He had fallen asleep just before daybreak and was awakened just a few hours later by his father, who was extremely reluctant to give him time off to attend the funeral. Simon jumped into his trousers, pulled on a new jacket of fine Augsburg cloth, and on the way out the door, drank what remained of the previous night’s coffee, straight from the pot.
As he carefully opened the portal to the basilica, the sermon had already begun. The door squeaked loudly and a blast of cold air came in from outside, so that some of the mourners turned around with disapproving looks. Simon mumbled a few words of apology, took off his hat, and sat down in the back of the basilica on the right, where pews were set aside for the men. In the front, on the opposite side, he could see Benedikta. She was wearing a loosely pleated black skirt and, over that, a lap jacket that accentuated her tightly laced bodice. Her red hair was almost completely hidden under a black hood, and she seemed even paler than usual. All around her sat the well-to-do citizens of Altenstadt. Simon recognized the innkeeper Franz Strasser, the carpenter Balthasar Hemerle, and Matthias Sacher, who, as a rich miller, represented the Altenstadters in the Schongau town council. The physician’s gaze wandered to the red upholstered seat of honor behind the altar. There, sitting up straight and murmuring a silent prayer with his eyes closed, was Augustin Bonenmayr, the abbot of Steingaden. As Andreas Koppmeyer’s superior, he had evidently not hesitated to take the long trip and pay his last respects to the Altenstadt priest.
The dead priest lay in an open coffin in front of the altar, and the church was so cold a thin layer of ice had formed on his face.
Pausing in his sermon for a moment to cast a disapproving eye at the late arrival, Father Elias Ziegler now continued. His nose was as red as a ripe apple, and Simon guessed he’d already helped himself to the communion wine that morning.
“Andreas Koppmeyer was one of us,” the priest said unctuously, “a bear of a man who understood well the cares and fears of his flock, because these were concerns he shared with them.”
A whimper sounded from one of the pews in back, and Simon turned around to see Magda, the fat housekeeper from the rectory, who took out a large, dirty handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. The skinny rector, Abraham Gedler, seemed close to tears, too, and clutched a prayer book tightly, as if trying to squeeze blood out of it.
“But the Lord alone knows when our hour is at hand,” the priest continued, “and so we lay all our hopes and cares in God’s hands…”
Simon’s thoughts wandered to Magdalena and her trip. No one was safe from robbers, even on the Lech-to say nothing of the way back by road. He hoped nothing had happened to her. Her father should never have allowed her to go! She was much too young and naive for such a trip, Simon thought. Unlike Benedikta. The woman from Landsberg might be only a few years older, but she seemed so much more mature. Simon looked straight ahead. Even now, in the face of her brother’s death, Benedikta Koppmeyer seemed composed. The physician couldn’t find anyone else in the congregation who might be a relative. Presumably, Benedikta and Andreas were the only siblings, and the woman had no children. At least she hadn’t spoken of any. Simon was both fascinated and irritated by this elegant lady, who could speak French and, only minutes after, kill a robber in cold blood. He was both attracted and repelled by her. He sighed, knowing that this mix could have fatal consequences.
Simon glanced up at the Great God of Altenstadt, who looked down benevolently and all-knowingly on the faithful. He couldn’t help the physician with his problems, either.
“Let us pray.”
The priest’s words tore Simon from his reveries, and he stood up with the others to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
“Pater noster, qu ies in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…”
When Pastor Elias Ziegler had finished, he raised his head to the Great God of Altenstadt and spread his arms as if in benediction. Then he spoke in a clear voice.
What the priest said next nearly knocked Simon over, and he struggled to get a grip on the arm of the pew.
“This is what I learned among mortal men as the greatest wonder. That there was neither the earth nor the heaven above. Nor was there any tree nor mountain. Neither any star at all, nor any other thing…”
The voice of Elias Ziegler echoed through the dome of the basilica like that of a prophet. Here was the riddle from the crypt in the Castle Hill chapel.
