The Poisoned Pilgrim

14

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

Simon sat hunched up on a rough-hewn chair at the bedside of Brother Laurentius, sadly observing the priest’s burned, disfigured body.

The monk’s condition was unchanged. The many burns on his face, back, and legs were festering so that the bandages had to be changed frequently. The young monk’s face was covered; all that could be seen beneath the bandages were his nose and eyes. He groaned, and occasionally one of his fingers quivered, but otherwise there was no sign of life-he looked more like a mummy now than anything human.

Simon bent over him compassionately and took his hand. Brother Laurentius seemed to feel the touch, and his breathing became more measured. Suddenly there was a sound from beneath the bandages-some mumbled, at first incomprehensible words.

“Brother,” Simon said softly. “If you wish to tell me something…”

“He’s… alive…” said a muffled voice from beneath the blankets. “Down in the catacombs… I’ve… I’ve… seen him.”

“The puppet is alive?” Simon cringed. “But how is that possible? Who’s behind this, Laurentius? Say something, please. It’s very important.”

“The… hosts. He… needs the hosts…” The Brother’s mumbling turned into an incomprehensible death rattle. Reaching up with his right hand, he grabbed Simon by the collar and pulled him down so that the medicus could smell his burnt flesh. Disgusted, Simon noticed a strong odor like that of a roasted pig.

“Thunder and lightning! Thunder and Lightning! Stop him before the fire comes down from heaven. The fire!”

With a final scream, the Brother doubled up, his grip around Simon’s neck loosening, and fell back on the bed, lifeless.

“Brother Laurentius. Brother Laurentius!”

Simon felt in vain for a pulse. Frantically he pulled a small, polished copper disk from his doctor’s bag and held it under Laurentius’s nose. When the disk finally misted up, the medicus leaned back, relieved. The Brother was breathing, even if very shallowly. No doubt he would soon pass away; Simon could only hope he would regain consciousness before that and say something. What in the world had Laurentius meant by those strange words?

Thunder and lightning. Thunder and Lightning. Stop him before the fire comes down from heaven.

The medicus took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Evidently Laurentius had seen the watchmaker’s automaton in the subterranean passageways of the former castle. His confused mumblings seemed to suggest this automaton or golem was still alive and that it had something to do with the three hosts. The medicus remembered that special magic numbers and incantations were required to summon a golem. Perhaps hosts, as well?

Simon shook his head reluctantly. All that just couldn’t be true. Simon was an enlightened person of the new era, the time after the Great War. He believed in mechanics and empirical knowledge, not in magic formulas and golems. But what if science was wrong? What if there really was something like a physical, living devil? Had Virgilius perhaps created an automaton that could move according to the laws of mechanics, as well as think and… kill? Had the automaton killed its own creator?

Then burned him and thrown him into a well? How could that be?

Once more Simon checked Laurentius’s pulse, which had returned, though it was still weak. The monk had fallen into a death-like sleep; not even the tips of his fingers quivered beneath the bandages anymore.

Other patients moaned from nearby beds, but Simon doubted they’d heard any of this strange talk. Nor had the pilgrims, still singing and praying outside the door. The medicus thought about Kuisl’s warning that the sorcerer, or perhaps one of his accomplices, could enter the clinic in the next few hours to kill the troublesome monk.

If he waits just a bit longer, he can save himself the trouble, Simon thought. Laurentius doesn’t have long to live. It’s time to give him last rites.

To take his mind off this, Simon reached for the Andechs chronicle, which he’d wrapped in a dirty towel and hidden under one of the beds. He leafed through the little book until he got to the place describing the old castle. Perhaps he could find some information here about the subterranean passageways depicted on the count’s map.

Until now, Simon had read only that the castle had fallen due to “cowardly, vile treason.” Another chapter dealt in more detail with this. Evidently the Andechs-Meranier had been the leading family of nobles in Bavaria many hundreds of years ago, until suddenly the Wittelsbachs seized power.

Simon immersed himself in the tiny, spidery flourishes that described how, at a wedding in Bamberg in the year 1208, the Wittelsbach Duke Otto had murdered the Staufer King Philipp, a son of the famous Emperor Barbarossa. Details of the murder were evidently never completely clear-only that Otto was declared an outlaw, arrested in Oberndorf near Kelheim, and beheaded on the spot.

Simon started turning pages, then stopped short. In the investigation of King Philipp’s murder, it was not the Wittelsbachs who were charged with conspiracy, but the Andechs. All their property was confiscated and given to the Wittelsbachs, among them the Andechs castle that was stormed after many long battles, and razed. The chronicle described the conquest of the ancestral castle in dramatic detail.

