Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church

by Indrek Hargla

  Kilian sipped his beer and cast a few glances towards the window, through which his young friend Birgitta could be seen cutting grass in the nunnery garden. The boy held his lute in his lap, knowing that sooner or later someone would request that he play and that quite a few nuns would stop to listen until propriety got the better of them and they returned to their holy duties.

  ‘And about that golden chain,’ Hinricus continued, ‘well, I have come to understand that no miracle took place in the town of Tallinn.’

  Kilian shook his head sadly. ‘It seems not,’ he said. ‘Sire Melchior was right once again. That flaw has hounded me since my childhood; in fact, it was the reason I was forced to leave Milan. That time it was over a silver brooch that belonged to a nobleman’s daughter. The moment I saw it I just had to have it … I really couldn’t help myself. I wanted it so much. The urge to steal is as strong within me as my desire to sing, but I genuinely repent it and have vowed one day to go on a pilgrimage.’

  ‘Singing might make you famous,’ Melchior said. ‘It might not make you wealthy, but people will love you. If, on the other hand, you steal a golden collar belonging to a Knight of the Teutonic Order then you will have your hand chopped off.’

  ‘The urge overpowers me in an instant,’ Kilian moaned. ‘It compels me and burns within my soul. When I steal it’s like I’m watching myself from a few paces away, as if it’s not really me at all.’

  ‘You must battle your inner self,’ Melchior advised. Something sombre and painful flashed in his eyes for a brief instant. ‘If you stole something from behind Sire Tweffell’s back then you will be cast out of the house and Ludke would beat you to within an inch of your life. He has been ordered to keep his eye on you – but you’ve probably already worked that out.’

  Kilianeyed Melchior for a moment in amazement but then nodded and asserted, ‘No, I would never steal anything from Uncle Mertin’s house. It is my home, and I do not need to steal from my home. I came to understand that long ago. What I fail to understand, however, is how you knew that I took the collar.’

  ‘Stole,’ Melchior corrected.

  ‘Well, yes, stole. I know that you found it and took it to the Church of the Holy Ghost, but still … how?’

  ‘One must believe in miracles, too, Kilian – in miracles, too,’ Melchior replied. ‘As St Augustine once said, if a miracle does not match what we know from nature then we know too little about nature. If you do not believe in miracles then you do not believe the biographies of the saints and what they teach us, yet we all need the saints. As for the collar, I will say this. I know how much you like to sit on the well wall, and as I looked out of my window over those days I noticed that you were picking at that loose stone in the wall when you thought no one was looking. And once I realized it was you who had stolen the collar then I began to consider that you would hardly dare to hide it in Sire Tweffell’s house because Ludke keeps you under surveillance. So I decided to take a look at the well.’

  ‘But, all the same, how did you know? That collar was like a curse. When I heard that the Knight had been killed, then … then I became afraid. I wanted to throw it down the well, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.’

  ‘I don’t know whether I could have either. Gold has an incredible capacity to weigh on a man’s soul. But how did I know? Quite simply, I noticed that you have a lust for stealing pretty things – you even stole a spoon from my pharmacy. (It is made of silver, by the way, and I would like it back.) You were on Toompea that day and had seen the collar. You wanted an attestation from Clingenstain. You saw him go into his residence, and I thought about what might have happened were you to follow him, thinking perhaps to ask humbly once more for the attestation, because you do possess courage and perseverance. Clingenstain had left the collar behind and gone to confession. The collar might have been there somewhere and – just as it was with the spoon – you would have been unable to resist the compulsion, have stuck the collar into your breast pocket and run off. What betrayed you, however, was your lie that the Knight was wearing the collar around his neck when you saw him later. And actually, Kilian, you were also given away by the song that you sang to those young town maidens as well.’

  ‘Song? Which song?’ Kilian asked in astonishment.

  ‘That song of nothing at all. You said that you thought it up on the spot, but actually you had sung the same song the previous day on Toompea. This meant that you were lying, albeit not very well. Minstrels should be better liars if they want to make it in life …’

  ‘I am not a minstrel,’ Kilian retorted, ‘I am a Meistersinger – well, I’m still a journeyman – but either way, I’m not a minstrel.’

