the Dominicans, and they needed people like him. Nathanael was something special-a monk and warrior, like the Templars who had once been the greatest enemies of the Brotherhood. There were many unbelievers to battle in the Spanish provinces, and the church needed people now and then to do its dirty work. That was Nathanael’s specialty.

A few years back, he’d been called to Augsburg, where the German Brotherhood had its headquarters. Much of the German Empire had fallen into the hands of the Lutherans, and many church treasures and relics were threatened by looting and desecration. Altars and shrines had been melted down, statues smashed, and in Konstanz, mobs of heretics had even cast the bones of St. Konrad and St. Pelagius into the Rhine! It was Brother Nathanael’s job in the Brotherhood to return these threatened treasures to the bosom of the Holy Roman Church, a job that occasionally demanded not just his intuition, but his dagger.

A few years ago, he had met Brother Jakobus, the right-hand man of the master of the German provinces, in Augsburg. Jakobus was a vain but extremely devout man who, like himself, made no compromises and knew only one goal: the defense of the true faith. Together they’d been able to save many of the church’s sacred objects from destruction-relics, pictures of saints, statues of Mary…

But never did Nathanael think that, after all these years of praying and waiting, they’d be the ones chosen to retrieve the greatest treasure in all of Christendom, a treasure the Templars had seized almost five hundred years ago, one believed to be forever lost. And then this damned hangman and his daughter got in the way, along with that smart-ass physician! Ever since then, everything had been going to hell.

Brother Avenarius was standing quietly beside him, mumbling his prayers and clutching a chain on his neck that held the cross with the double beams, the symbol of the Brotherhood. The tubby Swabian seemed to have resigned himself to standing a few more hours in the driving snow. With closed eyes, he recited the prayer for self-control from Holy Scripture.

“Who shall set a watch before my mouth, and a seal of wisdom upon my lips? Who will set scourges over my thoughts, and the discipline of wisdom over my heart?”

Nathanael sighed. At first, it seemed quite suitable for the Swabian monk to have been assigned to them. According to everything the master had learned from the letter of the pious Altenstadt priest, the Templars hadn’t made it easy for them. Friedrich Wildgraf’s heretical order was known for its secret codes and riddles, and Brother Avenarius was considered an excellent authority on the Bible, a bookworm who could put his finger on even the most obscure quotation and knew more about the history of the relics than anyone else. But up till now, he hadn’t been of much help to the group, and after the completion of this assignment, Nathanael would speak to the master and recommend his removal.

But for now, he needed him.

Especially now that Brother Jakobus had headed back to Augsburg to report to the master and obtain some new poison. Again, Nathanael wondered why his brother monk had been so quick to set out on the long trip back. Did it, perhaps, have something to do with the festering rashes that had been tormenting him for weeks? Jakobus had changed a lot recently. These sudden, furious outbursts, these muffled cries of pain in the night, his hair falling out…It was sad when a once-brave companion let himself go. In the end, one was always alone.

Nathanael looked around in all directions. Had he heard something? For days he’d had the vague feeling they were being observed. But by whom? Was someone else interested in the treasure, someone they didn’t even know about yet?

A short but unmistakable cry pulled him out of his thoughts. Two stooped figures approached the church. Snow lay ankle-deep over the church courtyard, muffling the sounds of their footsteps, but not the angry words of one of them. Nathanael grinned. This brash medicus would never learn to keep quiet.

So much the better.

The physician and his woman had approached the right-hand side of the church and were standing underneath the scaffolding. Nathanael gave Brother Avenarius a sign and set out after them. But suddenly, he hesitated. At first it was just a small movement he noticed out of the corner of his eye, but looking closer, he could see everything plainly.

On the other side of the church, where the memorial slabs were set into the wall, three figures emerged from the shadows. Like ghosts, they glided along the side of the church toward the physician and his companion.

Nathanael pulled down his hood, stuck the dagger back in his belt, and hunkered down to hide in the snow. His intuitions in recent days hadn’t deceived him.

It was time to find out who had been following them.

