The Poisoned Pilgrim

2

SCHONGAU IN THE PRIESTS’ CORNER, SUNDAY MORNING, JUNE 13, 1666 AD

"Damn it! Keep your dirty paws away from my sacred crucibles before I send you back to bed without breakfast.”

The Schongau hangman was sitting at the dining room table trying to keep his three-year-old grandson Peter from eating the ground herbs in an ancient stone vessel. The plants weren’t poisonous, but Jakob Kuisl couldn’t say what the effect on the boy would be of a mixture of arnica, St. John’s wort, mountain lovage, and nettles. At the very least the boy would get diarrhea, which made the hangman shudder when he thought about how few clean diapers were still left.

“And tell your brother not to pester the chickens to death, or I’ll chop his head off myself.”

Paul, who had just turned two, was crawling through the fragrant rushes strewn under the table, reaching his little arms out at the chickens running through the room, cackling noisily.

“Good Lord in heaven!”

“You mustn’t be so strict with them,” said a weak voice from the bed in the next room. “Think of our Magdalena when she was little. How often did you tell her not to pluck the hens while they were alive, but she did it anyway.”

“And each time she got a good licking for it.” With a grin, Kuisl turned to his wife. Seeing her lying there in the bed, pale, rings under her eyes, he at once turned serious again. Anna-Maria had been suffering with a bad fever since last night. It had come over her like a cold wind, and now she lay there trembling under thick woolen blankets and a few tattered wolf and bear pelts. The herbs in the crucible, mixed with hot water and honey, would-he hoped-give her a little relief.

Kuisl eyed his wife with concern. Recent years had left their mark on her. She was approaching fifty, and though she was still a beautiful woman, her face was deeply furrowed. Her black hair, once so shiny, had become dull and interspersed with strands of gray. With only her pale head sticking out from under the blankets, she reminded Jakob of a white rose beginning to wither after a long summer.

“Try to sleep a bit, Anna,” the hangman said gently. “Sleep is still the best medicine.”

“Sleep? How?” She laughed softly, but the laugh quickly turned into a coughing fit. “You run around shouting so much, it’s practically a sacrilege,” she gasped finally. “In the meantime, the two little ones knock our stoneware pots from the shelves if you’re not right there to keep an eye on them. Of course, the master of the house never sees that sort of thing.”

“What the devil-”

And in fact, little Peter had climbed up onto a bench by the stove while Kuisl wasn’t looking, and at that moment was pulling himself up on the rough pine shelves, reaching for a jar of last autumn’s preserves. The jar slipped from his hands and landed on the ground with a crash, spilling its contents all over the floor. The hangman’s house looked like the scene of a botched execution.

“Look, Grandpa, there’s blood.” Wide-eyed, Peter pointed to the mess on the floor, then finally stuck his finger in it and sucked on it. “Good blood.”

Kuisl clapped his hands over his head and let out another curse. Then he grabbed the two loudly protesting troublemakers by the scruff of the neck and carried them out into the yard. Once the door slammed closed, the hangman started picking the cherries up from the floor, getting the gooey mess all over him in the process.

“Let’s hope they both fall in the well,” he grumbled. “Damned hoodlums.”

“You mustn’t say things like that,” his wife replied from the bed. “Magdalena and Simon would never forgive us if something happened to the little ones.”

“Magdalena and Simon,” Kuisl spat noisily into the reeds on the floor. “I don’t want to even hear about them. Why do the two of them have to hang around the Holy Mountain? For a whole week!” He shook his head and wiped his hands on his worn leather apron. “Two rosaries in the Altenstadt basilica would have been enough. One for each of the brats.”

“The Dear Lord meant only the best for us, and we should thank him,” his wife scolded. “It wouldn’t hurt you to go on a pilgrimage, either, what with all the blood on your hands from the people you’ve executed.”

“If it’s on my hands, then it’s also on the hands of every one of the goddamned Schongau aldermen,” Kuisl grumbled. “Until now I’ve always been good enough to hang the thieves and murderers.”

“You’ll have to clear that with your Savior.” Anna-Maria coughed again and closed her eyes wearily. “I don’t feel well enough today to fight with you.”

Suddenly, footsteps could be heard outside, and then a loud pounding on the door. Kuisl opened it and found the midwife Martha Stechlin standing there holding the whining children, one in each hand.

“Are you out of your mind, Kuisl? I found these two down by the moat…” she started to say. Then her gaze fell on the hangman’s spotted red shirt and she let out a scream. “My God,” she cried. “Are you killing people now in their own homes?”

“Nonsense.” Embarrassed, the hangman ran a hand through his black hair, which was just beginning to gray. “It’s just cherry juice. The two brats knocked the jar over, and I threw them out of the house.”

Martha laughed briefly, but then frowned. “You mustn’t leave the children outside alone,” she scolded. “Think of Huber’s boy who drowned in the Lech this spring. And little Hans, the Altenstadt tavernkeeper’s son, who broke all his bones recently when he was run over by a carriage. Why do you men always have to be so thickheaded? Idiots!”

Kuisl closed his eyes and groaned softly. Martha was, along with his wife and his daughter, the only person who could speak this way to the Schongau hangman. Usually the midwife brought the hangman a few herbs when she stopped by and, in return, took some crushed thornapple or a few ounces of human fat for her patients, or she leafed through Kuisl’s books of medicine. The hangman’s medical library and his expertise in healing were known far and wide.

