The Poisoned Pilgrim

12

ANDECHS, NOON ON FRIDAY, JUNE 18, 1666 AD

The robe scratched and itched, and Jakob Kuisl thought he could smell in it the sweat of at least a dozen fat monks. Nonetheless, he pulled down his cowl as he made his way to the monastery. He had changed clothes down at the knacker’s house but then immediately returned to the Holy Mountain. The many pilgrims who had camped out in Erling and surrounding villages stepped aside respectfully, only a few stopping to wonder why the Franciscan was mumbling such unchristian curses.

The hangman didn’t really know what to look for up at the monastery, but time was running out, and in Weilheim his friend’s first interrogation would no doubt begin that day. Burning at the stake would quickly follow. If Kuisl didn’t come up soon with a clue leading him to the real sorcerer, the innocent Nepomuk would die a cruel, painful death.

On arriving, Kuisl saw that another mass was about to begin. Now, with the Festival of the Three Hosts fast approaching, there were up to a half dozen masses each day, and the first pilgrims were now heading toward the church portal that was covered with scaffolding.

Kuisl looked up skeptically at the hole in the roof and the new beams forming the steeple. It appeared the building wouldn’t be ready in time for the festival, especially since many of the workers at the site were bedridden with this mysterious fever.

When a large group of Benedictines entered the church, the hangman was about to follow them when it occurred to him this would be a good time to visit the monks’ cells. Perhaps he could learn something useful in the monastery’s living quarters.

His head bowed deeply as if in prayer, Kuisl hurried through the inner portal to the cloister and, from there, through another open door into the east wing of the three-story building. The hangman really had no idea where the individual monks’ cells were located, but fortunately most of the rooms in the monastery were empty now during mass. He saw only one very old, stooped monk sweeping the refectory where the Brothers took their meals three times a day. The old man didn’t notice him, so Kuisl continued walking through the corridors murmuring his Latin prayers in a monotone: “Dominus pascit me nihil mihi deerit, in pascuis herbarum adclinavit me…” The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; he maketh me to lie down in green pastures…

In the distance, he could hear the organ and the singing of the faithful, but these sounds faded as he got farther and farther from the church.

The monastery was a huge building with an inner courtyard that Kuisl could make out vaguely through the high bull’s-eye glass windows. He decided to look around first on the ground floor and then work his way up until he had found something, or was caught. Despite his clerical garb and murmured prayers, Kuisl had no illusions about what would happen if the monks discovered him in one of the cells; they wouldn’t let him go without a very good excuse.

By now he’d passed through a number of corridors and was about halfway around the building without having found a thing that could help him in his search. He passed the Museum Fratrum-a room the lay brothers used for moments of leisure or prayer with ornamental stucco cherubs on the ceiling and upholstered recessed seats along the walls; then the kitchen and a tiny library containing only a small selection of religious documents.

Just as he was about to give up and head to the second floor, he found himself standing in front of another corridor with small wooden doors along the sides at regular intervals. In contrast with the splendor of the rooms he’d just visited, these looked strikingly plain.

He pressed the handle on the first door and was relieved to find it unlocked. One look was enough to assure him he wasn’t mistaken. This was clearly a monk’s cell.

The barren, cavernous room contained nothing but a bed, a chest, and a stool alongside a rough-hewn table. Some parchment documents lay on the table next to the wax stub of a candle. Leaning down, Kuisl realized the document was a manifest of purchases made by the monastery, including the costs of wooden beams, nails, bricks and mortar, and a load of stone.

A broad grin spread across the hangman’s face. These were clearly the expense records for the monastery construction. The cellarer was always the one responsible for management and financial matters at a monastery, and in fact he soon found his signature on the document.

Greetings, Brother Eckhart. I’m sure you have no objection to my having a quick look at this.

The hangman cast a fleeting glance at the documents but could find nothing more than financial statements and calculations. Finally he turned to the chest. To his great delight, it too was unlocked and its contents very neatly arranged. He found another monk’s robe, a worn Bible, and a scourge with dry blood still adhering to lead spikes at the end of ropes. In disgust, the executioner turned the short whip in his hands. In Schongau, he’d used a similar instrument on several occasions to beat criminals and drive them out of town. Kuisl found it hard to believe that anyone would subject himself to this painful punishment of his own free will. What fantasies were tormenting the fat cellarer so much that he had to drive them out with this whip? The hangman had heard of people who enjoyed torturing themselves like that, but he’d never met any in his torture chamber.