Simon glanced up at the icy scaffolding and gave Benedikta a skeptical look. “You want us to climb up there? We’ll slip and…”

But Benedikta had already boosted herself up onto the first level of the scaffolding. Once again, the physician was astonished at how agile she was. He was about to tease her, but then he resigned himself to his fate, pulling himself up, groaning, then continuing on to the second and third levels. From up here, he had a view of the entire snowbound monastery. In some of the windows across the courtyard lights were burning, but otherwise it was completely dark. For a moment, Simon thought he saw something move in the courtyard, but his view wasn’t good enough in the darkness and driving snow. Finally, he turned to the window frame through which Benedikta had already entered the church.

Her plan seemed to be working. The men hadn’t been able to complete their work before the evening, and the glass was still not installed in some windows. Simon sat in the opening, his legs dangling down, watching Benedikta tie a rope around one of the crossbeams and climb down hand over hand into the church. The medicus crossed himself and followed. Soon enough, his feet touched the cold stone floor and he could look around.

Even though the church doors were closed at night, the monks had left some of the altar and votive candles burning, and their flickering light gave a ghostly appearance to the entire nave. From up on the high altar, the skeletons of Saints Primus and Felicianus looked down at the intruders from inside their glass coffins, swords ever in hand and laurel wreaths on their bare skulls.

At this time of night, there was nothing sacred, soothing, or protective about the figures. In fact, Simon had the feeling that, at any moment, the skeletons would step down to throttle the two sinners with their thin, bony fingers. But they remained standing there, their bare teeth frozen in grins and their eye sockets dark and dead.

“Which of the two do you think it is?

“What?”

Simon was so wrapped up in the ghastly sight that he didn’t hear Benedikta at first.

“I mean, which of the saints could be concealing the message?” Benedikta replied. “We probably won’t have enough time to open both coffins.”

“Which one…?” Simon stopped to think. “Let’s take Felicianus,” he finally said. “Felicianus means ‘happy’ or ‘lucky,’ and the finder of the prize will be happy and lucky. And doesn’t it say in Matthew that the first-that is, the primi-will be the last?”

Benedikta looked at him skeptically. “From your lips to God’s ear.”

They approached the high altar until they were standing directly beneath Felicianus’s coffin.

“If you take me on your shoulders, maybe I can reach the coffin,” Benedikta said. “Then I’ll try to lift the lid.”

“But it’s much too heavy,” Simon whispered. “You’ll certainly drop it!”

“Oh, come now, it’s just made of glass, after all. And the skeleton inside doesn’t weigh any more than a few dusty old bones.”

“And what happens if it falls, anyway?”

Benedikta grinned. “Then we’ll just have to put old Felicianus back together again. You’re a doctor, after all!”

Simon sighed and knelt down so that Benedikta could climb onto his shoulders. Then, swaying slightly, he lifted her up. When the physician felt Benedikta’s thigh brush against his cheek, a pleasant tingling coursed through his body.

Wonderful, he thought. We’re desecrating the bones of a saint while I’m dreaming of the thighs of a naked woman. Two mortal sins at the same time.

Finally, Benedikta could reach the coffin. Reaching her arms around the lower part of the glass case, she whispered to Simon. “Now let me down-slowly!”

As Benedikta continued gripping the precious case, Simon knelt down slowly, bit by bit. The coffin swayed back and forth, scraped along the base of the altar, and finally touched the ground. Benedikta hopped nimbly down from Simon’s aching shoulders.

“And now let’s open it.”

Benedikta laid the coffin down on the ground gingerly and examined the cover. The edges of the glass were soldered with a gold alloy. She pulled out her knife and began to make a clean cut through the seam.

“Benedikta,” Simon whispered in a hoarse voice. “Are you sure we should be doing this? If we get caught, we’ll be put on trial, and our punishment will make Scheller’s torture on the wheel look like a walk in the park.”

Benedikta looked up from her work for just a moment. “I didn’t come all the way here to give up now. So come now and help me!”

Simon took out the medical stiletto he always carried with him, inserted it in the soldered crack, and pried open the seam, inch by inch. The alloy was soft and brittle, and it didn’t take them long to remove the lid.

