The Poisoned Pilgrim

13

ANDECHS, THE MORNING OF SATURDAY, JUNE 19, 1666 AD

Sullen and brooding, Simon hurried along the shortest path from the monastery to the clinic. He noticed neither the twittering birds in the trees nor the pious pilgrims singing. For the moment he’d even forgotten his argument with Magdalena. His thoughts kept returning to the count’s sick son.

He feared that if he didn’t come up with something soon, his career as a medicus would end soon on the monastery battlements.

He’d spent the entire morning at the bedside of the young Wittelsbacher, but the boy’s fever hadn’t receded a bit. Even worse, the medicus had discovered the same red dots on the boy’s chest that many of his other patients had and which Girolamo Fracastoro had described in such detail in his book. Simon knew that the likelihood of dying from the fever was especially high for children, and that this fact also dramatically affected his own life expectancy: Count Wartenberg didn’t seem like the type to retract a threat of hanging a convicted quack. Just to be safe, Simon left Schreevogl in charge of the sick boy and asked him to report at once any change in the boy’s condition.

The boy was not Simon’s only problem. As the medicus made his way through the crowds of pilgrims in the narrow lanes below the monastery, he couldn’t help thinking of his angry wife. Since their confrontation in the clinic yesterday, Magdalena had been as silent as a clam; she’d spoken with him as little as possible and otherwise devoted her time to caring for the children. Why couldn’t she understand that he had no other choice?

A sudden uproar near the clinic jolted Simon out of his gloomy reveries. The medicus quickened his pace and soon caught sight of a group of monks crowding around the entrance and wailing loudly. They were carrying something large, and soon Simon recognized it as the body of a man either dead or badly wounded. His colleagues struggled to drag him into the clinic like a slaughtered pig while a crowd of pilgrims in front kept growing, trying to catch a glimpse.

“Out of the way, people,” Simon cried, pushing the onlookers aside. “I’m a doctor. Clear out of here.”

Only reluctantly the people stepped aside and allowed the medicus to enter. Simon pushed the door closed and secured it with a heavy beam. Angry shouts and wild pounding could be heard outside.

“Has the golem found another victim?” asked an anxious voice through the door. “It was the golem, wasn’t it?”

“I’ve seen this man’s wounds,” a woman bellowed. “I swear to you, they weren’t inflicted by any worldly thing.”

“Go home, people,” Simon shouted, trying to calm the crowd. “When we know something definite, we’ll be sure to let you know. There are sick people in here; you don’t want to get infected, do you?”

This last argument seemed to silence the nosy crowd. After a few more angry shouts, the mob withdrew, grumbling.

The Benedictines heaved the injured man onto the closest empty bed, and Simon rushed to his side. The other patients stared fearfully at the new patient, and finally the medicus, too, was able to have a look. He started when he finally recognized who it was beneath all the dirt and blood.

It was none other than the novitiate master Brother Laurentius.

Simon realized quickly that the monk didn’t have long to live. His breathing was shallow, his cheeks sunken like those of a dying man, but most shocking, wounds covered his entire body. The robe had burned in many places, and beneath it were black patches of what had once been human flesh. Simon remembered seeing this kind of injury before, after some dark, immeasurably evil creature had attacked young Vitalis with that hellish phosphorus powder.

The burns were in fact so severe and numerous that the medicus wondered how it was possible that Brother Laurentius was still alive. He groaned softly and seemed to be trying to mouth some words. It took Simon a while to realize the monk was asking for water. Apparently he was still conscious.

Simon quickly reached for a flask of diluted wine and poured it carefully, drop by drop, between the lips of the injured man.

“What happened?” he asked the Benedictines standing around as they crossed themselves again and again and fell to their knees.

“We… we found him in the forest,” one of the Brothers whispered. “Down in the Ox Gorge in the Kien Valley, alongside… this thing.” He pulled out a torn sack covered with spots of dried blood.

“And?” Simon asked, pointing to the closed sack. “Have you looked to see what’s inside?”

Another very young monk hesitated, then shook his head. “We… we don’t dare. It’s something heavy, perhaps one of those iron bars Brother Johannes carried around. Surely Laurentius was curious, opened the sack, and a burst of fire…”

“Just give it to me, you superstitious jackass.” Simon grabbed the sack impatiently, then opened it cautiously. When he saw what was inside, he stepped back. “My God,” he whispered. “How is it possible?”

Curious, the monks approached. When they finally realized what was in the sack, they fell to their knees again and crossed themselves several times.

Inside the dirty sack glistened an elegantly wrought silver monstrance shaped like a church steeple. Two angels hovered to the right and left of a small dome that contained three round sealed vessels.

Three vessels for the three sacred hosts.

“Blessed are thou, Jesus Christ. The holy monstrance, the holy monstrance. It is here among us.” The monks prostrated themselves on the ground, murmuring prayers, and the patients-at least those who were conscious-joined in the jubilation. Only now did Simon realize that the simple Brothers and pilgrims didn’t know that the monastery’s most valuable relic had been stolen a few days ago. For them finding the monstrance in a linen sack alongside a critically injured man was simply a sign from God, though they couldn’t say whether it augured good or evil.

“Get the abbot and the prior,” one of them shouted. “They must see the miracle with their own eyes.”

The youngest monk opened the door and ran out toward the crowd, which was still waiting. “The monstrance. It’s inside, a miracle. It flew all by itself from the holy chapel into the forest. A miracle!” he kept shouting.

Simon sighed and closed the entrance with the heavy beam again. Before the hour was up, all the faithful from here to the Hoher Pei?enberg would hear about the strange finding. Well, at least the precious piece had appeared again, though it wasn’t completely clear what role the novitiate master played in this.

Simon hastened again to the bedside of the critically injured patient, who was now in a state of semiconsciousness. When Simon bent over him, Laurentius suddenly opened his eyes and began to mumble. Simon leaned far down over the monk’s lips, trying to understand what he was saying.

“The… the automaton…” he gasped. “It’s down below. Fire… Fire…”

Simon could feel his heart pounding as he thought back on the white monogrammed handkerchief at the cemetery. Was it possible a living golem was haunting Andechs? Trembling, he placed his hand on Laurentius’s forehead. It was burning. Perhaps the monk was just delirious.

“Are you speaking of Virgilius’s automaton? What do you mean by ‘down below’?” Simon asked impatiently. “Did you find the monstrance down there? Say something.”

“The… the automaton… He had it… It belches white-hot fire… flames shoot out toward me, hellish flames, the fires of purgatory rage through the darkness…”

The voice of the novitiate master became weaker and weaker. Finally he fell completely silent and his head rolled to one side. Simon felt for a pulse, but it was barely perceptible. The medicus doubted Laurentius would survive the hour. The burns were simply too severe.

“In the name of the church, open this door!”

Simon spun around at the sound of impatient pounding at the door. One of the monks had already pushed the beam aside. The door swung open, and in stepped the prior and the old librarian. To Simon’s great surprise, there was no sign of the abbot.

The two church officials hurried toward the monstrance, which two concerned monks had already placed atop a chest. Brother Jeremias fell to his knees in front of the simple wooden chest as if it were an altar and raised his hands toward heaven.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, let us give thanks for this miracle,” the prior began in a droning chant. “Nefarious thieves have tried to steal the holy monstrance, but they have been punished by the fires of purgatory.” He pointed at the unconscious Brother Laurentius, then made the sign of the cross.

