by G. M. Dyrek
“I have not heard,” said Brother Rudegerus, a trace of worry slowing replacing his calculated look. “The church is very clear about suicide. Why would anyone choose to hang himself?”
“There is much still unknown about this man’s motives,” Volmar asserted, wondering if Brother Rudegerus realized he’d stumbled. Something has unsettled him, he thought. He’s acting too careless, for how could he deny hearing of this man’s death and yet know that the stranger had hung himself? Swirling pellets of ice continued to fall.
Brother Rudegerus rattled on, oblivious to his apparent contradictions. “Surely Matthias was fleeing his responsibilities. His motivation was despair, a fatal vice inspired in him by the Devil.”
Behind Rudegerus’s smug attitude, Volmar heard the fear. Not blind ambition but plain, deep-seated fear lurking behind every absurd accusation his fellow brother was making. He knew the monk was a man of narrow mind and total self-absorption, but an accomplice to murder? What was Rudegerus so fearful of? Rudegerus must be hiding some kind of lie. Volmar didn’t know what exactly, only that it left an acrid taste in his mouth. Suddenly uncertain what to say, Volmar added softly, “Suicide, like murder, is an act counter to nature, and an affront to God. He alone gave us life and He alone should determine our moment to face death.”
CHAPTER 7: DEMONS PRESENT
Stables of Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, After Matins
Come in, brothers,” Abbot Burchard said, approaching the two of them. “I was hoping, Brother Rudegerus,” he continued, handing Rudegerus a lit torch, “you might be able to shed some light on this gruesome situation. I need to know the names of all those visiting our monastery.” The Abbot rested his hand on Rudegerus’s shoulder and also noted, Volmar could tell, the fact that he had recently bathed.
“Father, may I have a word with you?” Volmar said, stomping the snow from his heavy leather boots. He was well aware of the undercurrents of emotion in the room and was certain now that Rudegerus was involved somehow, some way with Atif’s untimely death.
“Now?” The Abbot asked, clearly stunned.
“Yes, it will take but a moment.”
Outside, the violence of the wind softened to a moaning whisper. Brother Rudegerus stood to one side, his dark restless eyes downcast. If Volmar had to make a judgment, the man seemed genuinely terrified by his current circumstances.
Brother Paulus stood in silence beside his fellow brother, clearly aware and concerned over Rudegerus’s demeanor. He studied his brother’s features, noting that he had not once looked up into the face of the victim. Instead, his eyes were fervently scanning the area in which they stood, as if he half-expected a demon to come charging out of its darkened crevices and corners.
Abbot Burchard’s lips twitched as if he wanted to say something more, thought better of it, and said nothing as he stepped aside to talk to Volmar in private.
Volmar wasted no time whispering to the Abbot how he’d come across Atif’s dead body seated in Burchard’s own chair. He reached into his leather pouch and pulled out Atif’s codex, the papers acknowledging his freedom and his deceit. The Abbot took this news with considerable self-control, though, Volmar noted, he switched hands, for the torch he held in his right hand suddenly started shaking.
“So, our young Sophie was not dreaming. She observed a murder. And we’ve finally found the body.” He sighed deeply. “I’ve gone ahead and brought Brother Paulus into our confidence about the events we discussed last evening. For now, son, please tell no one else of this unfortunate death.” The Abbot returned the codex to Volmar for safe-keeping. “There is much we do not know as of yet.”
Volmar nodded, adding with equal seriousness, “We’re witnessing the Holy Relic’s curse.” The two turned back to the others, clearly upset by the turn of events, yet determined to sort it all out and bring justice to the architects of this terrible violence.
Volmar had come face to face with death only a few moments ago, and still it didn’t make walking up to Matthias’s body any less disturbing. He looked up and met the old soldier’s narrow blue eyes, staring down at him sightlessly.
Brother Rudegerus mumbled. “Most unfortunate situation, Father. As I said yesterday, the man was demon-possessed.”
