The Dark Monk

3

MAGDALENA KNOCKED AT the door of the carpenter Balthasar Hemerle’s house and listened for the sound of steps inside. It was early in the morning, but she had already visited the masons and the stonecutter in Altenstadt the day before. The men all looked at her distrustfully at first-nobody was comfortable with the daughter of the hangman at their door. It was quite possible that her presence might make the cattle sick the next day. When she explained that she wanted to ask them about the dead priest in Altenstadt and the renovation work in the St. Lawrence Church, they let her in reluctantly, often under the suspicious eyes of their wives. Magdalena was not just the hangman’s daughter, but with her thick black hair, bushy eyebrows, and full lips, she was also an attractive woman who was quite capable of exciting passions. She knew very well that men stared at her behind her back. Still, none of the young fellows ever asked her for a dance. No one except Simon.

Her conversations on the previous evening had not revealed anything new. All the workers agreed they had found the crypt, but only the priest had gone down into it. He looked pale when he came back, went to fetch some incense, and burned it there, and then immediately had the entrance sealed. They also mentioned the strange crosses on the walls in the balcony, but they all said they hadn’t told anyone else about it. The visit to the carpenter’s house was Magdalena’s last try. Balthasar Hemerle led her into the living room. He was a large, good-natured man with a full, shaggy beard, a twinkle in his eye, and a face distorted by pockmarks. Unlike many other men in town, he was never troubled by the fact that Magdalena was just a dishonorable hangman’s daughter. On the contrary, he had smiled at her at the last church fair and even tipped his large carpenter’s hat mischievously to her by way of greeting. But Magdalena knew that he made eyes at other girls, too, and his wife had scolded him once or twice about it. Fortunately, Katharina happened to be at the market in Schongau at the moment.

“Well, young lady, what do you need from me?” Hemerle grinned, pushing a mug of mulled wine across the table to her. “Does the city need a new gallows? The old one looks pretty rotted, don’t you think? I’ll bet that it will snap at the next hanging, and your father will look like a damn fool.”

Magdalena smiled and shook her head, sipping on the invigorating drink. She took another gulp and then finally got around to explaining why she was there. Balthasar Hemerle looked at her for a long time, thinking about it.

“The word going around is that the fat old Koppmeyer was poisoned. Does this have anything to do with that?”

Magdalena shrugged. “That’s just what we want to find out.”

Hemerle nodded. “I don’t know how you have gotten involved in this,” he began, “but it’s true that none of us went down into the crypt. And the workers painted over the crosses just as they were told.”

“Have you spoken with anyone about it?” Magdalena asked as she kept sipping on her mulled wine. She could feel its warming effects; she absolutely could not empty the whole mug, or she’d never make it home again.

“Who could we have talked to?” Hemerle said. “But wait…” He paused. “We were all talking about it last Sunday after church when our group was sitting at our regular table at Strasser’s Tavern in Altenstadt. The priest had seemed nervous delivering his homily, and we did notice a few strangers in the tavern.”

“Who were they?” Magdalena could feel her heart beginning to race, and not just from the strong wine.

“Strangers…I don’t know,” Hemerle grumbled. “Didn’t look at them that closely. They sat at the next table with black cowls, like monks, and didn’t even take off their hoods.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

The carpenter knitted his brow. Finally, he seemed to remember something.

“There was an odor in the air like an expensive perfume,” he said, “and three black horses standing just outside the door-not mares like your father’s, but big jet-black horses. Could put a real fright into you…” He shook his head and laughed.

“But come now…Let’s talk about something else,” he said, leering at her. “I just finished making myself a new bed out of spruce. It’s over there in the other room, and it’s nice and big and warm. Would you like to see it?”

Magdalena smiled. “So that your wife will wring my neck? No thanks.”

She emptied the mug in one long gulp and headed out the door. Swaying slightly, she stomped through the snow on her way back to Schongau.

Balthasar Hemerle waved to her as she left, but suddenly he looked serious again. He couldn’t help but think of the men with the black horses. For a brief moment, he thought he could smell a whiff of perfume in the cold winter air. But no doubt it was just the aroma of mulled wine.