“You are demanding what from me?” Johann Lechner looked at the hangman in disbelief and dropped the pen he was about to use to sign a few papers. His lips formed a narrow, bloodless line in a pale face, and his eyes darted nervously back and forth. The endless paperwork and, above all, his growing worries about the town had kept him awake the last few nights. Lechner’s skin sometimes looked as transparent as a blank sheet of parchment, but the strength of his will and tenacity were legendary-and feared-far beyond the borders of Schongau.
With Jakob Kuisl and a retinue of two bailiffs, he had hurried back to the ducal palace after their meeting in the dungeon. He walked ahead the entire time, and the guards struggled to keep up.
In his office, Lechner gestured to Kuisl to take a seat and then went back to working on his documents. Only after some time had passed did he ask Kuisl what had happened during his conversation with the robber chief. When Jakob Kuisl told him, the little artery on Lechner’s pale forehead swelled up and turned a fiery red.
“Naturally, we’ll set an example and break Scheller on the wheel. Anything else is out of the question!” he exclaimed angrily as he continued signing his papers. “I’ll go to the city council today and urge a speedy execution.”
“If you do that, we’ll never learn where Scheller hid the loot,” Kuisl said, taking out his pipe.
“Then squeeze it out of him. Start with the thumbscrews, put him on the rack, and stretch him with millstones. Stick burning matches under his fingernails…It doesn’t matter how you torture him. You’ll think of the right method.”
Kuisl shook his head. “Scheller is a tough customer. It’s likely he won’t talk, even when I torture him. So why waste your time and money?”
The clerk glared at Kuisl. “What kind of loot would they have?” he said finally. “A few guilders and farthings, maybe a lice-ridden fur coat. Who cares about that?”
Kuisl’s gaze wandered almost apathetically around the room. Documents were piled up on tables and shelves, awaiting action by the clerk. Lechner’s breakfast-a mug of wine and a piece of white bread-lay untouched on a stool.
Finally, the hangman spoke up. “I’m guessing it’s a lot more than just a few guilders. Scheller stole from another band of robbers.”
“Another band of robbers?” Johann Lechner could barely keep from jumping out of his seat. “Do you mean there’s another gang of thugs roving around out there?”
Slowly and methodically, the hangman filled his pipe. “All the attacks recently-from the Hoher Pei?enberg to the Landsberg region-can’t have been the work of just one gang. I believe Scheller. First let me track down the others as well; then the day after that, I’ll string up the robber chief and his men for you, if that’s what you want. If we do that, we’ll know where the loot is hidden and finally be able to bring peace again to the Priests’ Corner.”
Lechner looked at the hangman, thinking. “And if I insist on torturing them on the wheel?” he asked finally.
Kuisl lit his pipe. “Then you can look for your robbers yourself. But I doubt you’ll find them. I’m the only one who knows all the places they might be hiding.”
“Are you threatening me?” Lechner’s voice was suddenly as cold as a January morning.
Jakob Kuisl leaned back and blew little rings of smoke toward the ceiling. “I wouldn’t call it a threat; I’d call it an understanding.”
For a long time, only the sound of Lechner’s fingers drumming on the desktop was audible.
“Very well, then,” the clerk said finally. “You catch these other robbers for me, and for all I care, Scheller can be hanged instead o
f broken on the wheel. But first he’ll have to tell us where the loot is hidden.”
“Let the women and children go,” the hangman said softly. “Give them a whipping and banish them from the town-that should be enough.”
Lechner sighed. “Why not? After all, we’re all human beings.” Then he leaned forward. “But you’ve got to do one thing for me in return.”
“What’s that?”
“Put out your damned pipe. That disgusting smoke comes straight from hell. In Munich and Nuremberg they outlawed the vice years ago. And if things continue as they have been, I’ll have to make drunkenness a punishable offense here in Schongau as well, and then you can whip yourself.”
The hangman grinned. “As you wish.” He extinguished the pipe with his thumb and started toward the door.
“Oh, Kuisl,” the clerk added.
The hangman stopped. “Yes?”
“Why are you doing this?” Lechner looked at him suspiciously. “You could make a pile of money breaking him on the wheel-ten times what you get for a hanging. So why? Are you getting a little soft in your old age, or is there some other reason?”