Lost in thought, the medicus was transported back into the past, to a world hundreds of years ago that came back to life in the pithy Latin text. As so often when he was reading, Simon became lost in the images conjured up in his mind. Suddenly he thought he could see the armor glinting in the sunlight, the cries of the attackers, and smell the blood and horse sweat in the air as the castle was stormed. Simon was sitting there, in his chair in the year 1666, but at the same time he was carried back more than four hundred years. His lips moved silently as his fingers followed the lines…

The battlements rise over the mighty fortress high above the Kien Valley. Atop the parapets, the defenders run excitedly back and forth while below the Wittelsbach foot soldiers and knights gather in a clearing along the moat, preparing for the final assault. For weeks they have laid siege to their enemy’s castle, catapulting hundred-pound rocks at it and ramming the entrance again and again as fire, pitch, and sulfur rained down on them. Their sappers have dug passageways directly under the walls of the fortress. Many have died, and even more, tormented by fever and gangrene, writhe in pain in their tents, which look like red pustules in the cleared forest land.

They yearn for the death of their enemy and know the day of vengeance is at hand.

The traitor had cost them a lot of money, but he told them where the escape tunnel was; this was how the beleaguered defenders were able to smuggle fresh meat, flour, and wine into the castle-not enough to provide for the entire garrison, but enough to hold out for the last few months.

That would all come to an end today.

A small elite group of fighters set out through the tunnel into the castle. Silently they slashed the throats of the guards, leaving a trail of blood and gore beneath the castle and up into the courtyard. Now they can be heard screaming inside the castle, attacking the guards at the gate, shoving aside the three huge beams that bar the entrance, and finally opening the heavy door, leaving the way clear for the over three hundred warriors who have been waiting outside for just this moment.

A cry of many voices arises, as loud as if the earth itself were opening up and calling for revenge.

And then the killing begins.

The men who stagger toward them from the castle courtyard with uplifted swords are also weakened by disease and hunger. Only a few dozen have held out, and they are cut down like dogs.

“Death to all the Andechs!” the attackers cry, their eyes like those of wild animals. “Death, death, death!”

Blood flows over the stone steps, and the men keep slipping and falling, but driven by their hatred and lust, they wander from room to room looking for women, wine, food, and treasure. They were promised treasures, but where are the damned treasures? The Wittelsbach duke told them there were more precious objects here than in the entire Holy Land. The gold they could keep; all the duke wanted for himself were the many relics.

They race through the outer court, storm the tower, search the women’s chambers and the burning stables until finally they reach the chapel in the interior courtyard. A priest stands in their way, wringing his hands, but they push him aside, then run him through with lances. They beat down the door to the chapel. This is where they must be, the legendary treasures the duke had spoken of so often.

The room is empty.

No relics, no treasures, not a single accursed coin-everything was hauled away long ago. The men’s hatred is immense. They burn down everything, search the chaos for survivors who can tell them where the costly relics are stored. But there are no survivors; they’ve all been slaughtered. So the men search more and more frantically, leaving no stone unturned-digging, cursing, even mutilating the body of the priest-all in vain.

The relics have disappeared.

When they finally withdraw, all that is left of the once proud castle is a smoking ruin, a field of rubble that will soon be overgrown with ivy and moss. The castle will become what it once was.

Silent stone.

Not until centuries later will a little mouse reveal the hiding place of the relics. At that point, all the battles, the misery, the knights in shining armor-all will have been long forgotten…

Only the dream of the treasure lives on today…

When Simon put the book aside, he could feel the hair at the back of his neck standing on end.

Now he thought he knew what the count was seeking in the ancient passageways beneath the castle. Could treasures and relics still be hidden down there? Some of the relics had reappeared a few hundred years later, but if this castle was really the seat of the Andechs-Merianer, it was quite possible many other precious items were waiting to be found. Were the librarian and his helper chasing after these treasures? Had they already found them?

Before Simon could finish his train of thought, he was jolted by a loud wail from one of the beds in back. One of the Twangler brothers was thirsty. Simon brought him a cup of water while casting a glance at the other patients. Some needed bandages changed, and others needed a drink to help them sleep.

Sleep…

Despite the excitement, Simon suddenly felt how tired he was. The events of the last few days-the count’s sick son, the quarrel with Magdalena-it had all clearly been too much for him. And now he had to watch a badly injured monk who probably wouldn’t survive the next few hours anyway.

