The Seer and the Scribe

by G. M. Dyrek

  The Abbot responded reassuringly, “Please, stay calm. No one needs to go anywhere, especially on a night such as this. The Magistrate and his soldiers will secure our monastery. God willing, it will be the safest place for us all.”

  The hooded hunchback stepped forward, supported by his cane. Volmar regarded his boots thoughtfully. They were well-polished and of high quality leather. Volmar couldn’t help but wonder about these inconsistencies. His cloak looked shabby, even frayed and moth-eaten in spots, yet his shoes were well cared for. Interestingly too, his shoes were laced all the way up the calf. In Volmar’s experience, seldom do old men take that kind of care in the wee hours of the morning, and frankly who would take such time when they are roused from sleep to attend an unexpected meeting in the dead of night? He took in the other guests—all clearly out of sorts, much as expected. Some were even hiding the fact that they were still in their bedclothes with oversized blankets wrapped around them, braving the cold. Thankfully, Sophie wasn’t among them. She would still be blissfully sleeping off her ordeal in the Infirmary. Volmar was grateful that for once, she was missing this dangerous turn of events.

  The Magistrate suddenly swept into the Chapter House with an entourage of burghers90. Obviously he had also dressed in a hurry for his long silk cloak was flung about his shoulders inside out. Regardless, his disheveled presence did not distract from his air of confidence and his intelligent blue eyes. All mumbling ceased. The hall fell into a disquieting hush as the holy brothers and the guests moved aside, clearing a path for the Magistrate and his attendants to approach the Abbot. The whole power of the state was embodied in this one person.

  “I came as soon as I got word, Father,” the Magistrate said, brushing back a thick clump of charcoal gray hair that fell across his face. The Magistrate was not a tall man but his heft carried with it a sense of an inner weight that proved he was not easily swayed one way or the other. In Volmar’s opinion he was the classic enigma.

  “I wish our meeting could have been under better circumstances, Wolfe.” The Abbot nodded with appreciation and clasped the man’s hand in a friendly way.

  “Seldom are circumstances in our control, eh, Father?” the Magistrate answered. “As you instructed, I’ve sent an armed scouting team with torches down the hillside to see if they could return with the suspects before they leave our valley.”

  Brother Rudegerus rudely pushed his way forward to the Magistrate. “My Lord,” he said, kissing his outstretched hand, “you must not let them convince you of this man’s murder. He was an unstable, demon-possessed man. What we have here is surely a regrettable but undeniable suicide.”

  The crowd repeated the dreaded word “suicide” with a rush of renewed apprehension.

  The Magistrate raised an eyebrow and removed Rudegerus’s hand from his forearm, which the monk had clutched in his impassioned spectacle. “I prefer to make up my own mind,” he answered Rudegerus, dismissing any further speculation. “Which way are the stables, Father?”

  “This way, My Lord,” the Abbot said, leading him by the arm through the parting crowd of monks and disheveled guests.

  For a brief moment, Volmar and the Magistrate’s eyes met. The young scribe bowed his head in respect. He thought curiously that there was something else in that short look they shared, something more tragic than even the present circumstances. He watched as a servant adjusted the Magistrate’s cloak. Perhaps, this curious expression had to do with the fact that the Magistrate must be mentally checking his emotions, for in a few short moments he had to stare directly into the face of death and not flinch.

  Volmar stepped back into the shadows behind one of the stone columns and watched as the other brothers and guests began to disperse. He was of two minds. If Hildegard wasn’t among this crowd, then where was she? Should he approach the Abbot and also burden him with the fact that not only had there been two deaths, but one of the sisters in the Anchorage was missing? Maybe, he reasoned, he should wait until he knew more. Who knows—perhaps by now Hildegard could have made it back to the Anchorage and was safe within its comforting walls, nursing the Anchoress back to health.

  CHAPTER 12: A FEEDING FRENZY

  Sanctuary of Disibodenberg Monastery

  6th of November, Dawn

  Volmar paced back and forth slowly, keeping to the shadows, keeping an eye on the Abbot and the Magistrate as they assigned their assistants various duties. He read the Magistrate’s lips easily. Many years ago Volmar had mastered the art of reading lips. It was a skill developed out of necessity, for in his training in the Scriptorium, Brother Thaddeus had insisted on silence. And now what was once only an amusing game became a godsend.