“Finally their evil plans have come to light,” he continued, his voice cracking. “Brother Johannes and this wretched novitiate master have brought calamity down upon the monastery, but God himself has judged them, and all has turned out for the best. Let us give thanks for that. Amen.”

“Amen.” A chorus of monks and patients joined in the prayer of thanks as Simon, confused, looked back and forth between the monstrance and the severely injured Brother Laurentius. Was the novitiate master really the thief they’d been looking for? Had he stolen the hosts and abducted the abbot’s brother? And where was Maurus Rambeck, for that matter?

When the voices of the faithful had finally fallen silent, Simon turned to the prior and said in a soft voice, “Actually, I expected to see the abbot here. It must be of interest to him, after all, that the monstrance was found in the forest with the novitiate master, whom you consider the principal suspect.”

“The abbot is resting,” the prior replied coolly. “He hasn’t been well recently, as you surely know. I considered it best not to awaken him.”

And make yourself look like the great savior of the three holy hosts, Simon thought to himself. You scheming bastard, you’ll really do anything to become the next abbot as soon as possible.

“Why are you so sure that Brother Laurentius was trying to steal the hosts?” Simon replied.

The old librarian, who had stood silently alongside the prior till that point, cleared his throat. “Well, that’s obvious,” he said so loudly that everyone standing around could hear. “The sack with the monstrance was found beside him, and he has wounds that could be inflicted only by some unearthly force.”

“Incidentally, the same wounds suffered by the young novitiate Vitalis,” Simon interrupted. “Did the Good Lord also strike him down in his anger?”

Brother Benedikt glared at him. “Don’t jest,” he threatened. “But think of the Revelation of Saint John. What does it say?” He paused dramatically to let his booming voice reverberate through the room. “And the angel took the censer, and filled it with fire of the altar, and cast it into the earth: and there were voices, and thunderings, and lightnings, and an earthquake.”

The librarian fell silent for a while to let his words take effect on the monks and patients. Not until a reverent silence had come over the room did he continue in a stern voice. “I actually wanted to keep this a secret, but circumstances no doubt compel me to bring it to light now. The monastery council has suspected for a long time that the ill-fated Vitalis had… an unnatural relationship with his novitiate master.”

Shocked voices resounded, but Brother Benedikt raised his hand to demand silence. “Yes,” he continued, “the two were accursed sodomites, so it’s quite possible the Lord or one of his angels punished the two heretics with holy fire.”

“Ah, and the Lord no doubt drowned the novitiate Coelestin, just for good measure?” Simon interrupted, furious.

“Oh God, no. What are you thinking?” Brother Benedikt remained calm, letting a hint of a smile pass over his lips. He evidently enjoyed humiliating the impious bathhouse surgeon in public. “Poor Coelestin was no doubt simply killed by his master, Brother Johannes, after discovering Johannes’s plan to murder the watchmaker. The two, as we all know, argued often. Johannes simply couldn’t bear the fact that Virgilius was the better scientist, so he killed Virgilius and drowned Coelestin, who had gotten wind of his scheme.” Benedikt raised his hand like a lecturer at his podium, while the other monks hung spellbound to his every word. “And thus the case is solved,” he concluded in a loud voice. “It turns out there were two crimes. Vitalis and Laurentius were engaged in sodomy and were punished by God himself. The novitiate Coelestin, as well as Virgilius, didn’t die by magic but at the hand of a nefarious murderer.”

“A murder you can’t prove,” Simon interrupted. “The body of the watchmaker was never found, after all. Is he perhaps still alive?”

Now it was the prior who smiled. Brother Jeremias passed his tongue over his lips, obviously enjoying the moment before dealing his final blow. “I’m afraid I must disappoint you, my dear bathhouse surgeon,” he replied smugly. “Virgilius’s pathetic remains have reappeared. Brother Johannes had thrown them into the well at the cemetery, where they were just discovered this morning. You may go and have a look for yourself, Master Fronwieser,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “Brother Benedikt will be glad to accompany you. We can thank God that this case has finally been solved and this miserable snooping around can stop.”

The prior walked reverently over to the monstrance, bowed deeply, and finally, holding it high, strode out the door where the relics were greeted with great jubilation.

The three holy hosts had returned to the bosom of the church.

The well was located in the cemetery next to the monastery.

Simon thought back on his visit there the day before. The cemetery, with its weathered stone crosses and ivy-covered burial mounds, exuded an air of tranquility in stark contrast with the noisy bustle outside its walls. The sun shone warm and bright on the many faded inscriptions on the gravestones, and the grass grew thicker and lusher along the paths than anywhere else in the area.

They say bones are a good fertilizer, Simon thought. How many monks have been buried here in the last few centuries?

They’d laid out the corpse in the grass next to the well and spread a shroud over it. Flies buzzed around the bundle, which was so small Simon expected to see a child beneath it rather than a grown man. When the librarian carefully pulled the cloth to one side, the medicus realized why.

The entire body of the man before him was so badly burned it had curled in on itself and shriveled up like a prune. What was left of the mouth was open as if in a final scream, and the teeth gleamed a sickly yellow. Brother Benedikt stooped to pick up a burned piece of wood. Only on second look did Simon realize it was Virgilius’s walking stick with the ivory decorations. Its silver handle was still recognizable, though it was twisted out of shape now and covered with a layer of soot.

“That should be proof enough,” he exclaimed with disgust, casting the stick into the flowery meadow. The two Benedictines who accompanied him stepped aside in shock. “I’m glad we’ve finally solved this gruesome murder,” the librarian continued. “People no longer need to fear a golem living in a dungeon, an automaton in a crypt, or anything else. In his hatred of his colleagues, Brother Johannes simply incinerated the automaton along with its creator and threw them both into the well. Let us return now and allow the dead to rest in peace.”

“Who found the body?” Simon asked.

The librarian smiled. “You may be astonished to hear this, but it was the abbot himself, who, along with one of his assistants, came upon the corpse this morning. You certainly don’t doubt his word, do you? Then let’s finally leave-”

“Just one more moment.” Simon bent over to examine the charred corpse briefly. Unfortunately the individual body parts were so disfigured it was impossible to tell whether there’d been any injury prior to death. The face looked like that of a crudely carved wooden figure that had been cast into the fire and no longer resembled the living Virgilius at all. While examining the twisted right arm, however, Simon noticed something about the hand.

A finger was missing.

The finger with the ring that the abbot showed us the night before last, Simon thought. Then this really is Virgilius’s body. Did Nepomuk really kill him?

He looked up into the smiling face of Brother Benedikt.

“You knew the monstrance was stolen a few days ago, didn’t you?” the librarian asked Simon. “Evidently Abbot Maurus told you, the old fool. Is that so?” When Simon remained silent, the monk shook his head. “Why in the world would he do that? All hell would have broken loose if the word had gotten out. Well, everything worked out well in the end: the monstrance is back, and the festival can begin tomorrow.”

“Do you seriously believe that Brother Laurentius stole the relics?” Simon asked.

Brother Benedikt shrugged. “Who knows? Does that really matter now that the monstrance has appeared again? Who cares who really stole it? The main thing is that the people have a culprit. Aside from that”-he said, shaking his finger-“it was an open secret among the monks that Laurentius was a sodomite, so he has received his just punishment.”

