by G. M. Dyrek
“It is far more foolish, I think, not to have known our enemy better. Matthias must have grown tired of the hunt.” Ulrich chuckled, a bitter, mirthless sound. “Now, I’ll have to return to the monastery.”
“Are you mad? I’m sure by now the district Magistrate and his lynch mob are searching the countryside looking for us, even on such a night as this. Thank goodness it’s still snowing. Our tracks will soon disappear.” Donato shook his head in despair. “Ulrich, you must have a death wish, going anywhere close to that monastery tonight. You’ll be arrested, tried, and hung before noon tomorrow if you so much as take another step inside Disibodenberg.”
“You may be right. But, not if I decide to wear a disguise.” He staggered over to the massive wardrobe and flung it wide open. Clothes musty and moth eaten were neatly folded on its shelves.
“You know this place,” the younger man asserted, watching his partner change his clothes.
“I was wondering when you would catch on,” he smiled. “Long ago I knew this place well. I went on hunts here in the surrounding forests with my father and later brought my own family here for a breath of fresh air.”
“Fresh air . . .”
“It could be rather stuffy living under the auspices of a vain and rich family. Speaking of vanity, how do I look?” Ulrich hunched his back and traipsed about the room with an obvious limp, his clothes hanging from his frame like foul rags.
“Frankly, you look like a very disagreeable hunchback.” Donato crossed his arms, clearly disturbed by the direction their plans were taking.
“Do you remember that monk we recognized?”
Donato answered warily. “Yes, the nervous one with the crooked nose . . . by now he’s found the body we left him tucked neatly under a blanket in his bed.”
“I’m beginning to suspect he must have not only overheard our conversation but decided to seize the Holy Relic himself.” Ulrich added with a sneer, “He should be more willing to talk now.”
He was so close to Donato, the younger man could smell the stench of his old clothes and the turn in his thoughts. “I wish we didn’t have to kill Atif.”
“Couldn’t be helped, an accident really.” Ulrich spoke from underneath his eerie hood. “We couldn’t have him tell Matthias we were so close.” All that was visible were his remarkable deep brown eyes flecked throughout with gold.
Donato studied his hands, turning them over in disgust, answering Ulrich crossly and with genuine regret. “More innocent blood.”
Ulrich tore off his hood, ignoring his companion’s pitiful display of remorse. He went and stood thoughtfully staring at something propped up in the back corner of the wardrobe. “I remember this cane,” he said, reaching for it, knowing full well that doing so put him on another path, a much more dangerous one. Ulrich rubbed the cane against his cheek, a boyish ritual of affection. Quietly he turned its handle, removing a long thin sword hidden inside its clever scabbard. He touched the edge of the sword with his finger, testing its sharpness and was pleased. “Speaking of innocent blood, I got my first taste of it with this sword when I was five. I never knew rabbits could scream.” He swung the sword about, severing the air with satisfaction.
“So young and merciless,” the younger man said, aghast. “And you came from a long line of gentlemen?”
“As old and revered as time.” Ulrich laughed, long and loud. “The difference between me and you, my good friend, is quite simple. I do not have a conscience. It neither squirms nor is repelled by the shedding of innocent blood. It is your strength and your weakness.” And with a single thrust, the older man sunk the long needle-like sword through Donato’s heart with the same precision and skill he had taken Atif’s life two nights before.
The younger man’s mouth formed the word as he gasped in revulsion at his friend’s unexpected deed. “Why?” he asked, falling to his knees, the pain only now being felt as if a hard boot was stomping on his entrails.
“Plainly stated,” Ulrich hissed, “I want to make history, not be its squirming victim. Whosoever possesses the Spear of Destiny has the power to shape the destiny of this world. Do you think I would want to share such incredible power with another man?”
“What about Brother Gerard?” Donato said, now coughing up bright red blood.
“This search was never for him. I possess loyalties towards no man. It is better this way, my friend, for you will never have to face the humiliation of being caught off guard again.”