  “No one is to leave the grounds of this monastery, understand?” the Magistrate said, turning to his men. “Report back to me if anyone should try to leave.”

  Volmar knew that over the years the Abbot had nurtured a relationship with the Magistrate. They were really quite close. Few knew how often they would disappear for hours and come back with a string of fish. Those lazy afternoons were well-spent, Abbot Burchard would confide to Volmar. For, he would say, when a man is relaxed, he is also open to new ideas, such as how everyone will eventually appear before God as an equal and people should be the same in the eyes of the law.

  If the two suspects who apparently took off with Matthias’s and Atif’s horses and possessions after murdering them were in fact Knights of the Hospitaller of Saint John, then these murders would certainly test the Magistrate’s resolve for justice. And if, as Matthias had implied, these two knights were on a secret mission ordered by the Blessed Gerard of Jerusalem to retrieve the Holy Relic and the church was somehow implicated, it would be highly unlikely that the Magistrate would publicly try them for murder. The Magistrate’s hands would likely be forced to heed the church’s authority and would simply fine these knights before sending them on their way. These men would never come before an inquisitor. Such injustice, Volmar knew, was commonplace in an era enamored with status, power, and personal fortune.

  Volmar watched as many onlookers trailed after the Magistrate, his entourage, and the Abbot to the stables. It was as if they were hungry for each detail of this grizzly murder or suicide. Certainly, this incident would incite the village gossips and would likely feed that most contemptible quality of human nature, a morbid fascination with others’ misfortunes.

  “Like hungry bloodhounds,” he mumbled. “Wait until they find out there have been two murders,” he said under his breath, with growing contempt. “It will turn into a feeding frenzy.”

  Paulus approached Volmar, having overheard the young monk’s harsh appraisal. He put a hand on the young scribe’s shoulder and patted it. “Human history,” he said thoughtfully, “is full of such evil deeds. I agree. It would be better if people would look upon such wickedness with deep sadness rather than an obsessive fascination.”

  Volmar was perplexed by the unreality of the entire situation. Wasn’t he, too, caught up in the thrill of unraveling this vile transgression? Then he remembered the cloth that he’d found on the thick wood rim of the delivery cart. “Brother Paulus, I found this outside the stable on a delivery cart. It looks like a torn piece of velvet from Atif’s cape. The murderer may have used the cart to deliver his body to the Abbot’s personal chambers.”

  “A quirky sense of humor, wouldn’t you say? Who in their right mind would position a dead body in a relaxed pose in front of the Abbot’s hearth?”

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” Volmar answered, thinking back over a year ago, when he found the mummified body of Brother Arnoul in the chamber under the clearing. Could this be a pattern suggesting that the murderer of Atif and Brother Arnoul was one and the same person?

  Paulus turned the scrap of material over. He licked it; then sniffed it before he rubbed it against his hand. “There’s a faint but distinctive sweet smell to it. I dare say it smells like Theriac, the ointment I had Atif apply to Matthias’s gums the night he brought him into the Infi
rmary.” Volmar watched, bemused. There was much he could learn from this scientific approach to everything. Paulus was an avid follower of Aristotle and the Arab physicist Alhazen, and had spoken often with Volmar about the powers of simple observation, the need to formulate a hypothesis, and the value of experimentation.

  “Well done, Volmar. I see our talks have found fertile ground. I will check for rips in Atif’s cloak.” Paulus took the wrapping with the scrap of cloth and carefully placed it in his pocket before lifting his hood, readying himself once again to brave the cold wind. “Rest assured, my young brother, justice will be served, if not in this life, then in the next.”

  A few guests lingered. Those at the altar took a few more moments to pray for mercy, while the others decided that there was nothing more they could do but return to bed, comforted that they were now not only protected by the church but, perhaps more importantly, by this august, fierce representative of the law.