Simon eyed the old monk suspiciously. Evidently Brother Benedikt really didn’t know that it was the abbot himself who’d stolen the monstrance with the hosts, or that the abbot’s brother, Virgilius, had been abducted. Was all this just a game of make-believe? Could the librarian be the sorcerer who abducted and killed the watchmaker to get ahold of the hosts?

Suddenly Simon had an idea. He cursed himself for not having thought of it earlier. Perhaps there was a way for him to find out whether Brother Benedikt knew more than he let on.

“Did you examine the containers in the monstrance to make sure the hosts were really there?” he asked curiously.

Brother Benedikt didn’t bat an eye. “We’ll do that, of course, at the appropriate time,” he said in a flat voice. “But you can rest assured they’re there-the containers are sealed.”

“Wax seals can be forged,” Simon replied.

The librarian snorted. “You have a lively imagination, bathhouse surgeon. Now excuse me; I have to prepare for the next mass. It will be a great service of thanksgiving in honor of the return of our three holy hosts. You are warmly invited to attend.”

He turned and left with his head high-a little old man who nevertheless had an authoritative air, fostered by years of book learning. The other monks who had been standing around silently picked up the cloth containing Virgilius’s corpse. It seemed as light as a child’s. Praying softly, the Benedictines carried Virgilius’s remains to the funeral chapel at the edge of the cemetery.

They wouldn’t need a very large coffin.

Incense swirled up like a cloud toward the church ceiling as the chorus of the faithful joined in with the organ’s mournful melody and the entire space seemed to tremble.

From his vantage point, the sorcerer watched the many pilgrims opening and closing their mouths like bleating sheep. Open and close, open and close… It was astonishing that so many stupid farmers, so many narrow-minded, simple people, could engender such energy. The sorcerer could feel their faith flashing through the church like lightning through a thundercloud. So much power concentrated in a simple baked good: three ancient, crumbling oblates of water and flour.

The three sacred hosts.

Finally he had them in his possession. His plan had worked, though not quite as smoothly as expected. Still, all the dead strewn along his path had been necessary. All that mattered was the result of his efforts.

As the deep bass notes of the organ rumbled through the church, the sorcerer could once again see the fire before him and hear the cries and pleading of the dying. He realized now that he felt sorry for those who had to die, especially those who had died in severe pain. Their constant pleading almost awakened pity in him.

But only almost… What were a few deaths really in view of what he planned? Man could be God; all he needed was faith-and that was something stronger here than anywhere, except perhaps in Altotting, St. Peter’s in Rome, or in Santiago de Compostela. And central to this faith here on the Holy Mountain were the hosts.

As the sorcerer recited the kyrie eleison with the many faithful around him, he himself felt overwhelmed by faith.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa… Kyrie eleison…

Yes, he, too, had sinned. Tears welled up in his eyes when he thought of her. She had vanished from his life so long ago, yet he believed in her, and this faith would bring her back to life again.

If only those damned Schongau busybodies weren’t around.

The sorcerer clenched the prayer book so hard his knuckles turned white. They were close on his heels-he could feel that-and his assistant brought him more shocking news every day. They were evidently close to solving the mystery. He’d given his assistant clear orders, but all he got were new excuses. Was he too cowardly or just too softhearted? For now the sorcerer needed him, but he would have to find a more reliable servant soon.

It wouldn’t be much longer-he was just waiting for the right conditions. He’d once almost reached that point, but what he was hoping for didn’t happen. He felt it couldn’t be much longer now, though, and until then he’d have to be patient.

Once more the organ rose to a mighty, shrill, earsplitting swell so loud that, for a moment, he imagined he could hear the screams of his dying victims as they pointed at him, castigating and accusing him.

But then the organ stopped, the incense drifted away, and the faithful rose from their pews and headed for the taverns in the surrounding villages-to eat, drink, and fornicate. Faith vanished, leaving nothing but stone and wood, an empty building with no trace of anything divine.

The sorcerer arose, crossed himself and exited through the narrow church portal among the other pilgrims and monks.

The image of the charred corpse still on his mind, Simon headed back to the clinic. The pilgrims leaving the church were laughing and talking loudly, but he hardly noticed them as he continued mulling over the events of the last few hours. He wished he could speak with his father-in-law about them, but Kuisl had disappeared the previous day around noon. Simon wasn’t particularly worried. The old man often disappeared overnight in the forest when he went to collect herbs-though not in a forest possibly haunted by a madman.

Simon had no doubt the madman was still on the loose. Brother Benedikt’s dramatic words about God’s holy anger were nonsense. But where and how in the world had Brother Laurentius come into the possession of the stolen monstrance? And what part did the automaton play in all this? The medicus quickened his pace. Perhaps the novitiate master would be well enough now to at least say a few words.

Entering the clinic behind the monastery, Simon looked for Jakob Schreevogl. Now that Simon himself was mainly responsible for the count’s sick son, the patrician’s help was indispensable. Then he remembered that Schreevogl was with the count.

But in his place was another man.

A huge figure bent over Laurentius with his back to Simon. It looked as if he was trying to strangle the patient with his huge hands. The medicus ran toward the stranger and pulled him around by the shoulder.

“For God’s sake, stop-” he shouted, but then held his hand up to his mouth in shock. “Good Lord, Kuisl,” he gasped. “It’s you! Where have you been all this time? You scared the hell out of me.”

“You scared me, too,” said the hangman, glaring at his son-in-law. “I thought for a minute you were one of the damned guards. Since when is an executioner and healer forbidden to examine an injured person?” He cast a sympathetic glance at the unconscious novitiate master. “Of course it doesn’t look like much can be done to save this fellow here, not even by me.”

Simon noticed that Kuisl was no longer wearing his Franciscan robe but his own clothing. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous to walk around here like this?” he whispered, pointing to the far end of the room. “We have a few Schongauers here, and they might recognize you. If the church learns that a dishonorable hangman-”

Kuisl interrupted him with a brusque wave of the hand. “To hell with the robe,” he grumbled. “Anyway, they’re looking for me in that robe.”

“They’re what?”

“First tell me what the novitiate master is doing here and why everyone out there is blathering on about a miracle,” the hangman replied. “Who knows, maybe putting your story and mine together will give us a complete picture.”

“As you like, but let’s go to a corner,” said Simon, lowering his voice. “Most of the patients are too weak to understand anything, but one never knows.”

They withdrew to a quiet corner of the room where some mildewed boxes and barrels were piled up. Looking around at the dozing patients and whispering, Simon told Kuisl about finding the injured novitiate master and the monstrance. He also told Kuisl how Virgilius’s charred corpse had been found in a well by the monastery. The hangman listened silently, stuffing his pipe. Once he’d finally managed to light it with a burning pine chip, he pointed his foot toward the unconscious Laurentius.

“This fellow here, by the way, is why I disappeared yesterday noon. I thought it best to disappear in the forest for a while.” He took a deep draw on his pipe and told Simon about the conversation he had overheard between Brother Benedikt and Laurentius and about his hasty flight from the building. He also mentioned the love letters he’d found in the novitiate master’s chest and the old plan the librarian had lost a few days ago.

“In any event you’ll no doubt have to snoop around without me from now on.” Kuisl finally grumbled. “That’s actually fine by me. The old robe smelled like one huge gassy priest.”

“Damn,” Simon exclaimed. “We seemed so close to solving the mystery. It looks as if everyone in this monastery has something to hide.” He counted off on his fingers: “Nepomuk and the dead Virgilius had some heretical ideas; the abbot stole the hosts, even if for honorable reasons; the prior is an overly ambitious schemer; the novitiate master a sodomite-and now the librarian, too, appears to be hiding something in the basement of the monastery.”

