The Dark Monk

4

MAGDALENA STOMPED TOWARD the door to Strasser’s Tavern. She could still feel the effects of the strong mulled wine at the carpenter’s house, but she would need a lot more alcohol to forget seeing Simon and Benedikta together. How could he do something like that to her? A slut from the city! But perhaps she was being unfair to Benedikta; perhaps they had just happened to meet in the basilica and had been heading back to Schongau together and nothing more. But why, then, did Simon place his coat over her shoulders? And the way he laughed…

She opened the door to the tavern and was met by a warm, sticky mass of air. A fiddle was playing and someone was marking time to it with his foot. More than a dozen workmen had already gathered for lunch in the gloomy, low-ceilinged room lit by only a few torches. Some of the masons she had queried just the day before were among them. They looked at Magdalena suspiciously, then returned to their mugs of beer. A young fellow was sitting at a wobbly table in the middle of the room playing a fiddle while a few bystanders stood around clapping and dancing.

The hangman’s daughter smiled. The men had probably already had more to drink than they should have. Work slowed down in the wintertime, and the workers struggled to get by with part-time jobs, squandering their meager earnings on booze and waiting for the arrival of spring. When the merry group of men saw that a woman had entered the tavern, they raised their glasses to her and made a few smutty remarks.

“Girl, come over here! I’ll buy you a beer if I can have a look at your tender breasts!”

A short, stooped carpenter’s journeyman sidled over to her, bowed deeply, and tried to take her by the arm.

“Come dance, hangman’s girl. Make my back straight and my rod bigger with your black magic!”

Magdalena broke free from him, laughing. “I can’t do any magic when there’s nothing to charm. Bug off!”

She sat down at a table in an alcove off to the side. For a while, the men kept leering at her; then they started drinking again and swaying to the beat of the music. It was not customary for women to go to a tavern alone, but as a hangman’s daughter, Magdalena was no ordinary middle-class woman; she was dishonorable, an untouchable. More like a cross between a woman and a thing, she told herself angrily, before her thoughts turned back to Simon and Benedikta again. What was the medicus doing with someone like that? Benedikta, however, was a refined lady…

She had almost forgotten why she was here when suddenly the tavern keeper appeared in front of her holding a foaming mug of beer.

“This is from an anonymous admirer,” he said with a grin, setting the mug down hard on the table. “If I understand him right, he won’t just stop at this one round.”

For a moment, Magdalena considered turning down the beer. The alcohol she drank earlier was still pulsing through her veins, and her pride wouldn’t allow a stranger to treat her to a beer, anyway. But then thirst won out, and she reached across the table and sipped from the mug. It tasted delicious and fresh. She wiped the foam from her lips and turned to the tavern keeper.

“Hemerle told me that, on Sunday, there were three strangers here wearing black cowls. Is that right?”

The tavern keeper nodded. “They must have been monks from somewhere, but not ordinary ones. They arrived on handsome black horses, the kind you rarely see around here, and tied them up outside the tavern. I could see right away that they were rich, educated people.”

“Was there anything else special about them?” Magdalena asked.

Strasser knit his brow. “There was something strange. When I brought their beer, they suddenly all fell silent. But I heard a bit of their conversation anyway, and I think they were speaking in Latin the entire time.”

Magdalena looked at him wide-eyed. “Latin?”

“Yes, just like our priest in the church,” replied Strasser, making the sign of a cross. “God rest his soul. Not that I understood anything, but it sounded like Latin, I swear by the Virgin Mary.”

“Were you able to understand anything at all?”

Strasser stopped to think. “Yes, one phrase, and it came up again and again-crux Christi…” His face brightened. “Yes, crux Christi! That’s what they said!”

“Crux Christi means the cross of Christ,” Magdalena murmured, more to herself. “Not exactly unusual if they were monks. Anything else?”

Strasser turned to leave. “What do I know? Why don’t you just ask them yourself? One of them is standing back there at the bar, and he was just inquiring about your father.”

Magdalena jumped up from the table. “And you’re only telling me that now?”