  Volmar’s troubled eyes came to rest on the benevolent gaze of Saint Disibod, the frescoed features of their founding saint above him reading in a cell with a rosary. Reaching out over four centuries, the young scribe felt the saint wanted to help. “Where is she?” he asked Saint Disibod, knowing the rush of people around him were not paying him any attention. “Is she tied up on Matthias’s horse, being dragged through the snowstorm by two murderers?” The depth of his feelings for Hildegard surprised him. Sophie, he knew, had certainly found a space in his empty heart; for he loved her as he had loved his sister Anya. But, his feelings for Hildegard were deeper and less easy to put into words. Volmar wondered if Saint Disibod could read these forbidden thoughts as well. Surely, Saint Disibod had struggled with his own human failings. He knew of life’s bitter hardships and broken dreams. “More will follow,” the saintly reformer seemed to say, with wry cynicism. “For that is the way of human discourse.”

  CHAPTER 13: THE LION AND THE LAMB

  Sanctuary of Disibodenberg Monastery

  6th of November, Dawn

  The chanting finally died down and there were no more echoes of conflicted voices. It was as if the Sanctuary were holding its breath in awkward anticipation. Volmar lingered, watching the old man with the polished and laced shoes move out of the shadows to approach the lone hooded figure of Brother Rudegerus. Unobtrusively, the young scribe fell into line behind the last group leaving. Moments later he ducked behind the last stone column and stood in the curve of St. Peter’s alcove, beside the stone altar. Here he had a better view of what was happening between these two suspicious men.

  “I know you,” the old man said abruptly, his voice loud in the quiet of the now deserted Sanctuary. He approached the hooded monk.

  Rudegerus backed off, petrified. As he did so, his hood fell away. The monk’s appearance shocked Volmar. Rudegerus’ eyes appeared hollow and his face seemed drawn as if he was dying of thirst. Rudegerus replied in an astonished rasping whisper. “Are you a messenger of Satan, sent here to torment me further?”

  “What if I am?” The old man laughed; a long, heartless laugh. Volmar recognized the laugh, he too had fallen victim to its apathetic sneer. Could this old man be Ulrich, the one he’d dueled with behind the Infirmary? If so, here was their murderer, hiding in plain sight. The hooded hunchback abruptly snorted and said, “I will haunt you to your death until you return what is rightfully mine, the Holy Relic. Give it to me.”

  Again Brother Rudegerus murmured fearfully. “What Holy Relic? I possess no relic! Leave me, demented demon!” The monk collapsed at the feet of the stranger, his knees surely bruised by the hard fieldstone floor. He began weeping uncontrollably. His sobs echoed throughout the empty hall, sadly unanswered.

  The old man’s voice was cold, divorced from feelings, from sympathies. “I am neither angel nor demon.” His hunched back straightened and with a practiced hand he held his cane menacingly under the monk’s chin. “You have until the bells toll for Prime to place the Holy Relic in the bucket at the old well behind the stables. Otherwise, another grave will need to be dug in the Monks’ Cemetery.”

  Rudegerus nodded in agreement, gasping from the pressure of the cane against his throat.

  Volmar sensed that whatever evil stood before Rudegerus had the power to crush more than a human spirit. The old man tapped his cane against the stone in rhythmic time, while humming a macabre funeral march as he exited the sanctuary.

  Volmar panicked, realizing that he needed to hide; otherwise his eavesdropping would surely be discovered by Ulrich as he passed by. Hastily he tripped the lever behind the Altar of St. Peter. In turn, a stone slid to one side, revealing a small polished brass door handle in the shape of a lion. Volmar lifted the handle, relieved by how silently it revealed an entrance through a hidden door. “The Lion and the Lamb,” the Abbot had said in one obscure lesson, “symbols of our Lord and evidence of the duality of our own natures as well.”

  CHAPTER 14: PRAYER CLOSET

  Sanctuary of Disibodenberg Monastery

  6th of November, Dawn

  Volmar slipped inside a tiny room built specifically for monks who were to say penance for misdeeds and were to suffer in isolation sometimes for years—a practice, thankfully, Abbot Burchard disagreed with. This was the same small room that connected to the underground tunnel he and Hildegard had stumbled upon a year ago. Volmar hadn’t visited it since that fateful day.

