The Poisoned Pilgrim

9

ERLING, THE MORNING OF THURSDAY, JUNE 17, 1666 AD

The coach from Weilheim came sooner than expected.

Shortly after ten o’clock mass a procession of three coaches came up the valley through Erling. A half dozen soldiers with muskets sat atop the first one, looking down pompously at the villagers. Behind them, drawn by two black stallions, came an imposing, well-sprung enclosed coach escorted by four musketeers on horseback on the left and right. The third coach, however, was a simple oxcart with a solid wooden cage nailed to the top, large enough for a man.

It was in this cage that the soldiers would escort the sorcerer back to Weilheim.

“Damn, Simon. You were right,” Kuisl growled, spitting directly at the feet of one of the many spectators nearby. The hangman was still wearing his monk’s robe, and some bystanders couldn’t help but gawk at his great size and sinister appearance. “They’ll make short work of Nepomuk,” he said angrily. “Why didn’t I go to speak with him again?”

After his expedition the night before, the hangman had spent some time alone in the forest. But this time, for once, no sudden inspiration came to him. Simon finally found him at the crack of dawn, sitting alongside a brook not far from the knacker’s house and smoking his pipe.

Now the medicus stood beside his father-in-law and Magdalena, trying to get a glimpse into the coach through the gaping crowd. Simon, two heads shorter than Kuisl, had trouble seeing anything at all of the people in the procession. To make matters worse, he was carrying Paul on his shoulders, who kept tugging at his hair. In the meantime, Peter, along with some other boys, was chasing a startled chicken. Only reluctantly did he finally let his mother hold his hand.

“It looks like the district judge has come personally,” Simon shouted over the voices of those standing around. “Who would ever have expected that?”

He pointed at the coach, where a pale, plump face with a Van Dyke beard now appeared at the window, waving graciously to the crowd with a wrinkled hand adorned with several glittering golden rings.

“What a vain dandy,” Simon continued, in a noticeably softer voice. “I once saw the count at a meeting with our secretary. The old man spends the entire year at royal hunting parties. But His Excellency naturally wouldn’t pass up a trial against a sorcerer. People will be talking about it for years to come.”

In fact, the Count von Casana und Colle spent most of his time in Munich, leaving the work in Weilheim to his administrator-a situation the citizens didn’t mind all that much. But today the people of Erling seemed eager for pomp and glory. Rarely did a high-placed nobleman, with his soldiers and retinue, pay a visit to the little town, much less for the purpose of arresting “the warlock of Andechs”-as the former apothecary was now being called.

“They’ll have a spectacular public festival in Weilheim on the day of the execution,” Magdalena murmured. “So many people.”

Her father looked disapprovingly at the noisy crowd. He’d never been able to explain why people were so elated at the prospect of someone’s execution-even though this was the way he made a living.

“Even if the Andechs abbot wanted to, he couldn’t stop the trial,” Kuisl finally growled. “Cases like these fall under the jurisdiction of Weilheim. The most they ever do in Erling is hang a few highway robbers on gallows hill down by Graetz.”

By now, the procession had almost taken on the character of a festival. Many pilgrims had joined the citizens of Erling in marching behind the three coaches, and the coachmen had trouble making their way through the crowd. One yard at a time the procession made its way up the mountain toward the monastery. Children and barking dogs ran ahead and everyone else pointed at the wooden crate, already imagining the fate that awaited the sorcerer.

“In Augsburg they once put a sorcerer into boiling water,” an old farmer mumbled in a conspiratorial voice. “He screamed for hours, then cursed to himself as he shot down to hell like a bolt of lightning.”

“If they confess first, they’re just burned alive,” replied one of the passing servants pompously, as if he witnessed a witch trial every day. “Sometimes the hangman strangles them first or wraps a sack of gunpowder around them, but only if he’s in a good mood.”

A little old woman giggled. “Then I’d say things really look bad for the warlock of Andechs. The Weilheim hangman is one mean guy, you know. He never in his entire life had a good day. When he’s got someone on the rack, the poor fellow screams so loud you can hear him all the way to the palace in Seefeld.”

The bystanders laughed while Simon felt sick to his stomach. On several occasions, he’d attended a public execution, most of them carried out by his father-in-law, but the upcoming one promised to be particularly gruesome. The medicus knew that sorcerers and magicians could expect the worst punishment. He’d heard of a case in Munich where the assumed heretic had first been pinched by burning tongs, then put on the wheel, and finally burned at the stake. Magicians were quartered, boiled, buried alive, and in earlier times, even impaled. Evidently, only the complete destruction of their bodies was enough to break their evil spells.