“St. Felicianus, forgive us!” Simon mumbled, though he didn’t think his prayer would meet with much understanding in heaven. “We’re doing it only for the good of the church!”

A musty odor rose up from the open coffin, and Simon stared in disgust at the skeleton, which was covered in patches of green mold. The bones were tied to one another and to the glass coffin in back by thin wires. The dried laurel wreath atop the saint’s head had slipped down over the forehead, and between the bony fingers of his right hand, St. Felicianus held a rusty sword.

“The sword and laurel wreath,” Simon whispered, “are symbols of a martyr’s death and victory.”

Benedikta had already started examining the bones. She poked her fingers in the eye sockets and felt around the inside of the skull. “There has to be a message hidden here somewhere,” she mumbled, “a piece of paper, a note. Damn, Simon, help me look! We don’t have forever!”

Suddenly, something clattered behind them. Simon turned around but could make nothing out in the darkness. Shadows and light from the flickering candles at the foot of the Virgin Mary’s altar floated back and forth between the columns.

“Did you hear that?” Simon asked.

Benedikta was now examining the slightly moldy chest cavity. “A rat, a gust of wind-what do I know? Now come over here and help me!”

Once again, Simon gazed out over the nave. The columns, the altar to the Virgin, the flickering candles…

The medicus jumped.

Flickering candles…?

All along, the candles had been burning evenly. If they were flickering now, then-

“Simon, Simon! I’ve found it! I’ve found the message! Come and look!” Benedikta’s shout tore him from his thoughts. She had scraped some of the rust from the sword blade, and her eyes glowed as she pointed to her discovery. “It was underneath the rust! You were right!”

Simon came closer, bending down over the sword. An inscription could be seen under the rust on the blade, though only a few words were legible.

Heredium in…

With his stiletto, he hurriedly set about scraping the rust from the rest of the inscription, letter for letter, word for word.

Heredium in baptistae…

As he continued scraping, he whispered a translation of the Latin verse.

“The heritage in the baptist…”

He got no further because at that very moment all hell broke loose around them.

Meanwhile, there was a quiet knock at Jakob Kuisl’s front door. A messenger from Burgomaster Karl Semer, his personal scribe, was standing outside in the frigid night, pale, freezing, his knees shaking.

But it wasn’t the cold that made his knees shake. He crossed himself as he entered the hangman’s house, declining the cup of wine that Kuisl offered. Nervously, he noticed the execution sword hanging near a cross in the devotional area of the main room. It was bad luck to enter a hangman’s house so soon before an execution, especially on a night when wolves were roaming around and it was so cold the snot froze in your nose. But what could he do? He had been ordered to deliver a message to the hangman that very night. Presiding Burgomaster Karl Semer had returned from his business trip and was now keeping his promise by delivering the information Jakob Kuisl was so eager to have.

“What did you find out?” Kuisl asked, sucking on the cold stem of his pipe. “You can look out the window as you tell me, or I’ll put a mask over your eyes, if that will make it easier for you.”

The messenger shook his head, ashamed.

“All right, then, out with it!”

Speaking quickly, with his head bowed, the scribe reported what Burgomaster Semer had learned on his trip. Jakob Kuisl kept stuffing his pipe, lighting it over the stove, and then blowing clouds of smoke toward the ceiling, terrifying the messenger. A contented smile passed over the hangman’s face.

His suspicions had been confirmed.

Simon didn’t know where to look first. With a loud crash that resounded through the entire church, the huge statue of Mary in the apse tipped to one side, fell, and broke into hundreds of pieces. Shouts came from the right. The medicus caught sight of a wiry monk in a black robe leaping through the air with a drawn dagger and kicking another man in the head, who fell with a loud thud among the pews. From somewhere else, he heard a loud cry, almost like that of a child. Panting, a second stout monk appeared from behind the altar of Mary, followed by two men, one of whom held a crossbow cocked and ready to fire. They wore the tattered trousers of the mercenary foot soldiers in the Thirty Years’ War, long coats, and wide-brimmed hats with colorful feathers. The man with the crossbow paused, aimed, and pulled the trigger. With a gurgling sound, the fat monk fell forward into the baptismal font. Now the other monk turned around, dodged a candlestick aimed at him, then with a lightning-fast, almost imperceptible movement, thrust upward, plunging his scimitar deep into his opponent’s chest. The soldier staggered for a moment, trying to pull the blade out again, then fell against a grave slab on the wall and slid down to the floor. A wide bloody streak reached from the slab down to the ground.