“You’ve forgotten the cellarer, who obviously was helping him in all this,” Kuisl interrupted.

Simon rubbed his sweaty brow, trying to piece it all together. “What in God’s name can the two have concealed down there? And where is the hiding place? If I understand Laurentius correctly, he did see this automaton in the corridors of the monastery.”

“They’ve sealed the entrance in any case, and the plans showing how to get there have suddenly and mysteriously disappeared.” Kuisl grinned. “But wait-in your enumeration of these scoundrels and charlatans, you forgot the Wittelsbach count. We still don’t know what role that perfumed poodle is playing in the whole affair.”

Simon sighed. “For now, Wartenberg is quite convincingly playing the role of the anxious father. If I can’t heal his son soon, things really look bad for me.”

“The most important thing at the moment is to get this fellow to speak.” The hangman pointed at Brother Laurentius, who lay on his bed breathing in short gasps. “He’s the key to all this. If Laurentius can tell us where the monstrance comes from and who beat him so badly, we can probably solve the mystery.” He took another deep draw on his pipe and looked up at the ceiling absent-mindedly. “I’m afraid certain people don’t want him to talk.”

“What do you mean by that?” Simon asked, confused.

“What does that mean?” Kuisl laughed softly. “If you were the murderer and learned that your victim was still alive-what would you do?”

“Oh God,” Simon blanched. “Do you think-”

“I think that Laurentius’s life isn’t worth a speck of fly shit if someone doesn’t keep an eye on him.” Kuisl rose and headed toward the exit. “And I’m afraid that’s something only you can do. The church higher-ups know my disguise as a Franciscan now, and it would be too dangerous for me. And as the Schongau executioner, I can hardly sit here and care for the sick.”

“You want me to do that? Impossible.” Simon shook his head vigorously. “You forget I’m looking after the count’s son. And Magdalena is all in a huff because I’m never around to care for the children.”

“They’ll get over it. Anyway…” The hangman stopped in the doorway and looked into the sunlight. “During the daylight, the sorcerer won’t dare show up; too many patients are awake. If he strikes, it will be at night. You can calmly go about caring for your patients during the day and keep watch over the novitiate master at night. It would be best to rub his wounds with an ointment of bear fat, marigold, and chamomile.” Raising his hand in a wave, he added, “Now farewell, bathhouse surgeon. I’ve not had anything to eat since noon yesterday-except for the berries and mushrooms I found in the forest.”

Simon wanted to tell his father-in-law one more thing, but Kuisl had already disappeared. Groaning softly, the exhausted medicus sat on the edge of Laurentius’s bed and stared down at his seriously injured patient.

“Wonderful,” he mumbled. “Marigold and chamomile… I’m going to need some medicine myself.”

Wearily he searched his bag for just one more coffee bean. He always carried a little emergency supply of the exotic bean to help him to fight exhaustion and concentrate, but now he realized that, sadly, he’d ground up the last of them the day before. Still, he found something else at the bottom of his bag. A little clay jar he’d picked up at the apothecary’s house and overlooked in all the excitement.

Jesuit’s powder.

He removed the cover and studied the yellowish powder. Imported from overseas, this medicine could work wonders in reducing fever, but unfortunately the amount here was just enough for one dose. That’s probably the reason Simon forgot about it. Now he rubbed his fingers in the dry powder and stared at the gasping novitiate master.

Should he give Laurentius the medicine? Perhaps the monk would talk once more before he died. Or should he save the powder for the count’s sick son? Simon imagined the little boy in front of him, the same age as one of his sons, a trembling little creature in the count’s much-too-large four-poster, his eyelids fluttering like the wings of a tiny bird.

After a few seconds Simon made up his mind. He closed the lid and put the jar back in his pocket.

A figure was standing in the shadows of the stable wall, watching as the hangman strode away.

The man rubbed his knuckles nervously, cracking them one after the other. What he’d just overheard would interest his master. The man still hadn’t carried out his order; something in him was reluctant to do so. It just felt so… wrong. With this news he might be able to appease his master, though he knew the master would never give in. And wasn’t he always right? Hadn’t he always been concerned for his servant’s well-being? Didn’t he promise him that everything would work out?

The man took a deep breath and crossed himself. The master had told him how important faith was-that faith could heal him, too. Soon his time would come. One more job to do, and they would reach their goal.

After eavesdropping on the conversation in the clinic, he believed, however, that his master would have another job for him. What was it the sullen giant had just said?

I think Laurentius’s life isn’t worth a speck of fly shit…

The man stopped briefly to think about that, then shook his head, leapt over a low wall, and finally disappeared behind the stables.

It was time to report to his master.

It was early evening when Magdalena sat on a bench in the main room of the knacker’s house, singing her children to sleep in a soft monotone.

Little Jack sat by the stove, fast asleep.

His trousers caught fire and up he did leap…

Excited shouts could be heard up on the Holy Mountain, but the noise disturbed neither the hangman’s daughter nor the two boys. The little ones stretched out comfortably on branches near the stove listening to their mother. Peter still had his eyes open, but they were already glassy; Paul dozed, sucking his thumb and dreaming.

The hangman’s daughter cast loving glances at her two boys. What could they be dreaming about? Something beautiful, she hoped-flowering meadows, butterflies, perhaps the enchanted monastery garden they’d seen yesterday.

Perhaps about their father?

Her face darkened when she thought of Simon. Since yesterday she’d spoken with him as little as possible, but he didn’t even seem to notice. It was always the same. When her husband was with patients, neither she nor the children could get through to him. She didn’t ask for Simon to stay with them all day, and she also realized that he was stressed by the difficult situation here in Andechs. What she missed was a loving glance, a few kind words with the children. She wished he would take them into his arms now and then, but Simon was as if behind a locked door in another world, and she didn’t have the key.

So Magdalena had spent both yesterday and today alone with the boys, strolling through town with them. She let them throw sticks in the brook nearby but always watched that they didn’t wander too far. She was still gripped by fear of the sorcerer and the automaton.

The door creaked as Matthias entered the room. Outside Magdalena could hear the squeaking of the knacker’s wagon, so she knew Michael Graetz had picked up a new animal carcass from one of the farmers.

When the mute assistant saw her, he smiled and raised his hand shyly in greeting. Magdalena returned the smile. She had gotten accustomed to the presence of the redheaded giant, and even if he didn’t speak, she liked having him around. He was loving with the children and made them laugh with all his funny faces. Softly, in order not to wake the boys, Matthias walked to the table and poured himself a glass of water, which he gulped down thirstily.

“Damn it all, where have you been, you good-for-nothing?” It was the voice of Michael Graetz, who had just entered the room, a knife dangling from his blood-spattered apron. The short knacker crossed his arms and glared furiously at his assistant, who was almost two heads taller.

“A cow died on the Kins’ farm and I had to do all the dirty work myself while the fine gentleman went for a leisurely stroll through the forest. If I catch you just once more…”

Only then did Michael Graetz see Magdalena and the two sleeping children. He continued in a somewhat softer voice. “Please go outside and burn the entrails behind the house. I’ve already skinned the animal. Now hurry up, you worthless slacker, before I tan your own hide.”

Matthias cringed as if he expected to be beaten, then grimaced and began to whimper.

