The Relic Master

by Christopher Buckley

  Dismas and Dürer sat by the fire, too unsettled to sleep. Dismas watched sparks from the fire waft upward into the night, joining the stars, dancing above the moonlit Alps.

  20

  Magda

  Dismas awoke at first light to sounds.

  It was biting cold. The fire was out and his blanket was stiff with frost. Was that Nutker’s voice? He peered out from under his blanket to locate the source of the noise and saw Nutker struggling, pulling something from the hidden compartment in the horse cart. Was it a leg? Yes, a leg. A woman’s bare leg, kicking violently.

  Nutker called out. “Unks! Look what I’ve caught! It’s alive! Oof! A big one! Get over here, you lazy bastard, and give me a hand!”

  Unks went to join in the strange melee. Each had a leg now and was pulling. The legs kicked mightily.

  Dismas’s gelid brain tried to make sense of the scene. Then through the rime he remembered the events of last night.

  “Together—one! Two! Three!”

  The Landsknechte braced their feet against the cartwheels and gave a yank. Out came their prize, landing on the ground with a thud, wriggling like a fresh-caught salmon.

  “Hey, hey! Steady! Steady!” Cunrat grappled with his catch, now flailing at him with its arms. “Oh, it’s alive! Ow! Damnit! It bit me!”

  He gave her a sharp kick. “Stop! Or I’ll give you a thrashing!”

  The girl lay on the ground, breathing hard, fists up, cocked.

  Dismas shouldered his way into the melee.

  A woman. Young, pretty with—damn—ginger-colored hair and yes, lots of it. She looked up at her captors with frightened but defiant eyes.

  “Are you . . . Magda?”

  The girl said nothing.

  Cunrat joined them.

  “Sure, it’s her,” he said. He spat onto the ground and drew his sword.

  Dismas stayed Cunrat’s arm.

  “I will deal with this. Nutker, Unks, get the fire going. Load the cart. Go on, now. There’s good fellows.”

  Dismas looked at the girl on the ground. A looker, all right, beneath all the grime. Her hair did resemble Dürer’s. Ringlets matted with pine sap. She had the look of the hunted—haggard, desperate.

  “What were you doing in the cart?” Dismas asked.

  “Hiding, what do think?” A somewhat impudent response, Dismas thought, considering.

  He extended his hand and pulled her to her feet.

  “You are Magda?”

  “Yes.”

  Cunrat recoiled, sword out and ready to strike. Evidently Cunrat believed in witches.

  “Off with you, then,” Dismas said. “Go.”

  She stood her ground.

  Cunrat said, “You’re not letting her go?”

  “Away, girl,” Dismas said. Still she didn’t move.

  “What about the reward?” Cunrat said. “He said we’d be compensated.”

  “We have a long way to go. Our mission is not to stop and collect witch bounties.”

  “We can’t just let her go.”

  “She doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. Look here, girl, didn’t you hear? I said off with you.”

  Still she didn’t move.

  Dismas whispered in her ear, “These men will kill you if you stay.”

  She stared, hollow-eyed, trembling.

  “When did you eat last?” Dismas said.

  The girl shook her head.

  “We’ll give you some breakfast. But then you go.”

  The three Landsknechte now all had swords drawn.

  “Bad business, witches,” Cunrat said.

  “I’ll deal with it, Cunrat. We’ll give her some food. Then she can fly off on her stick.” Dismas turned to her. “Girl. If we feed you, do you promise not to turn these three fellows into spiders or whatever it is you turn men into?” He turned to the Landsknechte and said with contempt, “There. Satisfied?”

  Cunrat conferred with Nutker and Unks.

  Dürer was blowing on the embers. Soon the fire was going.

  “Sit, girl,” Dismas said.

  He poured the remains of the good Spätburgunder wine they’d bought in Dasenstein for the larcenous price of half a gulden a quart. She downed it in three gulps. Dürer ladled her out a bowl of gruel. She made quick work of it.

  “You have beautiful hair,” Dürer said.

  Dismas groaned.

  “But what a mess it is.” Dürer reached and plucked a leaf from the tangle of ringlets.