By now the procession had arrived at the church square. The soldiers jumped down from the coach and cleared a path so the Weilheim judge could make his way into the church without being mobbed. It seemed His Excellency wanted to attend mass before turning to the irksome task of picking up the prisoner. In dignified fashion, though trembling somewhat, the sixty-year-old Count von Casana und Colle descended from the coach on a little stepladder, his entire being exuding the power he’d been accruing for decades. His belly, bloated by red meat, beer, and wine, was wrapped in velvet trousers; around his neck he wore a stiff ruffle that made his chin stand out and lent him an imperious look. At the church portal, the old man was received by the considerably younger Wittelsbach Count Wartenberg and the prior. Brother Jeremias bowed and spoke a few words of greeting.

“Isn’t that actually the job of the abbot?” Magdalena asked. “Where is he, anyhow?”

Simon frowned. “Apparently the balance of power in the monastery changes faster than you can say a rosary. I’m anxious to find out whether the prior tells the judge about the hosts that have disappeared, or whether he just hopes the thief will be found before the festival. Look over there.” Simon pointed at three monks who exited the church and were bowing one by one before the two counts.

“Look. It’s the librarian, the novitiate master, and the cellarer,” Magdalena whispered. “Bosom pals. Now the whole council is here except for the abbot. If you ask me,” she continued, “at least one of them has something to hide. They’re all learned people, but evil doesn’t stop at the doorstep to the universities. On the contrary, the more learned they are, the more outrageous their behavior.”

Suddenly her father seemed to freeze beside her. Then he pounded his forehead with his fist. “What an idiot I am,” he groaned. “Why didn’t I think of that before? I’ve got to get to Nepomuk before it’s too late.”

“Now?” Simon stared at him, horrified. “But what about the soldiers from Weilheim? No doubt some of them are already down at the dairy. They’ll ask who you are, and then-”

“I have to,” the hangman interrupted curtly. “They’ll probably move Nepomuk to the dungeon in Weilheim today, and then no one will be able to help. I know the executioner there, and Master Hans makes everyone talk, even if he has nothing to say.”

“But what more do you want from Nepomuk?” Magdalena asked. “Are you just going to say goodbye?”

“Nonsense. I have something to ask him, and I pray to God he knows the answer. I should have asked him much earlier.”

Simon stared anxiously at his father-in-law. “Asked him what?” he demanded, tapping the hangman on the chest. “You say you know who stole the hosts. So who was it? For God’s sake, won’t you stop torturing us?”

Kuisl grinned, but there was a sad gleam in his eye. “Torturing is my specialty,” he replied softly. “If I need you, I’ll let you know in plenty of time. Until then, it’s best you know as little as possible, or you might do something stupid.”

Without another word, the hangman pushed a few pilgrims aside and turned to leave. Simon and Magdalena watched the huge man stride quickly away-bounding up and down like a ship being tossed about on a stormy sea-and then disappear into the crowd.

“Where’s Grandpa?” Peter asked, tugging his mother’s hand impatiently. “Why did he leave again so soon?”

Magdalena sighed. “Your grandfather is a stubborn fellow. Once he’s got his mind set on something, not even the pope himself could stop him.” She bent down and ran her hand through his hair. “Do me a favor, will you? Don’t be so stubborn when you grow up.” But she couldn’t keep from smiling. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid it runs in the family.”

As Kuisl ran past the many spectators and pilgrims, he cursed softly to himself. Finally he’d figured out what had been irritating him so much the night before in the watchmaker’s house. He could only hope it wasn’t too late.

When he finally arrived breathless at the dairy, he was disappointed to see that some of the soldiers from Weilheim had already taken up their posts. The big fellows, in their uniforms and armed with halberds and muskets, seemed far more daunting than the Andechs hunters who’d been guarding the apothecary until just a short while ago. Just the same, Kuisl had to try to get to Nepomuk. He pondered briefly what to do-then decided on the most outrageous option.

Mumbling Latin prayers, the hangman pulled his hood down over his face and approached the four soldiers, who eyed him suspiciously.

“Hey, you! In the black robe,” one of them shouted. Wearing a silver-coated cuirass, this one appeared to be the leader of the guards. “What’s your business here?”

“I’m looking for Brother Johannes, also called the warlock of Andechs. Is he in this dungeon?” Kuisl tried to sound as much as possible like someone accustomed to giving orders. He stood up straight, eyeing each of the soldiers severely.