Simon rubbed his temples and sat down again on the chair alongside Laurentius’s bed. He picked up the little book again but could feel his eyes closing after just a few lines. He struggled to sit up straight in the uncomfortable armchair. The setting sun shone through the tiny windows and cracks in the wooden wall, warming his face, and his head fell forward. No, he couldn’t break his promise to his father-in-law and fall asleep-not now. Where, for heaven’s sake, was Schreevogl? It seemed like hours ago that Simon had sent him to the tavern. Shouldn’t he be coming to relieve him for a few hours? Had Schreevogl forgotten what he’d asked him to find out?

Once more the medicus cursed himself for running out of his beloved coffee beans. He almost thought he could smell the fragrance of the black ground powder mixing with the stench of dirty straw and reminding him of home. Of Schongau in the summer, when the grain stood tall in the fields… of Magdalena, his children… were they already asleep? Was she still angry at him? He really had to pay more attention to her. All of a sudden, he regretted he’d had so little time for his family in recent days. What did this murder case, the count’s son, and all the other sick people really have to do with his life? Sometimes it seemed to him that, in his concern for others and his thirst for knowledge, he forgot what was really dear to him.

When Simon’s head fell forward, he dreamed of his two small sons, of an automaton playing music, and of a castle going up in smoke and flames. He could hear the laughter of children and the rushing of a distant river. Seconds later, he was fast asleep.

He didn’t notice the figure quietly opening the door and tiptoeing to the bed of the novitiate master with outstretched arms. The man smiled at the medicus slumped over in his chair and peacefully snoring. The man had waited a long time at the window, hoping the medicus would fall asleep sooner or later.

And now he could finally finish his work.

Brother Laurentius was dreaming, as well, but his were not beautiful dreams. Once again he saw blue flames flickering around his body, he smelled his own burnt flesh, and he heard the sweet melody of the automaton along with his own screams.

Groaning softly, the monk tossed and turned in his bed. Ever since the unimaginable had happened, he’d hovered between sleeping and waking. In his waking moments, the pain surged like acid through his body; then merciful unconsciousness returned, followed again by short moments of lucidity. How many hours had passed since that nightmare? How many days? He didn’t know. People came and went around him; they laid cool compresses on his wounds and poured wine and water between his lips, but every time he tried to open his mouth to speak, all that came out of his burned throat was a rattle.

Except for once.

But the Schongau medicus hadn’t understood him; he hadn’t been able to make out his words; he didn’t know the danger.

Last night, in despair, the Brother had wandered through the forests around the monastery. Fear was nagging at him; the crime they committed would finally be exposed. This golem was like an avenging angel pounding loudly again and again on the door of his conscience. Laurentius, who had heard the melody, knew the automaton was going about its work somewhere down below. This creature would never rest until someone went down there and smashed it into a thousand pieces.

And then that someone would discover what they’d hidden down there so well. That mustn’t happen.

Brother Benedikt had assured him that the passage to their hiding place had been sealed, but Laurentius knew there were other entrances to the castle. He’d read about them himself in the library. It was a true labyrinth. Sooner or later the melody would lure someone into one of these passageways and the secret would come to light. Then they would all face the fire or be boiled alive in oil. Laurentius had read this punishment was used centuries ago in cases of high treason and counterfeiting, and wasn’t their crime worse-much worse-than both these crimes together?

He had to remove everything down there secretly. But how? Brothers Eckhart and Benedikt were watching him like hawks; he could feel their eyes burning into him. Never would they allow him to destroy their life’s work.

After wandering for hours through the rock-strewn Kien Valley, Laurentius finally had an idea and found another secret entrance. God Himself seemed to be handing him the key to atone for his crimes. Lying in the hospital bed now, he never thought he would have to pay in this way, with so much pain. Laurentius had passed through all the rings of Dante’s inferno and experienced every type of pain, but perhaps things would work out now.

He was awakened by an unfamiliar sound and listened attentively, but all he could hear through the bandages were muffled sounds, then silence. Suddenly a hand clamped down over his mouth and nose, pushing him gently but relentlessly into the pillows.

“Mmmmmmm…” Laurentius tried to seize his attacker with his bandaged fingers, but he was too weak; all he could manage was a feeble twitch. The strong hand remained on his face, blocking his air, smothering him. He had to breathe, he simply had to breathe, but he was immobilized, wrapped in dozens of blankets. He couldn’t speak or hear or see anything-just this hand over his face that wouldn’t let go. Quivering and thrashing about, he was finally able to grab the end of a sheet and clutch it tightly, tugging at it until the material ripped, leaving only a scrap of cloth in his hand. He could feel every fiber of the soft sheet, smooth and firm like a woven tapestry or a freshly fluffed pillow. Memories of his childhood looped through his mind: his mother, his first days as a novitiate.

As he slowly sank into a soft darkness, the urge to breathe subsided, giving way to a feeling of unbelievable relief. Laurentius realized he was dying.