Franz Strasser raised his hand apologetically. “He only wanted to know who the big man here in town was who smokes that stinking weed.” He grinned. “No doubt he wanted to buy some from Kuisl. I also told him about you.”

“About me?” The hangman’s daughter almost choked on her beer.

“Well, because you do sell herbs, don’t you? And perhaps this tobacco, or whatever it’s called. Come along,” he said, leading the way. “He seems to have a bit of money to spend. You can see he’s a fine gentleman.”

Magdalena jumped up and followed the tavern keeper through the bar, which was becoming more and more crowded. She looked around in hopes of picking the stranger out from the many people from Altenstadt who were there, but when they got to the bar, they found only familiar faces there. A mason tried to grope her, she gave him a smack in the face, and he walked away, moaning.

“Strange,” Strasser mumbled. “He was here just a moment ago.” He stepped behind the bar. “I’m sure he just went to the place that even the Pope has to go to. Just wait a bit.”

Magdalena returned to her seat and sipped absentmindedly on her beer. Three men in black cowls conversing in Latin…The strangers were surely traveling monks, but why, then, the expensive black horses? And why had one of them inquired about her father?

She took another big gulp. The beer was delicious, perhaps somewhat bitter, but it stimulated the senses. Her head felt light, and thoughts came and went before she could get a grip on them. The music and laughter of the men sitting at the bar blurred into a single pulsing hum. Could that be the effect of the alcohol? She really hadn’t had that much to drink…It didn’t matter; she felt free, and a smile spread across her face. She tapped her feet in rhythm with the fiddle and continued drinking her beer.

The man in the black cowl stood outside and watched her through a small crack in the shutters. He’d have to wait until the henbane began to have an effect. Sooner or later, this woman would have to come out, and she would surely need help then. Who could harbor any suspicions at the sight of a gentleman offering to escort a drunken girl home? What was the name of the girl, again?

Magdalena.

His whole body began to tremble, and he couldn’t figure out why.

Jakob Kuisl loved peace and quiet, and nothing was as peaceful as a winter evening after it had snowed all day. It felt as if the snow had swallowed up every sound, leaving emptiness that overcame any thoughts, worries, strivings-leaving only space for quiet meditation. Sometimes Jakob Kuisl wished that eternal winter would come over the world and finally put an end to all its chatter and gossip.

He walked along the snowy road toward Altenstadt. In the distance, he could hear the bells of the basilica sounding. He was looking for his daughter. She had been missing since early that morning, and now it was almost after noon. Magdalena had promised to help her mother mend some old clothes and linens, and Anna Maria Kuisl kept going to the door all morning, looking for her daughter. Her grumbles and complaints gradually turned to anxious silence, and when the hangman finally confessed that he had sent Magdalena to Altenstadt to make some inquiries for him, she threw him out of the house. The words she shouted after him were unmistakable: He couldn’t set foot in the house again unless he came back with Magdalena.

The hangman loved his wife, he respected her, and some people even said he feared her, which was nonsense, of course, because a hangman fears nothing and no one, least of all his wife. But Jakob Kuisl had learned that talking back was pointless and meant only the end of the peace and quiet he longed for so much in his house. And so he left to look for Magdalena.

In Altenstadt, he could hear music coming from the only tavern in town. The windows of Strasser’s Tavern cast a warm glow, and laughter, the stamping of feet, and the sound of an out-of-tune fiddle could be heard. Jakob Kuisl approached, peeking inside through a slit in one of the windows.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

On a table in the middle of the room, a few young men were dancing and singing a crude peasant song in raucous voices. A circle of onlookers gathered around with glasses raised, laughing and cheering them on. Among the young men on the table, a girl was dancing and stretching her arms up in a suggestive pose. Then she tilted her head far back while one of the men poured beer into her mouth from a huge beer stein.

It was Magdalena.

Her eyes were rolling wildly while one fellow reached out lustily toward her skirt and another pulled on the strings of her bodice.