“Uh… who wants to know?” the captain replied, a bit uncertain.

“Henricus Insistoris from the Augsburg convent of St. Magdalena. The bishop instructed me to examine this case on behalf of the church.”

It was such a bald-faced lie that Kuisl could only hope his self-confident manner alone would hoodwink the captain. Dominicans actually wore white tunics under their black robes, and the hangman took the name from an inquisitor he once knew. To fend off any objection, he stomped boldly over to the dungeon entrance.

“What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Are you deaf or has the sorcerer already cast a spell to make your ears disappear?”

“But… but… the judge…” the captain ventured, hesitating.

“He knows about this. Don’t worry; the church will serve only to advise the high court, and everything else…” Abruptly the hangman stopped, studying a huge mole on the soldier’s unshaven cheek. “This mole…” Kuisl inquired, seeming greatly concerned. “How long have you had it?”

The captain blanched, nervously running his hand over the mole as his three colleagues looked at him curiously and whispered among themselves. “Well… since my childhood; that is, you could say… uh, forever.”

Kuisl slowly traced the outline of the mole with his finger. “It reminds you of a raven, doesn’t it? I once knew a witch who had a mole just like that. We burned her at the stake a few years ago in Landsberg.”

The captain’s face turned white. “My God, do you believe…” he stammered, but Kuisl was already squeezing past him.

“Leave faith out of it when you’re talking of the devil’s work,” he said casually. “And now open this door. I’d like to begin questioning this suspect. Or shall I question you first?”

In a fraction of a second, the captain had pushed the bolt aside and opened the door to the dungeon. Kuisl entered, blinking as his eyes got accustomed to the dim light inside. Finally he could make out the form of the ugly Nepomuk cowering against the wall in back. When the monk recognized his friend, he sat up, groaning.

“Jakob,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I thought you had forgotten-”

“Shhh,” said Kuisl, holding his finger to his lips. He turned around and called toward the door: “I will call you if I need a strong hand to help with my questioning. Until then, leave the two of us alone.”

Only too gladly, the soldiers closed the door. Murmuring could be heard out front, then a soft command from the captain to keep quiet. The hangman grinned.

“I’ve always wanted to do that-to carry on like a wise-ass scholar,” he said softly. “Not so hard, nothing but fancy drivel, yet people fall for it just the same.” He pulled down his hood, grinned, and wiped his face. “Now the four of them outside have plenty of time to check out the moles on their faces. I just hope none of them is smart enough to go and check with the judge.”

Nepomuk looked at his friend, horrified. “The judge? Do you mean the soldiers outside were sent by the judge?”

Kuisl suddenly turned dead serious. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Nepomuk. They want to take you to Weilheim today. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to stop it.”

Gasping, Nepomuk collapsed and buried his face in his hands. “Then I’m finished,” he whispered. “The Weilheim executioner will torture me. Oh God, Jakob, I’m so afraid. Not of death, but of the pain. We both know what comes next-the rack, the glowing tongs, the fire and sulfur-”

“Just be quiet and listen to me,” the Schongau hangman interrupted harshly. “What are you? The son of an executioner or a mouse?” He pulled his friend to his feet and looked him in the eye. “Remember the war, Nepomuk. Remember Breitenfeld. There’s always hope.”

Nepomuk nodded, staring off into space. He remembered. Back then, at the Battle of Breitenfeld, almost all of Tilly’s army had been wiped out by the Swedes; barely six hundred soldiers remained of forty thousand. Kuisl and Nepomuk had survived by hiding underneath a pile of corpses, where they listened to the screams of wounded soldiers being slaughtered by the enemy nearby.

“You survived Breitenfeld,” Kuisl murmured. “And you’ll survive this, as well. We hangmen were baptized personally by the devil, and it takes a lot more than cheap magic tricks to send us to hell.”

Then he told Nepomuk about the theft of the hosts from the holy chapel and the conversation he’d overheard between the monks. The apothecary listened to him in astonishment.

“If the district judge has even a spark of intelligence, he’ll realize there’s a connection between the murders and the theft,” Kuisl continued. “And you couldn’t have stolen the hosts-you would have had to fly out of here through the barred windows.”

Nepomuk nodded grimly. “That’s just what they’ll say I did.”

For a while, neither said a thing, and the buzzing flies and the muted conversations of soldiers out in the corridor were the only sounds. They both knew that Nepomuk was right, having seen all too often what an insignificant role reason and logic played in witch trials.

