The Poisoned Pilgrim

20

TEN O’CLOCK ON THE MORNING OF MONDAY, JUNE 21, 1666 AD

It was late morning when Simon struggled to open his eyes, feeling almost as if he was still paralyzed. Then he realized dirt and soot were still sticking to his eyelids. He had worked until late in the night, along with some Benedictine monks, to save the books in the library. Simon had been one of the last to venture into the burning building. As he emerged from the library at around two in the morning, an especially large pile of books in his arms, the flaming roof had crashed down behind him. He’d at least been able to save Athanasius Kircher’s Ars magna sciendi, but the Andechs chronicle that Matthias had stolen from him in the clinic was still missing.

Simon lay in bed in the knacker’s house, staring out a little window at the blue morning sky. Birds were twittering, and a ray of sun fell directly on his face. He still couldn’t believe the monastery had been almost completely destroyed by fire the day before. Only the tavern and a few outlying buildings had been spared, and all that remained of the church was the foundation. When Simon had finally collapsed with exhaustion, the fire still hadn’t been completely extinguished.

Stretching, he was relieved to see he could move his arms and legs again. They hurt as if he’d been lying all night on a cold stone floor, but at least the paralysis was gone. What kind of devilish poison could Virgilius have given him yesterday?

Virgilius…

He shuddered when he thought about the last few terrible days, days he wouldn’t forget for the rest of his life. Only the laughter of his children brought his mind back to the present. They were standing in the doorway with Magdalena, grinning, and when they saw he was awake, they hopped onto the bed and began jumping around noisily. They seemed to have coped well with the dreadful events of the past day. Perhaps they were just too little to understand.

“Stop, stop,” Simon groaned, trying to chase the boys off the bed again. “Take pity on your poor, sick father!”

“What your father needs more than anything is a bath,” Magdalena responded with a smile. “You look like Beelzebub in person,” she laughed as she pulled the covers off. “Come on. Graetz put out a fresh basin of water for you on the table in the next room. He asked to be excused because he had to go and see the priest about the burial service for Matthias.” Her face darkened suddenly. “He still can’t believe that his helper was conspiring with Virgilius. Nor can I, to be honest. Graetz is arranging for a mass to be said for Matthias tomorrow at the parish church in Erling.”

She shook her head as if to cast off evil thoughts, then she gave her husband a gentle kick. “Now get up, I said. Everybody in town has been up for hours while you’ve lolled around here in bed.”

“Please, please, I’m coming.” Simon stood up with a yawn and rubbed his eyes. “We were able to save most of the books last night, and for that, we should be allowed to sleep a little longer.” With a serious face, he turned to his wife. “The church treasures were destroyed for the most part, I assume?”

Magdalena shook her head. “On the contrary, all the relics were saved. The fire stopped right in front of the holy chapel. Only the wooden bolts were charred.”

“By all the saints, that’s really a miracle.”

“That’s what everyone is saying,” she replied with a grin. “No doubt that means even more pilgrims will come flocking to the Holy Mountain in the future. The abbot spoke to the pilgrims this morning and already promised them a new, even more beautiful monastery. The workmen in Wessobrunn, as well as those from Schongau, will be busy. Hemerle and a few others want to stay right here.”

Simon entered the next room, leaned over the washbasin, and rubbed the worst of the dirt from his face, while Peter and Paul played with a wooden top at his feet.

“Basically, that’s exactly what the prior always wanted,” he said finally, shaking the water from his hair. “A new monastery. That’s why he and the librarian melted down all the monstrances, golden chalices, and reliquaries.”

“But they’ll keep none of it. Wartenberg’s soldiers carted them both off to Weilheim before dawn, where they’ll soon be put on trial.” Magdalena’s lips narrowed. “To judge from my father’s description of Master Hans, they’ll soon wish they were dead.”

“And Nepomuk?” Simon asked.

Magdalena handed him a fresh towel. “The abbot promised to plead for his release, and until then, the torture won’t proceed,” she replied with a wink. “My father is already on his way to Weilheim to bring Nepomuk the news personally. He was smart enough to take advantage of the chaos here and run off. After all, he’s still a wanted man. Maurus will ask that he not be prosecuted for killing the dead hunter, however, as the other guards have apparently admitted to shooting their own comrade with a crossbow.”

“Then Maurus will remain abbot of the monastery?” Simon asked.