The Abbot responded thoughtfully to his theory. “There are certainly demons present, but whether they were controlling Matthias, I seriously doubt it. When we spoke, he was in full control of his faculties. Volmar,” he said, looking over to his Scribe, “be sure to record our conversation. These observations may prove helpful to the Magistrate and his advisors when they arrive.”
“Interesting,” Brother Paulus interrupted, holding his torch higher and staring up at the body. “There are none of the usual physical signs of hanging present.”
Volmar glanced up from his writing. “Has anyone else been in here?”
“I think other than Brother Hugo, we are the only ones,” the Abbot said. “Why?”
“Well,” Volmar paused as he formed his thoughts, “when someone hangs himself, wouldn’t he require a stool to stand on so he could hoist himself up higher before kicking it to the side? In this case, there is no stool or chair present.” Volmar went to the back door, opened it and peered out, confirming his suspicion. “The milking stool is unmoved. It is where I left it the evening before. It could have been suitable for such a ghastly deed.”
“Are there any indications of the victim’s effort to resist an attack, such as bruises or torn clothing?” Abbot Burchard asked, turning to Brother Paulus.
Brother Paulus nodded. “The neck is obviously broken; yet, as I commented a moment ago, the man’s eyes are not bulging, nor his tongue blackened or protruding. The man appears to have been dead before the hanging, Father. My guess would be that someone wanted to make this killing appear as a suicide.”
Abbot Burchard grimaced. “If Matthias was trying to leave, as his traveling clothes suggest, where are all the rest of his belongings?”
“Father,” Volmar said, interrupting, “all four horses appear to be missing.”
“So it seems,” Abbot Burchard said in measured tones. “Rudegerus, as the monastery’s Guest Master, you’re aware of the goings and comings of our civilian population. Who has visited the monastery in the past couple of days?”
“Father,” Rudegerus said, apparently worried, “without referring to my sign-in book, I cannot confirm or deny any of our recent visitors.”
“Please make that a priority,” the Abbot said sternly, “especially before the Magistrate arrives. I’m sure Wolfe will need the names of all those who are recent boarders in our guest house.”
“So,” Volmar said, thinking out loud, “if there were two murderers, not one, then they left the monastery on horseback with two horses in tow. It will certainly slow them down.”
The Abbot exchanged a knowing look with Volmar . . . Atif owned the third horse.
Brother Paulus added, twirling a strand of his long flowing beard, “I know of at least two breaks in the outer walls. Each would provide a way for men on horseback to leave without having to go by the Porter at the gate.”
“Surely once our two messengers get word to the Magistrate, he can have his search party track down these two or possibly three men, and see if they have Matthias’s horse and belongings with them.” Abbot Burchard sounded more hopeful than he felt.
“It has been snowing all night,” Volmar mentioned. “It may prove nearly impossible for a search party to follow our suspects’ tracks.”
Brother Paulus returned to the body. “You would think an old soldier like Matthias would not be easy to overcome, even if two men surprised him. There are no facial contusions, strangulation finger marks, or bruises on his neck or fists.” Brother Paulus stood close, eye level with the only noticeable injury. “Father, take a look at his right leg. The trousers are shredded and heavily caked with blood. There appears to be a single gash up the calf of his leg that runs about the size of a man’s ha
nd.”
“Is this the injury you treated several days ago?”
“No, those were bite marks on his other ankle. This cut seems fresh, so it must have occurred within the last fortnight.”
“Could that have caused his death?” Abbot Burchard asked.
Paulus shook his head. “Highly unlikely. Such an injury, while painful, is seldom life-threatening. Remember, this is the man who already survived an attack by wild dogs. Though I must say, this injury is puzzling. If in fact Matthias died before he was strung up, then the broken neck did not kill him—something else did. Without thoroughly examining the body, Father, it is difficult to say how this man died.”