“Is that the only reason you came?” Kuisl groused at Martha, with a furious look. “To holler at me like an old washerwoman?”

“Jackass! I’m here because of your wife, why else?” She pushed the two crying boys out of the room and took a worn leather pouch from her skirt. “I’ve brought along clubmoss, yarrow, and St. John’s wort to reduce her fever.”

“I have St. John’s wort myself,” the hangman said. “But, please, go ahead-help is always welcome.”

He moved to the side so Martha could enter the bedroom where Anna-Maria was laid out with closed eyes. Evidently she had fallen asleep again. While the midwife cooled her patient’s fevered face, she turned to Jakob. “Where are your two older children? Barbara at least could watch her nephews.”

Grumbling, the hangman sat back down at the table and continued crushing the herbs in the mortar. His movements were smooth and even. “I sent Barbara to the forest to gather some melissa,” he said. “Good Lord, my wife is not the only one in town with the fever. People are pestering me to death. And Georg is out cleaning the wagon used for carrying the prisoners to the gallows. It’s filthy and covered with blood.” Kuisl rubbed a few dry herbs between his callused fingers and dropped them carefully into the mortar. “In any case, that’s what he’s supposed to be doing. If I catch the kid hanging around down by the Lech again, there’ll be a whipping he won’t forget for a long time.”

Martha smiled serenely. “Oh, Jakob,” she replied. “The lad is thirteen; at that age he has other things on his mind than sweeping and polishing. Think back on when you were a child. What did you do when you were thirteen?”

“I went to war and slit open the bellies of Swedish soldiers. I had no time for nonsense.”

There was an awkward pause in which no one said anything.

“Even so, you really shouldn’t leave your grandchildren outside by themselves,” Martha finally said. “Down by the pond, I saw two of Berchtholdt’s boys hanging around. If I were you, I’d be a bit more careful.”

Sullenly resuming his work, Kuisl pushed the heavy pestle into the mortar. “What do you mean by that?”

“What do I mean?” Martha chuckled. “You know only too well. Ever since you caught the eldest Berchtholdt boy with the sacks of grain at the Stadl warehouse a few weeks ago, they’ve sworn bloody revenge.”

“I only told him that wasn’t his grain and to please keep his hands off it.”

“And for that you had to break two of his fingers?”

The hangman grinned. “That will help the little bastard remember it, at least. If I’d told the city council, the aldermen would have had him whipped and made him wear the shrew’s fiddle. Basically, by doing what I did, I missed my chance to collect a reward.”

Martha sighed. “All right, then. But in any case, you should watch out, at least for the children’s sake.” She looked at him very seriously. “I’ve looked these fellows in the eye, Jakob, and they’re as evil as Lucifer.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” The hangman pounded the mortar so hard with his pestle that his two grandchildren, who were playing, looked up in shock. They knew their grandfather, and knew he could get loud and angry. Now that he seemed especially irritated, it would be best for them to keep quiet.

“Bastards, all of them, these Berchtholdts,” Kuisl said. “Just because their father sat on the city council as the master baker until he died, they think they can do anything they want. People like us have to haul the garbage from the streets and be nice and keep our mouths shut. If I catch that Berchtholdt punk down in the Stadl again, I’ll break not just two fingers but both hands. And if he touches my grandkids…” His voice faltered. The hangman clenched his hands into fists and cracked his knuckles while his grandchildren stared up at him silently.

“If the Berchtholdts even harm a hair on the head of my grandkids,” he continued, his voice as sharp as a razorblade, “then, as sure as my name’s Jakob Kuisl, I’ll smash their bones on my wheel one at a time, slit open their bellies, and hang their guts out the window of the Schongau Tower.”

When he noticed the wide, anxious eyes of the two boys, a kind smile spread over his face. “And which of you scaredy cats wants to play piggyback now with his grandfather?”

Simon was awakened by coughing alongside him. When he turned around on the prickly, flea-infested bed of straw, he saw Magdalena wiping her pale face with the back of her hand.

“Damned bellyache,” the hangman’s daughter groaned. “My stomach has been queasy for days.” She tried to get up but collapsed again, moaning, on the bench by the stove. “And I feel a bit dizzy, too.”

“That’s no surprise with all the smoke in here.” Simon coughed and squinted at the door. It was ajar, and black clouds of smoke were coming through the cracks. “Your lousy cousin can’t even afford a decent tile stove. Why do we have to spend the night with this miserable horse butcher? Just because he happens to be a cousin of your father?”

“Shh!” Magdalena put her finger to her lips as Michael Graetz entered the room. The Erling knacker was a skinny, consumptive man whom no one would suspect was even remotely related to the robust hangman of Schongau. His shirt was torn and stained with soot, his beard unkempt, and his teeth shone in his cadaverous face like pieces of black coal. Only his eyes sparkled genially as he held out two steaming bowls to his guests.

“Here, eat,” he mumbled, venturing a wry smile. “Barley porridge sweetened with honey and dried pears. We have it only on holidays and when my dear aunt comes to visit.”

“Thank you, Michael. But I don’t think I can get any food into me this early in the morning.” Shivering, Magdalena took the bowl to warm her hands. It was just after sunrise, and outside the opened shutters fog was rising from the forest floor. Somewhere nearby a goat was bleating. Though summer had arrived, the hangman’s daughter was quivering.