  ‘Fine, then, Meistersinger. Anyway, after I realized that you had stolen the collar then it was clear that the Knight had not been murdered for that, so what could I to do then? I could not tell the Order that it was you who had stolen the collar because Spanheim would have believed you to be the murderer as well. I had to find the right murderer and help you get rid of the collar in some way. The Church of the Holy Ghost almshouse seemed to be the most proper place for it. The Order will not demand its return from the poor.’

  Hinricus chuckled lightly, turned his head so that the spring sunshine splashed over it and squinted. ‘So you agreed ahead of the meeting that Kilian would act as if he were about to read out the name of the builder of St Olaf’s, yes?’ he asked after a pause.

  ‘True, I admit that it was one more small trick I employed to force Freisinger into telling the truth. If he protected that name so dearly then he was forbidden to let it be heard in public.’

  Melchior removed the piece of paper on which he had written the song of the ancient church builders from his breast pocket. He unrolled it and traced his finger along the lines of text.

  ‘But you knew the name anyway, didn’t you?’ Hinricus continued.

  ‘Yes, I saw it. He who is afore all. And we can work the name out from there. As far as we can surmise, it is a distant forefather of the former Alderman of the Blackheads. Relic calls afar for its blood. The Blackheads sent him here to guard the secret of his own name. Those men so full of secrecy, the ancient church builders with the wisdom of Solomon, a trowel and compass … I find it difficult to believe the things that people are prepared to kill for … the world is so full of mysteries. Perhaps it might have been better if I’d never become aware of the name.’

  ‘They had their ritual,’ Hinricus said, ‘gruesome as it was, although this is not the first time I have heard of such things. Some say that the word “guild” itself relates to an old Saxon tradition in which a clan ate a sacrificial victim together. They also say, of course, that many strange practices and arcane secrets were brought back from the Holy Land.’

  ‘I have made a sacred vow to myself never to tell a soul the name of the man who built St Olaf’s Church,’ Kilian said seriously. ‘Do you think it’s true that the town will be plagued by troubles and ruin if anyone ever finds out?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Melchior returned pensively. ‘Our town is not defended by sturdy walls, Lübeck law and the Teutonic Order alone. A town must possess an idea, which all of its citizens have to understand. At church, when we pray to the saints and the Almighty for our town’s fortune, whether this is enough … Who knows, Kilian? A town will not endure if its churches fall into ruin. But what is it that gives a town the strength and the will to last for centuries, longer even? Perhaps that is Solomon’s wisdom, because Jerusalem is the city of paradise on earth, and maybe the crusaders brought back some knowledge from the Holy Land that really can help a town’s churches to survive. I do not know, and neither does Freisinger. He believes. He believes that the Blackheads’ secret must remain a secret, that no one may know the name of the Master of St Olaf’s, and he killed only so that St Olaf’s and the town might endure. He could have taken the Maiden Hedwig as his wife and joined the Great Guild, but no, he had to remain a Blackhead and stand guard over their ancient mysteries.’


  ‘Did he say anything?’ Kilian asked. ‘Freisinger, I mean, when you went to visit him at Bremen Tower. And before he …’ A frown spread across the boy’s face. ‘Before, well … he left for good or whatever became of him.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Hinricus said softly and leaned towards the Apothecary. ‘Melchior, you promised to speak of your conversation with Freisinger. Did he repent?’

  Melchior motioned for new beers to be brought to the table. He would pay their tab today.

  ‘Yes, I spoke to him. I questioned him. He had already been tortured,’ Melchior said after their tankards were refilled.

