The Dark Monk

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “Here!” he said, pointing triumphantly at a passage. “The Revelation of Saint John, Chapter Four. Here’s the verse!” He began reading the line out loud: “I will tell my two witnesses to prophesy…” He looked at the two of them excitedly. “The two witnesses are Enoch—the son of Cain—and the prophet Elijah! When they arrive to fight the beast, the Day of Judgment is close at hand!”

  Magdalena shrugged, obviously bored. “Nice that you’re so well versed in the Bible. But where can we find these…witnesses? I, for one, have never seen them here in Schongau.”

  Simon grinned broadly.

  “Not here in Schongau, actually,” he said. “But you can see them magnificently portrayed over the portal to the basilica in Altenstadt. I think we should pay a visit to this beautiful church today.”

  When they saw the relief above the portal, they were surprised they had not noticed it earlier. Directly above the entrance, it depicted a knight fighting a dragon with a shield and sword, as well as a second man who was being devoured by the beast. How many times had each of them passed under this relief on entering the basilica?

  “I have seen images like this in other churches,” Simon muttered. “A priest in Ingolstadt explained to me that it at one time stood for the approaching Judgment Day.”

  “Then Judgment Day has been a long time coming,” Magdalena said. “After all, we’re still waiting for it.”

  “You were never in a war,” Kuisl said, pondering the dragon’s claws and wings, its foaming mouth, “or else you would know that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have been among us for a long time.”

  “Stop this silly talk, Father,” Magdalena said. “Just help us figure this out.” Then she turned to Simon. “So here are the two witnesses. And now what?”

  “There has to be a clue somewhere here,” Simon said softly, “in or around the basilica. I suggest we separate. You, Magdalena, look around the outside of the building, and your father and I will go in.”

  Jakob Kuisl headed toward the portal, with Simon close behind. On entering St. Michael’s, a shiver ran down his spine, as so often before. The Great God of Altenstadt was looking down on him benignly from a huge cross more than nine feet tall. Now, in the late afternoon, they were almost alone in the church except for a few old women fingering their rosaries with arthritic hands. There was a strong smell of incense in the air. Simon forgot for a brief moment why he was here, and folded his hands to pray. Comparing the splendid new buildings at the Steingaden Monastery with the basilica here in Altenstadt, he had the feeling that this was God’s true home.

  While Simon, lost in thought, was pondering the mighty crucifix, the hangman walked straight through the nave to study the frescoes in the chancel. After that, he proceeded down the side aisles. On the south side, a long-dead artist had painted a mural of the Fourteen Holy Helpers. Over the entrance, a larger-than-life statue of St. Christopher looked down sternly at the hangman.

  “Nothing,” he grumbled. “I’m not finding anything. Damn! I think you were wrong.”

  “We have to keep looking,” Simon insisted. “There is certainly something here; it’s just well concealed. Perhaps—”

  He was interrupted by a shout from outside. Magdalena! They rushed out to find her standing at the edge of the snow-covered graveyard surrounding the basilica. She was facing the south wall of the church and pointing at a small, chest-high plaque almost completely covered with ivy. Magdalena had pulled the ice-covered vegetation aside.

  “Here!” she exclaimed. “Here it is! You were right, Simon!”

  The stone plaque, old and weathered, was cemented into a recess in the wall. On it an inscription was engraved.

  Fridericus Wildergraue, Magister Domus Templi in Alemania. Anno domini MCCCXXIX. Sanctus Cyriacus, salva me.

  “Friedrich Wildgraf’s memorial plaque,” Simon whispered. “Master of the Knights Templar in Germany. Deceased in the Year of Our Lord 1329. Saint Cyriacus, save me.”

  “But why is this plaque here when the grave of the Templar is in the Saint Lawrence Church?” Magdalena wondered.

  Simon shrugged. “By the year 1329, the Templars had been banned in Germany for more than twenty years,” he said. “Maybe it was just too dangerous to bury the German provincial master here. It’s possible that the priest at that time could get approval for this small tablet.” He ran his hands over the inscribed letters. “But perhaps this tablet is only intended as a clue to put us on the right track…”

  “Before we beat around the bush any further,” the hangman said, “let’s just figure out a few things.” He pulled out his knife and began scraping away the mortar around the tablet.