“This is the coldest damn June I can remember,” she complained.

Her cousin eyed her anxiously. “It may be cold, but from the way you look, I’d say the cold comes from inside.” He quickly crossed himself. “Let’s hope you haven’t caught that damned fever that’s plaguing this area now. The Grim Reaper already took two Erling farmers and a maid from Machtlfing this summer.”

“Oh, come now,” Simon scolded. “Magdalena has a stomachache, nothing more. A little anise and silverweed will get her back on her feet again.”

The medicus glanced furtively at his wife, who had crawled back under the thin, torn blanket. The three had slept together in the same room-the horse butcher on the hard bench, Magdalena and Simon on the rickety couch in the niche by the stove. Lost in thought, Simon dished out a spoonful of the steaming porridge and sent a silent prayer to heaven. Michael Graetz was right. Magdalena had looked pale for days, and she had dark rings under her eyes. He could only hope she wasn’t really coming down with a fever. The medicus knew from his own experience that people who complained of a simple cold in the morning could be near death by nightfall.

“I’ll make something for you to drink,” Simon said, partially to reassure himself as he took another spoonful of the porridge. It tasted amazingly good, as sweet and rich as an expensive dessert for pampered councilors. “Some medicine from anise, camomile, and perhaps a bit of bloodroot…” he mumbled. He looked around the room that occupied almost the entire first floor of the house. There was a rickety table, two stools, a bed, an old trunk, and a crooked homemade cross in the corner.

“I assume you don’t have those herbs here in the house, do you?” Simon asked hesitantly. “Dried perhaps, or crushed into powder?”

Michael Graetz shook his head. “I have some chamomile growing in my garden, but the rest…” He shrugged. “Ever since my wife and my two dear children died of the Plague three years ago, I’ve been all alone in the house. I skin the dead cows and horses and take the hides to the tanner down in Herrsching on Lake Ammer. It’s a long, steep way, and I don’t have time to plant more than a few carrots and cabbages behind the house.”

“Don’t worry,” Magdalena said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll sit outside on the bench in the sun and-”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Simon interrupted. “You’ll stay right here in bed while I go and get some herbs. The only question is…” His face brightened. “Of course, that ugly monk we saw last night. Didn’t he say he was out gathering herbs? I’ll go over to the monastery and ask him. I need a few other herbs, in any case. Andre Losch has a bad cough, and Lukas in Altenstadt can’t get his hand to heal.” He took another quick spoonful of the tasty porridge. Then, smoothing his rumpled clothing, he headed for the door.

“Just don’t try to get up.” Simon raised his finger with feigned severity. “You can come over to the monastery later. Just be glad you have a bathhouse surgeon caring for you free of charge.”

“All right, fine, Mr. Bathhouse Surgeon.” Magdalena lay back down on the bed, exhausted. “And while you’re out, bring a little rosemary and some fresh reeds for the floor. This room stinks like the inside of a dead horse. It’s no wonder I feel ill.”

The sun was just rising over the forest in Kien Valley as Simon left the knacker’s house. Dew was rising on the meadows around Erling, and the day promised to be pleasantly warm. In the fields, farmers with scythes were harvesting the meager winter barley.

Simon buttoned his vest and trudged along the narrow path, still muddy from last night’s rain, that led from the forest to the village. So far, the year had been much too cold; there had been frost as late as May. In the last few weeks, a number of storms brought torrential rain and hail across the Alpine foothills, flattening what little grain remained. Men prayed to God for drier weather in the coming months. Only those whose granaries were filled could expect to survive the coming winter.

The path passed behind a barn by the edge of town and then ascended steeply to the monastery. Behind a low wall was a huge complex of all kinds of buildings. On the right, some granaries were surrounded by apple and plum trees, while on the other side of the wide, muddy street were some low wooden houses with thick white smoke billowing out of their chimneys. In an open shed nearby, a blacksmith hammered loudly on an anvil. Beyond that were a low-lying bakery that smelled of fresh bread, a whitewashed tavern, and a large, multistoried stone building-until finally the walls of the inner monastery appeared: a labyrinth of nooks and crannies with the church towering up in the center.

Simon noticed groups of simply clad pilgrims holding walking staffs, dressed in black habits and singing and praying as they approached the monastery. It appeared they either wanted to pay an early visit to the monastery or were just hoping for a free breakfast. Other Brothers were working with dirt-stained hands in the surrounding vegetable gardens or pushing carts loaded with barrels through the narrow entrance of the monastery. Simon stopped one of them and asked for Brother Johannes.

“The apothecary?” The man grinned. “If I know the ugly bugger, he’s lying in bed snoring loudly. He didn’t show up for morning prayers. Well, he’ll hear from the abbot about that. But you can try your luck.” He pointed to a tiny, nondescript house down by the storage buildings. “But you better knock loudly, or he’ll sleep till noon prayers.”

Moments later Simon stood at the apothecary’s house below the monastery. It was a low-lying building with narrow windows and a thick oaken door. He was about to knock when he heard voices inside. Though the sound was muffled, it was clear that two men were having a heated argument. Simon waited in front of the house, uncertain about what to do as the voices approached along with the sound of footsteps.