Early the next morning, Simon headed out to Altenstadt again. Before dawn, he tiptoed past the room of his snoring father. Bonifaz Fronwieser didn’t get home until late last night, and Simon had to assume he had immediately exchanged the pay from his house call to Alderman Hardenberg for wine and brandy. The bartenders of the taverns behind the Ballenhaus permitted some guests to stay on after the eight o’clock curfew if they had enough change in their pockets. And the esteemed patrician Hardenberg certainly had paid more for his checkup than all the sick farmers put together that week. Enough, at least, for three glasses of the best burgundy.

Simon carefully closed the door and hurried toward the Hof Gate at the end of the street. Leaning against the ruined walls of the ducal castle, the city watchman Josef had already opened the gate reinforced with iron and was staring wearily at the approaching figure.

“Up so early, Simon?” he grumbled. They knew each other well, the young medicus having recently cured Josef’s son of scabies-at no charge, of course. It was always good to befriend one of the city watchmen. That way you could slip into the city through the emergency gate from time to time, even after sunset.

“I’ve got to go to Altenstadt again,” Simon said. “Another patient needs my help there.”

“Is it the same coughing and sweating?” Josef asked, knowing that, in the little town of Altendorf, many people had fallen ill with the strange fever, too. Simon nodded slowly and hurried through the gate. Nobody had to know what he was really doing in Altenstadt. As the watchman watched Simon leave, he drew a Druid’s cross in the snow.

“God forbid the plague should come back to Schongau,” he called to the medicus. “God forbid!” He thanked the Virgin Mary for sparing him the sickness until then.

The road wound up the mountain, and soon Simon felt comfortably warm despite the dry cold. As he walked along, he wondered why he had set out at the crack of dawn to investigate the death of someone who was almost a total stranger to him. He could have stayed in bed, gotten up for a cup of coffee when the church bells rang nine o’clock; he could have sat by the fire roaring on the hearth and watched snowflakes twirling down outside. But, as so often was the case, he was overcome with curiosity, an innate urge to get to the bottom of things. And then, of course, there was Benedikta Koppmeyer. Ever since he had first seen her the day before, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Was he perhaps doing her a little favor by going on this mission?

Simon was headed for the basilica of St. Michael in Altenstadt. It towered above the little houses, a reminder of a time when this small village had been an important commercial center on the Via Claudia August, the old Roman military road. Built of heavy stone blocks, surrounded by a high wall, and flanked by two sky-high towers, the basilica looked more like a castle than a church.

Simon climbed the broad flight of steps to the main portal. Directly above the double doors, a magnificent relief depicted a knight, armed with a shield, helmet, and sword, fighting a dragon. In the mouth of the dragon was the body of a second man. Simon shook his head. Unlike many of his fellow countrymen, he had never felt comfortable with the bloody, monstrous figures and scenes depicted in churches. Such images were no doubt intended to remind people of the horrors of hell, but to Simon they felt more like messengers from a very distant past.

His anxiety subsided only when he stepped inside the church and turned his eyes upward. In the apse over the altar was the most beautiful and largest crucifix in their part of the country. The “Great God of Altenstadt” was known far beyond the borders of this little town in the Priests’ Corner, and even the otherwise rather sober-minded medicus could not deny its appeal. The figure, carved of larch wood, was huge, surely three yards long and just as wide. On either side stood life-size figures of Mary and John. But most striking was the face of the Savior. It looked down on the faithful, not distorted with pain or crying out condemnation, but gently, almost a bit sadly.

When Simon looked down again, he spotted a figure in one of the front pews that he had not noticed before. Perhaps because the person was kneeling, head bowed in prayer. A scarf fell over the figure’s shoulders, and before Simon could say anything, the person stood up, made the sign of the cross, and turned around toward him. Simon was stunned. It was Benedikta Koppmeyer! Her face was even paler now than the day before, and it seemed she had not slept very much. Nevertheless, she exuded an aura of strength unlike anything Simon had ever seen before in a woman. Once the merchant’s widow recognized Simon, she smiled at him wanly.

“I…I didn’t expect to find you here in the church,” the medicus stammered as she walked toward him. In the milky light of dawn, she almost seemed to be floating in space. “I thought you had a room in Schongau at the Stern.”

“I do,” she said softly, holding out her ringed hand for him to kiss. “But I couldn’t sleep, so I came here to pray. This church…is something very special, don’t you think?”

Simon nodded. Apparently, Benedikta could not resist the magical appeal of the basilica, either. Then it occurred to him that she must have made the trip from Schongau even before daybreak.