Jakob Kuisl shrugged. “Were you in the war?” he finally replied.
Lechner seemed irritated. “No, why do you ask?”
“I’ve heard enough screaming in my life, and now I’d rather do a little healing.”
Without another word, the hangman left, closing the door behind him.
Inside, the clerk continued perusing his documents, but he was having trouble putting his mind to it. He would never understand this Kuisl. So be it. He had promised the wealthy messenger he’d get the hangman out of the way for a long time, so if there was a second gang, all the better. That would take time, and Lechner would also save himself the sixteen guilders it cost to break the prisoner on the wheel-two guilders for each blow-not to mention the additional money that might be added to the city coffers if they retrieved it.
Satisfied, he signed another document with a flourish. They could always break the leader of the second group on the wheel. For the sake of justice.
Simon drummed his fingers nervously on the armrest of the pew, waiting for the last amen from Elias Ziegler. He felt like jumping up during the service, running to the front of the church, and demanding some explanation from the drunken priest. Benedikta, too, had started fidgeting and shifting around in her pew, turning back to look at Simon with a wide-open mouth when Ziegler mentioned the riddle they’d seen in the crypt. But before the service was finally over, there were two prayers in Latin and what seemed to Simon like an endless Kyrie eleison.
The citizens of Altenstadt now formed a line to offer condolences to Benedikta, who took a seat on a small wooden stool alongside the bier. At her side, the pastor nodded piously to the guests as they walked past the coffin and expressed their sympathy. Some of them placed dried flowers in the coffin, crossed themselves, or made signs with their fingers meant to ward off evil spirits. By now, most of them believed Andreas Koppmeyer had died simply from overeating, but thanks to the housekeeper, Magda, the rumor was still going around that the devil’s minions had poisoned him because he had done too much to promote good in the world. The housekeeper collapsed in tears in front of the bier and had to be taken outside by the sacristan, Abraham Gedler.
Simon stared at Benedikta. Even now, the Landsberg wine merchant preserved her composure. She thanked each person individually and reminded everyone about the funeral feast to follow. That really wasn’t necessary; Simon assumed that many Altenstadters came to the funeral only so they could gorge themselves on a big meal afterward.
“Well, Fronwieser, have you made any progress in your investigation?”
Simon spun around. It was Augustin Bonenmayr who had joined him in line. The tall, gaunt abbot from Steingaden was wearing his brass pince-nez here in the basilica as well, and from behind them, his tiny, alert eyes peered out at the physician.
“Unfortunately not, Your Excellency.”
“If you ever should consider leaving Schongau, then do come to Steingaden,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “The monastery needs another smart, open-minded physician like you, especially now that we are rebuilding and expanding. When the construction is finished, thousands of people will be making a pilgrimage to Steingaden each year-people with illnesses and infirmities. God can’t heal them all.” The abbot smiled benignly. Then his gaze fell on the coffin and he became serious again. “A great loss for us all,” he said. “Koppmeyer was a man of the people. The church needs more like him.”
“You’re right, Excellency.” Simon looked ahead nervously. There were just three mourners in front of him; he would be able to ask Elias Ziegler about his prayer. In his excitement, he had trouble concentrating on Augustin Bonenmayr’s words.
The abbot of Steingaden took off his pince-nez and polished it with a lace handkerchief. “Do you still think he was poisoned?” he asked softly. “Perhaps the good man truly just ate something that didn’t agree with him, or too much. Everyone knew he was not averse to the pleasures of this world. But then, if it really was a murder…” He kept polishing his glasses, though they were already as clear as limpid water. “Have you ever asked yourself who would benefit most from Koppmeyer’s death? As far as I know, he had only one relative, his sister.” The abbot turned away. “Good day to you, and God be with you.”
Simon stood there, gaping, the abbot’s words resounding in his ears. Could Benedikta have poisoned her brother? He couldn’t for the life of him imagine that, but there was no time to think about this, as he had arrived at the bier that very moment. Inside lay the body of Andreas Koppmeyer, his face waxen and peaceful and his hands folded around a crucifix. In the narrow box, he suddenly looked much smaller than he had been in life. The corpse already seemed slightly bloated. In spite of the cold, it was clearly time to put him in the ground.
