Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church

by Indrek Hargla

  Once Melchior had finished he noticed a small bag of chess pieces and a wooden chessboard on the table in the corner of the room. Keterlyn had borrowed the set from their neighbour. Melchior poured himself a beer and unpacked the set. Tracing his fingers over the wooden pieces brought back old memories. His father had taught him what the pieces were – king, queen, bishops, knights, rooks and pawns – and that to win the game one must trap the opponent’s king into a position where it will be taken on the next move or all of the other pieces have been taken. Melchior stared at the black and white pieces and was reminded again of the Dominicans’ habit – white symbolizing the Lord’s grace and black reminding us of our mortality and obligations towards our souls. The Apothecary remembered exactly how the pieces had been positioned on the board at the Dominican Monastery – not many had been left – and he now set the pieces up in this same way. Who was vanquishing whom? Was white defeating black, or was it the opposite? Wunbaldus the Prior, or the Prior the Lay Brother? Was it not an odd time to be playing chess – in the middle of the day, when both Eckell and Wunbaldus should have been run off their feet? Melchior was so engrossed in the state of the game that he did not notice the proud figure of Clawes Freisinger in his doorway.

  ‘A thousand greetings to you,’ Freisinger bellowed – evidently he had been standing there for some time before Melchior had taken notice. ‘Is business not being done in the pharmacy today?’

  ‘Sire Freisinger?’ Melchior rose. ‘Sire Blackhead.’

  ‘I heard sad news, Melchior,’ Freisinger spoke in a more serious tone. ‘However, it concerns an ailment that medicine from a pharmacy is unlikely to able to counter.’ He stepped in.

  ‘Caspar Gallenreutter and Brother Wunbaldus in a single day … Is there anything I can do for the Sire Blackhead?’

  ‘If only you could …’ Freisinger sighed. ‘I came to look for Kilian, who appears to have vanished. I would like him to be present this evening with his instruments because the minstrels we usually invite have gone off to some manor today along with Councilman Herberstein. Then I thought I would step into the pharmacy for a moment as well …’ He broke off, shook his head and said in a tone that sounded as if he were angry with himself, ‘Well, no, what tale am I spinning? I am indeed searching for Kilian, although I actually also wanted to hear better news in order to offset the bad. What is going on in Tallinn, Melchior? Has some kind of demented executioner been let loose upon the town?’

  ‘I don’t yet know whether I can say anything for certain,’ Melchior replied. ‘However, you mentioned this evening … Does that mean … ?’

  Freisinger nodded. ‘Yes. At first even I thought that we should perhaps delay the beer-tasting now that the town’s best brewer is dead. Nevertheless, the Prior himself sent word that nothing should be cancelled in the name of Wunbaldus’s salvation, and everything must carry on as arranged. I was amazed, as you can imagine, because St Olaf’s Guild ordered a mass to be said for Master Gallenreutter in the church, and it had all the appearance of a service during a time of plague. However, we cannot allow the Toompea Murderer to chop away at the town’s good traditions, and what has been arranged should take place regardless.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Melchior murmured.

  ‘I also heard from the monastery that you and the Magistrate went to inspect the body of the unfortunate Wunbaldus this morning. He now lies in the chapel awaiting the Prior’s decision. There is word passing around through the monastery that Wunbaldus drank the poison himself. Melchior, do tell. What are we to make of such talk?’

  ‘We should all act according to our best judgement and not hold as true that which has not been proven. We should concentrate on what we know for sure. Sire Freisinger, you were likely the last person to see Wunbaldus alive yesterday, were you not?’ Melchior switched tack so abruptly that he surprised even himself. Freisinger might have taken his question as inappropriate, even impolite, but the merchant only nodded seriously; his eyes were crystal clear, and sadness flashed in their depths, the Apothecary noted.