“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.

Jakob Kuisl arrived at the clerk’s office on the second floor and was preparing to knock on the massive wooden door when he noticed that it wasn’t closed, just slightly ajar. The door squeaked as it swung inward, and in front of him sat Johann Lechner, armed with a quill pen and ink, reviewing some papers by candlelight while his right hand moved vigorously and erratically across the parchment. For a while, the only thing audible was the scratching of the pen.

“You can take a seat, Kuisl,” the clerk said finally, without looking up. His face was pale, almost waxen, an impression accentuated by his black goatee. He wore a flat, dark velvet cap and a plain jacket that was just as dark. When Lechner finally looked up, Kuisl found himself staring into two black eyes that seemed to be in constant motion and appeared remarkably large in relation to his narrow face behind his pince-nez.

“I said sit down,” the clerk repeated, pointing to a stool in front of the stained oak table that took up practically the entire width of the room. “I have a job for you.”

“Did you finally catch one of the bandits?” Jakob Kuisl grumbled, settling onto the stool. The wooden stool groaned under the weight of his massive frame but didn’t give way.

“Well, not exactly,” the clerk replied, playing with the goose quill in his hand. “That’s the reason I called you.” He leaned back in his chair. “As you may know, a group of citizens has been formed to hunt down this band of murderers, and I’d like you to lead them.”

“Me?” Jakob Kuisl almost choked. “But-”

“I know, as a hangman, you are dishonorable and cannot give orders to citizens,” the clerk interrupted him, “but they’re afraid of you, and they have respect for you. Those are pretty good qualifications for a leader. Besides, you’re the only one I would entrust with a job like this. Didn’t you kill that huge wolf just last year? And the matter with the mercenaries in the spring…You are strong and clever, you can fight, and you know this riffraff better than people like us.”

“Why don’t you appoint one of the aldermen as a leader?” the hangman joked. “They know how to push people around.”

Johann Lechner laughed. “You mean Semer? Or old Hardenberg? I might as well send my mother. Fat, effeminate moneybags! Even the Swedes wouldn’t have accepted them as hostages. No, Kuisl, you’re the one. You have proved often enough that you’re good for more than just stringing people up. And as far as giving orders…” He grinned at the hangman. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell the gentlemen that the executioner is calling the shots this time. It will be good for them. Do you still have your weapon from the war? You were in the war, weren’t you?”

Jakob Kuisl nodded. Images floated through his mind like poisonous clouds. More than you can imagine, he thought.

“Fine,” said the clerk. “The hunt will begin the day after tomorrow at eight in the morning. I’ve got to let everyone know first. Please show up at the marketplace at the appointed time. You’ll receive a half guilder each day, plus a guilder for each robber you catch.” Lechner hunched down again over his documents. “You can go now.”

Jakob Kuisl started to reply, but when he saw the intense expression on the clerk’s face, he knew objections were pointless. As he turned to go, he suddenly heard Lechner’s voice again behind him.

“Oh, hangman! One moment!” When Jakob turned around, he saw the clerk was staring at him directly through his pince-nez. “I’ve heard that the priest in Altenstadt passed away and that you yourself were there shortly thereafter. Did anything happen there that seemed…strange?”

The hangman cursed to himself. How had the clerk learned so quickly about the events in the St. Lawrence Church? Obviously, nothing escaped Lechner. Jakob Kuisl reflected for a moment and then decided to tell the truth.

“It looks like someone poisoned the priest.”

“Poisoned?” The clerk frowned. “Hmm, that’s not good news. But if I know you, you already have a suspicion about who it could have been.”

Jakob Kuisl shook his head. “No, sir. I have no idea.”

“That’s all right. The people of Altenstadt need to figure that out themselves.” He frowned again. “Do you think maybe the fat priest just overate again?”

“No, sir. I believe-”

“Believing is something you do in church,” Lechner interrupted him. “I want you to concern yourself only with this band of murderers out there. Exclusively, do you understand? That’s an order. The city needs your expertise and your strength, not in Altenstadt, but here in Schongau. Everything else can wait. Is that clear?”

Jakob Kuisl remained silent.

“I want to know if that’s clear.”

The hangman nodded and, without another word, disappeared into the dark hallway. Behind him, he could once again hear the scratching of the quill pen.