Jakob Kuisl kicked the door and it swung inward with a loud bang. Then he stormed in and headed for the group. He grabbed one of the young men, yanked him off the table, and flung him in the direction of the onlookers, where he landed headfirst against a stool that splintered on impact. A second fellow hit the hangman hard over the head with his mug of beer. That was a serious mistake, as he found out only too soon. Kuisl grabbed him by the arm, pulled him down off the table, slapped him hard, and tossed him backward into two other men, all of whom landed in a tangle of arms and legs on the floor. The mug shattered, and a pool of beer spread across the floor at the feet of the astonished spectators.

Jakob Kuisl picked up his daughter like a sack of flour and threw her over his shoulder. She fought back and screamed as if she had lost her mind, but his grip was as solid as a vise.

“Would anyone else like a good thrashing?” he growled, looking around expectantly. The young men rubbed their aching heads and glanced at one another nervously.

“If anyone touches my daughter again, I’ll break every bone in their body. Do you hear?” he said softly, but firmly now. “She may be a hangman’s girl, but she’s off-limits.”

“But she said herself she wanted to dance,” one of the carpenter’s journeymen said sheepishly. “She probably had a little too much to drink…”

One look from the hangman silenced him. Then Kuisl tossed a few coins at the tavern owner, who had retreated against a wall, along with a few respectful others.

“Here you are, Strasser. For the mug and a new stool. If there’s anything left, treat the boys to a few beers. Now, good-bye.”

The door slammed behind him. What remained was a group of young men who felt as if they were awakening from a dream. After Jakob Kuisl had disappeared around the corner with Magdalena, the men started to whisper to one another, and then general laughter broke out.

“Are you crazy, Father?” Magdalena shouted. By now the two had arrived at the main street. She was still draped over her father’s shoulder like a sack. She spoke with a slight slur. “Stop…Put me down at once!”

The hangman flung his daughter in a wide arc into a snowdrift. Then he came plodding after her and rubbed snow in her face until it glowed bright red. Finally, he took out a vial and poured a bitter liquid down her throat until she started to spit and cough.

“For God’s sake, what is that?” she groaned, wiping her mouth. She was still dazed, but she could at least think somewhat clearly again.

“Ephedra, enzian, and a broth made from those brown beans Simon has,” her father grumbled. “Actually, I wanted to take the tonic to Hans Kohlberger because his wife is always so tired and just sits around staring out the window. But it will do for you, too.”

Magdalena shuddered. “It tastes horrible, but it helps.”

She made a face at first, but then suddenly turned serious. What was the matter with her? She could just barely remember sitting down at the table and drinking a beer. She had felt more and more lightheaded. Then she joined the workers dancing, but at this point, her memory blurred. Was it possible that someone poured something into her beer? Or had she just had too much to drink? She didn’t want to worry her father, so she remained silent and just put up with his lecture, which was now reaching its climax.

“It was disgraceful, shameless, the way you behaved in there, you hussy! What are people to think? You…you…” He took a deep breath, trying to calm down a bit.

“Oh, people…” she muttered. “Let the people talk. I’m just the hangman’s daughter; they’ll talk about me, anyway.”

“And Simon?” he growled. “What do you think Simon will have to say about that?”

“Oh, you can just stop with Simon!” she replied, turning her head aside.

The hangman grinned. “Aha, I see that’s what this is all about. Well, you won’t get your Simon back acting like that.”

He didn’t want to tell her he had lent his horse to Simon for the trip to Steingaden with Benedikta, so he switched the topic. “Did you learn anything about the church?”

Magdalena nodded and told him what she had heard from Balthasar Hemerle and the tavern keeper Strasser.

The hangman seemed to mull this over. “I think I have seen one of those monks already…”

“Where?” Magdalena asked, curious.

Her father turned away suddenly and started marching off in the direction of Schongau. “What does it matter?” he grumbled. “What does it matter to us who killed Koppmeyer? Your mother was right when she said that’s no business of ours. Let’s go home and eat.”

Magdalena ran after him and seized him by the shoulders.