“Oh, it’s okay,” the knacker grumbled, now a bit calmer. “Just do what I tell you, and next time leave me a message when you’re going out.”

When the mute assistant left, Magdalena looked at the knacker quizzically.

“He can write? Matthias can write?”

Michael Graetz grinned. “Someone who can’t speak has to make himself understood some other way. Heaven knows who taught him-maybe the monks he always hangs around with.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with a corner of his bloody apron. “My father taught me how to write a bit,” he said, “but Matthias is a hell of a lot smarter than he looks. He can write down the words of the four gospels as easily as if they were recipes.”

“You once told me that Croatian mercenaries cut out his tongue when he was a young boy. Is that true?”

Graetz nodded. “As true as I stand here before you. They raped and killed his mother and hanged his father right before his eyes over on the gallows hill in Erling. Half the village had to come and watch as a warning to the other peasants. It’s a miracle the boy didn’t lose his mind. He’s lived with me ever since he was twelve, as no one else wanted him. He was wandering through the forest until I took him in.” He laughed softly. “The best place for mute human garbage like him to live was with a dishonorable, filthy knacker.”

Magdalena glared at him. “Don’t say that. Nobody is ever going to say my children are dishonorable and dirty.”

Michael Graetz cut himself a slice of bread from the table. “What are you going to do about it, hangman’s daughter?” he asked with a full mouth. “Peter is never going to become a bishop, even with his beautiful eyes.” He choked briefly with laughter. “Maybe you can send him here to be my apprentice.”

“You just wait and see, Graetz,” she snapped. “My boy is going to amount to something, as sure as my name is Kuisl.”

“Believe me, my dear,” the knacker said sarcastically, pulling the pitcher of water to him. “The Kuisls and the Graetzes will never amount to anything. Ever. Not in three hundred years.”

At that moment came a knock at the door so loud it sounded as if someone were trying to kick it in.

“Open up!” shouted an angry voice that Magdalena thought she recognized. “In the name of the monastery, open this door at once before I have this pigsty torn down.”

“For God’s sake, all right, all right,” the short knacker rushed to the door and pressed the latch. Two hunters in green hunting costumes stormed in. Magdalena recognized them as the same men who had been guarding Nepomuk in the dairy a few days ago. They were armed with lances, and small crossbows hung from their belts. Behind them came a foppish youth and a potbellied older man whom the hangman’s daughter knew all too well: the Schongau burgomaster, Karl Semer, and his son, Sebastian.

Squinting, old Semer scrutinized the scantily furnished room before speaking. “Where is he?”

“Where is who?” Magdalena was puzzled. “I don’t know whom you’re talking about.”

“Your father, you dumb goose,” Karl Semer walked up to Magdalena and glared at her. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re up to? A stranger dressed as a Franciscan monk slipped into the monastery yesterday-a spy. He probably even stole documents from the monastery before running off. The prior told me everything.” He moved even closer, so close that Magdalena could smell his pungent sweat. “And do you know what else the prior told me? This fraudulent Franciscan was over six feet tall, a bear of a man with a hooked nose like nobody else in the Priests’ Corner. I know your father is behind this. Admit it.”

Magdalena appeared calm, but inside she was seething. She hadn’t seen her father since the morning before, and evidently he’d been caught snooping around the monastery. She could only hope nothing had happened to him.

“Nonsense,” she replied coolly. “Why would my father be here in Andechs? Perhaps he’s on a pilgrimage? An executioner?” she scoffed. Michael Graetz stood there silently, his arms crossed, and she hoped he wouldn’t betray her.

“Ha, hangman’s girl, you lie whenever you open your filthy mouth,” the burgomaster growled. His son’s lips curled into a faint smile, and Magdalena could feel him looking her up and down.

“Your own husband tipped us off,” he continued. “A few days ago in the tavern he boasted of how his father-in-law would straighten out things in Andechs.”

“Then my father changed his mind. In any case, he’s not here. You two can come and have a look under the bench.” Magdalena turned to her children who were awake now and had started crying. “And now goodbye. As you can see, I have better things to do than stand here listening to idle talk.”

The two hunters were still standing in the doorway with their lances, but now they looked uncertain. Evidently old Semer had promised them they could arrest the false monk in the knacker’s house and reap a handsome reward for it, but all they found was a rude woman with two screaming brats and a grim-looking knacker in a bloody work apron.

“What’s this all about, Alois?” Michael Graetz growled. Obviously, he knew one of the hunters. “Is this any way to behave, to just come crashing into the house of an honest man, shouting wild accusations?”

“I’m sorry, Michael, but-” the man started, but Karl Semer interrupted.

“This isn’t a house, it’s a pigsty,” he shouted. “And I’m not going to let myself be criticized by a filthy knacker, especially when he’s lying. There’s no question that Kuisl was here, and somewhere, we’re no doubt going to find that damned Franciscan robe.”

In the meantime, young Semer had been wandering through the room with visible disgust, carefully examining things. Finally, he stopped in front of a windowsill where he found a small leather pouch that looked familiar. When he tipped it over, little flakes of tobacco fell to the floor.

“Aha, and what is this here?” Sebastian Semer shouted triumphantly. “I know only one person who smokes this stinking weed, and that’s the Schongau hangman.”

“Then you’re sadly mistaken,” replied Magdalena without batting an eyelash. “I like to smoke a pipe now and then myself. It’s good for digestion, young councilor. You should try it sometime; then you wouldn’t have so much gas.”

“You smoke it, too? A woman?” It took Sebastian Semer a while to pull himself together. “That’s… that’s a damned lie.”

“I can attest to it,” the knacker answered quietly from his corner. “She smokes like a saber-rattling Saracen.”

“Then… then you’re lying too. I’ll-”

“Me? Lying?” Now Graetz’s voice became louder, as well, as he struggled to be heard over the screaming children. Despite his rather small stature, the knacker approached the confused youth threateningly and reached for the knife hanging on his waistband. “Even a filthy knacker has a sense of decency,” he trumpeted. “You’re calling me a liar? Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Uh, this is the son of the Schongau burgomaster,” Magdalena said, trying to calm him down as she rocked the two crying boys in her arms. “I’m sure we can clear this all up.”

“Then the son of the Schongau burgomaster should go back where he came from,” grumbled Graetz, only slightly mollified. “In any case, he’s not welcome here.”

Open-mouthed and trembling slightly, Sebastian Semer turned to his father. “Father, did you hear what this-”

Karl Semer waved him off angrily. Though he seemed about to explode, he managed to get control of himself. “Very well, hangman’s girl, we’ll leave,” he said softly. “But if I find your father anywhere in Andechs, I’ll have him arrested and interrogated on suspicion of breaking into the monastery and of blasphemy. And then we’ll see who’s more stubborn-the hangman from Schongau or the one from Weilheim. I’ve heard that Master Hans is a tough fellow. He’ll be glad to take on a colleague who’s been going around causing mischief dressed as a Franciscan monk.” Semer’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Who knows, perhaps your father even has something to do with the watchmaker’s corpse that was fished out of the well this morning.”

Magdalena looked at him, perplexed. “Virgilius’s corpse was found? But…”

The burgomaster chuckled. He clearly enjoyed seeing the self-confident young woman finally a bit unsettled.