  “But, Father!” Magdalena whispered. “What if the priest sees us—”

  “The priest is busy preparing for mass and probably getting stoned on the wine,” Jakob Kuisl said and continued scraping. “But feel free to ask him, if you wish.”

  Soon he had made a little groove around the tablet, then inserted his dagger to pry it out, and it fell into the soft snow.

  Behind it there was nothing but gray stone.

  Simon tapped on it, but it was solid, a part of the enormous block of stone and as immovable as the other stones the church was made of.

  “Damn!” he exclaimed. “This can’t be it! Is this Templar just making fools of us?”

  The medicus kicked the icy wall, which seemed to make no impression on the church. Only his frozen toes hurt. Finally, he took a few deep breaths.

  “Very well. The riddle has led us here to the basilica,” he murmured. “Here’s the memorial plaque. What have we overlooked?”

  The hangman bent over and picked up the plaque lying in the snow in front of him.

  “Sanctus Cyriacus, salva me. Saint Cyriacus, save me,” Kuisl repeated. “Isn’t it strange that he chose this saint for the inscription? As far as I know, Saint Cyriacus was a martyr who was burned in boiling oil and then beheaded.”

  “St. Cyriacus is the patron saint for those tempted in the hour of death,” Simon said. “For a Templar accused of treason and sodomy, not a bad patron to have.”

  “Aren’t those the Fourteen Holy Helpers depicted in the basilica?” Kuisl asked. “I’ve never seen a Saint Cyriacus there…”

  A sudden thought flashed through Simon’s mind. The saints in the south aisle! How could he have been so blind?

  Without waiting for the others, he raced around the church, stormed through the portal, and finally, stopped in front of the Fourteen Holy Helpers in the south aisle. They were positioned in groups of two, one above the other. At the very top was Barbara, the patron saint of the dying and helper in cases of lightning and fire. After her was St. Christopher, St. Margaret as patron saint of women in childbirth, St. George, and St. Blaise, who helped in cases of illness of the throat. Nine other patrons were immortalized on the wall of the church, but St. Cyriacus was not among them.

  But there was another saint pictured there whose name was noted in small letters beneath the picture.

  St. Fridericus…

  Simon almost laughed when he read the inscription. Apparently, none of the church’s many visitors had ever noticed the error. The painting depicted a man in a bishop’s robe with a miter and staff. His right hand was raised protectively over a castle sitting atop a forested mountain, and on closer examination, one could see he was touching the castle with his index finger.

  In the meantime, Jakob Kuisl and his daughter had also arrived in front of the picture of St. Fridericus.

  “He fooled us all for many hundreds of years,” Simon exclaimed, laughing. Some of the women praying turned around with admonishing glances. “St. Fridericus!” he added, whispering, but still grinning. “He simply used his own name! What magnificent blasphemy!”

  “But what is this Templar trying to tell us?” Magdalena asked, puzzled, as she considered the fresco. “Is he just mocking us?”

  Kuisl approached the painting to within a few inches. He tapped the castle beneath the pic
ture of the saint, where he’d noticed a brown spot not much larger than a flyspeck.

  “Here,” he said. “Here it is.”

  He fished out a magnifying lens from deep inside his pocket and held it over the spot. Suddenly, he was able to make out two words painted in thin, shaky brush strokes.

  Castrum Guelphorum…

  “The old castle of the Guelphs,” Simon whispered, “up on the Castle Hill above Peiting. My God, all that stands there now is ruins!” He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. “I am afraid the search will last longer than we first expected.”

  The stranger with the black cowl and the sweet smell of violets was standing outside in the cemetery of the basilica. With trembling hands, he held up the Templar’s stone plaque, which Jakob Kuisl had left lying there.