  The girl spoke.

  “They were close. I saw your fire. I could not go more. I hid in the cart. I heard everything. What he told you was lies. He is not a good man. I was going to leave. But I was so tired from running I fell asleep. I don’t mean you trouble. Let me stay by the fire until you go.”

  Dismas left her with Dürer and went over to the Landsknechte campfire. Nutker and Unks were staring warily at the girl, as if at any moment snakes would slither from her nostrils and ears.

  “We can’t just leave her,” Dismas said.

  Nutker said with alarm, “You’re not proposing we take her?”

  “A short way. Beyond the reach of that asshole count.”

  “She’s a witch. You heard him.”

  “Nutker,” Dismas said patiently. “Last night you had such a low opinion of him that you put out your tongue to provoke him into a fight so that you could kill him. Now you are saying you believed him?”

  Unks said, “He’s a prick noble. But that doesn’t mean she’s not a witch. They’re everywhere in these parts.”

  Nutker nodded.

  Dismas considered. He looked back at the girl.

  “Well, there’s one way to find out.”

  Unks nodded. “Yes. Tie her up and throw her into a lake. If she sinks, she’s not a witch.”

  “No, no,” Nutker said. “Fire is best. If they don’t burn, they’re a witch.”

  Dismas nodded, as if giving serious thought to these scientific protocols.

  He said, “There’s a newer test. Completely reliable, according to Kramer and Sprenger. And who knows more about witches than them? They wrote the book, didn’t they?”

  The Landsknechte stared.

  “Kramer and Sprenger?” Dismas reiterated. “The greatest of witch-hunters? The greatest ever?”

  Still they stared.

  “Lads,” he said companionably, “sure, you’ve read their Malleus Maleficarum. It’s the definitive tract on witch-hunting.”

  “Yes.” Cunrat bluffed. “I know this book.”

  “Of course you do. Everyone knows it. Then you know that the only truly reliable proof is the test of Saint Boniface.”

  “Saint Boniface . . .”

  “Who’s Saint Boniface? And what’s his test?” Unks said.

  “Well, Unks, it’s not only the most reliable, but also the simplest. There’s the beauty of it. You take a crucifix. Any crucifix will do. Except . . . what kind was it, Cunrat? Ivory?”

  Cunrat frowned. “Yes. Ivory.”

  “Yes. Any crucifix except ivory. You press the crucifix to the forehead. For the count of twenty. If she shrieks and the crucifix scorches her flesh, there’s your witch, sure. Witches cannot bear the touch of the crucified Jesus. Thank God for science.”

  The Landsknechte looked at each other.

  “Right, then,” Dismas said. “Who’s got a crucifix?”

  No one, as it turned out.

  Dismas groaned. “Fine monks we are. Not one crucifix between us.”

  Unks said, “I could whittle one.”

  “Bravo, Unks,” Dismas said, giving him a clap on the back. “Thank God at least one of us is thinking this morning.”

  Dismas returned to the other campfire. He whispered to the girl, “Play along. Your life depends on it.”

  Presently Unks finished his crucifix.

  “Very good, Unks. This will do nicely.”

  Dismas held it up to the heavens. He cleared his throat.

  “Woman, you cannot deceive Saint Bonifac
e. Let us pray—for your sake—that you are no witch. For if you are, sure, you will be discovered. And into our fire you will go. And from there, to the fires of Hell. Whence you came. Prepare.”

  The girl stared.

  “I said, are you ready?”

  Magda nodded.

  “By the power of the living God, and Saint Boniface, I apply the test.”

  Dismas held the crucifix against her forehead. The Landsknechte watched intently.

  “Well?” Cunrat said.

  “Patience, Cunrat.” Dismas counted: “. . . eighteen, nineteen, twenty.”

  Dismas removed the crucifix.

  “Behold. She did not shriek, and her flesh is unburned. She is no witch, God be thanked. All right, girl, onto the cart. We’ll take you as far as we can. Come on, everyone. Let’s get moving.”

  Dürer helped Magda up onto the seat beside them. She gave Dismas a sly smile. Dismas went to the back of the cart to make sure everything was loaded. There he found the Landsknechte conferring.