The two other soldiers drew their sabers now and ran toward the monk with the scimitar. The monk seemed to be considering for an instant whether to keep fighting, then changed his mind and raced toward the rope still dangling from one of the window frames. With a bloody scimitar between his teeth, he pulled himself up with amazing speed. His legs were visible for just a moment before he disappeared in the darkness above.

Everything had happened so fast that Simon was only able to watch in astonishment. Finally, he pulled himself together. “Benedikta! Let’s get out of here!”

“Simon, keep quiet!” she replied, trying to calm him down. “We have to…”

But the medicus was already running for the door. Suddenly, he stopped, stunned. He had forgotten something.

The sword!

There was no way they could leave the sword with the inscription in the church! Simon had recognized some of the men. The stranger with the crossbow was the same man he’d seen sitting up in a tree near the Wessobrunn Monastery. The other was the one who had been lying in wait for them in the yew forest. They were surely out to get the Templars’ treasure as well. And the monks? Presumably, the Augustinian monks in Rottenbuch had seen the light in the church, come to check things out, and surprised the strangers there.

But didn’t Augustinian monks wear cowls? And why had the monk stabbed the soldier to death like a dog?

Simon had no time to think this through. Turning, he ran back to rip the sword from St. Felicianus’s bony hand.

There was a faint crunching sound as knucklebones fell to the ground like little dice. Simon grabbed the weapon, which was astonishingly heavy and reached up to his chest. Standing next to him, Benedikta still hadn’t moved. She couldn’t take her eyes from the two men staring back at them, still uncertain about what to do. Simon didn’t want to give them any time to decide.

“Benedikta, follow me! Now!”

Swinging the sword through the air like a madman, the medicus headed for the exit, past the overturned statue of Mary and the dead monk, hanging down headfirst into the baptismal font. For a moment, Simon was entranced by the bloody cloud slowly spreading out in the holy water; then he continued directly toward the two remaining men, who jumped to one side when they saw the medicus approaching, screaming wildly and swinging the huge broadsword. He was just a few steps from the large church portal now. But when he finally reached it, it wouldn’t open.

He shook it. Of course the door was locked.

Damn! This was the very reason they’d decided to enter the church through the window! In a state of panic, Simon looked in all directions. What next? He could never climb back up the rope with the sword in hand, and the two men were slowly drawing closer.

Suddenly, in one of the church’s wings, he noticed a stained-glass window depicting Mary hovering in the air, surrounded by little angels as she ascended to heaven. In contrast with the other new windows, this one was only chest high. Without hesitation, Simon rushed toward it, smashing the lovingly painted glass with the broadsword. The window burst into a thousand pieces, and Simon dived through it headfirst, landing outside on the snowy pavement of the church courtyard. He felt his aching shoulder to see if anything was broken. Glass splinters were embedded in his clothes, his hair, even his face, and drops of his blood were falling onto the white snow.

He looked around. Had Benedikta followed him? At that moment, he caught sight of her head in the opening of the broken window. She jumped through it as nimble as a cat, rolled over, and stood up again. With a certain satisfaction, Simon saw that she, too, was showing some signs of fear.

“Quick, let’s get back to our lodging,” she said to him. “For the time being, we’ll be safe there.”

They hurried over the forecourt, past the icy spring, the clock tower, and the monastery garden, then through the open entry gate. Finally, they arrived at their quarters.

After they’d knocked three times, a sleepy innkeeper opened the door. “What in the world…?” he asked in astonishment.