“Do you understand, Jakob?” the apothecary whispered. “This isn’t war; this is worse. The war was fought according to bloody rules, but faith is like a mad beast-once it’s broken out, it can no longer be controlled.”

Again both fell silent. Then the hangman finally let out a curse and kicked a basket of cheese so hard that the soldiers outside temporarily stopped their chatter.

“Just the same, you can’t let it get you down, do you understand?” Kuisl finally whispered after making sure none of the soldiers had become suspicious. “At least for a few days. First they’re going to show you the instruments of torture, and then they’ll gradually increase the pressure. You know how it goes-whatever you do, just don’t confess. Once you confess, you’re finished.”

Nepomuk laughed nervously. “And how are you going to get me out? With a little sleight of hand?”

“Of course not. I’ll turn over the real sorcerer to the district judge, but to do that I need to find out a few things, and you can help me with that.”

The monk’s already prominent eyes grew even larger. “Do you know who the sorcerer is?” he gasped.

“I think I at least know who stole the hosts.”

Kuisl led his friend to one of the wooden crates along the wall, sat down beside him, and told him briefly what he’d learned. When he was finished, Nepomuk nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s… that’s incredible,” he whispered finally. “But that might just be the way it happened. What can I do for you?”

Lowering his voice, the hangman answered him. There wasn’t a moment to waste: outside they could hear the squeaking oxcart approach with the wooden box.

Shortly thereafter, Jakob rose to his feet and looked his friend straight in the eye again.

“Don’t give up,” he whispered. “Everything will work out. Dum spiro, spero-as long as you’re breathing, there’s hope.” Kuisl smiled apologetically. “That’s what condemned men sometimes write on the wall of their cells in Schongau. Comforting words, even if it doesn’t really help in the end. Let’s pray that this time at least it all works out.” Then the hangman turned and knocked on the locked door.

“Hey you out there,” he barked. “The first cross-examination is over. You can open the door now.”

The bolt slid to one side and the captain opened the door, looking off to one side so Kuisl couldn’t see the mole on his face again. The other soldiers also stood back. Evidently each had a birthmark somewhere on his body he was hoping to hide.

“May the Lord illumine our way on our difficult journey through life,” Kuisl said, making the sign of the cross. “We shall have to continue this examination in Weilheim, but unfortunately it’s becoming clearer that this case involves witchcraft, and perhaps even more than we suspected.” He leaned down toward the captain and whispered in a conspiratorial voice, “The devil likes to appear in the form of a monk and of soldiers. Did you know that?”

Holding his head high, the self-appointed inquisitor stomped off with an energetic stride, just as the noisy entourage of coaches, oxcarts, and soldiers came to a halt in front of the dairy. The guards descended slowly and headed toward the tavern for their well-deserved noontime beer. Clearly the transfer of the prisoner could wait until they’d quenched their thirst. None of the men paid any attention to the huge monk who quietly moved past them.

As soon as Kuisl rounded the next corner, he threw off the robe and ran toward the knacker’s house in Erling as fast as if the devil were chasing him. He’d been thinking about how he might catch the person who’d stolen the hosts. His assumptions had been correct. Now all he had to do was to lure the perpetrator into his trap.

When he arrived, he found his cousin pushing a dead calf off his cart. “Do you have a pen and paper?” he asked him breathlessly.

The knacker grinned and pointed at the stinking carcass. “If you can wait a few weeks, I’ll have the finest parchment for you. What a stroke of luck. I just picked up this animal-”

“Just shut up and give me a scrap of something,” he interrupted. “I’m not writing a Bible, just a letter.”

His cousin raised his eyebrows. “A letter? To whom?” Suddenly his face brightened. “Ah, your Anna-Maria, naturally. Send my best greetings to your sick wife.”

“I’ll… do that. Now quick, the piece of paper.”

Kuisl shuddered at the thought of his wife. Was she getting better, or had the cough gotten worse? But then he turned his thoughts back to Nepomuk. If Kuisl was right, he might be able to save his friend soon and return to his wife in Schongau. He followed the knacker into the house silently, where Graetz proudly handed over the paper, pen, and a pot of ink.

“Here you are,” he said. “It belongs to Matthias. When I can’t understand him, he sometimes writes things down. I myself can just barely write my name, which is all I need. It’s different with you educated hangmen-you flay people, but I just flay animal carcasses.” He laughed and went outside again to attend to the dead calf.

Kuisl sat down at the wobbly table and wrote a few lines in neat, straight letters. It was just a short note written hastily on a scrap of paper, but Kuisl hoped it would be enough to lure its recipient out of his hiding place.