  After a moment, he pulled back the velvet curtain, to watch as Rudegerus lay prostrate on the floor, his arms splayed in the sign of the cross. Seeing him suffer so made Volmar’s entire body ache in sympathy. Fear was a powerful weapon, he observed, for it could paralyze a grown man. Volmar sat very still, thinking through the scene, when suddenly he was surprised by a movement in the far corner of the prayer closet.

  “Volmar.” He recognized this voice instantly. Hildegard reached out in the darkness for his hand.

  Volmar stooped to kiss the hand he held so warmly and brought it to his cheek. Then he cupped her small chin in his hands and lifted her face towards his. “I thought I would never see you again,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  “No, Volmar, we mustn’t,” Hildegard whispered, her eyes clearly wanting what her voice forbade. She put her finger to his lips. “Please.”

  Volmar sat back on his heels and was silent, waiting for his heart to stop racing. At last, he spoke. “I’ve been searching all over for you. Hiltrud told me of your nightly visits to the Infirmary. Hildegard,” he said earnestly, “if ever you need anything, if Jutta falls ill again, please send for me first.”

  “I will tell you next time,” Hildegard said plaintively. She paused and reflected. She was grateful that she had someone she could confess her sins to. Holding her silence was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

  “Abbot Burchard is correct. Matthias was murdered, but the murderer, I’m certain, is not human.”

  “Not human? How can that be? Sister Hildegard, please trust me as I have trusted you. Last night you saw something on your way back from the Infirmary. Please tell me what happened.”

  “When I left the Infirmary and had just turned the corner passing outside the entrance to the stables, I overheard two men in a heated disagreement. It was dark. I could not see the men’s faces, but I could hear them speak. One man was telling the other man details concerning Blessed Gerard’s master plan. Apparently Brother Gerard is ambitious and wants to leave Palestine to create a new order of the Knights Hospitaller on the island of Malta.”

  “Did you hear any names?”

  “No, but the man who spat on the ground and whom I took to be Matthias wanted to leave. From what I could understand, Blessed Gerard wants very much to acquire all that he can both in land and Holy Relics of great spiritual value. Acquiring the Spear of Longinus would be the highlight of his career.”

  Volmar’s voice shook. “So the church is involved, as I feared.”

  “It is more than that, Brother Volmar. I do not understand such struggles within the church. Why
has neither man obeyed the Rule of Saint Benedict, to disavow oneself from the petty allure of power and greed.”

  “None of this surprises me. Political posturing in the church has weakened our spiritual message in the eyes of man and surely in the eyes of God. This is the very thing Matthias tried to warn us about. What happened next?”

  “It is of considerable significance that the island of Malta is shaped like a spearhead, for the man who supported Brother Gerard said that the Spear of Longinus is destined to reside there permanently in the care of a few select Holy Brothers of the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John. It is there where this secret brotherhood plans to train young knights to rule the world. And both of them have been counted among the chosen ones. Malta, he said, is destined to become the ladder to Heaven, the new center of the world, the gateway to the ethereal realm of the immortals under the Pope’s blessing. He went on to assure Matthias that work on an underground city has already begun as planned.”

  “An underground city?”

  “Yes. Those were the words he used, and its entrance is to be across from the Grandmaster’s Palace. He also reminded Matthias that St. Paul himself was shipwrecked on this island, so it is only fitting that the spearhead should be venerated on an island which saved the great saint’s life.”

  “How could the Pope condone such corruption and greed?”

  “My sentiments exactly. I believe Matthias at this point scoffed, saying how he never regretted leaving Brother Gerard’s inner circle and renouncing all ties with the order and its insidious plans to rule the world. He had given all the years he cared to give to their heretical cause, insisting that he was going home and asking the other man to step aside and let him pass. The other one laughed out loud, a cruel, heartless laugh. He said he would gladly let him pass if Matthias gave him the Holy Relic. Only then could he live to see his family again. Matthias told him he was a fool, for he no longer possessed the relic.”