The Dark Monk

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Finally, Benedikta could reach the coffin. Reaching her arms around the lower part of the glass case, she whispered to Simon. “Now let me down—slowly!”

  As Benedikta continued gripping the precious case, Simon knelt down slowly, bit by bit. The coffin swayed back and forth, scraped along the base of the altar, and finally touched the ground. Benedikta hopped nimbly down from Simon’s aching shoulders.

  “And now let’s open it.”

  Benedikta laid the coffin down on the ground gingerly and examined the cover. The edges of the glass were soldered with a gold alloy. She pulled out her knife and began to make a clean cut through the seam.

  “Benedikta,” Simon whispered in a hoarse voice. “Are you sure we should be doing this? If we get caught, we’ll be put on trial, and our punishment will make Scheller’s torture on the wheel look like a walk in the park.”

  Benedikta looked up from her work for just a moment. “I didn’t come all the way here to give up now. So come now and help me!”

  Simon took out the medical stiletto he always carried with him, inserted it in the soldered crack, and pried open the seam, inch by inch. The alloy was soft and brittle, and it didn’t take them long to remove the lid.

  “St. Felicianus, forgive us!” Simon mumbled, though he didn’t think his prayer would meet with much understanding in heaven. “We’re doing it only for the good of the church!”

  A musty odor rose up from the open coffin, and Simon stared in disgust at the skeleton, which was covered in patches of green mold. The bones were tied to one another and to the glass coffin in back by thin wires. The dried laurel wreath atop the saint’s head had slipped down over the forehead, and between the bony fingers of his right hand, St. Felicianus held a rusty sword.

  “The sword and laurel wreath,” Simon whispered, “are symbols of a martyr’s death and victory.”

  Benedikta had already started examining the bones. She poked her fingers in the eye sockets and felt around the inside of the skull. “There has to be a message hidden here somewhere,” she mumbled, “a piece of paper, a note. Damn, Simon, help me look! We don’t have forever!”

  Suddenly, something clattered behind them. Simon turned around but could make nothing out in the darkness. Shadows and light from the flickering candles at the foot of the Virgin Mary’s altar floated back and forth between the columns.

  “Did you hear that?” Simon asked.

  Benedikta was now examining the slightly moldy chest cavity. “A rat, a gust of wind—what do I know? Now come over here and help me!”

  Once again, Simon gazed out over the nave. The columns, the altar to the Virgin, the flickering candles…

  The medicus jumped.

  Flickering candles…?

  All along, the candles had been burning evenly. If they were flickering now, then—

  “Simon, Simon! I’ve found it! I’ve found the message! Come and look!” Benedikta’s shout tore him from his thoughts. She had scraped some of the rust from the sword blade, and her eyes glowed as she pointed to her discovery. “It was underneath the rust! You were right!”

  Simon came closer, bending down over the sword. An inscription could be seen under the rust on the blade, though only a few words were legible.

  Heredium in…

  With his stiletto, he hurriedly set about scraping the rust from the rest of the inscription, letter for letter, word for word.

  Heredium in baptistae…

  As he continued scraping, he whispered a translation of the Latin verse.

  “The heritage in the baptist…”

  He got no further because at that very moment all hell broke loose around them.

  Meanwhile, there was a quiet knock at Jakob Kuisl’s front door. A messenger from Burgomaster Karl Semer, his personal scribe, was standing outside in the frigid night, pale, freezing, his knees shaking.

  But it wasn’t the cold that made his knees shake. He crossed himself as he entered the hangman’s house, declining the cup of wine that Kuisl offered. Nervously, he noticed the execution sword hanging near a cross in the devotional area of the main room. It was bad luck to enter a hangman’s house so soon before an execution, especially on a night when wolves were roaming around and it was so cold the snot froze in your nose. But what could he do? He had been ordered to deliver a message to the hangman that very night. Presiding Burgomaster Karl Semer had returned from his business trip and was now keeping his promise by delivering the information Jakob Kuisl was so eager to have.

  “What did you find out?” Kuisl asked, sucking on the cold stem of his pipe. “You can look out the window as you tell me, or I’ll put a mask over your eyes, if that will make it easier for you.”