“Well, it certainly won’t be the prior, and there’s no other candidate for the position.”

“We probably won’t stay here much longer.” Simon put on his old jacket, still wet from the rain the day before, along with his bucket-top boots, which were slightly burned at the tips. “But there’s one thing I still have to do,” he said. “I should have done it much sooner, but then all this got in the way. I’ll be back again soon, I promise.”

With a final smile, he slipped out the door.

“Simon,” Magdalena picked up her skirt and ran into the garden after him, but her husband was already far down the path on his way to the monastery. The ground was still wet from the day before, and mist was rising in the bright morning sun. “Wait, I wanted to tell you something! We-”

With a sigh she threw up her hands and turned to her children, who were rubbing their sleepy eyes after a little quarrel. “Your father will probably never change,” she said, patting the boys on the heads. “Too bad for him. He just won’t find out. We can keep the secret to ourselves for a while, can’t we?”

The children clung to her legs, and Magdalena felt a knot burning in her abdomen. With a gentle smile, she turned around and reentered the house.

Even if the church had been reduced to ashes, she would light a candle for Saint Walburga that night.

Still unsteady, Simon hurried toward the Holy Mountain, which looked like an enormous pile of charcoal under the radiant blue sky.

The fires had been extinguished, but all that remained of many of the buildings were blackened skeletons and the columns of smoke rising above them. Here and there, monks and some local residents were looking for the few things that could still be salvaged. The apothecary and the watchmaker’s house had also been destroyed by the fire. Simon could see workmen standing in front of many buildings, trying to estimate the damage and calculating how much wood, stone, nails, and plaster would be needed to rebuild. As bad as the fire was for the monastery, the reconstruction was a gold mine for local citizens impoverished by the war. And no one seemed too concerned that the money had been amassed through the sale of melted-down relics.

That, too, is a sort of miracle, Simon thought grimly. Perhaps even the dear Lord wanted the church’s treasures to be redistributed among the people in this way.

Finally the medicus reached his destination. Before him was the clinic that had been nothing but a foul stable a little more than a week ago. He was relieved to see the damage here wasn’t serious. Some of the roof shingles had been singed and there were a few piles of ashes on the square out front, but evidently the sick were already back in their beds.

As Simon approached, the door suddenly opened from within and Jakob Schreevogl looked back at him with surprise.

“You’re here?” the patrician said with a smile. “They told me you collapsed last night and were unconscious. I had no idea I’d see you so soon again.”

“It appears I’m no longer needed here,” replied Simon, entering the large, well-ventilated room and nodding his approval. It had been recently swept, and fragrant reeds had been spread across the floor. Around two dozen patients lay dozing in their beds. All of them seemed well cared-for, and their bandages and compresses recently changed.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sell your brick factory and try your hand as a medicus?” asked Simon, amazed. “You really seem to have talent for health care.”

Schreevogl shook his head. “I wouldn’t have been able to do it without the help of some of the monks. Besides, the worst is behind us, thank God, and the number of patients is falling. I will admit I have enjoyed it, even though it doesn’t pay even half as much as owning a business in Schongau. But you surely didn’t come just to pay me pay me compliments, did you?” he said with a wink. “You asked me yesterday to look around in the tavern and find out where they get their food. Well, I can imagine now why you had me do that, and I have a surprise for you.”

Simon nodded excitedly. “This damned plague must have something to do with the tavern. There are just too many patients who ate there before getting sick. What did you learn?”

“You were right.”

Simon looked at the patrician, puzzled. “What do you mean? For God’s sake, don’t make me drag it out of you. Does that mean-”

“The food in the tavern all came from the same supplier,” Schreevogl replied with a grin. “I inspected the meat, eggs, and vegetables. Much of it was old, and maggots had even infested some of the meat. The tavern is almost surely the source of the illness.”

“But… but why did the tavern serve such food?” Simon asked, astonished.

“On the instruction of the prior. The supplier had influential allies in the monastery council. The same man also sold the monastery beeswax diluted with fat and overpriced pictures of saints. It seems there was a big payoff.”

His heart pounding, Simon held his breath. “Do I know the supplier?” he whispered.

Schreevogl nodded with a grin. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Oh, God, it’s-”

“Karl Semer. The abbot cancelled all deliveries from him as of this morning, and Semer will never be allowed to sell anything to the monastery again.” The patrician smiled mischievously. “And he will no longer be selling anything to the Wittelsbach count, either. I made sure myself that His Excellency learned about it.”