Disappointed, he laid the scourge back in the chest, closed the lid carefully, and returned to the corridor. Then he turned the handle on the next cell.

This door was also unlocked. He entered, closing the door behind him to avoid arousing the suspicion of anyone who might pass by. Looking around curiously, he saw a bare room laid out with exactly the same furniture, but with a table that was empty except for a candle, a quill, and a pot of ink.

When Kuisl went to open the chest on the floor, he discovered that this chest was locked. Prepared for such problems, he reached into the pockets of his sticky monk’s robe for the bent pieces of metal the knacker in Erling had made for him.

Pressing his lips tight, he poked around in the keyhole until he heard a soft click. The whole procedure had taken no longer than two minutes. Kuisl grinned as he opened the cover, pulled out another robe, and was enveloped in the faint, almost imperceptible fragrance of rose oil.

Underneath the robe lay a small, thin book written by a certain Ovid. In flowery lettering, its title claimed to be a guide to nothing less than ars amatoria, the art of love. Kuisl had never heard of either the poet or the book, but as he browsed the Latin verses, he could see that the contents were erotic. He sniffed the robe and the book with his large nose, but the fragrance of costly perfume came from neither of them. Like a sleuth hound, he leaned over and continued sniffing. The fragrance clearly came from the chest; either it had permeated the wood or…

He froze. As he eyed the dimensions of the chest, there was no doubt it wasn’t as deep inside as it should be. He poked an iron hook into the slit between the bottom and back of the chest until the wooden bottom gave way and could now be turned up. Beneath the false bottom, he found several bundles, each containing a dozen letters bound with silk ribbon and releasing the intense aroma of rose oil.

Well look here, dear little monk, Kuisl thought grimly. Whatever secret you’re hiding will be revealed now.

Kuisl listened carefully for anyone approaching in the hall, but all he heard were the faint voices of the pilgrims reciting the Credo in the sanctuary. The mass wouldn’t be over for at least fifteen minutes.

Very carefully the hangman pulled a letter from beneath the silk ribbon and opened it. It was a passionate declaration of love addressed to none other than the novitiate master Brother Laurentius. Kuisl quickly scanned the lines down to the bottom.

The signature read: “From one who loves you more than anything else, Vitalis.”

Kuisl rubbed the perfumed letter between his huge hands, lost in thought. Indeed, the watchmaker’s assistant. Evidently Vitalis and the novitiate master had been more devoted to each other than was proper for chaste Benedictines. Had Brother Laurentius perhaps murdered his lover because he was about to betray him? Did he have something to do with the abduction of the watchmaker? In any case, the letters in the secret compartment were deadly in the hands of unscrupulous people. Though Kuisl himself had never executed any sodomite monks, he knew of cases where the poor creatures were burned at the stake or buried alive.

At that moment, he heard steps approaching in the corridor. Quickly, he placed the letters back in the chest, pulled the false bottom back over them, and closed the lid. Just as he was about to rush into the hall, however, he realized he was too late-the steps had approached the door, and he could now even make out bits of conversation between two men. He ducked behind the door and hoped the men would walk by.

Unfortunately they stopped right in front of the door.

“Just what do you think you are doing, taking me out of mass for a conversation?” an angry voice said. “I hope there’s a good reason for me to miss Holy Communion, Laurentius.”

A soft, tearful voice responded. “Brother Benedikt, I don’t know who I can trust. I told you about the automaton’s melody.”

“And what about it?” came the harsh reply.

“I heard it again in exactly the same place. You know what that means. This puppet is down there somewhere.” The delicate voice became so soft Kuisl could scarcely hear a word. “And it’s looking for us, Benedikt. It knows what we’ve done.”

Kuisl froze. If he caught the names correctly, the librarian Benedikt and the novitiate master Laurentius were right outside the door. He held his breath and prayed they wouldn’t enter the cell.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brother Benedikt replied. “Anyway, it’s been well established now that Johannes committed the murders. We spread the stories about the golem just so nobody would poke around down there during the festival. And now you believe it yourself, you fool.”