Simon nodded to Benedikta, who was still standing at the coffin accepting expressions of concern. He mumbled some condolences, then turned to the priest.
“A wonderful sermon, Your Excellency,” he whispered. “So full of compassion.”
“Thank you.” Father Elias Ziegler smiled.
“I especially liked the closing words, the prayer about the greatest miracle, humankind, at a time when there was no earth, no heavens, and not a tree standing…Where does it come from?”
“Ah, the Wessobrunn Prayer.” The priest nodded appreciatively. “Did you know it is considered the oldest of all German prayers? There is something especially magical about it, I think. I’m glad you liked it. I haven’t used it in my sermons for ages.”
Simon nodded. “The Wessobrunn Prayer,” he murmured. “Why is it called that?”
The priest shrugged. “Well, because it has been safeguarded for many years in Wessobrunn in a monastery only a day’s trip from here. The monks keep it in a shrine, like a relic.”
Simon’s mouth suddenly turned dry. “Is this prayer more than three hundred years old?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
“Indeed, much older, even.” Elias Ziegler looked worried. “Are you ill? You’re so pale.”
“Oh, no, it’s just that-”
Benedikta smiled sympathetically at the priest. “You must know he was very fond of my brother. This has all been a little too much for him.”
Elias Ziegler nodded earnestly. “Isn’t that true for us all?” he said. Then he turned to the next mourner.
Simon paused at Benedikta’s side. “The Wessobrunn Prayer,” he whispered. “I should have known! So the treasure is hidden in the Wessobrunn Monastery.”
“Or the next riddle,” Benedikta whispered, holding her head erect while accepting condolences from the mourners. “In any case, we’ll have to go to Wessobrunn. I hope in the meantime you’ve learned a little more about riding a horse,” she said, with a slight smile, “or we’ll never find out if this Templars’ treasure really exists.”
Simon returned the smile but felt a queasiness in his stomach. The Steingaden a
bbot had sown a seed of suspicion that took root in his mind. Nodding, he bade farewell and left the cold basilica.
The young boy led Magdalena through the narrow lanes of Augsburg, down into the Weavers’ Quarter. Little icy gutters lined the paved streets. Everywhere, there were millwheels that drove the weavers’ looms during the warmer part of the year but now were silent, covered with icicles and half submerged under ice where a number of brooks came together. Most houses didn’t have windows but just tiny peepholes, and Magdalena had the feeling that behind each of them a pair of eyes was staring at them as they walked by.
It was well past nightfall, and she kept looking around to see if the two thugs might be waiting around the next corner for her as she passed by with the boy.
Finally, they came to a large house directly along the city wall. With whitewashed stone walls, green shutters, and a heavy wood front door, it seemed almost elegant in comparison to the rundown weavers’ cottages, though it was nowhere near as magnificent as the three-story mansions closer to the city hall. Magdalena could hardly believe this was the hangman’s house, but the boy stopped and knocked. Shortly, steps could be heard, a little slit opened beside the door, and a bearded face appeared. As the man raised his lantern to get a look at his visitors, Magdalena could see the reddish-blond hair of his beard and two eyes sparkling in the dim light. The man looked at Magdalena and the boy with suspicion.
“No more customers today,” he growled. “Come back tomorrow if you’re still alive and kicking.”
The boy crossed himself, mumbled a brief prayer, and took off into the darkness. Magdalena stared at the hangman behind the peephole. Apparently, he hadn’t recognized her.
“Are you deaf, or what?” The man’s voice sounded threatening now. “Beat it fast, or I’ll come and get you, you goddamn harlot!”
He was just about to close the little hatch when Magdalena addressed him.
“It’s me, Magdalena Kuisl from Schongau. Don’t you recognize me?”
Eyes wide in astonishment, he opened the door. His massive frame was illuminated by the light from the room.
The Dark Monk thd-2 Page 20