“That’s the truth. Evidently, that damn apothecary burned him and then threw him in the well. The prior, who will probably soon be the new abbot, just told me about it. So the matter is clear.” Semer smiled maliciously. “Your father has been snooping around here in vain. This apothecary will be burned in Weilheim as a murderer, and we can soon all go about our business again.” He bowed stiffly. “And now I must really say goodbye before I get sick from the odor in here.” Turning up his nose, Karl Semer turned and beckoned to his son, who was still standing there alongside him, trembling with anger. “Come on, Sebastian, this is no place for people like us.”

Holding their heads high, the Semers left the knacker’s house with the two perplexed hunters as Magdalena and Michael Graetz watched silently.

“I’m afraid you owe me some explanation,” the knacker said once the footsteps had finally faded away. “Why isn’t your father here, when he clearly is here? And what is this matter with the fake Franciscan monk? I remember that I, in fact, saw someone in my house who looked like that.” He winked at Magdalena. “I don’t mind lying to these puffed-up old buzzards because they’ve offended our family, but I’d still like to know why that old show-off was so angry.”

“That’s… that’s a long story,” Magdalena sighed. “Let me put the children to bed; then I can probably explain a few things. In any event, it seems everything was all in vain. Now that Virgilius is dead, we can no longer count on the abbot’s help. And Nepomuk will be burned at the stake.”

She took the two boys into the bedroom, sang them a lullaby, then returned to the main room, where she sat down at the table beside the knacker.

“So…” she began hesitantly. “Where shall I begin?”

“Start with your father,” said Graetz. “What in the world is that stubborn old fool up to this time?”

Neither Magdalena nor Graetz noticed someone eavesdropping outside. When the man had heard what he wanted, he quietly slipped away through the hawthorn bushes.

His heart pounding, Simon entered the Prince’s Quarters in the monastery’s upper story.

Jakob Schreevogl had reappeared in the clinic half an hour before to tell Simon the condition of the count’s son had become critical. The medicus had checked some of his other patients before hurrying off, not without first reminding Schreevogl not to let the still-unconscious novitiate master out of his sight. Surprised, the councilor had nodded, then bent down to wash Laurentius’s burns with a damp towel.

As Simon entered the room of the sick boy in the Wittelsbach family tract, he saw right away how urgently the boy needed attention. He was deathly pale, groaning and rolling in his sleep from one side of the bed to the other, and his heart was racing like a tightly wound spring recently released. Simon put his hand on the four-year-old’s red-hot forehead. The count and his young wife sat on the edge of the four-poster canopy bed. She’d obviously been crying-her eyes were red and her makeup was running. She was wearing a tight-fitting, fur-trimmed silk dress, which Simon considered inappropriate for this visit to the bedside of her deathly sick son. Like her husband, she seemed to have a liking for too much perfume.

“Good Lord, can’t you do something?” the countess cried out as Simon felt for the pulse of his young patient. “Give him medicine; bleed him if necessary. I don’t need a doctor to hold my child’s hand.”

“Your Excellency, I’m only listening for a heartbeat,” replied Simon, trying to calm the overwrought woman.

“By holding his hand? How do you do that?”

“Josephine, let the man do his job,” the count urged her. “He was recommended to me by one of the Schongau aldermen.”

“That fat fellow you’re doing business with?”

“No, someone else. At least I have a good impression of him. I think the bathhouse surgeon knows what he’s doing, perhaps more than our sinfully expensive doctors in Munich.” The count glared menacingly at Simon. “And he knows what will happen to him if he fails.”

The countess rubbed her tear-stained eyes. “You’re… you’re right, Leopold,” she sighed. “It’s just this… sitting around not being able to do anything that’s driving me out of my mind.” Simon looked at her out of the corner of his eye and wondered whether she’d ever had much on her mind.

“Well?” Wartenberg asked harshly. “Is there hope, bathhouse surgeon? Be honest, please.”

The chances of your son surviving are so slight that a single pilgrimage probably won’t suffice, Simon thought darkly. But I can scarcely tell you that, because then you’ll be measuring me for the right-size noose.

“The most important thing for us to do now is to lower the fever,” he said. “I found a little Jesuit’s powder a few days ago in the apothecary here. It’s very rare and expensive, but I’ll give it to your son.”

“Jesuit’s powder?” the countess inquired, horrified. “What sort of witch’s brew is that?”

“It’s the bark of a tree that grows in the West Indies, Your Excellency. It cured a countess suffering from fever there, and it ought to help your son, as well.”

“A countess?” Wartenberg’s wife chewed on her painted lips. “Very well, then you may proceed with this… uh, whatever it is.”

Simon took the jar with the inauspicious-looking yellow dust out of his medicine bag, carefully poured the powder into a little phial, mixed it with wine, then finally dripped it into the boy’s mouth. Secretly, he was happy he’d almost forgotten the powder the last few days and hadn’t used it already. Now the appropriate moment seemed at hand-the tiny dose might just be enough for a child.

“With God’s grace the fever should subside,” Simon said after emptying the phial. Then he packed up his medicine bag. “Now we must wait and pray your son is strong enough to overcome the sickness himself.”

“Pray! You always just say pray.” The countess raised her hands. “This whole place does nothing but pray, and still my little Martin is dying.”

“Be still, Josephine,” the count whispered. “You are blaspheming God.”

“And so what if I am? I always told you we shouldn’t come to this filthy hole of a monastery. Someone else could have brought the key. Why in God’s name did the elector assign you to bring…”

“Good God, I told you to hold your tongue.”

Clearly the count hadn’t intended to speak so loudly, and Simon could sense they were hiding something from him.

Leopold von Wartenberg eyed him suspiciously. “Did you want something else?” he asked harshly.

“Ah, yes, I do have one more question,” Simon said to change the subject. “Has your son done anything out of the ordinary? Did he eat or drink anything he wouldn’t otherwise? Something that could be the cause of this sickness?”

The count seemed to forget his distrust for a moment, struggling to remember. “Actually no,” he finally answered. “We brought our own cook with us who prepares our food in the monastery kitchen.” Suddenly he paused. “But three days ago, we had supper in the tavern in Andechs because our cook had gone to Herrsching to buy fish. The food in the tavern was simple but not bad. We had marinated leg of venison with dumplings and braised turnips. Very tasty, though a bit tough.”

“Leg of venison, I understand.” Simon nodded. Something about the answer made him prick up his ears, though he couldn’t say exactly what.

Finally he reached down one last time to feel the little boy’s pulse. It was still fast, but at least the child seemed to be sleeping calmly now. Simon rose, exhausted.

“I’d be very grateful, Your Excellency, if you would let me know of any change in his condition,” he said, bowing deeply. “For better or worse. And now, farewell. Unfortunately, other patients are waiting.”

Count Wartenberg dismissed him with a brusque wave of his hand, and Simon bowed repeatedly as he backed out of the room. Outside in the hall, he could hear the countess sobbing again.

Exhausted, the medicus rubbed his temples, trying not to think of the long night still awaiting him at the bedside of the novitiate master. Perhaps he could ask Schreevogl to take over at least the second part of his watch. He would tell him simply that the condition of the young monk was so grave he needed constant care.

As he slowly made his way toward the exit down a hall hung with Gobelin tapestries, he thought again of the strange exchange of words between the count and his wife. Evidently Wartenberg was sent on a mission by the elector. But why? And what was so secret about it that it couldn’t be discussed in front of a stranger?