“And the hosts?” Brother Laurentius laughed despairingly.

“You think Johannes magically stole them while he was locked up inside the dungeon? I tell you that was the golem, Virgilius’s damned automaton.”

“Nonsense,” the librarian shot back. “Perhaps Johannes had an accomplice. How do I know? We’ve found our culprit, and that’s all that matters. The hosts are the least of our problems. We’ll just replace them with others, and then we can just go on as before.”

“You forget the monstrance-it’s missing, too. People know what it looks like.”

Kuisl had to be sure the men behind the door were who he thought they were, so he bent down to the keyhole. Through the tiny opening, he could in fact see the old librarian rubbing his gout-ravaged fingers thoughtfully over his lips.

“The monstrance is in fact a bit of a problem,” he murmured. “It will be hard for us to find one just like it, but I’m sure nobody will notice in the hustle and bustle of the festival.”

“How can you be so cold?” Now Kuisl had a good view of the novitiate master, too, who was striding back and forth in the hall, wringing his hands. “Two men are dead, perhaps even three, and a monster is roaming about. We never should have used the cellars. Now it will all come out.”

“Nothing will come out if you keep calm,” Brother Benedikt said angrily. “In any case nothing can happen to us. Brother Eckhart and I personally sealed the entrance to the catacombs yesterday with heavy stones-just to be sure. Nobody will find out what’s down there.”

“You know there are other entrances,” Laurentius replied anxiously. “They’re recorded in the plans. Can’t we seal up those entrances, as well?”

Brother Benedikt shrugged. “That will hardly be possible. The plans have disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Brother Laurentius raised his hands, and his face turned white. “Why in God’s name have the plans disappeared?”

“Damn it, I don’t know,” Benedikt replied gruffly. “I had them in my room, with many other books and documents, but when I went to look for them yesterday, they were gone. I suspected one of you, or perhaps Maurus-”

“Oh, God, do you think the abbot has found us out?”

“If that’s the case, then he’s holding back. Perhaps he’s just so distracted by everything else going on that he hasn’t been paying attention to it. All the better for us. And now listen to me…” Brother Benedikt poked the novitiate master in the chest with his gnarled finger so hard that Laurentius had to take an astonished step back. “You’ve always made a good profit from our little secret. You built your little love nest down there for Vitalis and always showed up when there were things to hand out. So now just hold your tongue. Whatever is down there will soon die of hunger or flee through one of the holes. Remember, we already have a sorcerer, and that’s Brother Johannes. Soon he’ll be dragged to the stake, the festival will be over, and then we can just keep doing as before. But only if you keep quiet. Do you understand? Only if you keep quiet.”

Brother Laurentius nodded reluctantly. “I… I understand.”

“Then go back to your little room and rest up a bit. You’ll see; you won’t hear any more music.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I… I’m tired. This is all a bit too much for me.”

Horrified, Kuisl watched as the latch moved down and the door slowly opened. He stepped back against the wall next to the entrance. The voices were now noticeably louder.

“I’m going back to the church now to say you’re sick,” the librarian said. “After that we can calmly-”

Suddenly he stopped. Kuisl didn’t notice in time that his big right foot protruded through the crack in the door.

“What the hell-” Brother Benedikt started, but at that moment, the door hit him hard in the face. Screaming, the monk fell to the floor, holding his bloody nose. The novitiate master also fell back against the wall and watched horror-stricken as a giant man rushed out of his cell toward the exit.

“Stop that man,” screamed Brother Benedikt. “Stop that fraudulent Franciscan! I knew from the start we couldn’t trust him. He’s the devil in human form.”

Brother Laurentius took a few cautious steps, but the librarian’s last words had clearly made him even more anxious than before. He fell to his knees, made the sign of the cross, and watched as the black-robed giant fled out the door.

After her meeting with the abbot in the monastery’s enchanted garden, Magdalena hurried back to the clinic. She couldn’t stop thinking about her conversation with Rambeck, his stories of ancient gods and rattling automata. She desperately needed to talk to Simon. Perhaps he’d find time to go for a little walk and she could leave the boys with Matthias for a while.