  How was that possible? The hangman was not only still alive, but had also apparently discovered a clue! Perhaps it was an act of providence, after all, that this Kuisl had not suffocated in the sarcophagus. The stranger had thought this a suitable way of dying for someone responsible for killing so many others. In any case, the man was alive and had solved the riddle—he, his daughter, and that brash young medicus. Why hadn’t they been able to figure this out? Didn’t the monks have a specialist in their own ranks? They had read the same words on the marble plaque in the crypt but hadn’t been able to make sense of them.

  For days they had been hiding like itinerant riffraff in local barns to avoid arousing suspicion. They lived on nothing but dry bread and their faith; they froze, they prayed, and the only thing that kept them going was the knowledge that they were the chosen ones, those sent by God.

  Deus lo vult…

  The stranger cursed in Latin and, at once, murmured a short prayer asking the Lord to forgive this little sin. Then he started putting his thoughts together.

  Everything now was actually very simple. They would track these three like bloodhounds, they would find the treasure, and the Master would give them his blessing. Their place in paradise was assured, even if the path to it was cold and stony.

  The stranger made the sign of the cross and smiled. Carefully, he put the stone plaque down on the ground again and hid behind the gravestones, waiting for the three to come back out of the basilica.

  Simon’s initial elation at finding the clue in the basilica quickly turned into confusion and anger, and the reason was walking along defiantly beside him. Without speaking a word, he and Magdalena descended the narrow pathway back down to Schongau. The hangman’s daughter nearly slipped a few times, but when Simon reached out to help her, she brushed his hand aside. Just what was wrong with her? Not a word of approval about his find, just this silence.

  Jakob Kuisl had gone his own way back in Altenstadt, grumbling about having to pick something up from the blacksmith down on the Mühlenweg as he disappeared into a narrow lane. The clerk had ordered him to report to the marketplace with a group of citizens the next day to begin a search for the robbers in the Schongau forests. For that reason, Simon knew he wouldn’t be able to count on the hangman in the next few days. He also suspected Kuisl stayed behind in Altenstadt for another reason—sensing that there were bad feelings between Magdalena and himself. Kuisl wanted to give them some time alone. But his plan had backfired. Ever since they had started the hike back to Schongau, they had not exchanged a word, and just as they were arriving at the Hof Gate, Simon blew his top.

  “Magdalena, just what is wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with me?” She glared at him. “You should ask yourself, instead, what’s wrong with you! Flirting with this Benedikta. I’m good enough for cleaning and cooking, but this Benedikta is a fine lady!”

  Simon could only roll his eyes. “Magdalena, we have already talked about this. There is nothing between me and Benedikta Koppmeyer,” he tried to convince her, choosing his words carefully. “She saved my life; she is an amazing woman, but—”

  “An amazing woman! Bah!” Magdalena stopped and glared at him. “She can talk fine, the amazing woman. She has beautiful, expensive clothes, but underneath it all, she is nothing but a dolled-up tramp!”

  “Magdalena, I forbid you—”

  “No, you can’t forbid me from doing anything, you scoundrel!” Magdalena worked herself into a rage. “Do you think I can’t see how you flirt around with other girls behind my back? But because I’m just the hangman’s daughter, it doesn’t matter. People are bound to gossip, anyway. I’m telling you, Benedikta is a slut!”

  “Aha! A slut?” Simon lost his patience now, and his voice took on an icy tone. “This…slut has more decency and education than you’ll ever have in three lifetimes. She knows how to behave, she speaks proper German without stammering and stuttering, and she can even speak French! She is a refined lady and no foul-mouthed hangman’s girl!”

  The chunk of ice hit him right on the nose so that, for a brief moment, he felt faint. When he gathered his wits again, he felt warm blood flowing down his face, forming a pattern of red dots in the snow.

  “Magdalena!” he shouted, still holding his nose and snuffling. “Stay here. I didn’t mean it that way!” But the hangman’s daughter had already passed through the Hof Gate and vanished.

  Cursing under his breath, he hurried toward town, taking care that the blood didn’t drip onto his expensive petticoat breeches. Why did Magdalena always have to be so ill-tempered? He knew that what he had said was pretty stupid, and he wanted to ask her forgiveness, take her in his arms, and tell her that she was the only one he really wanted. But the hangman’s daughter was nowhere in sight.