Furtively, the clerk carefully extracted a document from the pile of papers he had concealed just before the hangman entered, and glanced at it once more. The seal seemed genuine, and the man who had delivered the letter believable.

Lechner scratched the tip of his nose with the goose feather. It wouldn’t be wise to refuse the request of such a powerful person, even if he couldn’t figure out the meaning of this official document. Lechner actually wanted only to ask the hangman about the murder of Father Koppmeyer, but the stranger he’d just seen made it unmistakably clear that further investigation into the Koppmeyer case was not desired. To support his demand, he had left behind a tidy sum. Lechner toyed nervously with the coins in his desk drawer. They felt cool and solid. The money would come in handy for necessary repairs in the city, above all to the ducal palace, which was in a pitiful shape. And the stranger had held out the prospect of more money if the hangman kept his mouth shut…

Just the same, it troubled Lechner. Why would such a powerful person be interested in preventing the Schongau hangman from snooping around in Altenstadt? Well, Lechner would have to make his own inquiries, and in the meanwhile, he’d just have to keep the hangman busy doing something else. Lechner chuckled to himself. The idea that Jakob Kuisl would soon be bossing around the fat old aldermen was just too precious. That alone was worth the little lie.

Benedikta was waiting impatiently in the driving snow in front of the Goldener Stern Tavern, just next to the Ballenhaus. Her horse, a splendid sorrel, pranced around nervously. When the merchant woman caught sight of Simon, a narrow smile crossed her lips.

“Do you usually travel on foot rather than by horse, Doctor?” she asked.

In fact, Simon didn’t make the best impression sitting on his nag. On the short trip from the Lech River up to town, the beast had almost thrown him twice. Putting on the bridle had been a struggle, and Walli had bitten his hand several times. Sweat was pouring down his brow, and his hat, with the coquettish ostrich feather, sat at a crooked angle on his head. He had even slipped once in the stable, and now a light yellow-brown spot adorned his jacket. Nevertheless, Simon tried to laugh.

“Walli is a horse with a mind of her own,” he said as the horse attempted to rear up again and tugged at the reins. “And I have a special liking for stubborn women.”

The merchant woman smiled. “That’s commendable, but perhaps the horse needs to have a little woman-to-woman talk.”

Benedikta dismounted and slowly approached the snorting horse. When she reached the horse, she held her by the head, pulled her mane down, and whispered in her ear. At once, the horse settled down, stopped snorting, and stood there calmly.

“How…how did you ever do that?” Simon asked incredulously.

“Just un secret de femmes, a secret between us women.”

Benedikta smiled and swung up onto her horse again. “We have to leave,” she said, “or we’ll never get to Steingaden before nightfall. It’s already noon.”

They rode out through the Lech Gate in the direction of Peiting. The snow was heavier now, and Simon had to squint to see the road in front of them, orienting himself by the wagon tracks that were now almost covered again with snow. On the gently ascending road, they met the occasional hiker or team of oxen, but once they had passed the houses of Peiting, they were finally alone. Stillness prevailed as the snow dampened all sounds.

The few towns they went through seemed inhospitable. The windows and doors were closed, and only occasionally could they see light shining through a crack in the window or a shy child peering around the corner of a house. At regular intervals, the two riders passed small frozen ponds, where frightened ducks flapped up out of the reeds and disappeared into the winter sky.

Alongside him, Benedikta was humming a little French song.

Belle qui tiens ma vie, captive dans tes yeux…

Simon noticed how hearing her voice warmed the cockles of his heart. True, he understood only half the words, but the mere sound of the foreign tongue was enough to overwhelm him with wanderlust. Here in the Priests’ Corner, everything was so…God-fearing. So rigid and sleepy. Nothing changed. In Paris, on the other hand, people knew how to live! He heard there were theaters and tailors on every street corner; that people smelled of perfume, lavender, and forget-me-nots; and the best doctors in all of Europe taught at the Sorbonne!

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t see the highwaymen until they were almost standing in front of them.

Three figures stood waiting at the side of the road in the heavily falling snow. Two of them were leaning on long, rough-hewn clubs, and the third had a dagger dangling at his hip. Now Simon noticed a fourth man. He was crouching in a thicket, his musket supported casually on the branch of a tree and pointed at them. All four of them looked famished. Their faces were drawn, and little icicles hung from their shaggy beards. They were dressed in threadbare jackets and soiled army coats, and the boots on their feet were nothing but shreds.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” asked the man holding the dagger, with a salacious grin. He was evidently the leader. “A pretty woman and her beau traveling all alone, and both dressed so elegantly!” He made a low bow, and the others broke out in raucous laughter. By now Simon was cursing his dandyish attire. Here in the forest, he probably looked like a pheasant searching for a mate.