“A little brawl out in the street.” With the huge broadsword, Simon squeezed past the stout innkeeper. Blood trickled down his face, making him look like a somewhat small but very angry barroom brawler. “These days you’re not even safe on the monastery grounds. It’s good I always carry a weapon around with me.”

Without another word, he hurried up to his room with Benedikta, leaving the astonished innkeeper standing there. Not until Simon had locked the door behind them and checked the street in front of the inn did he feel safe. Panting and puffing, he collapsed on the bed. “Who or what in the world was that all about?”

Benedikta sat down beside him. “I…I just don’t know. But from now on, I’ll be a little less cavalier in what I say about possible highway bandits, I promise.”

Simon started to pick tiny splinters of glass from his face. Benedikta took out her white handkerchief and dabbed at the cuts.

“You look like-”

“Like some drunk who has fallen through a barroom window. Thanks, I know.” Simon arose and reached for the broadsword leaning against the bed. “In any case, it’s good we brought the sword along with us,” he said. “I’m sure these men have been after us a long time. They’re looking for the treasure, just as we are.”

He ran his hand along the blade, then scratched away the remainder of the rust with his stiletto until the entire quotation was visible. Individual words were spread out in wide intervals along the blade.

Heredium in baptistae sepulcro…

“The heritage in the grave of the baptist,” he translated aloud. “You can’t say that the riddles are getting any easier.”

“Well then, what do you make of it?” Benedikta asked.

Simon stopped to think. “The heritage could be the treasure. The baptist is, perhaps, John the Baptist-that part is easy. But his grave…?” He frowned. “I’ve never heard anything about John the Baptist’s grave. I presume it’s somewhere in the Holy Land.”

“But we’re in the Priests’ Corner,” Benedikta interrupted. “It has to mean something else. Think!”

Simon rubbed his temples. “Give me some time. Today was a little too much for me…” he said, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he stared at the sword on the bed for a long time. “The coffin of Friedrich Wildgraf under the Saint Lawrence Church contained his bones, but no sword,” he said, running his fingers over the blade again. Now, with the rust scraped away, it gleamed as if it had been forged just the day before. The pommel was set in silver and the cross guard decorated with a number of engravings. He examined them more closely, thinking.

They were Templar crosses.

“Perhaps this sword belonged to the master of the German Templars, Friedrich Wildgraf,” Simon said. “His weapon is the riddle. That would be just like him, big enough.”

“But that still doesn’t solve our problem of what these accursed words mean! We’ve got to go first thing tomorrow-”

Benedikta was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Who might that be?” Simon stood up and went to the door. “Perhaps the innkeeper…I’ll tell him that everything’s all right.”

He opened the door, and there standing before him was not the innkeeper, but someone he would never have expected to see here.

Brother Nathanael cursed, and not for the first time in his life, but as always he asked God for forgiveness right away. He rubbed his left shoulder, which, for a moment, he thought might be dislocated. It hurt like hell but still seemed secure in its socket. When he’d kicked the stranger in the face, Nathanael had fallen onto one of the pews. Climbing up the rope with only one arm had completely exhausted him. Despite the pain, he smiled. At least he’d sent one of those heretical dogs to hell. Now he was standing in a dark corner of the monastery courtyard murmuring the Confiteor.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault…

The murder, like so many he’d committed, was necessary. Committed in the name of the church. Nevertheless, it was a mortal sin. Tonight, Nathanael would flagellate himself for it.

From where he was located, the monk observed the activity in the courtyard. The noise in the church had quickly attracted some of the Augustinian monks who were already awake for prayers. Despite the late hour, a rather large number of workers, peasants, and the monastery superintendent himself had come running to the church, along with some other monks. Some were already shouting, “The devil, the devil is afoot in Rottenbuch!” A rumor started flying around that God himself wanted to signal his opposition to the superintendent’s building mania.

When the group headed by Michael Piscator entered the church, shouting and wailing could be heard. Nathanael assumed the monks had just come upon the open coffin of St. Felicianus. Admittedly, that was not a very edifying sight. The martyr’s skeleton had fallen to pieces, an act of desecration that probably not even the Pope could forgive. Perhaps, however, the monks’ wailing had more to do with the destruction of the statue of Mary, the overturned church pews, the broken stained-glass window, or the soldier who had been stabbed to death.