Donato crouched over, the pain like lightning shooting through every blood vessel in his body. All the lights had been put out except one, and here he fixed his attention. His vision blurred before the darkness fully consumed him. In the meager light coming from the hearth, he saw Ulrich returning to his chair, his fingers laced together, watching him die. The young man stiffened slightly. Someone else was in the room and she too had the same look of horror on her face as Ulrich burst out laughing.
CHAPTER 9: NIGHT-TIME VIGIL
Anchorage of Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, Before Dawn
Quiet was what Volmar wanted and needed to collect his thoughts. He waved to the others as they all parted company. Rudegerus took off in one direction towards the Guest House, apparently to find his log book of the monastery’s recent visitors, so he could report back when the Magistrate arrived. The Abbot had discreetly informed the Infirmarian that there was another body to investigate. While they each kept their own counsel, so as not to arouse any panic or fear amongst the other brothers, Volmar knew as he watched the two trudge up the hill towards the cloister, each of them was considering the solemn ramifications of another murder at the monastery.
Volmar assured the Abbot that he would catch up later. He held his torch to the ground and stepped from the path he and Rudegerus had tromped through earlier. The snow was deeper now. “If ever there was a night when the Devil walked about this monastery, this is such a night,” he muttered, thankful on the one hand for the quiet of the falling snow, yet aware that if it continued, it would hide any evidence of footsteps, barely visible, but nevertheless telling in the newly fallen snow. Now, with a little time, he wanted to see if somehow they too would offer any answers to the questions he had swirling around in his mind about these two wretched murders.
“Snow is like a parchment,” he said out loud to himself, coming across a pair of footprints. They were small and delicate, not at all the expected length of a man’s foot, but more the size of a woman or a child. He thought of Brother Johannes’s “archangels” and prayed that the boys would have had enough sense not to be wandering about on such a frigid night. He followed the footsteps closely as they led down the hillside from the stables and concluded to his horror that they had come directly up the hill from the Anchorage. He walked the ascent once more, this time more slowly, retracing the footsteps to reach the same conclusion. The footsteps originated from the Anchorage’s window!
Disturbed, he called through the leather flap hanging from the Anchorage’s window. “Sister Hildegard, it is I, Brother Volmar, may I have a word with you and you alone?”
There was a movement in the shadowy darkness and soon a voice emerged, singular but not musical. “Brother Volmar, I’m so glad it’s you. I’ve been so distraught, not knowing what to do.”
“Sister Hiltrud, where is Sister Hildegard?” Volmar asked, holding up the leather flap.
Hiltrud stared down at her hands resting in her lap. She dared not look into Volmar’s face. “I don’t know where to begin,” she said through tears rolling down her reddened, puffy cheeks.
“And what is this?” Volmar held up a wreath of garlic, hung just inside the window’s opening.
“Garlic, brother. It is to draw away disease. It is what my mum taught me,” Hiltrud said defensively.
Volmar wondered if Hildegard also believed in such a silly superstition. He tried to keep his voice as calm as possible given his agitated state. “Hiltrud, you will soon hear word of a death, a horrible deat
h here at Disibodenberg. Actually, there have been two deaths. I must speak with Sister Hildegard right away.”
“Sister Jutta is ill, very ill.” Hiltrud spoke quickly between shaky breaths, her words running over themselves in an attempt to be heard. “On the first night of our confinement, Sister Jutta removed all of her clothes and stood out in our small courtyard in the freezing temperatures for hours. When she finally collapsed and slipped into unconsciousness, we warmed her body, yet saw that she would not survive without certain medicines.”
“Go on.”
“Sister Hildegard and I could not bear to see her suffer. While the monastery and the monks all slept, Hildegard decided to put on a monk’s cassock, one left here for us to mend, and visit the Infirmary’s laboratory for herbs.”
“It hasn’t even been a week and she has already broken her vows of enclosure?” Volmar said with a wry grimace.
“Judge her not, brother,” Hiltrud sputtered, between her tears. “There was no other choice, if Jutta was to live.”