  The previous day Melchior had requested permission from the Council to be allowed to visit Freisinger in the Bremen Prison Tower, a new structure behind the Dominican Monastery that had been completed just a few years ago. The Council kept all of the town’s worst criminals there, and that is where Freisinger had been taken after being led through the town in chains. Freisinger was not a Tallinn townsman. He was not a citizen; he was a foreigner. The townspeople knew that it was he who had poisoned their beloved prior and killed a church builder, and the man was not worthy of better treatment or a more comfortable cell. No, he was taken to the Bremen Tower while the people of Tallinn screamed at him, spat at him, glowered at him and cursed him. The formerly proud and popular Blackhead, to whom in the past only shouts of praise were exclaimed at war games and tournaments and whose valour was appreciated by all, had now been trampled into the dust, was now a hated enemy.

  It was impossible for a prisoner to escape from Bremen Tower without help. The gaol was located just below the tower’s upper defensive level. One entered the prison along a stairway winding up from the tower’s southern edge and then through an entryway and past two doors made of oak timbers that were fixed to the wall with iron hasps and bars and which, in turn, were secured by a heavy padlock. The tower had two storeys, and one could pass between the two floors only through a hatchway in the floor. Freisinger was held in the lower cell, which had no windows. The only daylight filtered into the space through the hatch in the ceiling. Melchior had squatted down at the edge of the hatch to speak to Freisinger. He had been tortured on the rack, and one of his arms hung at an unnatural angle by his side.

  ‘Yes,’ Melchior repeated. ‘I spoke to him. I asked him about the Brotherhood of Blackheads, about their history and their secrets. I asked about the three lines of text, about which we know nothing.’

  ‘And? What did he say?’ Hinricus and Kilian asked in unison.

  ‘He said – and I will attempt to repeat this as accurately as I can – that he does not bear any hatred towards me. “If you have taken any sort of apothecary’s oath, then you will understand the oath that I have taken as well. From the moment my forefathers seized the cross and marched to the Holy Land, ever since that time the oath has been taken, and it must not be broken if Christians want their churches and their towns to survive and flourish.” He went on to say that there are many of them and that the Blackheads are only one of numerous guilds that guard and maintain secrets that go back as far as the time of Solomon. He told me he had taken a vow to come to Tallinn to watch over these ancient secrets and that “that idiotic, greedy mason brought misfortune down upon himself”. Gallenreutter had wanted money in return for his silence. He had chanced to overhear that there were men who keep guard to ensure that the names of the ancient church builders remain secret. There must be one such church in every Christian town, the very oldest church sanctified by the proper rite, because the town could not keep going otherwise.’

  ‘So he did not repent?’ Hinricus asked.

  ‘He felt no shame at all over Gallenreutter’s death. I asked him why he killed Prior Eckell, a man whom he was supposed to respect and honour. He replied that the Prior had figured out that Wunbaldus was not responsible for his own death or that of the Gallenreutter and that he had once accidentally mentioned to Freisinger what was in his amulet. Freisinger said he did this with a heavy heart, adding that the Prior was so old and sick that he would have died quite soon anyway.’

  Hinricus took his head between his hands and sighed deeply.

  ‘A murderer always finds justification,’ Melchior said gently. ‘He makes himself believe that it had to be done, that it was the only course of action.’

  ‘But did he already know? Was he certain that …’ Kilian began but trailed off.

  ‘He said he was sure that he would not be hanged on Town Hall Square nor at Võllamägi. The Blackheads are too old and powerful a brotherhood for such a thing to occur. There are many of them and they have untold numbers of friends – so Freisinger said, although I did not at that stage understand quite what those words meant. He said, “They may torture me with pliers, but they will not take me to the killing platform. Go, Melchior, and know that I do not bear any hatred against you. Yet keep in mind that you must be careful, you and that minstrel. Cast from your memory the name that you deciphered. My words carry not the greatest weight in our brotherhood, but I shall make an appeal for both your lives.”’

  ‘And you believe this?’ Kilian pressed. ‘And should I really be afraid as well? After all, I do know the name.’

  Melchior shook his head. ‘We have nothing to fear in Tallinn. That I promise you.’

  ‘Regardless,’ Kilian continued, ‘I will be as silent as the grave. I wish no harm to befall our town.’

  ‘“Our town”, you say?’ Hinricus asked.