The next moment, the door flew open and a lanky, black-robed Benedictine stomped out. Red-faced and furious, he clutched a walking stick decorated with ivory, waving it around wildly. Simon noticed that the monk’s cape concealed a small hunchback and that he was dragging one leg. The angry, pitiful cripple hobbled off and had soon disappeared amid the apple trees.

Simon was so intrigued by what he saw that he didn’t notice in time that someone had crept up on him from behind. When he turned around, he found himself looking directly into the ugly countenance of the apothecary.

“What is it?” growled Brother Johannes, standing in the doorway with a suspicious look on his face. The monk seemed anxious and harried, and his swollen face was as white as soft moonlight. Clearly he’d also been troubled by the argument. Finally a look of recognition appeared in his face.

“For the love of Mary!” he cried in surprise. “Aren’t you one of the lost people from Schongau last night? Listen, if you wanted to express your thanks, this is a bad time. I suggest you come-”

“My wife is ill, and I urgently need some anise and silverweed,” Simon interrupted calmly. “And a few other herbs. Can you help me?”

For a moment the monk appeared about to turn away the uninvited guest, but then changed his mind. “Why not?” he grumbled. “In any case, I’ve got to inform the abbot at once. Then the gossiping can begin.”

“What gossiping?” Simon asked. “About the argument you just had with your colleague? I didn’t really hear anything, it’s just that…”

But Brother Johannes had already disappeared in the darkness of the apothecary’s house. With a shrug, Simon followed, entering a low-ceilinged room illuminated by a half dozen tallow candles. A narrow shaft of light fell through the shutters onto a huge cupboard on the opposite wall, which contained innumerable little drawers all identified by tiny hand-painted parchment labels. There was a bewitching odor of herbs-sage, rosemary, marigold, and chamomile. But he thought he detected a sweet scent, too, that briefly made him feel sick. It smelled almost like…

“Tell me again. What did you say you needed for your wife?” Brother Johannes asked abruptly. “Silverweed?”

“Yes, and anise,” said the medicus, turning again toward the ugly monk. “She has stomach pains and feels sick all over. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“God forbid. Now, let me see…” Brother Johannes set an eyepiece to his right eye, making his already frightening face just a bit more so. Then he walked over to the cupboard, paused a moment to think, and finally opened a drawer at eye-level. In the meantime he seemed to have forgotten his quarrel with the little monk. “Silverweed is really an excellent medicine for stomachache,” he mumbled, taking out a bundle of herbs, “though I actually prefer liver compresses and a mixture of gentian, centaury, and wormwood. Do you know the doses to use with the herbs? Always remember: dosis facit-”

“Venenum. The dose makes the poison. I know.” Simon nodded and stretched out his hand in a greeting. “Excuse me if I haven’t introduced myself yet. My name is Simon Fronwieser. I am the bathhouse surgeon from the little town of Schongau on the other side of the Hoher Pei?enberg. I lecture my patients almost every day with Paracelsus’s words about the correct dosage.”

“A bathhouse surgeon who speaks Latin?” Brother Johannes smiled and shook Simon’s hand cordially. The monk’s grip was firm, as if he’d been swinging a hammer on the anvil all his life. With the ocular in his eye, he looked like a misshapen cyclops. “That’s rather unusual. Then are you familiar with the Macer Floridus in which the eighty-five healing plants are listed?”

“Indeed.” Simon nodded and crammed the dried herbs into his leather bag. “I studied medicine in Ingolstadt. Unfortunately, I was unable to find a position as doctor. The… circumstances were not favorable.” He hesitated. The monk didn’t have to know he’d gone broke because of his gambling debts and the money he spent on fancy clothes.

The medicus cast an approving glance around the dimly lit room. Everything here was exactly the way he wished his own office to be. The large pharmacy cupboard, heavy wooden shelves along the walls lined with pots and tinctures. A low entryway led into another room that evidently served as a laboratory. In the dim light, Simon could make out a stove with a few pieces of wood glowing inside and on the mantelpiece, some sooty flasks. In front of this, a huge marble table supported something long and misshapen, partially covered with a dirty linen cloth.

At one end of the cloth a single pale foot protruded.

“My God!” Simon gasped. “Is that-”

“My assistant, Coelestin,” the Brother sighed, rubbing the sweat from his forehead. “Some farmers brought him to me shortly before sunrise today. Last night, the unfortunate fellow went to catch a carp for me in the pond down by the woods. And what does the dolt do? He falls off the walkway and drowns like a little cat. And then this charlatan Virgilius comes by and…” He broke off, shaking his head as if trying to shake off a bad dream.

Carefully Simon stepped into the laboratory and sniffed. Now he could explain the sweet odor he’d noticed yesterday.

The body was starting to decompose.

“May I?” the medicus asked hesitantly, pointing at the corpse beneath the shroud. Simon had always had a strange fascination with dead people. Stiff and lifeless, they were like anatomical dolls God gave the world to demonstrate the miracle of the human body.

“Go right ahead,” Johannes replied, finally removing his eyepiece and securing it in his robe. “Since you are evidently a sort of colleague, a second look certainly can’t harm. But there’s really nothing unusual about him. I can’t tell you how many drowned corpses I’ve seen in my life.” He sighed and crossed himself. “Man is not a fish, or God would have given him gills for breathing and fins to paddle.”