He carefully folded the letter several times, then returned to the monastery to deliver it.

It was a message for the sorcerer.

Pursued by a raging beast, Magdalena ran with her children past the barley fields not far from Andechs.

Simon had stuffed ears of the grain in his jacket, and they stuck out of his sleeves like long fingers. Wagging his head playfully from side to side and occasionally letting out a deep growl, he emerged from the low bushes at the edge of the field.

“A bear!” shrieked three-year-old Peter, stumbling over his own little feet. “Father is an angry bear!”

“More like a clumsy dancing bear,” Magdalena replied, helping her elder son to his feet. “He’s certainly not big enough to be a bear.”

Paul looked at his father, as if still wondering whether Simon hadn’t really suddenly changed into a monster. He pointed his fingers, sticky with elderberry juice, at Simon, who was kneeling now in front of the children.

“Papa, good bear?” Paul asked anxiously.

Simon nodded and spread his arms out with a broad smile. “The best bear in the whole forest. You don’t have to be afraid.”

After the district judge had arrived from Weilheim, the four of them had gone for a walk through the fields around Andechs. For the first time in a long while, they were together as a family-without the pilgrims or Simon’s grouchy father-in-law, who was once again busy with his own concerns. The mild June sun shone down; there was a faraway scent of burning coal, and high over the fields, a buzzard circled in search of an unwary mouse. The children had been frolicking among the poppies along the edge of the field, but when their father suddenly appeared as a raging animal, the mood changed.

“How can you frighten the children like that?” Magdalena scolded. “Just look at Paul. He’s scared to death.”

“I’m sorry. I… I thought the children would enjoy it,” Simon stammered, pulling stalks of barley out of his jacket.

“Bear? Papa is a bear?” Paul asked again, clinging to his mother.

“Hah, does it look like they’re enjoying it?” Magdalena replied. “And tonight he won’t be able to sleep again.”

Simon raised his hands apologetically. “Fine, I understand. It won’t happen again. But what’s wrong with you?” he asked, shaking his head. “I’ve never known you to be so anxious.”

“You would probably be anxious, too, if some madman kept trying to kill you.”

Simon sighed. “Do you still believe that the shadowy figure in the tower and the stray bullet in the forest weren’t accidents?”

“For God’s sake, that was no stray bullet,” Magdalena snapped back. “How often do I have to tell you that? And that falling sack was also intended for me.”

“What falling sack?”

Magdalena hesitated. She still hadn’t told Simon about the sack of lime that fell from the scaffolding two nights ago and just missed her. Was she being paranoid? While they watched the children play, she told Simon what had happened. Finally, he turned to his wife with a determined look.

“I still don’t know what to think of it,” he said softly. “But if you’re really afraid, let’s go back home to Schongau-today. You’ll be safe there.”

“And leave my father here by himself?” Magdalena shook her head. “That’s out of the question. He’s getting older and needs us more than he’ll admit even to himself. Besides, didn’t you yourself say that you have to finish that damned report for the abbot if we’re not to look guilty ourselves? Let’s stay here for the time being.” She ripped off an ear of barley and pulled it apart. “It would really be a big help to me if the lord and master would spend a little more time caring for his children. Tell the boys a bedtime story now and then and don’t spend all your time poking your nose in books and other people’s affairs.”

Angrily, Simon kicked a big rock at the side of the field. “You make it sound as if I enjoy doing it,” he scolded. “But I’m only helping your father.”

“If it only happened here in Andechs,” she replied, staring straight ahead toward some swallows flying low over the fields, “but it’s the same in Schongau. Day in and day out, you care for the sick and forget the healthy. Weeks can go by, and the boys hardly remember what you look like. Sometimes I think you’re not really there for us.”

“That’s my job, Magdalena,” Simon snapped back. “Don’t forget you married a bathhouse doctor, not a farmer who can spend all winter long in the house telling stories to his children. People are always getting sick, day and night, at every time of year.” He looked at her defiantly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “If you want, you can take off with that mute Matthias. The children seem to like him more than me, in any case. And without a tongue, he can’t gripe, either.”

“My God, how can anyone be so mean?” Magdalena turned away in disgust. “This man suffered more as a child in the war than you can even imagine. And he may be mute, but that certainly doesn’t mean he’s stupid. Just look at my father… He talks only when he has something to say, not like your wise-ass scholars who talk just to keep their mouths flapping.”

“I told you a hundred times not to compare me with your stubborn father. I’m a doctor and not a hangman.”