  ‘Yes. Tallinn is my town now as well. If I should ever leave here then my heart will for ever weep.’

  ‘Yes, I believe you will never leave here again,’ Melchior said, grinning slyly. ‘Sire Tweffell has already taken care of that.’

  ‘How so? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Sire Tweffell has no heirs, and he is too perceptive not to notice for whom your heart beats and for whom Gerdrud’s beats in return. And his meanness would not allow him to let his assets leave his bloodline. Keep in mind, Kilian, that Ludke guards your every step and maybe mine as well. At some time, possibly quite soon, you must choose whether you will become a Meistersinger or a merchant. Tallinn could use both. No matter what Solomon’s wisdom might be, I know with certainty that no town can last for long if it is populated by too few masters of song and too few merchants – despite the fact that a merchant must sell his soul in the pursuit of profit.’

  Kilian blushed but exclaimed stubbornly, ‘Then I wish to remain a Meistersinger.’

  ‘And may all the saints bless you in this quest,’ Melchior replied. ‘A town that does not have enough Meistersingers is a dead town. Yet a town will also wither away without merchants.’

  Hinricus reasoned that this was doubtless the case, although every town also needed monasteries and churches, otherwise it would have no soul. ‘The more merchants, the more monasteries, so perhaps merchants do not truly have to sell their souls. We certainly pray for them and remind them to care for their eternal salvation.’

  ‘But Freisinger, did he say nothing more?’ Kilian asked again. ‘Nothing about those three missing lines?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ Melchior replied. ‘I asked where the testament that Gallenreutter dug up had disappeared to, but he said I did not need to know about that. It was as if he wanted to warn me off and reassert that he did not hate me. I did not fully understand what he was talking about. I heard the news in the morning, just as you did, and that news will surely echo long here in Tallinn …’

  That morning Magistrate Dorn had gone with the tower guard to ask Freisinger who he wanted to represent him at his trial, but all they found was an empty cell. Yes, there are certainly many Blackheads, and they do have a lot of friends – possibly even on the Town Council, possibly on Toompea, possibly somewhere far away and high above.

  ‘Freisinger is already far from here. He was right, Tallinn’s Town Council will not hang him because the Blackheads have many powerful friends,’ Melchior spoke firmly.

  The town had been shaken by Freisinger’s myst
erious escape, but a town quickly forgets, as everybody has their own work to do and lives to be getting on with. The other Blackheads swore they knew nothing of their Alderman’s escape, and no doubt they told the truth. The Brotherhood of Blackheads denounced Freisinger and his secrets. The jolly Blackheads would remain in Tallinn; they knew nothing of ancient rituals and church-builders’ oaths; they would continue to trade and arrange their jousting tournaments. They – the new Blackheads – already existed in Tallinn, and perhaps they had to be a part of the town as everyone had already become accustomed to them. Freisinger had been like a malicious abscess that was now cut free from the body. His trial had not been held, and not one entry including his name would remain in the Council records. The town would endure; the churches and monasteries would endure.

  Hinricus rose and took his leave. Through the window it was apparent that Katrine and Birgitta had entered the convent courtyard and were calling for Kilian. It seems it is time for us all to leave, Melchior resolved, but before he did he threw that scrap of paper – dug up from a grave and on which was written the song of the old Blackheads – into the holy sisters’ tavern fireplace. He stood before the hearth and watched the flames greedily seize upon the paper, turning it grey and razor thin before it broke into thousands of fragments of ash transformed into a trail of smoke winding up into the chimney.

  Melchior stood and gazed at the flames that sent the secret of the builder of St Olaf’s Church high up into the sky.

  Twenty-four years later, grey-haired and a widower, Melchior stood on Pikk Street and recalled those flames as fires raged through the town. Terrified townspeople ran around in front of him as the steeple of St Olaf’s Church – soaring almost as high as the heavens – crackled and shot fierce flames up towards the clouds.

  TOOMPEA IN

  THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY

  St Mary’s Cathedral, a.k.a. Dome Church