  ‘I do believe I was one of the last. I had matters to conduct at the monastery. Hinricus and I needed to tally our accounts because something had got mixed up somewhere. The Blackheads needed to buy candles for the guild’s altar, but both of our calculations spoke a different tongue. We went down to the garden to count the candles, and Wunbaldus was standing right there busying himself with the grain measures, weighing out the correct amount for a new batch of beer.’

  ‘So he had brewing on his mind and not the drinking of poison?’

  ‘Holy heavens, I don’t know what was on his mind. We spoke together briefly as we walked from the garden towards the dormitory. I joked about today’s tasting and whether he would be greatly saddened if the Blackheads’ beer triumphed over the monks’, but he simply replied that that would perhaps be heavenly will.’

  ‘Afterwards he took confession at the Church of the Holy Ghost,’ said Melchior.

  ‘So I heard – although he was heading off towards his own chamber after we said farewell.’

  ‘And he did not seem to be overly serious or in any way ill?’

  ‘Ill? Certainly not – although his demeanour was always serious. I never once saw him laugh – and our monks are not exactly reclusive souls once they get behind a tankard of beer.’

  ‘Unquestionably.’ Melchior nodded. ‘One could never say that our Prior does not laugh raucously at times, although he has not done so of late. He appears to be quite sick.’

  Freisinger concurred. Prior Eckell had grown more and more frail over the period that the Blackhead had been visiting the monastery. His gaze then fell upon the chessboard.

  ‘Has the Sire Apothecary begun playing chess as well?’ he asked. ‘I suppose it is becoming ever more popular – I even heard that the Harju vassals play chess instead of rolling dice these days.’

  ‘No, I don’t really play,’ Melchior answered. ‘I was just trying to remember what my father taught me about the game.’

  ‘That I can see,’ Freisinger replied and concentrated for a moment on the state of play.

  ‘Can the Sire Blackhead play chess?’ Melchior asked.

  ‘A little. Not that I would dare play against the Harju vassals for money, but sometimes I do for fun. Prior Eckell and I have waged a few battles.’

  ‘Ah. Hm. And with Wunbaldus as well?’

  ‘Oh, he was a true master – always routing the Prior,’ the merchant spoke absentmindedly and squinted at the chessboard, studying the pieces. ‘Now then, Melchior, there is something wrong here. This is a very unusual way for a game to have progressed.’

  ‘How so?’

  The merchant explained with enthusiasm. ‘Well, first, how have the pawns ended up here? Second, the black pawn will take the white knight here on the next move. White will be left with only his king, queen and two rooks – see, these towers here. The white king will be defeated after a couple of moves, as the queen will not be able to come to his assistance in time – there would be two knights, a rook and a bishop attacking her. The white player’s only chance is to bring a rook in to protect the king, but then his queen will most likely fall.’

  Melchior stared at the board, and for a moment it was as if human faces had materialized on the black-and-white board in place of the pieces. The carved wooden figures were made human, and he now saw something completely different from Freisinger’s explanation – but what exactly this was he did not yet understand. The thought flitted away from him, although for a brief instant it felt real enough for him to seize hold of it.

  ‘That is very interesting,’ Melchior murmured. ‘Is there no way white can triumph?’

  ‘Triumph? Only if black abandons all plans to win, and if this knight here and this rook and pawn are all sacrificed. Then, perhaps. As it is now white can only hope that the rook protects the king, meaning that the queen will fall and which will merely delay the white king’s demise. Black would have to lay down its arms. Best case would be that the
white king would remain under the protection of its rooks and without the queen will be left in a position where it can neither win nor lose. However, black would still have to play very foolishly for this to happen.’

  ‘So white will be overpowered …’

  ‘Whether the king submits to check and acknowledges its defeat or is protected by the rooks the queen will fall either way. Neither player would then win. And that would defeat the object of the game – it would be a failed match.’

  Melchior studied the positions of the pieces excitedly. Once more, for a brief moment, living souls and faces appeared before him on the table; the key was so close … He recalled his father’s words, ‘The knight and bishops are weapons – they must be used for attack – pawns, although at first they seem weak and defenceless, may also be strong in attack. Whoever loses his weapons also loses the game.’