“And I’m a hangman’s daughter.” Magdalena stared off angrily into the distance where the children were looking at an empty bird’s nest. From here, they looked even smaller and more vulnerable than usual. “And my boys are the grandsons of a dishonorable hangman,” she whispered. “Something like that sticks to you like pitch-you never shake it off. Never.”

At that moment an indistinct figure appeared at the other end of the field of barley. At first it was barely visible in the blinding sunlight, but as it came closer, it gradually took shape: a huge monk striding through the grain. Magdalena couldn’t help but think of the Grim Reaper, coming to mow people down with his scythe.

When Kuisl arrived in front of them, Magdalena noticed a fire in his eyes that she knew only too well. A mixture of pride, disgust, and defiance-the way he often looked before an execution.

“I spoke with Nepomuk and have been thinking about it,” he mumbled, crushing a few hulls of barley absent-mindedly between his fingers. “The time has come for us to catch the real sorcerer.”

Down in the monastery dairy, the bolt was thrown back and the four soldiers from Weilheim crowded into the stuffy, low-ceilinged room, looking at the trembling figure at their feet with disgust.

“Get up, you bastard,” the leader demanded. “Your nap is over. Now we’re bringing you to the dungeon in Weilheim, where the executioner will deal with you. Your elegant coach is waiting for you outside.”

The other soldiers laughed. The monk whimpered and thrashed about as they pulled him outside to the oxcart with the wooden cage. Behind them the soldiers’ wagon and the district judge’s coach waited.

It had been a long time since Nepomuk was last out in the sun, so he had to blink to recognize the district judge himself standing alongside his coach, apparently just concluding a long conversation with the prior. The two approached the monk, who was covered with filth. He’d been lying in his own waste for four days, and he could smell it on himself now.

“So this is the famous warlock of Andechs,” said Count von Casana und Colle, scrutinizing the apothecary as he would an exotic captive animal. Twirling his gray mustache, he turned to the prior. “It’s good you let us know. A matter like this cannot remain just the concern of the monastery, and we must examine everything carefully. I can’t understand why the abbot didn’t call on the district court earlier.”

“His Excellency Maurus Rambeck is a distinguished scholar,” the prior replied with a shrug. “But he sometimes lacks a… well… broader view.”

Count von Casana und Colle nodded. “I understand. Well, we’ll surely find a solution for that.”

Until that moment, Nepomuk had listened to the conversation in silence. Now he turned to his former superior. “Brother Jeremias,” he pleaded, “you have known me for a long time. Do you really believe I’m responsible for these-”

“What I believe is of no importance,” the prior snarled, his eyes suddenly turning icy. “Only the trial will reveal your guilt or innocence.”

“But the matter has already been decided,” he burst out. “All these people have already made up their minds. You know what comes next, Brother. The executioner will torture me. You must not allow that. Please…”

But the prior had already turned away and returned to the coach with the count.

“I have complete confidence that the high court in Weilheim will reach a just verdict,” Nepomuk heard Brother Jeremias say. “Can I invite Your Excellency into the monastery for a glass of wine in the Prince’s Quarters?”

“I would be delighted, Your Reverence, but I fear we must put that off till another time,” the count responded. “We have some outstanding taxes to collect in this area, but I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon. Perhaps we can drink the wine then in the room of the new abbot.” He laughed, and the conversation grew fainter as the two walked away.

Nepomuk took a deep breath, turning his face to the blue sky where just a few white clouds passed by, heralds of a coming storm. The monk knew this was perhaps the last time he would see such a sky. From here on, only Jakob would be able to help him.

Though Nepomuk prayed fervently that the Schongau hangman’s suspicions were correct, he harbored no illusions about his chances of escaping torture and death at the stake. The mob had found its victim. Why should it spend any more time thinking about the real perpetrator-especially if this perpetrator was as influential and powerful as Nepomuk assumed.

Suddenly a calm came over him, his trembling stopped, and he murmured a silent prayer.

“Dear Lord, you are everywhere. Be also in me and make me strong for what is to come. Give the Weilheim hangman a steady hand, and be a light unto the Schongau executioner on his way. No matter what happens, I ask for your blessing.”

“Get up, you ugly toad. The fire awaits you.” With a loud crack, one of the soldiers opened the front of the crate with a crowbar, then together they lifted the prisoner onto the cart like a calf going to slaughter and squeezed him inside. Nepomuk could hear them hammering nails into the box; then everything turned dark around him except for a few cracks along the top that gave him just enough light to make out the contours of the box. It was narrow and low around him. He sat crouched over and could smell the strong scent of fresh spruce.