“A cut that deep must have bled heavily,” Volmar said, examining the bloodstained cobblestone floor below the body of Matthias. He followed the path of the bloodstains across the stable floor and saw how they came from the stall where the horses had been earlier yesterday afternoon. “Judging by this trail of bloodstains, it appears that Matthias had the cut before he was lifted and hung from the rope.” Volmar stood inside the stalls where four horses had been tied up. “This is where Matthias must have encountered the two men, perhaps while he was saddling his horse. The struggle, and perhaps the stabbing, took place in here.”
“This is ridiculous!” Rudegerus loudly countered, his face a deeper shade of red than usual. “There’s no possible way you can determine that!”
Abbot Burchard was already on his hands and knees with Brother Paulus and Volmar, examining the irrefutable blood droplets. “Then how else would you explain these bloodstains, Brother Rudegerus?” the Abbot said, looking up at him. “I am open to all possibilities.”
Volmar stood up and drew a simple diagram of the stables on his parchment, indicating where the bloodstains were in reference to where the body was hanging. “Don’t you think it is odd how the bloodstains vary in size? Underneath the body there are large stains. Then medium bloodstains all the way up to here,” he said pointing to the stall, “and then, inside here we see that the bloodstains look like small kernels of corn.”
Brother Paulus rose to his feet with some effort given his advancing age. He stood next to Brother Volmar and studied the younger monk’s diagram. “Bloodstains vary in size, depending on how far they have to fall. If a person is standing, and blood is dripping from his calf, there is only a small distance from the floor, such as these small bloodstains here,” he said, pointing to the area inside the horse’s stall. Slowly and together the two monks walked the distance from the stall back to the body. “However,” Brother Paulus continued, “if our victim is carried, the distance to the floor is greater, so the bloodstains will be larger in size, like we see all along this portion of the trail.” He pointed to the medium-sized bloodstains.
“And,” Volmar continued, “The bloodstains should be larger as we see here under the victim’s body since it is hanging much higher. So, taking the size of the bloodstains into consideration, it would confirm our suspicions that someone must have carried Matthias’s body from the point of death inside the stalls to hang him out here from a rafter after he had already died, to make it appear as a suicide.”
“Well done,” Abbot Burchard said with clear admiration. “Brother Rudegerus, do you have anything to add?”
“All of this is mere conjecture, Father! How can you possibly believe that this tragedy is any more than a mad man hanging himself out of despair?” Rudegerus crossed his arms defiantly, though his voice betrayed apprehension.
“What is even more curious and deeply troubling, Brother Rudegerus, is how you are determined to hold onto such falsehoods even in light of these facts.” Abbot Burchard studied Rudegerus as he continued. “The poor man I spoke with yesterday evening wanted to return to his family. He expressed no intentions of killing himself. I am grateful that the evidence suggests that his soul is not condemned to burn in Hell. There are no longer questions in my mind. Matthias’s body is to be buried in consecrated ground. We are investigating a murder, not a suicide.”
CHAPTER 8: MERCILESS
Lodge Outside of Staudernheim
6th of November, Before Dawn
Yanking on the reins of his horse, Ulrich came to a full stop in a clearing outside the village of Bermersheim, due west of the monastery at Disibodenberg. They had reached the crest of the hill and the force of the wind was almost unbearable. The village lay below, blanketed in a snowy peaceful slumber. Ulrich turned to Donato and spoke authoritatively, over the whine of the wind. “If I remember, there’s a hunter’s lodge about a mile up the way in that direction. There we can search Atif’s and Matthias’s belongings for the relic.”
The younger man nodded in agreement, his nose red and numb from the cold. The trek up the hillside was slow going, as both men were dragging the leads of reluctant and tired horses. Ice beneath the snow made it even more dangerous. Ulrich was the first to dismount. He hitched the reins of his two horses to a post before heading to the door. The wind had blown the snow into high mounds nearly waist deep against the lodge’s sturdy log walls. If he hadn’t known where to look, the lodge would have been lost in the storm. The door swung open after a swift kick.
“These blizzards are worse than I remember,” Ulrich said, waiting a moment so his eyes could adjust to the dim light. He gazed up the stairs to the loft above, half expecting to see someone from his past come down the steps to greet him.