  ‘Why did you say that this is such an unusual way for a game to progress?’ Melchior asked animatedly.

  The merchant shrugged. ‘Games typically do not reach this point. White must have played very carelessly, and it would have been wiser to concede earlier and begin a new game. Would you like to start playing chess, Melchior?’ It seemed that Freisinger had now lost interest in the topic.

  ‘Possibly. It is said that chess is a metaphor for the natural arrangement of people’s lives and of world affairs. And my father wished for me to understand the game, but I’m sorry to say I have forgotten what he taught me.’

  ‘So it may be,’ Freisinger nodded. ‘However, one occasionally hears in sermons that chess is evil because it has no god and no faith – and nor can it, because a person may not rise to the status of God and start playing with Him as if with a chess piece.’

  Melchior blinked rapidly. ‘That depends on how you look at it …’

  ‘True,’ Freisinger conceded, ‘because the holy brothers play it, and, well, it is just a game after all. And we, the Blackheads, enjoy all manner of games and feats of strength.’

  The two bade one another good-day, and Melchior promised he would definitely be sampling beer in the Brotherhood of Blackheads’ guildhall in a couple of hours, because ritual is ritual and it must be observed. After Freisinger had left the Apothecary immersed himself in the chess game once more. He stared at the board at length, and at last a sorrowful smile mixed with astonishment crept on to his face.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said to himself. ‘I believe that God and faith do exist here. Oh, certainly they do. Oh heavenly grace.’

  23

  THE GUILDHALL OF THE BROTHERHOOD OF BLACKHEADS

  18 MAY, EVENING

  THERE WERE FEWER present at the Blackheads’ guildhall for the second evening of beer-tasting, and those there were more sombre to begin with than they had been two days before. All manner of stories had made their way through the town by this time, including ones claiming Wunbaldus had taken his own life, yet those passing on the rumours only dared speak this from friend to friend or from wife to husband – no doubt it was to do with immoral acts behind the monastery walls; no doubt it was over sin; no doubt it was over money. The Toompea Murderer is stalking through the town and looking to claim his next head; it’s impossible that there won’t be another victim. The stories going around were many and varied, and quite a number of them had accompanied the men to the guildhall. As time passed, however, the beer flowed and the servants served food, so the conversations perked up somewhat. As host, Freisinger declared the words that he needed to say and that tradition required. Even Prior Eckell, who had been revitalized by bloodletting, responded with the proper phrases, accepting the challenge on behalf of all the monks and permitting those who had gathered there to decide who had brewed the better beer; that all must proclaim and laud this winning brew about the town and not lie about any particular beer’s quality. Prior Eckell sat a few paces away from the long table at the place reserved for the guest of honour, and he was served food and drink by his own servant. Commander Spanheim – the second guest of honour – sat in a high chair at the end of the long table wearing a modest black scapular around his shoulders. In front of him were the other Blackheads, foreign naval captains and merchants and other guests, who, like Spanheim, were dressed somewhat less ostentatiously than before.

  Melchior listened and observed. He caught fragments of conversations and glances and expressions. One can cloak feelings and genuine thoughts, and when someone is really angry, afraid, full of disdain, haughty or condescending towards someone or something the person will not openly demonstrate this fact. Tone of voice and words, a laugh and compliments – these may all be merely a ruse if one wishes to shroud one’s true feelings. A listener cannot always judge a speaker based on his voice. But Melchior fully believed that a stealthily cast glance can say much more than any number of words.