“Giddyup.”

As the wagon started to rumble forward, Nepomuk had to brace himself on the sides of the box so as not to be flung back and forth. After a while he could hear a growing number of voices outside, nasty, angry voices.

“Hang the sorcerer! Hang him and burn him! Just like in hell!”

“Hey, little monk, see if your magic can get you out of this box. Or can’t you do it?”

“Curses on you, you beast. Holy Mary, punish him with pain, make him suffer and scream at the stake for a long time.”

Suddenly something struck the box from outside. This was followed by a hail of stones and then a loud thud. The noise swelled to a roar of shouting voices as more stones came raining down and the mob seemed to lose all control.

“Stop this,” the captain of the guards could be heard shouting. “This man will not avoid his just punishment, but it will be the district judge who punishes him and not you.”

Nepomuk pulled his legs to his chest and put his hands to his ears to keep from hearing the rest, but he could still feel how the crate was being pummeled.

My God, this box is not a prison at all, it’s protecting me, he thought. Without this box people would have no doubt ripped me to pieces long before.

A while passed before the pounding relented, then finally stopped completely. Removing his hands from his ears, Nepomuk heard just the squeaking wagon wheels and chirping birds now-thrushes, finches, and blackbirds singing in the forest. A narrow strip of sunlight fell through a knothole in the wood and directly onto Nepomuk’s face.

It was a gorgeous day.

But distant thunder announced the coming storm.

Just a few hours later, three cloaked figures moved through the little streets below the monastery, hunched over in the torrential rain striking their woolen capes obliquely and soaking them to the skin. Lightning flashed through the sky, followed immediately by earsplitting thunder. Dusk had turned into pitch-black night, and only a few lights were still burning up in the monastery. Simon looked up anxiously, squinting in the face of the driving rain.

“Couldn’t we have left a bit later?” he complained. “What a deluge. If we don’t watch out we’ll be washed down into the Kien Valley.”

The Schongau hangman turned around with a look of contempt. “What are you? A man of salt who will dissolve in the rain? It’s just water, not pitch or sulfur; your fine jacket will dry out again, and life will go on.”

“It certainly isn’t healthy to stomp through the rain in such weather.” Simon sneezed, as if to support his point.

“You could have stayed with the knacker in his comfy little house,” Kuisl snarled. “It would have been better that way. What a group-a silly bathhouse doctor and my own daughter. I’d feel a lot better if I had a few of my men from the war here now.”

“But this isn’t a war. We’re in Andechs,” whined Magdalena, who, following Simon closely, was barely recognizable beneath her soaked headscarf. “And if you were any kind of a leader you would at least have let your troops in on your plans. Who is the damned sorcerer, anyway?” She was working herself up into a frenzy now. “Damn it all. You’ve been stringing us along since yesterday. Admit that you like keeping us in suspense.”

Kuisl grinned. “Let your father enjoy this moment. Besides, it’s dangerous to know too much in Andechs these days. It’s for your own good. You’ll have to put up with it just a bit longer.”

Simon and Magdalena followed the hangman up to the monastery. They forgot their argument earlier that day as soon as Kuisl told them they might that very night unmask the person who stole the hosts. In the meanwhile, the knacker and his mute assistant would care for the two sleeping boys. Magdalena had simply told the two men that she and Simon had to take care of the sick pilgrims, but now, in the silence and darkness occasionally punctuated by flashes of lightning, the hangman’s daughter wondered whether it wouldn’t have been better for them to stay back in the house on such a night, too.

Suddenly Kuisl turned sharply to the right, and the couple quickly realized where he was headed.

“The watchmaker’s workshop,” Simon groaned. “What in heaven’s name do you think we’ll find there?”

“I sent for someone to meet us,” the hangman replied without turning around. “I sent him a message, and if I’m right, he’ll show up.”

“And if he doesn’t?” asked Magdalena.

“Then I’ll head for Weilheim, give the executioner hell, and rescue Nepomuk from the dungeon all by myself.”

Magdalena cringed. “Then let’s just hope you’re right. I don’t want to see my father cut up into pieces, skewered on a spear, covered with tar, and set out on display all around Weilheim.”

The front of the watchmaker’s house had seemed so inviting in bright daylight but now appeared gloomy in the rain and dark. Low-lying and tilting to one side, the house-with its garden in front and low wall-didn’t seem to fit in with its surroundings. The door looked locked, but when Kuisl gave it a push it swung open with a grating sound.