“No, you don’t!” she shouted. “I want to know what happened there. Koppmeyer was poisoned! There’s a dusty old grave in the crypt and some strangers prowling around the area, speaking in Latin or some other secret language. What does it all mean? You can’t just go home and put your feet up by the fire.”

“Oh yes I can,” Jakob Kuisl said, marching forward.

Suddenly, Magdalena’s voice became soft and cold. “And suppose they pick up some innocent man for Koppmeyer’s murder and throw him in the dungeon? Just like they did back then with Stechlin?” Magdalena knew this was a sore spot for her father. “It was really poison that killed the priest, wasn’t it?” she added. “So it’s quite possible they’ll have you torture someone, just like the midwife the last time, only because she knew something about poison. Is that what you want?”

The hangman stopped in his tracks. For a while, the only sound that could be heard was the cawing of a crow.

“Very well,” he said finally. “We’ll have another look around the Saint Lawrence Church. Right away. Only so you’ll be able to sleep soundly again.”

The stranger watched the two as they walked down the main street toward the St. Lawrence Church. He struggled to calm himself by reciting the Lord’s Prayer. His plan had failed. He was dying to pry information out of the hangman’s girl about what her father had found in the crypt.

Magdalena…

A distant memory flashed through his mind, then vanished.

He shook his head. He would have to talk again with this clerk. After all, he had paid good money to make sure the hangman stayed out of their way. It certainly appeared now that this stinking butcher from Schongau could do as he pleased.

Under his black coat and white tunic, the man fingered a golden cross that hung directly over his heart. He would need strength. His brotherhood had never approved of the common folk learning to read-you could see what that led to. The people became rebellious and didn’t do what they were supposed to. He had learned in the tavern that the hangman, despite his origins, was smart and educated, and that made him dangerous. More dangerous, in any case, than that nosey little doctor’s assistant who kept running after his master like a little poodle.

The stranger kissed the cross and put it back under his tunic. He had made a decision: He couldn’t rely on the clerk; he would have to act himself. They would get rid of the hangman at once. The danger that he would meddle in their affairs was too great. Now the man would have to tell the others.

The sound of his steps was muffled by the soft, powdery snow.

The hangman and his daughter walked toward the St. Lawrence Church, its wind-battered tower almost obscured by rising clouds of fog in the gathering darkness. Though there was no wind, it was bitter cold. Magdalena could see light from torches inside the rectory through slits in the shutters. The housekeeper and the sexton were evidently still awake. Jakob Kuisl headed directly toward the church while Magdalena tugged nervously at his arm.

“Look over there,” she whispered, pointing at the church.

The door to the church was chained shut, but for a moment the light from a torch appeared in the windows. It was just a brief flicker, but Kuisl had seen it clearly.

“What in God’s name…?” he grumbled. He walked around the church, Magdalena at his heels. They discovered fresh footprints leading from the cemetery gate toward the apse.

The hangman stooped to examine the footprints. “There are two of them,” he whispered. “Solid shoes, good boots. They’re not workers or farmers from around here.” His eyes followed the footprints, which led to a shaky scaffold the workmen had constructed back in autumn and, high above, to a church window that had been forced open.

“We need to go and get help,” Magdalena said anxiously.

Her father laughed softly to himself. “Who shall we ask? Magda? The skinny sexton?” He walked over to the scaffolding. “I’ll have to deal with it myself,” he said, turning around once again to look at Magdalena.

“You stay here, do you understand? No matter what happens. If I’m still inside when the bells toll again, you can go and get help if you want. But not before.”

“Shouldn’t I come along with you?”

“Nothing doing. You’re no help to me. Go and hide behind the gravestones and wait for me to come back.”

That said, he began to climb the bars of the scaffolding. It creaked and swayed, but it held. In a short while, the hangman reached the second platform and was working his way across the icy boards to the window that had been forced open. Then he slipped inside.

