by G. M. Dyrek
“So, Matthias tried to leave last night and ran into one of the two Knights Hospitaller. Well, we know Matthias told this man the truth, he no longer had the Relic in his possession.”
“There’s more. The next part of the conversation was very strange indeed. The other man said a prayer for Matthias. He then gave him a kiss on both cheeks and simply stepped aside, allowing Matthias to enter the stable. Matthias entered alone. The other man waited outside for only a moment, then left, disappearing into the woods behind the stable. I heard horses then and feared I would be seen if I tried to cross the path towards the Anchorage. So I came here instead. It is a safe place to hide, to observe, and not to be seen.”
“So you were here when Brother Hugo announced the death of Matthias?”
“Yes. But what I do not understand is Rudegerus’s part in all of this. I fear all of this is only the beginning of the answer to this mystery.”
Volmar’s brow furrowed. “And now, the hooded hunchback wrongly accused Rudegerus of possessing the relic. We know differently. However, Rudegerus is not an innocent bystander. He has had some association with this man and is frightened of this man’s malice.”
“Brother Rudegerus’s fear is more than the grave. It is as if his life is a lie that is unraveling. I think, Volmar, Rudegerus fears more the humiliation of the retelling of his past deceptions.”
“Could Rudegerus have murdered Matthias for this old man? Could he have been the one to commit such a crime in cold blood, at such an hour?”
“I think not. Granted, nothing gives a fearful man more courage than the fear of another. No, whoever is committing this crime lives in a world of his own making, where there are no absolute truths. When you think about it, the mind is such a paradox. You can think your way into a corner and never figure out how you got there. The heart, however, isn’t so indecisive. Either you love someone or you do not; you don’t entertain a half-baked, partial, sometimes, maybe attitude about love, respect, appreciation, gratitude, warmth, forgiveness, or any other qualities this person has chosen to ignore and belittle as well. The person we are searching for trivializes the most important things in life, Brother Volmar, while maximizing the least. This is his nature and his personality, formed long before he arrived here to Disibodenberg.”
“Sister Hildegard, you mentioned earlier that what killed Matthias was not human. Why would you say such a thing?”
“I do not know. At the time, I heard a noise, a sound I could not place. It is also a feeling I have, which I cannot fully explain. Only after I heard of Matthias’s hanging did it make more sense.”
“You are musical, so your ears are more sensitive to sounds than perhaps my own. Think: Are you certain it was not voices inside the stable you heard?”
“I am sure. I heard something inhuman. I am sorry. I didn’t think at the time that the man was letting Matthias leave, knowing he was walking into a trap. And the hooded hunchback we just witnessed, the one who wants the Holy Relic by Prime, he has the same laugh as the man confronting Matthias outside the stables.”
“I’ve heard it before as well. The man’s name is Ulrich.”
“Oh, Brother Volmar, what are we going to do?” Hildegard reached out again for Volmar’s hand and squeezed it. “I remember watching how snowflakes seemed to fall away from him, almost as if they knew of the evil that emanated from him.”
Volmar took her hand and stared down at it, so small in his. “Are you cold?”
“No—why do you ask?” She looked across at Volmar.
“Your hand is trembling.” Gently he kissed each fingertip. How could he repress such strong feelings, they stirred in him a desire beyond words, beyond vows, beyond the physical confines of his soul. He had lived in books so long that having his spirit leap beyond its boundaries moved him deeply. He drew Sister Hildegard towards him as he was willing this moment to stand still in time.
Hildegard regarded him with a faint smile but held back, her face full of a pale and gentle transcendence.
“I feel like a man compelled by an addiction. I cannot get you out of my mind.” Volmar knew she was looking directly at him and through him with that uncanny ability of hers to read his thoughts.
“We’ve taken vows, Volmar,” Hildegard whispered, studying him, unable to find the words to express all that she was feeling. For the first time in her life, she questioned her decision to deny herself the affections of a flesh and blood man. She was shivering and longed for his warm embrace. Could she set aside her promised vows and the strict dictates of the church for one man’s love?
At long last, Volmar began, slowly at first, and then, fighting hard to keep his voice from cracking, he said, “Pray for me, for I am shaken by my shortcomings.”