And Brother Avenarius was also lying there.

Nathanael was sure he was dead. No man could survive an arrow in the back from a crossbow, especially if he was later found facedown in a baptismal font. Brother Nathanael felt a certain relief. Without the fat Avenarius, he could move faster and more discreetly. And the monk wasn’t much help solving riddles. Now it would be simpler to just follow the medicus and his woman. They’d solve the riddle, and then he’d strike. The only problem was these strangers…

Nathanael’s feelings hadn’t deceived him. They were being watched, and it annoyed him to no end that he hadn’t noticed it earlier. Of course, these men were good fighters, silent and unscrupulous. And like him, they were after the treasure. From now on, he’d have to watch out, even if only two of them remained.

Once more he tried to remember how the skirmish in the church had unfolded. When Nathanael observed the three men climbing into the church, he hurried in after them. But the fat monk had a hard time climbing the scaffolding, and they lost sight of the strangers in the dark nave. It was Brother Avenarius who finally found them again in his own way. He stepped on the foot of one of the men hiding behind a curtain!

After that everything happened very fast. Brother Avenarius wound up floating in the baptismal font with an arrow through his chest, and Rottenbuch experienced its darkest day since the Swedes’ attack.

The monastery bells began sounding the alarm. Nathanael turned away from the excited crowd in the forecourt, which was now brightly lit with torches. For a moment, he considered returning to their quarters, which were not far from where Simon and Benedikta were staying. He and Avenarius had introduced themselves as itinerant Dominicans and been assigned two beds in the monastery by the Augustinians. But now that Avenarius lay dead in the church for all to see, a return to the monastery would probably be too risky. Thus, Nathanael found a barn nearby where he could await the coming day in a bed of warm straw.

As he was about to slip through a narrow barn door, he saw something outside that warmed his heart. Help was near! He sent a quick prayer to heaven and kissed the golden cross on his chest.

God hadn’t forsaken him.

“You owe me an explanation,” said Augustin Bonenmayr.

Like an angry schoolmaster, the abbot of Steingaden stared down through his pince-nez at Simon, whose mouth had dropped open. Without waiting for a reply, the abbot entered the room, closing the door behind him. Benedikta sat on the bed, mortified. Outside, the bells had started to ring.

“After your hasty departure, the superintendent told me about the poor Madame de Bouillon whose children were incurably ill. I was understandably quite surprised!” Bonenmayr said, starting to pace. “I asked myself why a woman from Landsberg, wife of a deceased wine merchant, whose brother had died in Altenstadt, had suddenly come up with such a story.” He turned to Benedikta. “Or are you perhaps this Madame de Bouillon, after all, and you lied to me, then? Speak up!”

Benedikta could only shake her head silently.

“Your Excellency, let me explain-” Simon started to say, only to be interrupted by Bonenmayr.

“My astonishment changed to distrust when, half an hour ago, the remains of Saint Felicianus were desecrated in a manner more diabolical than anything the world has ever seen!” The abbot shook his head as if he had just looked down into the jaws of hell. “The desecration of the very remains that your loyal companion, Madame Bouillon, wanted to view this morning. What an astonishing coincidence!” Bonenmayr looked from one to the other. “So tell me now, what is going on here? Speak up before I forget that our dear Savior preached love and forgiveness!”

Simon swallowed. Frantically, he tried to think how to dig himself out of this trap. Downstairs the Rottenbuch bailiffs were no doubt waiting to drag him off to the dungeon. He knew what would follow. It was as inevitable as the amen in church-namely, torture and an execution that would be the equal in every respect to what was in store for Hans Scheller. Desecration of relics! The hangman would probably rip open their stomachs, pull out their guts for all to see, and then burn them alive.