Volmar sighed and stared upwards towards the stable. Beyond it was the Infirmary. “Tell me, Hiltrud. Was tonight her fourth visit to the Infirmary?”
“Oh no, this was only her third visit. Jutta felt better on one of those nights,” she told him, plainly using her fingers to double check her memory. “Sister Hildegard promises to replace what she has taken in the spring, once we plant our own garden here at the Anchorage.” The conversation Volmar had had with Brother Paulus inserted itself into the young scribe’s mind.
“Did she take any peach pits?”
“No. She only took herbs that she knew would bring down Sister Jutta’s fever and infection.”
Volmar knelt close to the window. “Hiltrud, I’d like to speak with Sister Hildegard myself. Tell her I will not condemn her act of charity. Please wake her; it is important.”
“I cannot.” Hiltrud wept bitterly. “I cannot for she is not here.”
Volmar stood upright. Fear suddenly threatened to paralyze him. “At what hour did she leave?”
“It was sometime between Compline and Matins.”
“The darkest hours of the night, and the very hours we think one of the two murders was committed,” Volmar added, clearly distressed.
Hiltrud whimpered, finding little hope in this realization.
“Hiltrud, I intend to find her.” Volmar turned from the window, picturing in his mind the inevitable turn of events. Hildegard had left the Anchorage for medicine and on her return trip from the Infirmary she encountered Matthias’s murderers. She must have—why else hadn’t she returned to the Anchorage?
Snowflakes clung stubbornly to Volmar’s eyelashes. He realized that in a short while the footsteps would vanish and all evidence of Hildegard’s night-time vigil would disappear. With an urgency he’d never felt before, Volmar rushed back up the hill, retracing Hildegard’s steps all the way to the entrance of the Infirmary. Ulrich, he knew, would not hesitate to take another young woman as his prisoner. This time he might have his way with her.
CHAPTER 10: WRAITHLIKE FIGURES
Kitchens and Cloister of Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, Before Dawn
Over and over Volmar retraced Hildegard’s path, determined to make sense of her every movement before her footsteps were erased forever by the continuing snowfall. Volmar frowned and headed once again from the Infirmary entrance down the hill towards the stables, bits of snow clinging to his brow. There he saw that Hildegard’s footsteps ended abruptly. He held his torch high, deeply troubled by her disappearance. If the murderers had taken Hildegard as a hostage—or worse, injured her—surely there would be some physical evidence of a struggle, some sort of confrontation. She wouldn’t have simply vanished!
Volmar sighed with relief; the snow told no such story. It was a dry snow and had been driven by the wind, banking high up against the walls, hedges, and troughs, filling in all the hollows, except, and there he hesitated, except for the inside of a cart. A two-wheeled delivery cart sat outside the old kitchens with only a mere dusting inside it. There were deep crevices near its wheels suggesting that it had been used within the last hour. He followed its tracks and discovered that it had taken a circuitous route towards the cloister. Why would someone be anxious to make a delivery in the middle of the night? Upon closer investigation, Volmar noticed a small trace of a red velvety fabric clinging to a loose nail on the cart’s wooden rim. Volmar reached for the fabric and carefully turned it over in his hand. He wrapped it in some linen and placed it within his leather pouch, realizing that Atif had worn a red velvet cape. Could this be how Atif’s body had been transported to the Abbot’s chamber? He’d have to mention this to the Abbot and Brother Paulus so they could see if there was a tear in Atif’s outer garment.
With a growing sense of confidence, Volmar started piecing together the other discrepancies in the snow. He stood just inside the entrance to the stables, reliving Matthias’s fateful last minutes on earth. There were the footsteps of two men who seemed to be walking side by side coming from the Infirmary to the stable doors. Hildegard’s footsteps followed the same path down the hill from the Infirmary. Here the two men must have stood, he reflected, and here they parted company. One of them, presumably Matthias, entered the stable, while the other left. His footsteps wound around the back of the stables.