Curious, Simon pulled back the wet cloth and stared into the white, slightly blue face of the young Coelestin. Some compassionate villager had closed his eyes and put two rusty kreutzers on them, but his mouth was wide open like that of a carp gasping for air. Leaves and pieces of algae stuck to the thinning hair of the monk’s tonsure, and green blowflies buzzed around the putrid corpse. The dead novitiate’s robe hung on his body like a wet sack.

“I wanted to be alone with him a little longer,” Brother Johannes said hoarsely. “He was, after all, my loyal assistant for more than two years, and we lived through many things together, beautiful and some ugly…” He swallowed. “But now I shall have to go up and see the abbot, so please take your herbs and-”

“There are spots there.”

“What?” Annoyed, Brother Johannes turned to the medicus, who was pointing at a spot on the dead man’s collarbone.

“Look, black-and-blue spots here, both on the left and right shoulders.” Simon ripped open the wet robe. “And here on the breastbone as well.”

“He probably got those when he fell into the water,” the monk retorted. “What does that tell you?”

“Bruises on someone who fell into unresisting water?” Simon frowned. “I don’t know.” He began studying the body until he finally found what he was looking for on the back of Coelestin’s head.

“It’s just as I thought,” he murmured. “A big bump. Someone clearly dealt your assistant a heavy blow, then held him under water until he drowned.”

“Murder?” the Brother gasped. “Do you really think so?”

Simon shrugged. “Murder or manslaughter I can’t say, but in any case there was a second person involved. Perhaps a tavern brawl? A robbery that turned to murder?”

“Nonsense. A monk doesn’t get involved in brawls. Besides, why would…” Johannes hesitated and shook his huge head like a stubborn ox. “Of course there are still riffraff in the area. But the good Coelestin was nothing more than a simple novitiate in a thin robe! He had no money, nothing of value on him.” The fat monk raised his finger and his voice took on a singsong character. “Saint Benedict put it so nicely in one of his rules. No one may own a thing. No book or writing table or writing implement-nothing. So who could have wanted to harm Coelestin?”

“Didn’t he have any enemies down in town or here in the monastery?” Simon inquired.

Brother Johannes laughed so loudly his round belly bounced up and down. “Enemies? Good Lord, we are monks. We watch our tongue, we don’t steal, and if heaven permits, we don’t run after women, either. So why are you asking?” Suddenly his eyes narrowed to little slits. “But let me tell you something, barber surgeon. If you’re so sure of yourself, then come along to see the abbot and tell him. Brother Maurus is an intelligent, well-read man. Let him decide how Coelestin met his end.” Grimly he stomped out the door. “If the abbot agrees, you can use my apothecary as if it was your own,” he grumbled. “You have my word on that. And now, let’s go before my novitiate is completely eaten up by these damn blowflies.”

Mumbling a curse, Simon ran after him. This is what he got for talking too much. All he really wanted to do was to get back to Magdalena as fast as possible.

As the medicus turned around one last time, one of the blowflies, buzzing noisily, flew right into Coelestin’s mouth. It sounded like the corpse was softly mumbling to himself.

Magdalena was sitting on the bench in front of the knacker’s house, getting angrier by the minute as she waited for Simon to return from the apothecary. He had been gone over an hour now! What could be taking him so long? He probably got involved in a long conversation with that ugly monk about man-drake root or daphne and had completely forgotten her.

Impatiently she watched Michael Graetz as he struggled to hoist a stinking horse cadaver onto his cart. Despite the arduous work, the knacker hummed a soldier’s marching song and seemed completely happy with himself and the world. Beside him, a stocky young man pulled the dead nag onto the flatbed. Magdalena had learned from Graetz that this was his assistant, Matthias.

The hangman’s daughter couldn’t help but think of her father at home, whose job it also was to cart away dead animals. Looking at her cousin clothed in rags, Magdalena swore once more that her children would someday be better off. Peter and Paul wouldn’t be dishonorable executioners, knackers, or torturers but doctors or bathhouse surgeons like their father.

The dry horse manure made her sneeze suddenly, and Michael looked at her with concern. “May Saint Blasius protect you from the fever,” he mumbled.

“Nonsense!” Magdalena hissed, blowing her nose loudly on a rag she extracted from her skirt pocket. “I just had to sneeze, that’s all. So stop acting as if I had the Plague.”

The knacker’s stocky helper grinned at her and made some inarticulate noise that sounded to Magdalena like a laugh.

“What is it?” she growled. “Is there something funny about me? Is snot running out of my nose? Answer me, you scoundrel.”

“Matthias can’t answer you,” Michael replied. “He doesn’t have a tongue anymore.”

“What?”

The knacker shrugged and looked sympathetically at the strong young man, who now was completely involved in his work. “Croatian mercenaries cut out his tongue while he was still a young lad,” Michael said in a low voice. “They were trying to force his father, the innkeeper in Frieding, to tell them where he’d hidden his savings.” The knacker sighed. “But the poor fellow really didn’t have anything. Finally they took him away and strung him up on the gallows hill in Erling, and the boy had to watch.”

Magdalena stared at the strapping assistant in horror. “Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry. I had no idea…”

“Don’t fret. He’s no doubt already forgiven you. Matthias is a good fellow, a bit shy around people, but we deal more with dead animals, in any case.”