  “Come on, fellows,” Dismas said. “Time to mount up.”

  Cunrat said, “We were talking, the lads and I.”

  “Yes?”

  “If she’s not a witch, why not have a bit of sport? She’s a tasty one.”

  Dismas sighed. “Cunrat.”

  “Where’s the harm?”

  “Is that our mission, then? To outrage young women?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a mission.”

  Dismas calculated. Better to buy a postponement rather than assert uncertain authority.

  “There’s no time, Cunrat. The Count may return, with a troop.”

  Cunrat waved the thought away. “Then we’ll have sport with him.”

  “Yes, but I don’t fancy getting myself killed just for sport. Tell you what. When we get to Basel, I’ll treat the lot of you to a night at the Purring Pussy. You can fornicate until your lances droop.”

  Cunrat considered. “All night?”

  “Until the cocks crow.”

  So it was agreed. Dismas climbed up onto the cart and took the reins.

  “What was that about?” Dürer said.

  “A discussion of the sleeping arrangements in Basel.”

  • • •

  They rode as fast as the cart would allow and at night they camped in a meadow at the foot of a cliff. It was a pleasant place. A small waterfall streamed into a pond full of trout. The Landsknechte amused themselves trying to catch them with crossbow bolts, with amusing lack of result. Dürer, never one to volunteer for camp chores, sat and sketched. Dismas bathed under the waterfall.

  Magda disappeared into the forest and returned holding up a fold of her skirt filled with mushrooms of the type called Pfifferling. She deposited them by the campfire, then circled the pond, stooping to pick plants. She returned, again holding a fold of her skirt, now filled with watercress and wild mint. Dismas finished washing and stood by the fire to dry. He saw the mushrooms and cress and mint.

  “Well, a feast.”

  “It would be if we had fish,” Magda said.

  “Our sharpshooters are working on it,” Dürer said, not looking up from his sketch.

  Nutker and Unks finally despaired of catching trout. They rummaged in the compartment of the horse cart, extracting one of the small kegs of gunpowder. They poured some into an empty wine bottle. Unks cut a length of arquebus fuse. Dismas looked on warily.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Fishing,” Unks grinned.

  They walked to the edge of the pond. Cunrat was in the pond up to his thighs, his back to them, aiming at trout. Nutker and Unks giggled like boys. They lit the fuse, waited, and tossed the bottle into the pond.

  “Christ!” Dismas muttered. He shouted, “Everyone—down!”

  Cunrat heard the splash of the bottle behind him and turned, just in time to face the explosion. An enormous geyser of pond water rose into the air. The shock wave hurled Cunrat backward into the water.

  Nutker and Unks bent over double, roaring with laughter.

  Cunrat emerged from the pond, covered with muck and weed, face crimson with rage. He waded toward them like an ungainly, vengeful sea god and hurled himself at them, fists flying. The three of them rolled about, grappling, cursing, laughing. Dismas and Dürer and Magda looked on.

  “Iron discipline, Landsknechte,” Dürer observed, continuing to sketch.

  Dismas’s ears were ringing from the explosion. He rubbed them and, so doing, revealed to Magda their mutilation. She stared, then looked away, as if conscious of having trespassed. She pointed to the pond.

  “Our feast arrives.”

  Dozens of trout floated on the surface. The Landsknechte ceased their Greco-Roman wrestling and with triumphant halloos waded in after the fish.

  Dürer went over to observe the haul of fish, leaving Magda and Dismas alone.

  “Your ears,” Magda said.

  “I hear fine,” Dismas said.

  “There is an ointment.”

  “Best be careful, talking about ointments. They’ll think you are a witch after all.”

  “Thank you. For this morning.”

  “I don’t believe in witches.”

  “I know that book. The Malleus.”

  “You can read?”

  “Yes, I can read. And I don’t remember any test of Saint Boniface.”

  Dismas looked at the Landsknechte, wading among floating trout.