At the same moment, it occurred to Simon that the hangman would be none other than Jakob Kuisl! Ever since the death of the old Rottenbuch executioner, this district fell under his jurisdiction. Kuisl would look at them both with sad, empty eyes; shake his head, perhaps; then stuff them into an animal hide like slaughterhouse waste and drag them off to be burned.

And Magdalena would stand by and watch…

But perhaps there was a way out, after all. The medicus decided to lay all his cards on the table. He looked over at Benedikta, who was still sitting on the bed. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

“It’s not what you think,” he began. “This woman here is really the sister of Andreas Koppmeyer. Her brother discovered something that probably cost him his life…” Then Simon told the Steingaden abbot the entire story. He started with the death of the Altenstadt priest, then the crypt and the riddles, and his suspicion they were on the trail of the fabulous Templar treasure. He poured his heart out and put his future in the abbot’s hands.

Bonenmayr sat down on the only stool in the room, listening attentively while Simon told his story. When Simon had finished, the abbot remained silent for a long time. Outside, the bells were still tolling.

Finally Bonenmayr turned to the medicus. “Riddles pointing to a treasure that people have been looking for centuries…” He shook his head. “Simon, either you are crazy or that is the greatest lie that a convicted heretic ever told.”

“It’s all true!” Simon cried. “So help me God!” As proof, he picked the sword up from the bed and handed it to Bonenmayr, who ran his finger across the blade, examining the inscription.

“Heredium in baptistae sepulcro…” he murmured. “The heritage in the grave of the baptist…”

He looked up. “That doesn’t prove a thing. An epigraph on a sword, nothing more. Besides, who can prove this is, in fact, the sword of Saint Felicianus? It could be your own.”

“Ask Michael Piscator!” Benedikta chimed in. “He’ll verify that this is the sword from the coffin!”

“To do that, I’d have to hand you over to the Augustinian monks,” he said. “Desecration of relics is one of the worst crimes again Christianity. They’ll skin you alive-”

“I have a proposal,” Simon interjected. “We’ll work together to find this treasure! If we succeed, that will be the proof we’re not lying. We’ll donate all the money to the monastery in Steingaden, and nobody will ever find out who desecrated the bones of Saint Felicianus.”

Augustin Bonenmayr frowned. “I’m supposed to make a pact with heretics and the defilers of holy relics?”

“For the good of the church!” Simon replied. “After all, you have nothing to lose. If we don’t find the treasure, you can still turn us in.”

The abbot thought it over a long time. Outside, they could hear church bells ringing and shouts from far off. Evidently, the people of Rottenbuch still believed the devil was afoot in the monastery.

I hope they don’t look for him here in the inn, Simon thought anxiously.

Finally, Bonenmayr cleared his throat. “Very well, then. I’ll take the gamble. Under one condition.”

“Whatever you say,” replied Simon.

“Beginning now, the two of you will be in my custody. Here in Rottenbuch, you’re no longer safe, anyway. Brother Michael is not stupid. He’ll soon have people out searching for a French lady and her companion. Therefore, we’ll return to Steingaden at once.” He took the sword and opened the door. Only now did Simon see two burly looking monks who had been waiting outside. Noticing the look on Simon’s face, the abbot smiled. “Brother Johannes and Brother Lothar,” he said, introducing the two. “Both are novitiates who haven’t yet taken their vows and thus haven’t yet foresworn violence. They have many…experiences from before.” He started down the stairs. “Or did you think I would enter the room of two wanted defilers of the church without protection?”

Simon and Benedikta followed the abbot, with the two grim monks close behind.

Outside, four black horses hitched to a covered sleigh awaited them. Simon noticed that someone had already hitched Benedikta’s horse and his own to the rear of the sleigh. They would disappear without a trace. They took their places on padded seats alongside the silent monks and the abbot. The two huge novitiates stared impassively into the night, but Simon was certain that the two thugs dressed in monk’s habits would attack fast and decisively at the mere hint of an escape.

A whip sounded and the four-in-hand set out. Just before the wagon disappeared around the corner, a figure appeared and jumped up onto the back. Silently, the person climbed onto the roof and lay down flat so the cold wind would meet no resistance.