The room provided a reasonable amount of comfort. There were two heavily carved but faded tapestry chairs in front of a stone hearth, a modest table, a cupboard and a large wardrobe. Cobwebs hung from the beeswax candles swinging overhead on a chandelier fashioned from antlers.
Donato stomped his boots on the floor, trying to warm his feet. “This old lodge may have once afforded its owners a modest sense of luxury, but given its present state, I dare say the only satisfied inhabitants are the rodents.”
“It is gloomy. But at least we are out of the wind,” Ulrich said, sweeping the table clean with his arm. Shards of crockery crashed to the floor. He tore open Atif’s traveling bag that had been strapped to his horse, pulling out everything that was in it.
Donato went to satisfy a more pressing need. He found some flint in a tinder box beside the hearth and took several logs from the nearby woodbin and placed them on the iron grate. “I thought Brother Gerard warned us, saying the Holy Relic loses its powers unless it is given willingly to its new owner. Matthias’s dead fingers didn’t exactly bestow the Spear of Destiny into our blood-stained hands.”
Ulrich ignored the comments and frantically turned to Matthias’s traveling satchel. He ripped it apart, exposing multiple inside pockets. With more care, he took his knife and unraveled the stitched hems. “Ah, my friend, you’re forgetting about accidental death. Legend says that if the original owner dies by accident such as being torn apart by a wild beast, then the Holy Relic’s powers are passed on to the next man who finds the spearhead.” Ulrich was growing more fanatical in his search. He flung dried fruits and salted meats from the satchel across the room.
“Hey, what are you doing? I’m hungry! Let’s salvage some of this. We have a long night ahead.” Donato squatted down and picked up some of the remains off the dirty floor. He found an oil lamp, grateful that it was partially full, and lit its wick with a twig from the raging fire. He adjusted its flame and took it with him to the wooden cupboards hoping to find some sort of earthenware plate or jar and watched in dismay as several mice went scurrying when he opened it. What he would have given for a cup of warm cider and a slice of fresh bread! “Of all nights to be snowed under—we should be distancing ourselves from this region, not spending the night here, right under their noses.”
“Nothing!” Ulrich bellowed, sinking his knife into the table. Skins lay strewn about as if from a wild animal’s feeding frenzy. The older man raised his fist into the air and cursed Heaven. “I will not surrender to such trickery,” he cried out with a fierce anger. “Do you hear me? I will not give up!” He crossed the
room and sank into one of the two chairs.
Donato went to the table and searched through the scattered mess, all that was left of Matthias’s earthly belongings. He thought about the edicts he swore to uphold. His soul was far from pure. “All my life,” he ventured, “I trained to heal those in pain. When did I start wishing for their deaths?”
Ulrich stared into the golden flames, now breathing hot and licking the grate, swallowing the chill in the air. The glow had brought not only life but memories as well into the room. For a moment, the older man saw a specter of a woman watching him from the opposite chair. He had felt her presence ever since he’d entered the lodge. Her face was drawn and much older than he remembered. She was cradling their daughter who was asleep in her arms. Suddenly she drew back the blanket and revealed to him the corpse of their lovely child, Anya. The little girl’s yellow hair hung like catkins from a bleached skull.
Donato dislodged this ghastly mirage when he sat down in the chair opposite the older man. “There’s a line that you can cross between God’s mercy and God’s wrath,” he said ruefully. “I’m not sure about you, but I fear the eternity of torment in Hell for the evil we set about and accomplished these past two days.”
Ulrich brought his fingertips together, trying hard to stay focused on the present moment and to keep the younger man from seeing how shaky they’d become. In fact he was trembling all over as if he himself, like a snake, was shedding one skin to reveal another. “We’ve committed unforgivable sins before,” he murmured.
“But that, my friend, was in the name of war. This is something else. I know, in the name of Brother Gerard we were sent to hunt Matthias down and seize the Holy Relic for our just cause. Yet, now that the deed is finally done and we still do not have the relic, I can’t help but feel our actions will not go unpunished.”