This time he wouldn’t wake up.

The murderer arose, passed his hand almost lovingly over the bandaged face, then turned toward the medicus still sunk down on his chair, dreaming of beautiful things with a blissful smile on his lips.

Hesitantly the man passed his hand over the medicus’s soiled jacket, up to the expensive but somewhat worn lace collar, and over his cleanly clipped goatee. All it would take was some gentle pressure, a small cut with a knife, and he would have dispensed with one more of the master’s problems.

But he couldn’t.

As he lowered his arms with a soft sigh, he noticed the little book on the floor in front of him. He picked it up, began leafing through it, and quickly realized what it was.

This would surely interest the master.

Hastily he put the book in his pocket and disappeared as silently as he’d come. He could still hear Simon snoring as he turned the next corner.

“And you really don’t know where your father is now?” Michael Graetz stared at Magdalena in disbelief. During the last half-hour she’d told him all that had happened in the monastery up to that point. She told him also about Kuisl’s friend Nepomuk and her father’s plan to prove his innocence. Graetz had listened in astonishment, shaking his head from time to time, while the children slept on peacefully in the next room.

“I really have no idea where he is,” Magdalena replied. “Perhaps he learned something in the monastery and the sorcerer got hold of him.”

“Your father?” The knacker laughed. “If half the stories I’ve heard about him are true, this sorcerer can count himself lucky if he leaves the Holy Mountain in one piece. But we’ve got to go and look for him,” he added, suddenly turning serious. “And you’ve got to tell Simon, too, before he starts getting worried.”

“Simon?” Magdalena sneered. “With all his work, he doesn’t even notice when I’m standing right in front of him, and he evidently doesn’t care for his children, either. I’m sick and tired of him.”

“You mustn’t be so tough on him,” Michael Graetz said. “My Ani, God rest her soul, always complained, too, when I disappeared for a few days. Believe me, girl, that’s the way we men are. We crawl into a hole in the ground and then can’t find our way out until someone comes and gives us a hand.”

Magdalena couldn’t resist a smile. “Maybe you’re right, but you men don’t make it easy for us.”

A soft whine came from the next room, but then the sound died away just as quickly.

“What happened to your own children?” asked Magdalena in the silence that followed. “Have they all grown up and moved out?”

Graetz shrugged. “Most of them died early; only Hans and Lisl lived to see their tenth summer, but Lisl died of the Plague a few years back, and Hans became a drummer boy for a group of dragoons and went off to war.” He sighed. “Since the death of my wife, all I have left is Matthias; he’s something like a son to me.”

“You certainly scold him as if he were your own.” Magdalena grinned. “A strapping young fellow. If I wasn’t already married I could easily fall for him.”

“Then you’d have a husband who wouldn’t talk back.” Graetz stood up abruptly and wiped his hands on his apron. “But now I’ve got to go help Matthias with the work, and you really should go back to Simon and put an end to your quarrel. Save your arguments for later. You have a lot more important things to talk about now, and in the meantime, I’ll keep an eye on the children.” He stopped to think for a moment. “If your father still doesn’t show up today, let me know. Matthias and I know some people in the village we can trust, and we can go out to look for him together. I may be a dishonorable knacker, but I won’t abandon my family.”

“Thank you, Michael, I know that.” Magdalena smiled, squeezing his hand. Suddenly she felt ashamed for having said earlier that her children would become something better.

After a final nod, she turned toward the door and hurried down the narrow path toward the monastery, a huge black silhouette now in the setting sun. Magdalena quickened her steps to reach the clinic before nightfall. The shadows of the trees lining the path seemed to reach out to seize her, and she kept looking about anxiously as she ran up the mountain. Finally she arrived, breathless, at the outer walls of the monastery.

She felt somewhat safer here among the exhausted pilgrims arriving at the monastery and seeking a place to spend the night. The next day, for the Festival of the Three Hosts, there would be more happening at the Holy Mountain than all the rest of the year combined. A feeling of joyful expectation was already in the air, mixing with the aromas of fresh-baked bread and meat roasting on the fire. Some merchants had started setting up stands along the monastery walls, and another group of pilgrims bearing torches came up from the Kien Valley.

As Magdalena passed through the outer portal and turned toward the clinic, she felt someone approaching her from behind. She hadn’t heard a sound-it was more a feeling, a slight twinge in her shoulders. She turned quickly in the narrow lane, but it was already too late.

Hairy hands covered her mouth and dragged her between two dilapidated sheds. She struggled to scream, but the stranger’s grip was too strong. Finally she was able to bite her attacker on the finger.

“Ouch,” said a familiar deep voice. “How dare you bite your own flesh and blood, you viper.”