Michael laughed, and his assistant joined in with a dry coughing fit, casting a mischievous grin at Magdalena. He had a handsome face, a full head of sandy hair, and under his black smock, strong, bulging arm muscles like those of a blacksmith’s assistant.

If they hadn’t cut your tongue out, you would certainly be the cock of the walk, Magdalena couldn’t help thinking. I wish men would hold their tongues more often.

“No offense,” she said, standing up. “I think I’ll stretch my legs a bit. Simon isn’t coming back.” With a last nod to the mute assistant, she started down the path toward the village just as the bells began to ring.

“Where are you going?” Michael called after her as the bells continued to ring. “Your husband said-”

“My husband doesn’t tell me what to do,” Magdalena shouted. “If I were really sick, he wouldn’t have taken off and be spending so much time chitchatting with the apothecary. Now attend to your dead horse and leave the living alone.”

She hurried off toward the monastery that was teeming now, in the late morning, with throngs of pilgrims and workmen. The walk in the fresh air made her feel noticeably better. The odor in the knacker’s house had reminded her too much of her own home in Schongau, the nasty looks and whispers of her fellow townspeople, and the feeling of being an outcast-your whole life.

Without realizing it, Magdalena had climbed the hill and was standing now on the wide square directly in front of the church. From here it was easy to see the damage the lightning strike had caused. The roof of the belfry had burned almost entirely, and there was a huge hole in the ceiling in the front of the side aisle. Masons in overalls covered with plaster, as well as sturdy-looking carpenters and day laborers, ran about everywhere hauling stone, erecting new walls, and applying plaster to the parts already finished. At the edge of the building site, Magdalena found the carpenter Balthasar Hemerle from Altenstadt involved in a deep discussion with the patrician Jakob Schreevogl.

Noticing the hangman’s daughter, the Schongau alderman beckoned to her. “You look pale,” Schreevogl said, concerned. “Are you well?”

“Thanks,” Magdalena replied coolly. “I already have a husband and a cousin who are watching me like a hawk. That’s enough.” She pointed to the church belfry, which was covered with scaffolding. “It’s hard to believe the damage lightning can cause,” she said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t look like the church will really be finished in time for the Festival of the Three Hosts.”

“We’re on a really tight schedule,” Hemerle grumbled. “Only seven days left, just time enough to repair the worst damage.” He pointed to the alderman at his side. “Master Schreevogl assured us, though, that he can deliver the new stone from his brickworks in Schongau by tomorrow.”

Magdalena looked the young patrician up and down. “Then at least the lightning is good business for you, isn’t it, Master Schreevogl?”

“Don’t worry about that, I’m giving you a special discount,” he assured them. “In Augsburg or in Landsberg I’d get a lot more. If someone has a good deal here, it’s our dear burgomaster.” He winked slyly and lowered his voice. “Karl Semer sold thirty barrels of Bolzano wine to the Andechs Monastery tavern, as well as wax for pilgrim candles, pickled fish from the North Sea, and petitions he had printed cheaply and wants to palm off on the pilgrims. For the Schongau mayor, the Festival of the Three Hosts is better than any Easter mass.”

Magdalena whistled through her teeth. “I had no idea. I wondered what the old moneybags was doing on a pilgrimage. He insisted on our getting to the Holy Mountain last night in the middle of the thunderstorm.”

“Because he was afraid the merchants from Munich and Augsburg would get there first.” Schreevogl grinned. “At present that pious pilgrim is down at the tavern negotiating with the monastery’s business manager. And one of the Wittelsbachers is supposedly interested in what Semer has to sell. I just have to wonder what the elector’s family intends to do with all this stuff.”

The hangman’s daughter nodded. Mention of the previous night had awakened memories of the strange light flickering in the belfry. She shielded her eyes and looked up. “Is there any construction being done up there?” she asked curiously.

“In the belfry?” Hemerle shook his head. “The framework is complete, but we’re working our way up from the bottom. There’s still quite a bit of work to do up there where the lightning hit the tower. All that remains are charred beams and rubble. It’s a miracle that none of the bells has come down.”

Suddenly Magdalena remembered how unfriendly Brother Johannes had been the night before when she asked whether there was someone up in the belfry with a torch. What had the monk said? Why would anyone be up there at this time of night? To enjoy the view?

Magdalena stared up at the belfry ruins again. Even as a child, she never liked it when someone tried to hide something from her. And something deep inside warned her that Brother Johannes was not telling the whole truth. Suddenly feeling dizzy, she placed her hand on the patrician’s shoulder.

“You really should lie down for a while,” Schreevogl told her. “My wife, God bless her soul, had the same dark rings around her eyes at the end.”

“For heaven’s sake,” she said angrily, “is there anyone here who thinks I’m still alive? Goodbye, gentlemen. And if one of you sees my dear husband, that good-for-nothing bathhouse surgeon, tell him he can drink his potion himself. I’m going inside now to pray.”

Leaving the dazed men standing there, she walked quickly toward the monastery church. Though she was not as pious as many others in Schongau, she had nevertheless come to Andechs with the firm intention of thanking God for the preceding good years. So why not start with a prayer, especially since she felt so miserable now? Perhaps there was something after all to Simon’s worries.