Simon laughed so loud that some of the patients woke up with a start. “That fat old moneybags,” he cried out, shaking his head again and again. “That’s what he and his son get for their wheeling and dealing. This will take Semer down a peg or two.” Suddenly he turned serious. “I hope this makes him a bit more reasonable in the Schongau town council. He’s made some serious threats against me and Magdalena.”

Schreevogl shrugged and went to one of the patients to change the dressing on his leg. “Don’t worry about that. I can’t imagine the Schongau Council would elect him burgomaster again under these conditions. Before that could happen-”

The door flew open with a crash, and Count Wittelsbach stormed in. He wore a stiff red jacket, just as the day before; his handlebar mustache was carefully curled; and as so often, he smelled of soap and perfume. But his eyes betrayed that he hadn’t slept much the night before.

“Ah, there you are, bathhouse surgeon,” he began impatiently, without so much as looking at Jakob Schreevogl. “I’ve been wondering where you were. Have you seen your father-in-law?”

Simon looked at him innocently. “I thought he had reported to you about the events yesterday, didn’t he?”

“No, confound it, he didn’t.” Then he waved his hand dismissively. “But basically I don’t care what this hangman does. Let the monks deal with him. I’ve had the entrances to those damned catacombs sealed and the relic forgerers led away. My work here is finished.” Then he hesitated briefly. “Actually, I’m not here on account of the hangman but because of my son.”

“Is he better?” Simon asked, his heart pounding. “Did the Jesuit’s Powder work?”

Leopold von Wartenberg nodded. “Yes, the fever has gone down and he does seem to be getting better. I… I have you to thank for that.” He straightened up. “Therefore I have an offer to make you.”

Simon frowned. “What do you have in mind?”

“We’re traveling back to Munich today,” he declared. “My family could use a doctor like you. There are still some rooms free in our palace, and the pay would be at least ten times what you’re earning now. You could care for my son, take on a few wealthy patients, and otherwise lead a good life. How would that suit you?”

Simon’s head began to spin. Was it possible? Could someone like him, who had dropped out of medical school in Ingolstadt and was working as a dishonorable bathhouse surgeon, really settle down and practice medicine in Munich? This was exactly the kind of post his late father had always wanted for him. And the count would certainly know how to help him gain the proper approvals.

“You’re hesitating?” the count asked.

“No, no, it’s just…” Simon shook his head and laughed, but then he looked at the count anxiously.

“And my wife and my children?” he asked softly. “What about them?”

“A hangman’s daughter?” Leopold von Wartenberg raised his bushy eyebrows. “A dishonorable woman and two equally dishonorable kids in my house? How would that be arranged?” He stopped to think for a moment. “Very well, I could let you visit them from time to time. They could live in the Tanners’ Quarter in Munich and you could send them a little money for a while.” The count chuckled. “But love comes and love goes, and I’m sure you’ll soon find another woman with a better social standing.”

Simon rocked his head from side to side as if he was considering the offer. “Well…”

Leopold von Wartenberg winked mischievously at him. “Our coach is leaving from the monastery at noon,” he said. “You could travel with our group.”

“That’s… really very generous of you,” the little medicus began hesitantly. “But… uh… I’m afraid Munich will have to get along without me.” He straightened up and turned his nose up almost the way the count had. “I’m sorry, but your city stinks too much of perfume; so I wish you a good day and farewell.” Bowing slightly, he skipped out the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the count standing in the middle of the clinic, open-mouthed like a carp gasping for air. He didn’t say a word.

“We’ll see each other in Schongau,” Schreevogl called after the medicus. “And give my greetings to Magdalena. By God, she’s the prettiest and stubbornest woman in the whole Priests’ Corner.”

Simon smiled and took a deep breath. The Andechs air still smelled of fire, but also of burning coal, sweat, beer mash, and a bit of incense.

This was the odor of people, and Simon loved it.

Nepomuk was startled when the door to his cell opened a crack. Blinded by the light, he squinted. Early that morning they had fetched him from the hole and locked him in this larger cell. There was no window here either and the straw stank as if it hadn’t been changed for years, but he had room enough now to stretch out, he had been given fresh water and a slice of bread, and there were far fewer rats. After the hell of recent days, it almost felt like paradise.