“For God’s sake, Father,” Magdalena scolded, relaxing a bit as Kuisl cursed and released her. “Why do you have to scare me like that? Couldn’t you have just said ‘good day’ like any other reasonable person?”

“While you run around shouting and drawing attention? Stop talking nonsense. In any case, I’m-”

“Wanted,” Magdalena interrupted her father. “I know. Semer can’t wait to get his hands on you.”

“Semer?” Kuisl sucked on his bloody finger. “What do you know about Semer?”

The hangman was wearing ripped trousers, a simple black jacket, and an old coat that Magdalena had known since childhood. She had to smile when she thought of her father in the threadbare Franciscan robe. With his large frame, he would really have made a good monk.

“Karl Semer paid a visit to your cousin,” she finally replied.

“Graetz? For heaven’s sake, why?”

“If you want to know, just be still and listen to me.”

After Magdalena had told her father about the threatening visit from the Schongau burgomaster, Kuisl angrily pounded his fist against the wall of the shed.

“Damn, that’s all I needed,” he blustered. “Now I know why the hunters and a few other bailiffs were prowling the back lanes around the monastery. Semer probably promised them a nice reward if they catch me. But they can wait for that until hell freezes over.” He looked at his daughter, worried. “Did Simon tell you what happened up in the monastery?”

“I was just looking for him. Evidently they found Virgilius dead. Is that true?”

The hangman nodded. “Let’s go find your husband. We have to talk about what to do next. I’ll tell you all the rest along the way.”

As they headed for the clinic, Kuisl told her about the monstrance being found and the dying Laurentius.

“We can only hope the Brother is still able to talk,” the hangman said softly. “And that the damned sorcerer doesn’t get to him first. Pray that your husband keeps a sharp eye out and doesn’t fall asleep, or he’ll be sorry he ever had an executioner as a father-in-law.”

Magdalena nodded and tried not to think about what her father meant by that. She knew he was subject to sudden fits of temper, but thank God he could calm down just as fast afterward.

They hurried along until the clinic finally appeared before them. The horse stable was already completely enveloped in darkness, with no sign of a light inside.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Kuisl growled. “Either Simon has eyes like a cat or he’s fallen asleep, the idiot.”

“Perhaps it’s all been too much for him recently,” Magdalena whispered, suddenly feeling sorry for her husband. Why did her father always have to be so hard on him?

Without replying, Kuisl reached under his jacket and pulled out a torch, which he lit with a tinderbox he’d brought along. Then he silently opened the door to the clinic.

In the torchlight, Magdalena could vaguely see about two dozen beds scattered throughout the room. In most, sleepy figures coughed, thrashed about, or lifted their heads before falling back onto the bed again. In the rear, the hangman’s daughter caught sight of her husband huddled down on a chair alongside a bed. His chest rose and fell in rhythm.

And he was snoring.

“I should have guessed. Damn!”

The hangman hurried over to the peacefully sleeping medicus and shook him awake. “Didn’t I tell you to keep a lookout?” he growled. “And here you are snoring so loud it sounds like you’re sawing down the whole Kien Valley forest.”

“What?…? What?” Simon rubbed his eyes. It took him a while to recognize who was standing in front of him.

“My God, Kuisl,” he finally said. “I’m… I’m sorry. But the last few days…”

But the hangman had already turned to the lifeless body of the novitiate master. He held his ear to his chest, then felt his pulse.

“Damn,” he whispered. “The man’s dead. Now we’ll never find out where he found the monstrance and who did this to him.”

“That’s… that’s impossible,” said Simon, jumping up and feeling for Laurentius’s pulse. He tore the bandages from the monk’s burnt face and held the little copper disk in front of his nose. When it didn’t fog up, he fell back on his chair, crushed.

“It must have happened just in the last hour,” he said remorsefully. “I was reading for a while, then probably my eyes closed.”

“And the sorcerer waltzed in here and killed our only witness,” the hangman spluttered. “It didn’t take much to do that.”

“Do you think it was really the sorcerer?” Magdalena whispered so as not to wake the other patients. “Maybe he just died.” She knew she was just looking for reasons to spare her husband the wrath of her father.

“What is this here?” Gently the hangman removed a scrap of black cloth from the clenched fist of the novitiate master. “It looks like Brother Laurentius didn’t set out for paradise without a fight.”

Magdalena bent down to look at the little scrap of cloth. “That might be from a robe,” she said, thinking out loud, “or some other piece of clothing. In any case it isn’t necessarily…” She stopped abruptly to watch Simon, who was crawling around on the floor, evidently looking for something. “What in heaven’s name are you doing down there?”