  Time passed, and the men became increasingly jovial, no longer fearing that they might accidentally let slip an unseemly word or touch upon an improper subject. When they had all sampled an ample amount of the beer brewed by the Blackheads and lavished it with praise – because it truly was a worthy beer – then they began to speak of Wunbaldus. The Blackheads’ beer was good, but it could not compare with Wunbaldus’s, that was the general opinion, and no doubt this was helped along by the fact that Wunbaldus was no longer in their company. To announce that Wunbaldus had been defeated by the Blackheads after his death would have seemed an affront to the Lay Brother’s memory, and it appeared that Freisinger went along with this, too. Eventually the Commander stood up and proclaimed the words he was required to proclaim and which were expected of him, and everyone shouted back unanimously, and thus the Dominican beer was proclaimed the winner, and an oath was taken that everyone there would praise Wunbaldus’s beer for the coming year, acknowledging its superiority over that of the Blackheads – and if anyone did the opposite then he would pay a fine of one mark. With that said, the men further complimented the beer selected by Sire Freisinger and admitted that its taste was not so poor either. The Commander even remarked that it might not be inappropriate if the Blackheads might perhaps have it rolled up the hill to the castle once in a while, especially given that the town’s best brewer was now … in another world. The Commander then turned serious, looked at the faces around him all so full of questions and finally said, ‘I’ll be damned if I can make sense out of any of these rumours. It really can’t be true that Wunbaldus drank poison of his own accord …’

  A deadly silence fell over the hall for a moment, which was broken by Prior Eckell’s rasping voice, saying, ‘What is true and what is false is known only to the Almighty.’

  ‘Doubtless,’ the Commander agreed without hesitation. ‘However, some portion of worldly truth should still become clear to mortals also.’

  The Prior’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling. His face was pale, although beads of sweat sparkled on his forehead. His tone was cautious, as when the truth can easily be guessed by all but actually saying it is too awful.

  ‘Our brothers trained in the art of medicine inspected Wunbaldus’s dead body. They said the very same as Melchior, that a person who dies in such a manner could have ingested poison. However, it might also have been a dreadful, sudden sickness, and that of which he perished is … is a mystery that may never become clear to us.’

  Through the rising din Tweffell’s husky voice could be heard fulminating that there had been too many deaths and too many riddles over the last few days for a small town. Since there were no councilmen other than Dorn present the men began demanding facts from the Magistrate.

  ‘The Council is hard on his heels, and he will not evade justice for much longer. I spoke to the councilmen just this morning, and –’ Dorn began to announce, but was interrupted by the Goldsmith Casendorpe.

  ‘Precisely. You are on his heels, yet he is ahead of you with his sword and axe. Two days ago a Knight of the Order, today a church mason, tomorrow … Who will it be tomorrow?’

  The merchants complained in chorus that soon no one would dare b
ring their goods to such a town. It was Great Guild Alderman Tweffell who summed up the merchants’ fears.

  ‘If the town of Tallinn acquires the reputation that master builders are murdered here then no good can come of it. You must apprehend him quickly or trade will suffer. And when monks start drinking poison …’

  ‘You should not say such things about Wunbaldus. That pious man would never have taken his own life,’ Eckell stated.

  ‘I’m not saying anything of the sort,’ Tweffell retorted. ‘What I am saying is that if this is indeed so the monastery should make certain that word of this is not spread and that the poor Brother’s body still be buried in the Dominican cemetery. We still do fine trade with you, and if the townspeople know that –’

  At this point Pastor Rode’s voice soared above the other exclamations. He even stood up from the table and declared that Sire Tweffell was blaspheming. The merchants became agitated, and Tweffell, seething, forced himself into a standing position with Ludke’s assistance.

  ‘I am only saying that which is good for the town of Tallinn. What is good for the town is good for merchants, and what is good for merchants is also good for the Order, for the townspeople and the church as well.’

  ‘If that man indeed laid hand upon himself then his corpse should be dragged through the town by horses and hanged at the gallows,’ Rode shouted.

  ‘Only the Bishop of Tallinn and the Dominican Abbot in Denmark can make such a decree, Sire Rode,’ Eckell replied. ‘Brother Wunbaldus was a Dominican and not a citizen of the town.’