On entering the former horse stable, she quickly saw that even more sick people had arrived, among them some of the masons from Schongau. They rolled about, moaning, on their beds while Schreevogl went from one to the other dispensing cold compresses. The patrician had changed noticeably in recent days. His doublet, once so spotless, was smudged, and there was a long rip in his trousers, but he seemed nevertheless almost cheerful as he walked down the rows of patients. He looked up bright-eyed and greeted Magdalena as she entered.

“Oh, Magdalena,” he cried. “You’re surely looking for Simon.” Holding a steaming cup in his hands, he pointed toward the rear of the room. “He’s back there mixing some medicine, but I’m afraid he won’t have much time for you.”

“We’ll see if my husband has time for me,” she said, clenching her teeth. It came out angrier than intended.

Carrying both boys in her arms, she squeezed past several beds and finally found Simon in the back standing beside a table where he weighed various ground herbs on a little scale, then placed them into a pot. Concentrating, his eyes narrowed to little slits and his eyebrows twitched nervously. He had just carefully measured out the greenish powder onto the scale with a little spoon.

“Simon, I have to talk to you. The abbot-” she began.

The sudden sound made the medicus jump and spill the powder on the table.

“Damn, Magdalena,” he cursed. “How can you startle me like that? Look what you’ve done. Now I have to start weighing it all over again. You know yourself how precious angelica root is.”

“Forgive me for talking to you; I’m only your wife,” she replied snippily. “I thought the gentleman might perhaps have time to take a little walk with me and his children-if he even remembers that he has children. Here, may I introduce you?” she said, holding the two boys out toward him. “This is your father.”

Simon stared at her blankly, his thoughts apparently far away. “A walk?” he mumbled finally. “Do you have any idea what I’m doing here? If I can’t heal the count’s son, we’ll never take a walk again-because I’ll be dead. And at this moment his life-and mine-hang in the balance.”

“Simon,” Magdalena said, this time in a more conciliatory tone, “don’t you think all this is too much for you? The matter of my father and this sorcerer, the murders, all the sick people, and now the count’s son. A walk could do you a world of-”

“Once this is over, I’ll walk with you and the children to the moon, if you want.” He looked at her with tired, reddened eyes. “But until then you’ll somehow have to get along without me. I’m sorry, but this here comes first.” A brief smile crossed his face. “In the meantime, by the way, I’ve continued reading the book by Girolamo Fracastoro, and it’s extremely interesting. I think I’m almost at the point of solving the secret of this illness. If I only knew-”

“Master Fronwieser, come quickly. We have a new patient.”

Shrugging, Simon turned away and hurried toward the entrance, where Schreevogl was just bringing in an old woman who was barely able to stand. She kept mumbling prayers and was coughing heavily.

“Bring her back to me, Schreevogl,” Simon called. “Someone died here last night and there’s a bed free.”

With clenched lips Magdalena watched as her husband laid some dirty straw-filled pillows down on the bed and then returned to the table to resume his weighing.

“Three ounces each of barberry and buckbean, two ounces of angelica…” he murmured without looking up. He seemed to have forgotten Magdalena already.

The hangman’s daughter stood there silently for a while, holding one child in each hand. She squeezed them so hard they began to whimper. After a while, she turned away and led them toward the exit.

“Come, you two,” she said in a tired voice, staring vacantly ahead. “Papa has no time today. He has to help other people. We’ll see if Matthias can play with you.”

A dozen miles away in Weilheim, the torture began.

At noon the bailiffs opened the hatch to Nepomuk’s dungeon and let down a ladder. The monk briefly considered just refusing to go, but then they no doubt would beat him and drive him up the ladder rung by rung. He therefore decided to willingly climb up the blood-and dirt-soiled ladder toward the light.

Nepomuk blinked in the bright sunlight falling through the narrow windows of the tower. After his eyes had grown accustomed to the light he saw four guards and Master Hans. The Weilheim executioner brushed back the snow-white hair from his forehead and looked his victim up and down with piercing red eyes, as if trying to guess how much pain the criminal would tolerate.