“The… the Andechs chronicle!” Simon exclaimed. “It’s disappeared. I was reading it just a while ago, and when I fell asleep it must have fallen out of my hand. And now it’s gone.”

“Isn’t that just fine,” the hangman growled. “It’s not enough that this sorcerer kills our only witness; he steals your book, as well, while you sit there snoring. How stupid can you be?”

“Father, stop tormenting him,” Magdalena said angrily. “Can’t you see how sorry he is? Besides, couldn’t you have stayed here and kept watch? But no, you had to go waltzing through the forest as you so often do.”

“Because I’m a wanted man, you fresh little thing. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

Moaning could be heard now from beds farther back in the room. An ashen-faced older farmer with sunken cheeks sat up and stared at them curiously.

“If I may make a suggestion,” Simon whispered, getting up from the floor. “Let’s continue this conversation down in St. Elizabeth’s chapel. There we’ll be undisturbed, and I can tell you in more detail what I learned in the chronicle.” He ventured a smile. “And perhaps I can in some small way make amends for what happened-and avoid the torture rack.”

St. Elizabeth’s chapel was located under the monastery church. Built directly into the side of the mountain, it was an unassuming little church that, even on busy days, was a refuge of silence and meditation.

Sometimes pilgrims visited the chapel because water from the little fountain in the apsis was said to cure eye problems, but now, at ten o’clock at night, it was as quiet as the forest behind it. Small candles burned alongside the altar, casting a flickering light on the few pews where the three sat.

“You think the librarian, the cellarer, and perhaps the sorcerer as well are searching for the relics and treasures hidden during the storming of Andechs castle long ago?” asked Magdalena incredulously.

After Simon told them what he’d learned, he shook his head contemplatively. “It says in the Andechs chronicle that the conquerors found nothing-nothing at all,” he finally replied. “Not until almost two hundred years later did a mouse dash out of a hole in the chapel with a scrap of parchment in its little mouth picturing some of the relics. And that’s how they finally managed to track them down.”

“That’s right,” Magdalena joined in, shivering and pulling her shawl tight over her shoulders. “That’s what that disgusting Brother Eckhart told me, but why should there be more down there than what they found at that time?”

Simon leaned forward in the pew. “The chronicle mentions all the relics kept in the holy chapel,” he said. “But the count’s list contains many more, among them-”

“What is this count’s list?” interrupted Kuisl, who had been listening silently until this point, puffing on his pipe. “This is the first I’ve heard of that. Did the smart-ass nobleman offer to show you around his office? Please stop beating around the bush.”

“Patience, patience: I still haven’t told you the best part.” The medicus raised his hands, grinning, trying to calm Kuisl down. He knew the hangman’s curiosity was insatiable. Now it was Simon’s turn to torture his father-in-law.

“Of course the count didn’t show me around his study,” he finally said smugly. “I had a look around without his permission, and I came across the list and a map-a map, which in my opinion, shows the ancient subterranean passageways and cellars of this castle. It’s quite possibly the same map stolen from the librarian, so we have to at least consider the possibility that the count is the sorcerer and that he, and a number of the monks as well, are looking for the hidden treasure.”

With evident relish Simon noted how Kuisl and Magdalena stared at him in astonishment.

“You searched the count’s study?” Magdalena asked incredulously. “If anyone caught you doing that-”

“Nobody saw me,” Simon said, waving off her remark and trying not to think of his escape onto the window ledge.

“And where is the map now?” the hangman asked.

Simon’s secret delight at his father-in-law’s amazement was quicky dampened. “Uh, unfortunately I wasn’t able to take it with me,” he replied. “But I remember it well, especially a few scrawled words,” he said, trying hard to remember. “Hic est porta ad loca infera. That means-”

“This is the portal to the subterranean places,” Kuisl mumbled. “I know that much myself, wiseass. That’s just what we’re looking for, but did you see where the door was?”

Embarrassed, Simon could only shrug. “Uh, unfortunately not. I had very little time and the script was very hard to read.”

Beside him, Magdalena sighed and stretched on the hard church pew. “This whole thing is becoming too much for me,” she groaned. “Up to now we thought the sorcerer was trying only to find the sacred hosts, and that’s why he abducted Virgilius-to extort Virgilius’s brother. And he was able to do just that. So what is the purpose of these underground passages? Why does the count have a map of them? And what for heaven’s sake are Brother Benedikt and Brother Eckhart hiding down there? This just doesn’t make any sense.”

Simon was silent, thinking of the handkerchief with the initial A that they’d found alongside the grave of the old monk. Kuisl and he hadn’t told Magdalena of this discovery so as not to frighten her even more. Was there really a golem brought to life by the hosts, an out-of-control automaton, lurking beneath the monastery?