  The messenger shook his head, ashamed.

  “All right, then, out with it!”

  Speaking quickly, with his head bowed, the scribe reported what Burgomaster Semer had learned on his trip. Jakob Kuisl kept stuffing his pipe, lighting it over the stove, and then blowing clouds of smoke toward the ceiling, terrifying the messenger. A contented smile passed over the hangman’s face.

  His suspicions had been confirmed.

  Simon didn’t know where to look first. With a loud crash that resounded through the entire church, the huge statue of Mary in the apse tipped to one side, fell, and broke into hundreds of pieces. Shouts came from the right. The medicus caught sight of a wiry monk in a black robe leaping through the air with a drawn dagger and kicking another man in the head, who fell with a loud thud among the pews. From somewhere else, he heard a loud cry, almost like that of a child. Panting, a second stout monk appeared from behind the altar of Mary, followed by two men, one of whom held a crossbow cocked and ready to fire. They wore the tattered trousers of the mercenary foot soldiers in the Thirty Years’ War, long coats, and wide-brimmed hats with colorful feathers. The man with the crossbow paused, aimed, and pulled the trigger. With a gurgling sound, the fat monk fell forward into the baptismal font. Now the other monk turned around, dodged a candlestick aimed at him, then with a lightning-fast, almost imperceptible movement, thrust upward, plunging his scimitar deep into his opponent’s chest. The soldier staggered for a moment, trying to pull the blade out again, then fell against a grave slab on the wall and slid down to the floor. A wide bloody streak reached from the slab down to the ground.

  The two other soldiers drew their sabers now and ran toward the monk with the scimitar. The monk seemed to be considering for an instant whether to keep fighting, then changed his mind and raced toward the rope still dangling from one of the window frames. With a bloody scimitar between his teeth, he pulled himself up with amazing speed. His legs were visible for just a moment before he disappeared in the darkness above.

  Everything had happened so fast that Simon was only able to watch in astonishment. Finally, he pulled himself together. “Benedikta! Let’s get out of here!”

  “Simon, keep quiet!” she replied, trying to calm him down. “We have to…”

  But the medicus was already running for the door. Suddenly, he stopped, stunned. He had forgotten something.

  The sword!

  There was no way they could leave the sword with the inscription in the church! Simon had recognized some of the men. The stranger with the crossbow was the same man he’d seen sitting up in a tree near the Wessobrunn Monastery. The other was the one who had been lying in wait for them in the yew forest. They were surely out to get the Templars’ treasure as well. And the monks? Presumably, the Augustinian monks in Rottenbuch had seen the light in the church, come to check things out, and surprised the strangers there.

  But didn’t Augustinian monks wear cowls? And why had the monk stabbed the soldier to death like a dog?

  Simon had no time to think this through. Turning, he ran back to rip the sword from St. Felicianus’s bony hand.

  There was a faint crunching sound as knucklebones fell to the ground like little dice. Simon grabbed the weapon, which was astonishingly heavy and reached up to his chest. Standing next to h
im, Benedikta still hadn’t moved. She couldn’t take her eyes from the two men staring back at them, still uncertain about what to do. Simon didn’t want to give them any time to decide.

  “Benedikta, follow me! Now!”

  Swinging the sword through the air like a madman, the medicus headed for the exit, past the overturned statue of Mary and the dead monk, hanging down headfirst into the baptismal font. For a moment, Simon was entranced by the bloody cloud slowly spreading out in the holy water; then he continued directly toward the two remaining men, who jumped to one side when they saw the medicus approaching, screaming wildly and swinging the huge broadsword. He was just a few steps from the large church portal now. But when he finally reached it, it wouldn’t open.

  He shook it. Of course the door was locked.

  Damn! This was the very reason they’d decided to enter the church through the window! In a state of panic, Simon looked in all directions. What next? He could never climb back up the rope with the sword in hand, and the two men were slowly drawing closer.