Simon remembered that the count had arrived more than a week early to deliver the key to the relics room. There was really no need for him to arrive until the next day for the Festival of the Three Hosts. Why had he come so early? And what sort of business was he involved in with the Schongau burgomaster?

When the medicus arrived at the high portal leading from the prince’s quarters to the ordinary rooms, he stopped. The guards stood on the other side of the portal while the count and his wife still sat at the bedside of their sick son. Simon looked at the individual doors leading off from the hall with curiosity. Should he dare have a look around here?

Heart pounding, he tiptoed over to the first door and pressed the latch. The room was unlocked. Casting a hesitant glance inside, he spied an open wardrobe and dresses, colorful scarves, and fur caps scattered around the floor, a sign that this must be the countess’s room. Quickly he closed the door and turned to the second room.

This was what he was looking for.

A huge table of polished cherry took up almost the entire far end of the room. On top, inkpots and quills stood beside a pile of documents and rolls of paper. To the right of the table was a bookshelf reaching to the ceiling, and an armchair. The light of the afternoon sun filtered through a high window across the table and the documents scattered across it.

The medicus could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. This was clearly the count’s office.

He looked into the hallway once more. He could hear the countess sobbing in the sick room while her husband murmured some words of consolation. Hesitating briefly, Simon slipped into the room and hurried to the table. Frantically he searched the documents, which were all written in Latin and clearly dealt with the monastery’s relics. Instinctively, he stopped.

What in the world did the count have to do with the relics?

Simon discovered a list of dozens of items in the holy chapel, among them the victory cross of Charlemagne, the stole of Saint Nicolas, and a sudarium from the Mount of Olives.

Other ancient parchment rolls here dealt with the history of the Wittelsbachs and of the monastery. Hastily, Simon scanned the ones telling of the earlier castle of the Andechs-Meranier, its destruction by the Wittelsbachs, and the founding of the monastery of Andechs. He learned of the miraculous discovery of the relics that had been hidden during the storming of the castle and had come to light only centuries later, thanks to a mouse. He read of the increasing crowds of pilgrims, and he read that the relics had often been hidden or spirited away in times of war. None of this was really news to Simon, who had read it all before in the small Andechs chronicle. New, however, was another parchment sheet lying among the others on the table.

A map.

Torn on the edges and burned in places, the map clearly showed the outlines of a castle, with corridors that branched off into labyrinths and ended in several marked exits. A few trees sketched in around the castle suggested a forest, and below that there seemed to be a lake and some rocks indicating cliffs. After a while Simon was able to decipher a few hastily scribbled words.

Hic est porta ad loca infera…

“Here is the gateway to the underworld,” he mumbled. “What in God’s name…”

He was just bending over to examine the map closer when a sound caused him to spin around. Footsteps in the corridor. In a panic, the medicus looked for some way to escape, but the only way out was a large glass window at the back of the room. He ran toward it, turned the knob in the middle, and opened it. Looking down, he could feel his legs wobble under him.

God, don’t let this be the only way out of here.

Two stories below was the deserted courtyard. Beneath the window, a narrow ledge-about a hand’s-breadth in width-ran along the entire front of the building.

The footsteps in the hallway came to a stop just outside the office door. Simon crossed himself one final time, then stepped out on the ledge, closed the window, and moved one step to the right so he was not visible from inside. And not a second too soon, for in the next moment, he heard the latch being pressed and someone entering the room.

I hope he doesn’t notice that the window is ajar, Simon thought. If the count closes the window, my only option is to jump or knock politely and ask to be hanged.

He heard the easy chair in the office being moved aside.

He’s sitting down. The count is sitting down. Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus, don’t let him nod off. I can’t stand being out here that long.

Simon tried not to look down, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the ground fifty feet below seemingly reaching up to him. He sensed he was going to pass out, and his legs felt like rotting wood beneath him. An invisible force seemed to pull him toward the abyss.

Just as he was about to lose all hope, he heard the scraping of the armchair again, then the door to the corridor squeak closed.

Simon waited a few seconds, then worked his way carefully back toward the window. Casting a sidelong glance into the room behind the glass, he finally pushed the door open with a gentle, silent swing. He tiptoed back into the room and closed the window again. His jacket was soaked in sweat, and his knees so weak that walking on the parquet beneath him felt like wading through a deep swamp.

With three deep breaths, he hurried silently to the door where he first listened and then rushed out into the empty corridor. A few moments later, Simon hobbled past the guards at the door and nearly tumbled down the stairway.

“Everything… Everything is fine,” he shouted, his voice cracking, though he tried to sound more or less normal. “Just a bit tired. Now let’s all pray for the little count. Good night.”

“Did you see how ashen the bathhouse surgeon was?” the fat watchman asked, as Simon disappeared down the stairs. “If you ask me, he caught an infection from the little one.”

“Shady quack doctor,” the other hissed. “I’ll bet the count will have him hanged if that blasted fever doesn’t get him first.” He sighed, scratching himself hard between the legs. “It’s really time for us to get out of this hellhole.”

Simon staggered out into the courtyard and looked up at the ledge where he’d stood just a few minutes before. Just the sight made his head spin again. Deep in thought, he walked through the inner gate leading from the courtyard into the narrow lanes in front of the monastery, where he was immediately engulfed in an unending stream of noisy pilgrims.

His head was spinning, due only in small part to his experience on the ledge. What sort of map had he seen on the table in the count’s study? Was it the same the librarian was so eager to find, the map showing the way to the monks’ subterranean hiding place? And what was the strange reference to a door into the underworld?

The more the medicus thought about it, the more he was convinced that Leopold von Wartenberg was somehow implicated in the strange events taking place in the monastery. The count was clearly involved in the matter of the relics, and had been sent there personally by the elector for some mysterious reason. Besides that, he had a map presumably showing the corridors in the basement of the old castle-the same ones haunted by a golem, and the same ones where the effeminate novitiate master had almost met his death.

Simon pushed his way past the pilgrims as he hurried back to the clinic, where he’d last left the Andechs chronicle. In his free time, he’d leafed through it again and again, and now he positively had to read the little book to the end. Perhaps there was something in the little book pointing to what the count was searching for here. Or was the count himself the sorcerer?

As Simon entered the clinic, he was met by a dejected Jakob Schreevogl. The whole clinic stank of urine and garbage, Schreevogl’s jacket was smeared with sweat and dirt. The stress of the last few days was clearly visible in the face of the Schongau councilor.

“We have another death to announce,” the patrician said softly.

Simon’s heart skipped a beat. “Not Brother Laurentius, I hope?”

Schreevogl shook his head. “It’s one of our Schongau masons, Andre Losch. God rest his soul.” He sighed deeply. “I still can’t believe it. Andre was such a bear of a man. Three days ago, he was carousing with the other master masons in the tavern and suddenly-”

“Just a moment,” Simon interrupted. “In the tavern, you said?”

Schreevogl nodded. “That’s right. All three were brought here with high fevers, along with the Twangler brothers, but Andre’s case was the worst.”

Simon remembered now what had been bothering him during his conversation with the count. Leopold von Wartenberg mentioned his family had also dined in the monastery tavern.

And only now did it occur to the medicus that other patients had been there as well-not just Losch, but little Martin and the Twangler brothers, too.

Evidently many of the more well-to-do pilgrims had eaten there, and Simon could see now that the sickness seemed to especially affect those with means to eat there.

He chewed his lower lip as he turned this over in his mind. Did the fever have some connection with the tavern? What could it be?