  “Magdalena!” he shouted over and over, looking everywhere in the little side streets. “Come back! I’m sorry!”

  Passersby gave him strange glances, but he held his head down and hurried along. She had to be somewhere! At the next street corner, he stumbled over a little dog and it ran off whimpering. On and on he went, passing ox carts and glancing nervously at heavily clothed figures, shadowy figures barely visible in the snow that was starting to fall. Magdalena had simply disappeared. As he turned into the Münzgasse, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

  “Simon?”

  He turned around. Standing in front of the portal of the Church of the Ascension was Benedikta, eyeing him with concern. Apparently, she was just coming out of the Schongau parish church.

  “You’re bleeding!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered. “I…fell, that’s all.”

  “Let me have a look.” She walked over to him and started to dab determinedly at the blood on his face with her lace handkerchief. And although her touch burned, it felt good, too.

  “A sheet of ice in front of the Hof Gate,” he sniffed softly as she continued to wipe his nose. “I slipped.”

  “You need hot water to clean the wound. Come.” Like a mother, she took his arm and pulled him along behind her.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To Semer’s Tavern, where I’m staying,” she said. “In the restaurant we can surely get a bowl of water and a cup of mulled wine for you. And then you can tell me if you have found out anything in the meanwhile.”

  Simon hesitated. Actually, he wanted to keep looking for Magdalena, and his father would be waiting for him at home. This damned fever was claiming more and more victims who needed treatment. But how could anyone object to a cup of mulled wine? Magdalena had probably already made it back to the tanners’ section of town and was sitting in her father’s house and sulking. It was probably better anyway to wait until the worst of her anger had passed.

  There was also a lot to tell. So much had happened in the last few days, and Simon simply needed someone to talk to. In happy anticipation, he staggered along behind Benedikta toward Semer’s Tavern. When she opened the door, his swollen nose took in the fragrance of freshly baked pastries and warm wine.

  Magdalena wiped the tears from her eyes as she ran half blind through the streets of Schongau, not even noticing people she passed along t
he way. She was just so…furious. How could Simon be so cruel to her? Perhaps it was true they were not a good match—she, a hangman’s daughter, a butcher’s girl, the offspring of a dishonorable family; he, an educated medicus, someone who could speak well and wore polished boots and a coat with shiny buttons, and who was adored by the women in town. But he, too, came from a poor family! His money and his clothes were borrowed or donated by one or another of his fawning admirers. Magdalena clenched her teeth. She had watched this spectacle far too long, and this was finally the limit. She might well be a dishonorable, dirty hangman’s daughter, but she still had her pride.

  The sound of a child coughing and whining tore her from her thoughts. Without paying much attention to where she was going, she had turned off into a small side street just after the Hof Gate and wandered through narrow lanes into the Women’s Gate area, where the poorer residents lived. The air reeked of tanning solution. Acrid clouds of steam billowed from a dyer’s cottage where freshly dyed gray linen smocks hung out to dry on wooden frames. Magdalena looked around and listened. The crying was clearly coming from the workshop. As the hangman’s daughter walked by the ramshackle thatch-roofed hut, she saw a pale woman with sunken cheeks standing in the low doorway.

  “You are Kuisl’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  Magdalena could find nothing hostile in the way the woman looked at her, so she stopped and nodded.

  “They say you’re a good midwife,” the woman continued. “You helped the dairyman’s wife in the birth of her twins, and both are still alive. And you gave a powder to the blue-dyer’s daughter, the young hussy, to get rid of the fetus…”

  Magdalena looked around carefully in all directions. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said softly.

  “Oh, come now.” The woman made a dismissive gesture. “In this part of town, you can speak openly. Every other woman here has gotten something from your father to keep from having a kid, or a love potion he brewed up.” She giggled, revealing a few black stumps of teeth between her dry lips. “Only the fat cats can afford the fancy physician, or those who flirt with him. But I don’t need to tell you that…”