She passed along the south side of the church, where the fire had caused the most damage. The foundation had collapsed and was covered with soot, and sun was falling through the narrow slits in the makeshift canvas beneath the hole in the roof. Magdalena took a deep breath and entered the old Gothic building where monks had more or less put things back in place. Now, after morning mass, only a few people were inside. On the right was the high altar with two golden statues of Mary, and in the nave four smaller altars. Narrow passageways led into dark side chapels lit only by flickering candlelight. Halfway up the wall was a gallery where a half dozen plasterers were busy cleaning dirt and soot from the frescoes or replacing the burned-out gothic windows. None of the workers seemed to have noticed Magdalena yet, so she sat down in one of the back pews, closed her eyes, and prayed. She soon realized, however, that she was having trouble concentrating. Her thoughts kept turning to her husband’s disappearance; Michael, her lice-ridden cousin; the storm the night before; and the light in the blackened belfry. Especially the light.

Opening her eyes, she looked around and discovered a winding staircase leading up to the balcony and from there farther up.

Perhaps up into the tower?

Just a few minutes, she thought. If I don’t find the entrance to the tower after a few minutes, I’ll come back and keep praying-I promise, Dear Lord.

Magdalena left the pew on tiptoe and climbed up to the balcony. In fact, there was a low entrance there and, behind that, a newly constructed staircase leading up. The old wooden stairway had been almost completely destroyed by fire. In some places the remains of the old, worn steps were visible, but for the most part all that remained were charred stubs over the void below. Magdalena crossed herself and started up the creaking frame.

After just a few steps, she was all alone. She could hear hammering and shouting down below, but the higher she climbed the more the sounds faded. Through the empty, charred window openings that appeared at regular intervals, Magdalena could look out into the green valley of the Kien, the beech forests around the monastery, and the construction site far below. The workers looked like ants crawling around the building site, pushing tiny stones.

The makeshift staircase creaked and swayed; there was no hand railing, and Magdalena could feel herself getting dizzy again. One step at a time she climbed higher and higher. Drops of sweat ran into her eyes and she silently cursed herself for climbing the burned-out, rickety tower. She was about to turn back when she saw a square opening in the ceiling just above her. She climbed through it and had finally made it into the belfry. A cool wind blew through the blackened window openings. The view was splendid.

Several times Magdalena had climbed to the top of the Hoher Pei?enberg not far from Schongau, but here she felt just a little bit closer to heaven. Far out on the horizon, the snowcapped Alps served as a background to the Bavarian foothills, with their forests, moors, and lakes. On the west side of Lake Ammer, she could see the great tower of the Augustinian monastery in Die?en, and to the left of that, the Hoher Pei?enberg, which blocked the view of her hometown just a few miles beyond. Here in the church steeple, everything seemed so close at hand as to make their two-day pilgrimage look like nothing more than a leisurely stroll.

Suddenly a gust of wind tugged at her hair, and she tightened her grip on a wooden beam to keep from falling. When she had regained her balance, she turned around to get a look at the interior of the destroyed tower room.

The walls were blackened and had burst in places from the heat, but beyond the empty window frames she could see only blue sky. In the middle of the belfry, three bells that had survived the flames hung in an iron-reinforced wooden frame. The floor around it had mostly burned away, so Magdalena could see through the beams into the yawning abyss below. A new rope dangled down from the bell cage.

It occurred to Magdalena now that she’d heard the bells early that morning. Could it have been just the bell ringer checking things last night? She frowned. What in the world could he have been doing up here in the pitch black?

Magdalena decided to climb over the balcony to the bells to get a better view of the room, taking care not to look down any more than absolutely necessary. As long as she put one foot in front of the other and kept looking straight ahead, she felt more or less secure.

Finally she reached the huge bronze bells and placed her arms around the smallest one, feeling the cool metal in her hands and breathing a sigh of relief. Her dizziness was completely gone now. It was as if the exertion had renewed her strength and cured her. As she stood up carefully to look to the other side of the room behind the bells, she spotted something strange.

Against the opposite wall, a sort of stretcher lined with metal clamps along the side leaned upended against the wall. On the ground in front of it lay some polished iron rods. Something squeaked, and looking up she saw on the ceiling directly above the stretcher a wire about the thickness of a finger, swaying in the wind like a hangman’s noose.

As she approached the strange contraption, she heard a sound on her right and wheeled around.

A black form ran toward her, like a human bat that had been sleeping in the tower rafters and was now swooping down on the unexpected visitor. The figure wore a black robe and a cowl, so Magdalena couldn’t see his face.

In the next instant he attacked.

Magdalena staggered, her hands lost their grip on the smooth metal bell, and she lost her balance. As she fell through an opening between the beams, something sharp scraped against her thigh. At the last moment she reached out and seized a wooden beam above her. The tendons in her wrists felt like they were going to rip out, but she held on with all her strength. As she swung wildly back and forth, she looked down, heart pounding, into the abyss beneath her. For a moment, she thought she was going to pass out, but then she heard steps on the stairs beneath her, and the figure disguised in black robes appeared again, then raced down the stairs so fast it almost appeared he was about to fly away. A moment later, the man had disappeared into the church nave.

Magdalena swung back and forth like a thin branch in the wind, knowing her strength wouldn’t last much longer. Tears of anger and despair ran down her face. With a last ounce of strength, she pulled herself up to see the bell rope hanging just two arm’s lengths away.