Though darkness was just beginning to fall outside, it was already pitch black in the church. Jakob Kuisl squinted; it took a while for his eyes to get accustomed to the dark. He could feel the smooth, freshly planed flooring of the balcony beneath his feet and hear hammering and whispering voices from somewhere below. Finally, he could vaguely make out the flooring and walls of the church. Just one look showed that the mason, Peter Baumgartner, had spoken the truth-up here in the balcony, the wall was emblazoned with the red cross pattées of the Templars. The crosses had recently been painted over, but in a few places someone had taken the trouble to wipe off the white lime wash.

As if he wanted to check to see what was behind it, the hangman thought.

Looking down from the balcony, he could see that the stone slab had been pushed aside again, even though he had replaced it the last time he was there.

He reached under his coat for the heavy, larch-wood cudgel that he always carried with him. He had avoided using it in the tavern, knowing that one blow from this weapon could smash the skull of any opponent like a walnut. Now he took it out and weighed the warm wood in his hand. He would need it today-that much was sure.

His feet groped for the flight of steps that led down from the portal. As silent as a cat, he slipped down and scurried over to the hole in the floor. He could hear voices below, echoing strangely-the intruders were no doubt in the back part of the crypt, where the sarcophagus stood.

The hangman paused for a closer look at the heavy stone slab, which lay on the floor off to one side. Whoever was down below must have just arrived; after all, he and Magdalena had just a few moments ago seen the light of torches in the church.

The hangman looked around again in the darkness, then climbed slowly down the stone steps until he reached the storeroom.

The oaken table along the opposite wall had been moved aside, and through the low entryway behind it, he could see the flickering light of a lantern and hear the voices clearly now.

“Damn! There has to be some hint here-something!” one of them hissed. His voice sounded strangely hoarse, as if the man had difficulty speaking. “This is the right grave, so he hid it here somewhere.”

A second, darker voice replied with a Swabian accent. “There’s nothing here, by God, nothing but bones, dust, and this marble slab with the inscription.” His voice fell to a low whisper. “I swear, I hope God does not punish us for disturbing the rest of the dead.”

“Don’t waste your time thinking about that…Think instead about solving this blasted riddle. That’s the only reason the Master summoned you to help us here. Don’t forget that, you fat, mollycoddled old bastard! If it had been up to me, you’d still be dusting off books in some cellar. So stop your whining and keep looking! Deus lo vult! God wills it!”

Not until that moment did Jakob Kuisl notice an unusual accent in the first stranger’s hoarse voice. He had to be a foreigner.

“All right, then, let’s have another look around the next room,” the anxious Swabian voice said. “Maybe I overlooked something in one of the boxes. The heretic could have hidden it there among all the rubbish.”

By the sound of the voices, Jakob Kuisl could tell that the figures were heading now toward the exit. He stepped back against the wall right next to the doorway. As the steps came nearer, a warm circle of light slowly moved in his direction. A sinewy hand, then the sleeve of a black cowl, emerged with an iron oil lamp.

Jakob Kuisl reacted fast. He brought the cudgel down hard on the hand so that the lantern fell to the ground and went out. The monk carrying the lantern barely had time to shout because Kuisl yanked him forward and struck him directly on the back of the head with his cudgel. Groaning, the fat man sank to the ground. For a moment, it was quiet; then the hoarse voice spoke up again from the other room.

“Brother Avenarius? What is the problem? Are you…”

The voice broke off, and all that could be heard was a soft rustling sound.

“Your Brother Avenarius is not feeling very well,” Kuisl called back into the silence. “But still, he’s better off than Koppmeyer. You killed him, didn’t you?”

He waited for a reaction, but when no sound came from the other side, he spoke again.

“I don’t like it when people are poisoned in my district. There’s only one person here allowed to kill other people, and that’s me.”

“And who are you that you think this is any business of yours?” the voice with the foreign accent hissed back at him from the other side.

“I’m the hangman,” Kuisl replied. “And you know what fate is reserved here for people who poison others. The wheel. But first I’ll string you up and probably cut you up, too.”

There was hoarse laughter in the other room.

“And how does the hangman die? Well, no matter, you’ll find out soon enough.”