“The Weilheim district judge wants to dispose of this matter as soon as possible,” he said in a pleasant voice that seemed out of character with a white-haired monster of a man. “That suits me; I’ll just get my money sooner. Take him away.” Master Hans beckoned to one of the guards carrying a pole almost fifteen feet long with a ring of iron spikes on front. Nepomuk had never before seen such an instrument.

“Since the monastery informs us you are a sorcerer, we will do everything necessary to make sure you can’t touch us,” Master Hans explained briefly. He opened up the spiked ring at the end of the pole, placed it around Nepomuk’s neck, and carefully closed it again. As soon as the spikes dug into Nepomuk’s skin, the first drops of blood appeared. The monk realized that if he put up the slightest resistance, the spikes would dig deep into his flesh and split open his throat like dried-out leather.

“Let us proceed,” Master Hans said, slamming the trapdoor over the hole. “The tongs are no doubt glowing red by now.”

As the guard tugged briefly on the pole, Nepomuk stumbled forward a few steps and almost fell into the spikes before catching himself again and staggering forward carefully behind the men like a yoked ox. They dragged him down a long corridor lined with dungeons behind whose doors he could hear wailing and moaning. At one point, Nepomuk saw a crippled hand with only three fingers waving to him through one of the barred openings.

Master Hans walked alongside Nepomuk, looking straight ahead and humming an old familiar tune that Nepomuk knew from his days as a mercenary.

“I was once a hangman in the war,” Nepomuk groaned as he stumbled forward. “I executed some deserters, one of them a witch-a crazy old woman. I never thought she was one, though.” He turned toward the executioner hopefully. “Look at me. Do you really think I’m a warlock?”

Master Hans shrugged his powerful shoulders. “What I think or don’t think is of no importance. The high and noble gentlemen believe it, so I will torture you until you finally believe it yourself.”

They were now descending a winding stone staircase. Through a window, Nepomuk could see the hills and forests outside Weilheim, covered with green beeches and oaks swaying gently in the summer breeze. The tower dungeon was at the west end of the city wall, so on the left Nepomuk caught sight of the Alps. It was a gorgeous day with a dry wind, the kind that gave someone the feeling he could see forever. Then the window disappeared and the stairway continued winding down into the depths of the fortress.

“I come from a hangman’s family in Reutlingen,” said Nepomuk, once again addressing the Weilheim executioner. “The Volkmars. It’s quite possible the same blood flows in our veins.” He struggled unsuccessfully to grin as the spikes cut into his neck. “After all, we dishonorable hangman are all related more or less, aren’t we, cousin?”

This time Master Hans didn’t even look up, but stopped suddenly, grabbing Nepomuk between the legs so hard that he doubled over, writhing in pain. The voice of the Weilheim executioner echoed through the rocky fortress. “Listen, sorcerer, you can whine and cry all you want,” Master Hans said softly, “you can shout your innocence from the rooftops or, for all I care, curse me up and down. But for God’s sake, stop kissing my ass. I don’t give a damn if you’re related to me or to a broomstick. I have a family to feed, and I’m saving my money one kreutzer at a time to buy my citizenship someday. So don’t expect pity from me.”

Master Hans let go of the monk’s genitals and gave the guards a signal to go on ahead. Then he started counting off on his fingers as Nepomuk lay on the floor writhing.

“For torturing you I’ll get a full three guilders,” Master Hans figured. “For burning you, ten. If I rip out your guts first, the council will certainly give me a bonus. And I can get good money for your blood, fingers, and eyes, too. I’ll make a powder from them that will offer protection from all kinds of magic spells. People pay good money for that.”

Finally a perverse smile passed across his face. “You’re my big prize, sorcerer, don’t you understand?” he hissed. “Something like you I get only once every few years. So shut your mouth and move your ass, and stop trying to be my friend, cousin.”

Master Hans spat on the floor, opened a heavy door reinforced with thick wooden beams at the end of the stairwell, and entered.

“You no doubt know most of the tools here,” he said matter-of-factly. “What luck that I can torture a colleague. That spares me all the explanation.”

Nepomuk looked around. His whole body began to tremble. A warm stream trickled down his leg, and he was overcome with shame.

They’d arrived in the torture chamber.