  “It’s good they can’t read,” he said. “He was a brave fellow, Boniface. A monk. Like us. English, of the Benedictine order. He came here to convert the Franks. Not an easy mission. There was an oak tree that the Franks worshipped. Sacred to Thor, their god. To show them that he did not fear the wrath of Thor, Boniface took an ax and chopped it down. Very brave, to do that. He used the wood to build a chapel.”

  “I will say a prayer to him tonight.”

  “In the end, they cut him into pieces. But now no one here worships Thor. Once I sold one of Boniface’s ribs to a—” He caught himself. “So, how will you cook your mushrooms?”

  “With herbs.” Magda was looking at him. “What were you doing selling Saint Boniface’s rib?”

  Dismas shrugged. “Well, relics are common enough, in our world.”

  “What is your world, Dismas?”

  “As you can see, we’re monks.”

  She smiled. “I have known many monks. But never have I met monks who stick their tongues out at noblemen. Or hold weapons like soldiers. Or fish with gunpowder. Or want to ‘outrage women.’ And do not have even one little crucifix between them.”

  “Well, you see, those three are novices. They are in training. They lack discipline.”

  “And what is your order?”

  “It’s a new one.”

  “What do you call yourselves?”

  “Bonifacians.”

  Magda laughed. “I have not heard of this order.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t have. Like I said, it’s new.”

  “And what is your calling? I don’t think you are shepherds. Or makers of jam.”

  “We move about. We are mendicant.”

  “Mendicant. Beggars, with weapons?”

  Dismas shrugged. “You get more donations.”

  She giggled. It was a sound sweet as wind chimes.

  “Why do you ask so many questions?” Dismas said, feigning impatience.

  “I’m interested.”

  “In monks?”

  “In you, Dismas.”

  Dismas felt his cheeks burn. “I am not interesting.”

  “So, tell me. What do the Bonifacians do? Other than beg with guns and crossbows?”

  “Well, we translate.”

  “You don’t look like scholars.”

  “Relics. We translate holy relics.”

  “Into what?”

  “No. Translation means relocating them. It’s called translation, you see. When a relic—the bone of a saint, a piece of straw from the holy manger, whatever—desires to go to a new pl
ace, say from one shrine to another, we Bonifacians perform the translating.”

  Magda giggled again.

  “This is amusing?”

  “And how do you know when a relic wants to go from one place to another? Does it say, ‘I am tired of being in Lyon. I want to go to Milan’?”

  “Don’t be impious, girl. It’s a serious business.”

  “I’m only asking how the relic lets you know it wants a change of scenery.”

  Dismas sighed. “It’s complex. Takes years to learn. Anyway, this is why we must carry weapons. To protect the relics in our care.”

  “What holy company I am in.”

  “I did not say that we are holy.”

  “If you say.”

  “I do say.”

  “Still I’m glad to be in your company.”

  He blushed again. “I’m a sinful man.”

  “Why do you tell me this?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “You saved my life. And stopped your novices from taking what remains to me of my dignity. Was this sinful?”

  “That was only . . .”

  “Bonifacian?”

  Dismas smiled. “If you like.”

  She smiled, looking at him in a way that made him uneasy and happy at the same time. “I do.”

  • • •

  That night they gorged on trout and mushrooms. For the first time since leaving Wittenberg, they camped around a single fire.

  Cunrat pretended still to be furious at Nutker and Unks, but was thwarted by his relish at the abundance of trout and the mushroom fricassee. They ate and ate. She was a good cook, this Magda girl.

  When they had eaten their fill, she poured them cups of the tea she’d brewed with the wild mint. It was an unusual, bracing taste that made their mouths tingle and imparted a mood of contentment and serenity.

  Cunrat said, “So you’re not a witch. Who are you, then?”

  Magda stared at the embers. Her ginger ringlets glowed in the light of the campfire. Dürer had given her some of his terebinth to remove the sap, before she bathed in the waterfall. Dismas realized that he was staring at her. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “My father, he was the apothecary of Schramberg. A respected man. He was a friend of Paracelsus.”

  “Who?”

  “Shut up, Unks,” Cunrat said. “Let her speak.”

  “A physician and botanist. A very great man. He travels all over the world to find new medicines. He lives at Basel. I have met him, twice. When I was little, my father took me there.