The hangman removed a lantern from under his cape and gazed at the strange objects before him-the crocodile on the ceiling, the broken furniture, the burn marks on the floor. Everything was just the way he’d found it the night before.

“We’re a bit early,” Kuisl said. “I’ve summoned our friend to come when the bells toll eleven o’clock, but I thought there would be no harm in arriving a bit early.” He grinned. “Not that we should expect any surprises.”

“What friend?” asked Simon, shaking the water from his hair. “By all the saints, won’t you tell us? I can’t think of anything more fun than to prowl around a haunted house, in thunder and lightning, where one man has been burned alive and another was presumably abducted by a golem.”

Without answering, Kuisl motioned his son-in-law to approach the narrow staircase leading to the second floor. “Come now, you coward,” he said with a mischievous smile. “I’ll show you something you’ll like. I promise.”

“Your word in God’s ear. If I must.”

The three of them passed through the assistant’s bedroom and up a narrow staircase into the small library Kuisl had discovered the evening before. When Simon saw the books, his mood changed dramatically. His fear vanished as he enthusiastically removed one after the other from the shelves and started leafing through them.

“This… this is a real treasure,” he gasped. “Just look.” He held up a stained folio volume. “The Opus Maius of the Franciscan Roger Bacon, with illustrations. It must be worth a fortune. And look here… Agrippa’s De occulta philosophia.”

“Wonderful,” Magdalena replied dryly. “But unfortunately we’re not here to read but to catch a madman. Put the damned books back on the shelf and stop shouting.”

“Fine, fine, I just thought…”

At that moment, Simon’s eyes fell on the front cover of the Opus Maius, imprinted with a golden stamp.

Sigillum universitatis paridianae salisburgensis…

“A book from Salzburg University?” The medicus frowned. “But why…” Something about the stamp puzzled him, but just as he started to examine it more closely, he heard something downstairs. The door creaked, and a moment later the church bells struck the eleventh hour.

“Ah, our friend has arrived,” the hangman said. “I was right after all. Let’s go downstairs and greet him.”

Kuisl quietly descended the stairs into the assistant’s room with Simon and Magdalena close behind. Once downstairs, they tiptoed toward the half-open door of the workshop. Through the small opening, Kuisl saw a light moving quickly back and forth through the room; then he heard a soft, grating voice.

“Virgilius? Virgilius? Are you here?” the voice said. “Do you have the monstrance?”

Simon cringed. The voice sounded familiar, and now he saw the man, as well. A monk in a dark robe stood with his back to them, holding a torch to light the room. His hood came down over his face, and he was bent over like a bloodhound intently sniffing the floor.

“My God, the sorcerer,” Magdalena whispered. “That’s the man from up in the tower…”

Simon placed his hand over her mouth, but it was too late-the stranger had heard her. He briefly turned his masked face in her direction, then ran as fast he as he could toward the exit.

“Stop, you scoundrel!” Magdalena called to him. “You just wait and I’ll show you what happens when you try to throw a hangman’s daughter from a tower.”

She reached for one of the two copper hemispheres on the ground in front of her and flung it at the departing figure. There was an earsplitting sound, like that of a ringing bell; then the man staggered a few steps and collapsed onto the floor, stunned. The torch rolled to one side, flickered one last time, and went out, plunging the room into complete darkness. Not even the hangman or his lantern was visible.

Paralyzed for a few seconds, Simon strained to see what lay in front of him in the darkness. When he finally made out a vague outline, he reached for the second half of the sphere and ran toward the shadowy figure, which, staggering and moaning, seemed to be trying to stand up.

“Stop!” Simon cried out into the darkness. “In the name of the monastery, you are under arrest.”

The dark figure hobbled toward them now, gasping, and Simon brandished the heavy copper bowl in his hand, prepared to bring it down on the warlock’s head at the slightest hint of resistance.

The man turned toward the exit, but when Magdalena ran after him, he wheeled around again and struck her so hard she staggered backward.

“Simon, stop him,” she panted. “He mustn’t get away.”

Simon was still holding the half sphere over his head, but as he prepared to throw it, another large shadow appeared in front of the open door.

The Schongau hangman.

“Stop at once!” he called out. “All three of you, or I’ll whip you so hard you’ll have to crawl through the church on your knees.”

With his left hand, Kuisl slammed the door closed, and with his right he raised his lantern, shining it directly in the face of the monk whose hood had fallen from his head during the fight.

When Simon finally recognized the man, he had to clench his jaw tight to keep from screaming.

It was the abbot of Andechs, and he was very angry.