“I’ll bet my executioner’s sword that the hosts are no longer in the monstrance,” said Kuisl, drawing on his cold pipe. “This sorcerer took them; that much is certain. Tomorrow, at the Festival of the Three Hosts, the prior and the other monks will hold up nothing more than a few dried-out wafers to show the pilgrims. No one will notice a thing.”

“And it’s easy to blame Nepomuk for the murders of Virgilius and Coelestin. He’s probably already confessed on the rack. Damn.” Magdalena crossed herself hastily when she realized she’d cursed in the little chapel. “Now that they’ve found Virgilius’s corpse, not even the abbot is on our side anymore. What luck!”

Simon bit his lip. “And the Andechs chronicle has disappeared,” he said softly. “Perhaps I could have found some reference to the passageways in it, but as it is…” He shook his head, then finally turned to his father-in-law.

“It looks like you’ll have to accept your friend’s fate,” he said mournfully, “even if we find these passageways and learn why the sorcerer needs the hosts. Until we find the real culprit, we can’t prove Nepomuk’s innocence. And I can’t think of anything else we can do to help in the few days before the execution,” Simon added, with a shrug.

“I won’t give up. Ever.” The hangman rose ominously from the pew, his huge body casting a long shadow along the chapel walls in the flickering candlelight. “Damn it. I’m sure Nepomuk hasn’t confessed yet. We’ve known each other a long time, and I can feel it in every bone in my body. You greenhorns couldn’t understand that.” He stomped toward the exit, then turned around one more time. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do now-I’m going to think it through. I always come up with something. You’ll see a man who has been drawn and quartered restored to full health before you’ll see me abandon a friend. Farewell.”

Kuisl’s footsteps could be heard as he strode down the path through the forest along the monastery wall, but soon Simon and Magdalena were engulfed again in the silence of the chapel.

After a while the medicus cleared his throat. “Magdalena…” he began hesitantly. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you and the children recently…”

Magdalena turned away, occupied more with her scarf and her hair. “You can say that again, you stubborn goat,” she growled. “I almost thought I didn’t have a husband anymore. Matthias was closer to the children than their own father.”

Simon felt a wave of sadness come over him. “Listen, I’m sorry,” he said finally. “It probably just all got to be too much for me-these horrible murders, your sullen father’s constant grumbling, then the count’s deathly sick child…”

“Is the boy getting better?” Magdalena asked softly.

Simon shrugged. “I gave him the Jesuit’s powder I found in the apothecary. Now everything is in God’s hands.” He sighed. “If he dies, I’m probably going to die, as well, and I don’t even want to think about that.” A wan smile came over his lips. “At least I have some clues as to where this damned plague is coming from.”

“What do you mean?” Magdalena inquired curiously.

As Simon sensed that her anger was subsiding, a sense of relief washed over him. They could do almost anything if they stayed together.

“Well, I think I know how the plague started,” he said finally. “It doesn’t bring the dead back to life, but at least if we know, then we can do something. I hope very much that Schreevogl has learned some more about it.”

In whispered words he told Magdalena of his suspicion. As he spoke, she moved closer and closer to him until finally she snuggled against his shoulder.

“And do you think that’s how all these people got sick?” she asked hesitantly.

Simon nodded. “There’s a lot of evidence suggesting it. I read about similar symptoms in the book by the Italian, Fracastoro.”

“Then let’s just hope we’re on the culprit’s trail soon.” She drew closer, and Simon could feel how she was shivering. Though it was the middle of June already, nights were unusually cold, and he took his jacket from his shoulder, wrapping it around her.

“Let’s go back to Graetz’s house now and sleep,” he said, helping her up from the pew. “Tomorrow is the Festival of the Three Hosts. I don’t know why, but I’m certain the festival has something to do with all the strange things happening around here-as if the sorcerer has been waiting for just this day.”

“Then it’s definitely best for us to get a good sleep.” Magdalena squeezed his hand, and together they left the chapel, stepping out into the cool night air.

“Tomorrow I’ll have another talk with the abbot,” she said, looking up into the starless sky. Clouds obscured the moon; somewhere a screech owl was hooting. “I think he likes me. Perhaps he’ll help us look for the real culprit even if it’s clear his brother is no longer alive.” Suddenly she stopped.

“Do you hear that?” she asked her husband. “That tinkling sound?”

Simon listened briefly, then shook his head. “It’s nothing-just the wind and the pounding of your anxious heart.” Laughing, he pulled Magdalena away from the chapel toward the lights of the monastery. “Come now; you’re seeing ghosts behind every tree.”