Suddenly he had a terrible suspicion.

“Master Schreevogl,” he said, turning to the councilor. “Could you do me a favor?”

“And what would that be?”

Quietly, so as not to waken the patients and start a panic, Simon told him.

Schreevogl nodded, moved toward the door, then turned again to address the medicus. “If you’re really right,” he said softly, but with a dark undertone, “then at least one head will roll here, and this time it won’t be the poor apothecary’s.”

Nepomuk Volkmar cowered in the pitch black of his cell, staring at his bloody fingers. Some were missing their nails, and the bloody stumps throbbed with a hellish pain.

In theory, the apothecary was happy he was unable to see anything in the darkness-at least that relieved him of the torture of seeing his battered body. But new waves of pain kept coursing through him, and he knew that such agony would be his constant companion from then on.

Master Hans had done a thorough job the day before. After he showed his victim the instruments of torture, as prescribed by law, he put Nepomuk in what they called the interrogation seat, a chair covered with spikes. His arms and legs were secured by iron clasps lined with spikes; even his feet were placed on a board of spikes. As the seated prisoner felt the spikes slowly cutting into his flesh, the pain followed quickly.

After two hours of torture in the interrogation chair, Nepomuk still hadn’t confessed to any witchcraft, so Master Hans started pulling out the apothecary’s fingernails with a set of long tongs.

It was then that Nepomuk’s screams were audible even in the square in front of the dungeon.

But despite all the pain, the monk had remained strong, closing his eyes, praying, declaring his innocence, and thinking about the words of his friend Jakob Kuisl.

No matter what happens, don’t confess. If you confess, it’s all over.

How could anyone not confess, knowing this was only the beginning? That far worse torture would follow until he finally collapsed, wailing, and confessed to witchcraft? Nepomuk had watched some tortures at his father’s side-his father, the executioner of Reutling-and knew that victims yearned for death at some point. When they were finally dragged to the scaffold like animals to slaughter, there was often not much left of them but broken bones.

Would he be able to keep silent after he, too, had been reduced to a whimpering bundle of flesh, yearning for his own death? How long would it take?

Finally after hours of torture, he’d been dragged back to his cell. When the trapdoor slammed shut over him, he could only wait in the darkness for the next horror. Sleep was out of the question, so as the hours dragged by, Nepomuk tried to console himself with memories of better days. The melody of a fiddle; the rhythmic beat of drums before battle; the wild parties with the other mercenaries; the many practice battles with his only real friend, Jakob Kuisl; their conversations on long winter nights in burned-out barns or in the protection of storm-buffeted, half-ruined castles…

“Where is your God, anyway?” Jakob asks as Nepomuk rubs the dirty rosary between his fingers. “Is he dead? I can’t see him; I can’t hear him.”

“You can only believe in him,” Nepomuk answers.

Jakob laughs softly, turning a sizzling rabbit on the spit as fat hisses and drips into the flames.

“I believe in hard iron,” he says finally. “In laws, and in death.”

“God is stronger than death, Jakob.”

The son of the Schongau executioner watches his friend for a long time, then stomps off silently into the night.

The next day they string up a half dozen outlaws together. As the bandits writhe about in the trees above, Jakob suddenly looks over to his friend as if still expecting an answer from him.

Nepomuk remains silent.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”

Sitting in his cell, mumbling softly, Nepomuk recited the eternal words of the rosary, hoping to rekindle an old faith that seemed to be slowly escaping through tiny cracks in the walls.

“Blessed are thou amongst women, and blessed is…”

A creak of the trapdoor above him caused Nepomuk’s heart to race. He knew they were coming to fetch him for another session. His tongue became as dry as a bone, and he suddenly felt himself start to shake.

In fact it wasn’t long before the ladder was lowered down again. Since he was too weak to climb unassisted, one of the watchmen descended and tied a rope around his waist. Then the men overhead all pulled together, hauling him up like a fish wiggling on a hook.

“Save your strength,” a familiar voice said. “You’ll need it.” It was Master Hans, standing next to the trapdoor above with his arms crossed, looking like a white-haired avenging angel. With bloodshot eyes, the Weilheim executioner examined his victim, then checked him all over for broken bones. Nepomuk knew that Master Hans, like so many other executioners, was also considered an excellent healer. It was his job to ensure the prisoner was fit for further torture.

“Listen up,” Master Hans began, almost sounding compassionate as he probed Nepomuk like a piece of raw meat. “You know I make good money every day I torture you, so I should really be happy you held up so well yesterday. On the other hand…” He studied Nepomuk’s swollen, bloody fingers, as if checking over his own work once more. “On the other hand, it’s my duty to tell you that your denials are pointless. Believe me, you’ll confess eventually-any other outcome would damage my reputation. So don’t make it so hard on yourself.” He brought his lips right up to Nepomuk’s ear. “You said that you yourself come from a hangman’s family, so you must know all this better than I, dear cousin.”

Laughing, the executioner gave Nepomuk a friendly pat on the shoulder. Then he closed the spiked iron clamp around the monk’s neck, and the guards pushed him through a hallway illuminated by torches.

“Today, you’ll have a special guest,” Master Hans said as he led the contingent down the passageway with a lantern. “Count von Casana und Colle is tired of leading the questioning and would prefer to go hunting. So would I, if I had the time and money.” The Weilheim executioner shook his head scornfully. “The noble gentleman looked pale as a ghost yesterday when I pulled out your fingernails.” Softly he added, “This is nothing for such a spoiled man accustomed to white bread. He was that way the last time, too. The only blood the count can bear to look at is deer’s blood.”

“Who’s coming in his place?” Nepomuk gasped as the iron spikes dug into his neck. He had the quiet hope a more moderate jurist from Munich might be more interested in truth than in magic. The two witnesses were obsequious Weilheim aldermen who would do anything the count asked. Perhaps they could be swayed for the better by a scholar from the city.

“You know him,” Master Hans responded after a while. “The count himself chose him for this job, to give him a chance to earn his stripes, so to speak.”

In the meantime, they’d reached the entrance to the torture chamber. The executioner opened the door, and the bailiffs pulled Nepomuk into a dark room illuminated only by a crackling fire in an iron bowl. Just as in his cell before, the apothecary was overcome by uncontrollable shaking. His eyes wandered over the interrogation chair, still bloody from the day before, the rack, and the winch with which Master Hans would no doubt be hoisting him up until his tendons snapped like dry ropes.

On the right side of the room was a wide table with an inkpot, some rolls of paper, and a heavy book on top. Three men sat behind the table, two of them the portly Weilheim aldermen whom Nepomuk had met the day before. The two chubby men, wrapped in expensive clothing, glared at him with a mixture of disgust, fear, and curiosity-almost as if they expected the sorcerer to fly away.

The third man sat upright on the chair between them. When Nepomuk recognized him in the light of the crackling fire, he started shaking harder, fell to his knees, and folded his hands in prayer.

“Please, Brother,” he pleaded. “You must believe me. This is all an-”

“Don’t get any false hopes,” the third man interrupted. “I’m no longer your Brother, but your inquisitor. The Weilheim judge assigned me this unpleasant task in view of the need to soon fill a higher position. Our monastery urgently needs a new abbot.”

The eyes of the Andechs prior flashed icily, like two marbles, as he turned and nodded to Master Hans. “Executioner,” Brother Jeremias said, “we wish to begin the interrogation. The sooner he confesses, the better.”