“How about a little charity for a few poor sinners who had a hard time in the war and can’t afford such finery?” the leader said. Still bowing, he held one hand out as he fingered the dagger with his other.

Simon could see one of the robbers at the side of the road looking Benedikta up and down and running his tongue over his lips, while the man with the musket examined Simon’s expensive coat. His eyes reminded the medicus of a wild beast’s, expressionless and lustful, lacking even a spark of humanity. Simon opened his mouth to defend the woman at his side-if not with a weapon, then with words-but all that came out was a hoarse squawk. He knew that these men would rob them and slaughter them like animals, but first, one after the other, they would attack and violate Benedikta. He reached into his coat pocket for the sharp stiletto he always carried with him, along with some medical paraphernalia, but what good would a knife be against four armed robbers? To make matters worse, Walli began prancing around nervously, and he wouldn’t be able to restrain the old mare much longer.

“Get out of my way, or I’ll slit you open from your belly right up to your throat, espèce de pourriture! You piece of garbage!”

Simon thought at first that he had heard wrong, but it was, in fact, Benedikta who had spoken. Coolly, she eyed the leader of the gang of robbers in front of her, hands resting calmly on the pommel of her saddle, watching and waiting.

The robbers were just as astonished at her audacity. The head of the gang opened his mouth wide, but a moment passed before he could say anything. “You arrogant little bitch,” he grumbled finally. “You’ll be whimpering when I’m through with you. And then my comrades will get their turn, and this little peacock can sit there and watch.”

“For the last time, I’ll tell you to step aside.” Benedikta’s voice remained cool. Her horse snorted, and a cloud of steam emerged from its nostrils.

“That’s enough, you damned whore.” The robber chief reached out to seize the reins of her horse. “I’ll show you what-”

The shot resounded like the crack of a whip through the snowy forest. For a moment, the robber could only stand there, mouth open, looking at the hole in his chest. The bullet had shredded the coat, the jacket, and the flesh beneath it, and a thin jet of blood spurted out. With a gurgling sound in his throat, the dying man tipped backward.

Simon looked around frantically to see where the shot had come from, and only then did he notice the smoking pistol in Benedikta’s hand. She must have pulled it out from under her coat in a fraction of a second. And it was loaded!

In the next instant, a number of things happened simultaneously. Spurring her horse on, Benedikta sped down the road, Simon heard a shot and felt something cold whistle past his left cheek, the two robbers ran toward him swinging their cudgels and screaming, and Walli, terrified by the uproar, whinnied and rose up on her hind legs.

“Benedikta!” Simon shouted, struggling to stay in the saddle. “Wait for me!”

He managed to hold on as the horse bolted, branches lacerating his face, and he felt a heavy blow on his thigh where one of the robbers must have hit him with a cudgel. A sinewy, grimy hand reached for his horse’s reins, and instinctively, Simon pulled out his stiletto and plunged it into the hand. He heard screaming, the hand disappeared, and Walli galloped off.

Only now did the medicus dare to sit up a bit in the saddle and look around. The road had disappeared, and Walli was galloping, as if possessed, deeper and deeper into the forest. Pine branches struck Simon in the face. He struggled to turn around, hoping to at least see behind him, but he couldn’t find a road, not even a path, and it seemed as if Benedikta had vanished from the face of the earth! He was alone in the forest on a horse that seemed headed straight for hell. For a moment, he looked down and considered jumping, but when he saw the ground rushing past, he just clung tighter to his horse. Where was Benedikta? Again, he looked around frantically. The pine trees behind him seem to get thicker and thicker. He noticed that he had lost his expensive hat. It had cost two guilders! But then it occurred to him that, perhaps, in the future, he wouldn’t need a hat anyway because his head would be gone…

As he was about to turn around again, he heard a soft hiss; then something hit him in the side of the head.

The world turned black, and Simon could feel himself falling into the snow. It felt strangely warm, like a bed of feathers, he thought. Hands seemed to reach out for him, but then he was swallowed up in a dark, billowing cloud.