Jakob Kuisl growled. He had had enough of this idle banter. The man on the ground next to him groaned-apparently the blow hadn’t been hard enough and he would come to soon enough. Just as the hangman was preparing to strike him again, he felt a draft of air. A shadow sprang out of the doorway and swung at him from the side. Kuisl jumped back and felt a curved blade slice into his left forearm. He took a swing with the cudgel again, but the heavy larch-wood club whizzed past his opponent’s head, just missing him. Kuisl picked up his foot and kicked the man hard right between the legs. He was happy to hear the man groan in pain and step back. In the darkness, Kuisl could see nothing but a black outline. The man in front of him seemed to be wearing a monk’s cowl and gripping a curved dagger like the ones Kuisl had seen before carried by Muslim warriors. But there wasn’t any time to look at him more closely, as he was preparing to attack again and this time lunged toward the hangman’s chest. Kuisl stepped back and drove off his opponent with his cudgel. When he took another step forward, he stumbled over something soft and large-the fat Swabian he had put down earlier, still lying on the ground in front of him.

He was about to fend his opponent off with a few more blows when he heard a soft scraping sound behind him. In the next moment, a thin rope came down around his neck.

But weren’t there only two of them?

Kuisl put his hands up to his neck, but the leather cord was already cutting deep into his skin. He gasped for air like a fish out of water, and everything turned black. In a desperate move, he threw his whole weight backward and could feel how he hit against something-the wall! He planted both feet firmly on the ground and tried to crush the man behind him between his broad back and the wall. Finally, the pressure on his neck decreased and air started streaming into his lungs again. He gasped and coughed, then with a loud roar, wheeled around, ready for the next blow. His left hand clawed at a piece of soft, velvety material and then tore it to pieces. With his right hand, he searched for the cudgel he had lost earlier. Then he crouched down, looking frantically around the dark room.

Everything became indistinct, and individual shadows blurred into others-a single, huge form.

Suddenly, he felt a numbness pulsating from his injured left arm into every corner of his body. He tried to move his fingers, but he couldn’t. He was paralyzed.

The curved dagger was poisoned!

As he slid down the wall of the crypt behind him, he noticed a strong perfume that reminded him of violets, or a large, colorful field of flowers. Wide-eyed, but unable to move even his little finger, he could only watch as three men in black cowls bent over him, whispering.

The third man…must have followed me…Where is Magdalena?

Jakob Kuisl felt the two strangers pick him up and carry him away.

When Simon awoke, he was lying in a bed covered with fresh sheets and staring at a ceiling made of freshly planed spruce. From somewhere outside, he could hear the muffled sound of construction: hammering, sawing, men calling back and forth to one another. Where in the world was he?

He sat up and felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his head. Reaching for his forehead, he could feel a fresh bandage, and the memory came back to him. He had been attacked by robbers! Benedikta had…Yes, that’s right, Benedikta had shot them; then he remembered the wild ride through the forest and how, finally, everything went black. He must have struck the branch of a tree. Strong arms had helped him back up on his horse, and he remembered the voices, but then everything went black again.

Thirsty, Simon looked around and spotted a knee-high nightstand on one side of the bed with a clay pitcher on top. Not only the wooden ceiling, but also the night table seemed freshly constructed, as did the wide bed. There was a fragrance of resin and fresh-cut wood in the air. A small stove was crackling in a corner, but otherwise the room was empty. The shutters were closed, but judging by a narrow, bright ray of light entering the room, it had to be daytime.

Simon reached for the pitcher and tested the contents: something bitter and aromatic, a bit like mint-apparently a medicine that someone had put out for him. He was drinking in deep gulps when a creaking sound announced a visitor. In the doorframe stood Benedikta, smiling.

“Well, have you had a good sleep?” She pointed to his bandage. “We didn’t have a doctor here to do that, but I think the canons here know how to sew things up with needle and thread.”

“The canons?” Simon looked at her, bewildered.

Benedikta nodded. “The Premonstratensian canons. We’re at the monastery in Steingaden. As we were fleeing from the robbers, you hit your head against a tree. I put you on the horse and brought you here-it was only a few miles.”