  Suddenly, in one of the church’s wings, he noticed a stained-glass window depicting Mary hovering in the air, surrounded by little angels as she ascended to heaven. In contrast with the other new windows, this one was only chest high. Without hesitation, Simon rushed toward it, smashing the lovingly painted glass with the broadsword. The window burst into a thousand pieces, and Simon dived through it headfirst, landing outside on the snowy pavement of the church courtyard. He felt his aching shoulder to see if anything was broken. Glass splinters were embedded in his clothes, his hair, even his face, and drops of his blood were falling onto the white snow.

  He looked around. Had Benedikta followed him? At that moment, he caught sight of her head in the opening of the broken window. She jumped through it as nimble as a cat, rolled over, and stood up again. With a certain satisfaction, Simon saw that she, too, was showing some signs of fear.

  “Quick, let’s get back to our lodging,” she said to him. “For the time being, we’ll be safe there.”

  They hurried over the forecourt, past the icy spring, the clock tower, and the monastery garden, then through the open entry gate. Finally, they arrived at their quarters.

  After they’d knocked three times, a sleepy innkeeper opened the door. “What in the world…?” he asked in astonishment.

  “A little brawl out in the street.” With the huge broadsword, Simon squeezed past the stout innkeeper. Blood trickled down his face, making him look like a somewhat small but very angry barroom brawler. “These days you’re not even safe on the monastery grounds. It’s good I always carry a weapon around with me.”

  Without another word, he hurried up to his room with Benedikta, leaving the astonished innkeeper standing there. Not until Simon had locked the door behind them and checked the street in front of the inn did he feel safe. Panting and puffing, he collapsed on the bed. “Who or what in the world was that all about?”

  Benedikta sat down beside him. “I…I just don’t know. But from now on, I’ll be a little less cavalier in what I say about possible highway bandits, I promise.”

  Simon started to pick tiny splinters of glass from his face. Benedikta took out her white handkerchief and dabbed at the cuts.

  “You look like—”

  “Like some drunk who has fallen through a barroom window. Thanks, I know.” Simon arose and reached for the broadsword leaning against the bed. “In any case, it’s good we brought the sword along with us,” he said. “I’m sure these men have been after us a long time. They’re looking for the treasure, just as we are.”

  He ran his hand along the blade, then scratched away the remainder of the rust with his stiletto until the entire quotation was visible. Individual words were spread out in wide intervals along the blade.

  Heredium in baptistae sepulcro…

  “The heritage in the grave of the baptist,” he translated aloud. “You can’t say that the riddles are getting any easier.”

  “Well then, what do you make of it?” Benedikta asked.

  Simon stopped to think. “The heritage could be the treasure. The baptist is, perhaps, John the Baptist—that part is easy. But his grave…?” He frowned. “I’ve never heard anything about John the Baptist’s grave. I presume it’s somewhere in the Holy Land.”

  “But we’re in the Priests’ Corner,” Benedikta interrupted. “It has to mean something else. Think!”

  Simon rubbed his temples. “Give me some time. Today was a little too much for me…” he said, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he stared at the sword on the bed for a long time. “The coffin of Friedrich Wildgraf under the Saint Lawrence Church contained his bones, but no sword,” he said, running his fingers over the blade again. Now, with the rust scraped away, it gleamed as if it had been forged just the day before. The pommel was set in silver and the cross guard decorated with a number of engravings. He examined them more closely, thinking.

  They were Templar crosses.

  “Perhaps this sword belonged to the master of the German Templars, Friedrich Wildgraf,” Simon said. “His weapon is the riddle. That would be just like him, big enough.”

  “But that still doesn’t solve our problem of what these accursed words mean! We’ve got to go first thing tomorrow—”

  Benedikta was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Who might that be?” Simon stood up and went to the door. “Perhaps the innkeeper…I’ll tell him that everything’s all right.”

  He opened the door, and there standing before him was not the innkeeper, but someone he would never have expected to see here.