Would she be able to reach it?

Inch by inch, she worked her way forward. At one point her left hand slipped and she was barely able to hold on. When finally she got close enough, she let out a gasp and leapt for the salvation of the rope. Grabbing it tightly, she tumbled one or two yards, then started to sway back and forth.

The church bells rang wildly.

Magdalena’s ears rang, too; it seemed as loud as if she were being tossed around inside the heavy, hollow bell itself as it swayed back and forth, yanking her up and down. Slowly she slid down the rope to the bottom of the tower, where several surprised workers were already looking up wide-mouthed at her, Jakob Schreevogl and Balthasar Hemerle among them.

Magdalena could see they were both shouting and trying to tell her something, but all she could hear was the thundering bells-a constant and deafening booming, clanging, clanking, and rumbling.

As if the angels were announcing the Last Judgment.

The pealing bells could also be heard in the main building of the monastery, interrupting the Andechs abbot, Maurus Rambeck, for a moment. But the occasion was too serious to pause for long.

“So do you really think it was murder?” The abbot raised his right eyebrow and cast a short glance through the window, as if in this way he might determine the reason for the ringing bells. Simon guessed that Rambeck was about fifty, but his shaved head and black Benedictine robe made him look considerably older. After what seemed like an eternity, the abbot turned back to his visitor. “What makes you say such a dreadful thing?”

“Well… ah, I found bruises on the novitiate’s shoulder blades and chest, Your Eminence,” Simon mumbled. “And a large bump on the back of his head. Feel free to examine the corpse yourself.”

“You can be sure I’ll do that.”

Simon looked down, silently examining the many books on the shelves all around them. Brother Johannes and he had met Maurus Rambeck in the so-called study on the second floor-a room meant exclusively for the abbot. He was sitting at a table, scrutinizing a tattered book full of strange signs that seemed vaguely familiar to Simon.

“If your theory is correct,” Rambeck continued, “then it’s a matter for the district court in Weilheim-something I’d like very much to spare us all. Are there any clues who the culprit might be?”

“Unfortunately not.” Simon sighed. “But perhaps we should pay a visit to this fish pond, if you will permit me to say so.”

“Perhaps we should do that, indeed.”

The abbot ran his tongue over his plump lips, lost in thought. Maurus Rambeck was a chubby man with the jowls of an old lap dog. He radiated an easy-going nature; only his eyes revealed the quick mind behind his demeanor. As they walked toward the monastery living quarters, Johannes told Simon that the abbot had assumed his duties only a few months ago and was regarded as one of the smartest minds in Bavaria. He spoke eight languages fluently and could read twice that number. Like many educated men of his time, he had studied not only theology but philosophy, mathematics, and experimental physics at the Benedictine University in Salzburg. After serving in his youth as a simple monk in the monastery, he had been sent back to the university in Salzburg as a lecturer. His call back to Andechs had caused quite a stir in the monastery council.

“I think the whole thing is just imaginations running wild,” Brother Johannes interrupted for the first time. “Believe me, Your Excellency, I’ve seen many corpses, and-”

“I know you’ve seen many corpses, my dear Brother,” the abbot interrupted. “Too many, if you ask me…” he added ominously. “In addition, you’ve been involved with some troubling things, Brother Johannes. The rumors concerning the lightning strike and your gluttonous behavior during the time of fasting, to say nothing of the eternal arguments with Brother Virgilius. Is it true, as I have heard, that there were harsh words between the two of you just today?”

“How do you know…” Brother Johannes burst out. Then his shoulders sank, and he continued in a meek voice. “Very well, it’s true. We argued, but it was a… scholarly dispute, technical really, and nothing serious.”

“Scholarly?” The abbot grinned. “Remember your place, Brother. You are our apothecary, nothing more. Heal the sick and make sure that no more of your patients die. That’s all I ask of you. Leave scholarly issues to the scholars.” He turned back to Simon. “And now to you, bathhouse surgeon. You seem to understand something about human anatomy, perhaps even more than Brother Johannes. And why wouldn’t you?” Maurus Rambeck rocked his head from side to side as if trying to decide what to do. Finally he nodded. “I’d be pleased if you’d write a short report about this incident. By tomorrow morning, let’s say? Cause of death, wounds, and so forth, something for our files if we actually have to call upon the judge from the district court. And naturally we will pay you for that.” He winked, and Simon thought he noticed a touch of mockery in his eyes. “And of course you should also pay a visit to this mysterious pond,” he continued. “Or whatever you wish to do-it’s up to you. After that, I’ll decide how to proceed. And now, I wish you a good day.” Maurus Rambeck pointed at the tattered book in front of him. “This Hebrew manuscript about healing herbs in ancient Egypt is most enlightening. I’d like to prepare a translation of it today. In peace and quiet.” With a sigh, he looked out the window where the occasional pealing bells could still be heard. “And dear Brother Johannes, please find out why there’s all that nerve-racking ringing out there. It sounds almost as if the Swedes were at our gates again.”

“As you wish, Your Excellency,” Brother Johannes mumbled. “I will check at once to see that everything’s in order.” He bowed and took leave of the abbot, but not without first casting an angry glance at Simon.

The medicus swallowed hard. It looked as though his notorious curiosity had gotten him into a heap of trouble again.