“But the men…the voices…” Simon could feel the stabbing pain in his head getting worse. Benedikta looked down at him sympathetically, and he felt how he was starting to blush. He must be a pathetic sight: pale, bandaged up, and dressed only in a dirty linen shirt.

“What voices?” she asked.

“When I was unconscious…Who helped me back on the horse?”

Benedikta laughed. “It was me! But if it makes you feel any better, it was the monks who undressed you later.”

Simon smiled. “If it had been you, I would surely have remembered.”

She raised her eyebrows in feigned indignation and turned to leave. “Before we cross the boundaries of decency, it would probably be better if we stop and think about why we are actually here,” she said. “The abbot is waiting to see us, but naturally, only if your injury permits,” she added with a slightly derisive smile. “I’ll wait outside for you.”

The door closed, but Simon lay still a moment to collect his thoughts. This woman…confused him. When he finally got up and dressed, the headache was still bothering him, but after checking the bandage with his hands, he could see that the monks had done their work well. He could feel a neat suture; eventually a little scar above the hairline would be all that remained.

The medicus carefully opened the door and was at once blinded by the dazzling winter light. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the snow sparkled and glittered in such bright light that it took a while for his eyes to adjust. Then he looked out at the largest construction site he had ever seen.

Before him lay the Steingaden Monastery-or rather, what was being rebuilt in new splendor after the attack by the Swedes. Simon had heard that the current abbot, Augustin Bonenmayr, had ambitious plans, but only now could he see with his own eyes just how ambitious they were. Tall newly built structures stood all around. Many of the buildings sported new roof timbers, most were still covered with scaffolding, and white-robed monks and numerous workers scurried back and forth with trowels and wheelbarrows full of mortar. On Simon’s left, three men were calling loudly back and forth to one another as they tugged on a pulley, and somewhat farther away, an oxcart approached on a newly paved road, bringing freshly cut boards. The air smelled of resin and mortar.

Seeing Simon’s astonishment, Benedikta explained what was going on. “One of the foremen showed me around a bit. In the area where we were sleeping, they are building a new tavern, and right next to it will be the Latin school…” She pointed to a small building on the other side of the park. “There’s even a plan to build a theater here.” She walked ahead as she continued speaking. “I had a talk with the prior this morning. Abbot Bonenmayr plans to make the monastery the most beautiful in the entire region-at least as beautiful as the one in Rottenbuch, he says. He’s over there in the abbey and will receive us at noon.”

All that Simon could do was nod and jog along behind her. Benedikta had taken charge of everything as a matter of course, and Simon could see now why her brother would seek her advice. Behind her refined facade, Benedikta had an extremely direct way about her. He thought about the pistol and the shots she had fired the previous afternoon.

They met the abbot in the cloister between the abbey and the church. Augustin Bonenmayr was a gaunt man with a narrow face. On his nose he wore a pince-nez rimmed in brass, which he was using at the moment to study frescoes in a passageway leading from the chapel. In one arm he was carrying a bundle of parchments, and on his belt dangled a gigantic bundle of keys, along with a plumb line and a carpenter’s square. He looked more like a master builder than the leader of a great monastery.

When he heard the footsteps of the newcomers, he turned around to greet Simon and Benedikta.

“Ah, the young lady with the question! I have been informed of your arrival,” he said, removing the pince-nez. His deep voice resounded through the cloister. “And you must be young Fronwieser.” The abbot approached the medicus with a warm smile and extended his hand. Like all members of the Premonstratensian Order, he wore a white tunic, and a purple sash around his waist identified him as the abbot of the monastery. Simon knelt down and kissed a golden signet ring decorated with a cross.

“If you will permit me to say it,” Simon mumbled, still kneeling, “I have never seen such a magnificent monastery.”

Augustin Bonenmayr laughed and helped him to his feet. “Indeed, we shall rebuild everything-the mill, the brewery, a school, and of course, an abbey. We intend this to be a place of pilgrimage for the many who seek the closeness of God.”