  Brother Nathanael cursed, and not for the first time in his life, but as always he asked God for forgiveness right away. He rubbed his left shoulder, which, for a moment, he thought might be dislocated. It hurt like hell but still seemed secure in its socket. When he’d kicked the stranger in the face, Nathanael had fallen onto one of the pews. Climbing up the rope with only one arm had completely exhausted him. Despite the pain, he smiled. At least he’d sent one of those heretical dogs to hell. Now he was standing in a dark corner of the monastery courtyard murmuring the Confiteor.

  Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault…

  The murder, like so many he’d committed, was necessary. Committed in the name of the church. Nevertheless, it was a mortal sin. Tonight, Nathanael would flagellate himself for it.

  From where he was located, the monk observed the activity in the courtyard. The noise in the church had quickly attracted some of the Augustinian monks who were already awake for prayers. Despite the late hour, a rather large number of workers, peasants, and the monastery superintendent himself had come running to the church, along with some other monks. Some were already shouting, “The devil, the devil is afoot in Rottenbuch!” A rumor started flying around that God himself wanted to signal his opposition to the superintendent’s building mania.

  When the group headed by Michael Piscator entered the church, shouting and wailing could be heard. Nathanael assumed the monks had just come upon the open coffin of St. Felicianus. Admittedly, that was not a very edifying sight. The martyr’s skeleton had fallen to pieces, an act of desecration that probably not even the Pope could forgive. Perhaps, however, the monks’ wailing had more to do with the destruction of the statue of Mary, the overturned church pews, the broken stained-glass window, or the soldier who had been stabbed to death.

  And Brother Avenarius was also lying there.

  Nathanael was sure he was dead. No man could survive an arrow in the back from a crossbow, especially if he was later found facedown in a baptismal font. Brother Nathanael felt a certain relief. Without the fat Avenarius, he could move faster and more discreetly. And the monk wasn’t much help solving riddles. Now it would be simpler to just follow the medicus and his woman. They’d solve the riddle, and then he’d strike. The only problem was these strangers…

  Nathanael’s feelings hadn’t dec
eived him. They were being watched, and it annoyed him to no end that he hadn’t noticed it earlier. Of course, these men were good fighters, silent and unscrupulous. And like him, they were after the treasure. From now on, he’d have to watch out, even if only two of them remained.

  Once more he tried to remember how the skirmish in the church had unfolded. When Nathanael observed the three men climbing into the church, he hurried in after them. But the fat monk had a hard time climbing the scaffolding, and they lost sight of the strangers in the dark nave. It was Brother Avenarius who finally found them again in his own way. He stepped on the foot of one of the men hiding behind a curtain!

  After that everything happened very fast. Brother Avenarius wound up floating in the baptismal font with an arrow through his chest, and Rottenbuch experienced its darkest day since the Swedes’ attack.

  The monastery bells began sounding the alarm. Nathanael turned away from the excited crowd in the forecourt, which was now brightly lit with torches. For a moment, he considered returning to their quarters, which were not far from where Simon and Benedikta were staying. He and Avenarius had introduced themselves as itinerant Dominicans and been assigned two beds in the monastery by the Augustinians. But now that Avenarius lay dead in the church for all to see, a return to the monastery would probably be too risky. Thus, Nathanael found a barn nearby where he could await the coming day in a bed of warm straw.

  As he was about to slip through a narrow barn door, he saw something outside that warmed his heart. Help was near! He sent a quick prayer to heaven and kissed the golden cross on his chest.

  God hadn’t forsaken him.

  “You owe me an explanation,” said Augustin Bonenmayr.

  Like an angry schoolmaster, the abbot of Steingaden stared down through his pince-nez at Simon, whose mouth had dropped open. Without waiting for a reply, the abbot entered the room, closing the door behind him. Benedikta sat on the bed, mortified. Outside, the bells had started to ring.

  “After your hasty departure, the superintendent told me about the poor Madame de Bouillon whose children were incurably ill. I was understandably quite surprised!” Bonenmayr said, starting to pace. “I asked myself why a woman from Landsberg, wife of a deceased wine merchant, whose brother had died in Altenstadt, had suddenly come up with such a story.” He turned to Benedikta. “Or are you perhaps this Madame de Bouillon, after all, and you lied to me, then? Speak up!”