So, Volmar mulled over the known facts, drawing upon his observations and his knowledge of human nature. Where had Hildegard gone? Certainly she would have wanted to hide from anyone awake at such an hour. Across the slippery cobblestones was the entrance to the old kitchens attached to the larger open air kitchens and dining hall. Against that building’s wall was the delivery cart and next to it a water barrel. Then he saw something of a slight indent in the snow bank behind the water barrel, suggesting that maybe someone had been there, preventing the newly fallen snow from piling up higher against the wall. Maybe, he reasoned, this was the very place Hildegard had wisely taken cover, so as not to be seen by Matthias and his assailant.
He crossed over and bent down in the snow, intent on seeing if he could find Hildegard’s distinctive footprints. Not only was he thrilled upon seeing her two small footprints there, he also found a few bits and pieces of green leaves sprinkled about. Carefully he picked up several of the small leaves and smelled them, sighing with relief. “Thank you, God.” The leaves smelled of rosemary and thyme. Volmar stood and swung open the kitchen door. As he hoped, it had been opened earlier, for there were puddles of water inside, where the snow had apparently blown in and melted.
Volmar brought his racing thoughts under control. He walked slowly forward, half-expecting to find Hildegard shivering in one of the corners. But she was not there. He had a look around, eyeing the oversized vats of salted food, jars of oil, stone crockery of flour and oatmeal, and other dry goods. Volmar reflected for a moment then exited from the other side which opened onto the cloisters. The entrance to the church would probably be the most direct path back to the Anchorage. He considered: Hildegard would desperately want to return to the Anchorage before the bells of Matins.
Volmar entered the church from the cloisters. In the dim chapel, flickering flames from the candles revealed other wraithlike figures scurrying from the shadows and grouping themselves with the holy brothers encircling the Abbot. Methodically, one by one, Volmar searched the faces of the strangers and his fellow brothers as they filed in, hoping, by chance, one of them would be a bewildered young woman masquerading as a monk.
CHAPTER 11: OF TWO MINDS
Sanctuary of Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, Dawn
With outstretched hands the Abbot addressed the assembly, first asking for calm and then begging for patience. “In good time we will have more answers to this puzzling death, which for the moment does not appear to be a suicide.”
One of the Guest House visitors in back, an elderly man in a ragged cloak, his face obscured under a tattered snow hood, spoke up. “Is it
murder, Father?”
The question had been swift and caused the Abbot’s eyes to widen. He peered into the dark shadows which seemed to envelop him, as did the atmosphere thickening with fear. “I cannot mislead you or anyone else present this morning. I’m afraid there has been a murder in our stables.”
There was silence. It took the crowd a moment to digest this information. Suddenly the unease grew and a few women gasped, causing many to murmur prayers for forgiveness. Brother Paulus recognized the potential for panic and stepped forward, standing close to the Abbot and giving him his unspoken support. Paulus opened his mouth to speak, but the Abbot motioned for him to stay silent.
The Abbot’s jaw tightened before he continued. “The Magistrate from the village has been notified and should be joining us shortly. There will be an investigation. I ask that everyone be as cooperative as possible. Understand, these proceedings are likely to cause disruptions to our daily offices and routines. I hope,” he warned softly, “each of you will pray unceasingly not only for the soul of the one lost to us sometime during the night, but also for the condemned souls of the man’s murderers.”
“There was more than one murderer, Father?” the same old hooded man asked, his voice unwavering in the cold.
The Abbot paused, concentrating his gaze into the gloom ahead. “It would seem so. Our resolve will be tested until this unlawful death is punished.”
Volmar crossed the room to stand directly behind the hooded old hunchback. Something about him seemed familiar yet so out of place. He noted the old man was wearing a signet ring. If only the lighting were not so poor. Volmar couldn’t make out any of the ring’s distinctive details, although it was odd that a poor guest traveler would possess this sure sign of a noble birth.
The crowd seemed to have suddenly turned into frightened children. A few stated out loud that they were packing up and leaving the monastery to find shelter somewhere safer in the village.