They had intended to continue the torture that morning, and the monk had been praying all night in preparation for his great journey. He knew he wouldn’t survive another day of torture. Six of his fingers had been broken, and Master Hans had pulled the fingernails out of the others, one by one. His right shoulder had been dislocated, pain radiated up to the top of his skull, and his arms and legs were covered with burns.

Nepomuk was sure the pain would be over that day. Either he would die from the torture or would, screaming and half-mad, confess to everything they asked. His subsequent burning at the stake would be a welcome relief.

Now the door opened all the way, and Nepomuk saw Master Hans on the threshold.

“Have you come to take me away?” he groaned, addressing the white-haired man with the red eyes who had tormented him over and over in his nightmares. “I almost thought you’d forgotten me.”

Master Hans shook his head. His lips were red, and his ratlike eyes seemed to glow in the dark. “The torture has been postponed,” he grumbled. “Who knows who ordered that. You seem to have powerful advocates, monk.”

“The torture… has been postponed?” Nepomuk struggled to get to his feet, but he was too weak. He fell back to the ground, groaning and glaring up at the executioner like a whipped ox. “But… but why?”

“Don’t ask me. The ways of the noble lords are unfathomable.” Master Hans picked a piece of meat from his teeth and flicked it into the putrid straw.

Then he began to curse loudly. “All that work for nothing. I had you almost to the point of confession. But they’ll pay me every penny, every penny.” He grinned. “And what does it matter? I got a nice delivery today: two new criminals. And you have a visitor.”

He stepped aside. Behind him appeared another man who had been visiting his dreams. At over six feet tall, he had shaggy black hair, a dirty coat, and a hooked nose. And he was smoking.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jakob Kuisl growled, drawing on his pipe. “I’ve got to say Master Hans really did a thorough job. It will no doubt take a week to get a bag of maggots like you back in shape.”

“Indeed.” The Weilheim executioner at his side smiled. “A masterpiece, but unfortunately your friend was too stubborn. You could have saved yourself a lot of grief if you had just confessed, but I can also cure you for a price.”

Kuisl declined for his friend. “Never mind, Hans. You’re perhaps better at torturing, but I can take care of the healing. That requires something the dear Lord unfortunately didn’t give you.”

“And what would that be?”

“A heart.”

Kuisl handed the astonished executioner a few coins. “Take these, and leave us alone for a moment. Get out of my sight.”

With a shrug Master Hans shuffled out into the hall, where he tossed the coins in the air and deftly caught them. “You were always too soft for this line of work, Kuisl,” he called back into the dungeon. “Too much feeling just leads to bad dreams. What’s wrong, Kuisl? Do you have bad dreams?”

Without bothering to reply, Kuisl walked toward his friend crouching on the hard dirt floor in front of him. He pulled Nepomuk to him like a child and embraced him.

“It’s over, Nepomuk,” he whispered. “It’s over.”

“Over…? Over?” The fat monk stared at his friend in disbelief. His eyes were still swollen from being beaten by the Andechs hunters, and flies were circling his bloodied lips. “Do you mean I’m… free?”

“I’m not able to take you myself,” the hangman replied in a steady voice, “but the Andechs abbot swore to me by all that’s holy that he will get you out of here soon.” Kuisl grinned. “The noble gentleman owes me a favor. Without me, someone would have taken his place as abbot.”

A long, shrill shout of pain could be heard in the distance. Nepomuk trembled. “My God, who was that?” he gasped.

“Oh, I’m afraid that was the abbot’s replacement. Brother Jeremias and Brother Benedikt have already confessed to everything, but Master Hans hopes to squeeze a few more things out of them. After all, he’s paid on commission.” For a moment, Nepomuk could only look at his friend with his mouth open. He had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

“Do you mean the… the Andechs prior is over there…” he stammered.

Kuisl set him down gently again on the ground. “That’s a long story, and I’ll tell you all about it, but first let’s relax a bit in this stinking hole.” With a wink, he took out another long-stemmed pipe and a pouch of wine he had under his coat.

“I thought we could perhaps chat a little about old times,” he said warmly. “After all, that’s what I promised you the last time we met in the Andechs dungeon. Do you remember?” He offered Nepomuk the pipe and the full pouch of wine.

“To our friendship,” he said.

“To our friendship,” replied the apothecary.

Nepomuk looked at the hangman wearily, his swollen eyes filling with tears that had nothing to do with the dense tobacco smoke.