“I am certain that Steingaden will be a showpiece in the Priests’ Corner,” Benedikta said.

The abbot smiled. “People again feel the need for places worthy of a pilgrimage, places where we can feel just how great God really is.” He stepped out of the chapel into the cloister. “But you have not come to talk about pilgrimages, have you? I have heard that you are here on a far sadder mission.”

Simon nodded, then briefly stated the purpose of their visit. “Perhaps the reason for the priest’s death has something to do with the history of the Saint Lawrence Church.”

The abbot frowned and turned to Benedikta. “Do you really think your brother was poisoned because of some dark secret having to do with his church? Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?”

Before Benedikta could answer, Simon interrupted. “Your Excellency,” he said matter-of-factly, “it is said that the Saint Lawrence Church is the property of your church. Are there any building plans? Or does someone know at least who the former owner was?”

Augustin Bonenmayr rubbed the bridge of his nose where the pince-nez had rested. “The monastery owns so many properties that I really don’t know about each individual one, but perhaps we can find something in our archives. Follow me.”

They walked along the cloister wall toward the abbey. On the second floor, they came to an unmarked, low door with two huge locks. As soon as the abbot opened them, Simon was confronted with the musty odor of old parchment. The room was at least twelve feet high. Individual shelves were recessed into niches and filled to the ceiling with books, folios, and rolls of parchment bearing the seal of the monastery. The room itself was covered with cobwebs, and a thin layer of dust had settled on a finely polished walnut table in the middle.

“Our centuries-old monastery library,” Bonenmayr said. “A miracle that it has survived and not fallen victim to fire. As you can see, we are rarely here these days, but the order is still the same. Wait…”

Taking a ladder from a corner, he climbed to the top of the next-to-last shelf.

“Lawrence Church, Lawrence Church…” he muttered to himself, looking around at the individual shelves. Finally, he called out in surprise. “Well, good heavens, here it is right in front of me.” He came down with a tattered roll of parchment with bits of red sealing wax still clinging to it.

Simon looked at the broken seal in surprise. “The roll has evidently been opened already,” the medicus said, passing his finger over the edges of the parchment, “and not too long ago. The wax is still shiny where the pieces broke off.”

Augustin Bonenmayr examined the brittle parchment thoughtfully. “Indeed,” he mumbled. “It is strange. After all, the roll is several hundred years old. Oh well, but…” He walked over to the table and unrolled the parchment. “But perhaps it was just recently copied because of the bad condition it’s in. Let’s have a look.”

Each standing to one side of the abbot, Benedikta and Simon stared at a document that was beginning to crumble at the edges. The writing was faded, but still legible.

“Here it is.” Bonenmayr pointed with his right index finger at a passage in the middle. “The monastery of Steingaden purchased the following properties in the year of our Lord 1289: two properties in Warenberg, two in Brugg, one in Dietlried, three in Edenhofen, one in Altenstadt, and…Indeed, that’s the Saint Lawrence Church in Altenstadt!” Bonenmayr whistled appreciatively. “Really a big transaction. It cost us two hundred and twenty-five denarii. That must have been a tidy sum back then.”

“And who was the seller?” Simon persisted.

The abbot’s finger moved up to the top of the parchment. “A certain Friedrich Wildgraf.”

“What was he?” Simon asked. “A merchant? A patrician? Please tell us.”

The abbot shook his head.

“If what I see here is correct, Friedrich Wildgraf was no less a person than the provincial master of the Order of the Knights Templar in the German Empire, an extremely powerful man at the time.”

Bonenmayr raised his eyes and looked into Simon’s petrified face.

“What is the matter?” he asked anxiously. “Are you not well? Perhaps I should explain to you first who the Templars were.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Simon said. “We know about them.”

Just half an hour later they left the monastery. From a safe hiding place, a figure watched as they disappeared with their horses into the trees. Turning away, the man fingered a rosary in his sweaty hands once again, one pearl after the other. Many years had passed, but now he felt they had almost reached their goal. God had chosen them.

“Deus lo vult,” he whispered, then fell to his knees to pray.