Somewhere far below, the automaton followed its unending, unchanging course. If Simon hadn’t laughed so loudly, perhaps he would have heard the music, too.

The prior bent forward, clinging tightly to his horse’s back, as he rode the lonely, dark country road back to Andechs.

A gust of wind howled through the few remaining hairs of the prior’s tonsure, thunder rumbled across the lake, and a wolf howled in the distance, but Brother Jeremias was too engrossed in his own thoughts to hear any of this. The questioning of Brother Johannes hadn’t gone as expected. The Weilheim executioner had pulled out three more fingernails, crushed his thumbs, set him on the so-called Spanish Donkey, and finally pulled him up in the air with a winch, his arms bent behind his back. Still, the stubborn monk hadn’t confessed. He’d mumbled his prayers and carried on about someone named Jakob who would come to help him. Brother Jeremias wasn’t sure whom he meant by that. Saint Jakob was the patron saint of pilgrims. Did this simpleton really think he’d get help from that saint?

In the evening, they finally suspended the questioning. The next day was, after all, the Andechs Festival of the Three Hosts, famous throughout all of the German Empire. Christian brotherly love simply forbade pulling fingernails off on such a day, so they’d have to put it off until the next day.

Cursing, the prior dug his heels into the sides of his horse, spurring it on. There was so much left to do. The abbot had told him the morning before that he would assign him, Jeremias, the duty of conducting the festival mass. The prior smiled wanly. Evidently the old man had already accepted the fact that someone else would be in charge soon. It was therefore all the more important for Brother Johannes to confess-not only because the Weilheim judge had made it very clear that a successful interrogation was required before the prior could be appointed abbot, but also because Jeremias needed a scapegoat. This miserable affair had to be put behind them as soon as possible. There had been much too much snooping around already. That bathhouse doctor from Schongau was driving him crazy, and Brother Benedikt had told him also that the phony monk had been searching the rooms in the monastery. And that the map had now disappeared, too-the map, so long concealed, that had been in the monastery’s possession for centuries. Had someone already gotten wind of them? The prior had a terrible suspicion.

As the howling of the wolves drew closer, Brother Jeremias finally realized he was in danger. This sounded like no less than the whole pack that had been striking terror into people’s hearts in the forests around Andechs. Grimly the prior grasped the reins and slapped the horse on its hindquarters. “Giddyap, run, you old mare, if you care for your life.”

Jeremias bent forward over the saddle to offer as little resistance to the wind as possible. When he was made abbot, he would send men out to deal with these beasts once and for all. And there were some things in the monastery that would change. For a long time, Jeremias had been dreaming of tearing down the old building and bringing in skilled tradesmen from Wessobrunn, and from the other side of the Alps, to build him a new monastery like the neighboring ones at Steingaden and Rottenbuch-bigger and more impressive. He wouldn’t allow the Holy Mountain to look like a storm-ravaged ruin dating back to the Great War. But to do that, he needed money, lots of money. The prior smiled.

Soon money would be no problem; in a few years, his dream would be realized-as long as nothing unexpected happened and their little hiding place wasn’t discovered…

If only for this reason, Johannes had to confess. For the good of the church. So that peace and order would reign again.

The wolves were so close now that Brother Jeremias could see their eyes shining in the dark. He could feel the horse tremble beneath him, its coat dripping with sweat. Soon the path would head up the steep slope of the Kien Valley and the horse would have to slow down. The wolves were gaining on them; the prior could hear the howling and panting closing in.

With a wild cry, he suddenly whirled around, pulled an ivory-handled flintlock pistol from under his robe, and fired. The shot flashed through the darkness, and there was a loud report followed by howling. The wolves pulled back.

Breathing heavily, the prior put the pistol back under his robe and concentrated on the path in front of him. It was now so dark between the trees he could scarcely see branches that had fallen across the path. He trembled. The Weilheim judge had given him the weapon and gunpowder just the day before, a personal gift meant to seal the bond between them. Never did the prior think he would have to use the pistol so soon, but now, feeling the cold iron of the barrel beneath his robe, he noticed he’d really enjoyed using it.

He had… enjoyed it. The cool feel, the recoil, the tortured cries of the wolves…

Reaching for the weapon again, he turned around, but the wolves had disappeared.

A shame.

After what seemed an eternity, the lights of the houses at the foot of the monastery appeared. The prior slapped his horse one more time, and finally, bathed in sweat, he reached the outer gate, which the gatekeeper opened with a respectful nod.

After Jeremias had dismounted, he reached down again to touch the cool weapon between his legs. He smiled and absent-mindedly crossed himself.

Perhaps he would be able to use the pistol again sometime soon.