“You are like a dark cloud next to the sun. There’s a ring around the iris of your blue eyes. They are fiery eyes, clever, hot-tempered, energetic, and keen-minded.”
“I am but a man with a man’s desire,” he countered, clearly flustered. “I may be mad, for given the way that I feel I’m not entirely confident of my hold on reality. Would we truly be causing a violation in the order of things to give in to these feelings? Is what I’m feeling towards you so unnatural that it should be considered a sin? Why must our faith deny our life? Feelings are never as black and white as the constructs of our religious order dictate.”
“With God’s help,” Hildegard said, pressing her forefinger to his lips to quiet him. “I will pray for both of us that this love we share be always expressed as charity and true kindness to one another.” She tenderly touched his cheek. “My beloved brother in Christ, you and I are two halves of one whole, called upon to dwell together in a sanctified unity of mind, not body. Spiritual love will help us aspire toward our Creator. Through our ascent, we will glimpse a higher, more perfect love which is free from the bonds of fleshly passions and more perfect in His eyes. You will see . . . I will make you see . . .”
Volmar both envied and despised Hildegard’s certainty at the same time. How could she be led by a perfect clarity and he be so consumed by ambiguousness? He coughed nervously, regaining his composure. “I will need to escort you safely back to the Anchorage, Sister. In a short while this place will be taken over by the village Magistrate, his men, and the concerned citizens of Staudernheim. Word of murder travels quickly; pray that justice will be equally as swift.”
Hildegard nodded in agreement and lowered her hood close down over her face. Soundlessly she followed Volmar’s lead as the two left the alcove of Saint Peter’s altar. Rudegerus, if he heard or felt their presence, did not respond. He did not open his eyes or speak. He lay motionless, sprawled out face down on the cold stone floor, his hood over his face.
They parted at the window of the Anchorage. “Brother Volmar, please be careful. I have a feeling your life will also be threatened by this inhuman murderer. There’s been so much death, for truly the Holy Relic’s curse lives on.” Deep down, she knew her warnings could not hold him and keep him from harm.
Snow floated down, belying the depth of horror now surrounding them. Volmar felt numb, but he forced himself to smile back at Hildegard, trying to humor her and shed his own embarrassment over his confession of attraction towards her. Maybe it was the protective womb of living within a prophecy, or the supernatural power of possessing the Spear of Destiny, or perhaps it was more the careless feeling of the invincibility of youth. Whatever, Volmar did not feel a need to proceed with caution.
BOOK 8: BEYOND REDEMPTION
CHAPTER 1: AN EMPTY VESSEL
Outside the Anchorage at Disibodenberg Monastery
Dawn
Uda’s words echoed from the past in Hildegard’s mind as she watched Volmar slowly trudge up the hill, ascending the snowy bank leading back to the stables. “Listen, child, to the stories people tell you. There will be stories of horror, of courage, and yes, even of joy. It is in the retelling of these stories, these most enduring life stories, that you’ll come to appreciate who these people are, wh
at troubles them, as well as what inspires them. Once you hear their life stories, you are no longer in the company of strangers. It is this connection which binds us all to the Almighty.”
Uda was a big part of Hildegard’s most enduring life stories. She was the parent who refused to reject her strange child, a teacher who saw in her a mind of great potential and promise, and a master herbalist who instructed her on the value and respect for all of God’s miraculous creations. Uda knew the right potions to mix to cure any ailment, even those hidden from others and only apparent in one’s mind. As a child, Hildegard never left her side, assisting her as she ministered to the poor, dressing the wounds of the villagers, as Jutta now ministered to the eternity of their souls. Uda’s teachings, to young Hildegard, expressed the practical side of faith, the side where one’s handiwork held precedence over one’s private prayer life. Hildegard knew that she owed much of her own yearnings to Uda’s down-to-earth folk wisdom and now more than ever, she longed for the old woman’s sage advice.
Volmar was now a smudge in the blurry drifts of snow that relentlessly fell about her. She did not have the heart to tell him of her own visions, those that foresaw the return of the lost father of his youth. This she knew to be Volmar’s most persistent life story, and one she knew would surely end in tragedy. And yet, there was more to Volmar’s story, another man she could not identify, his role still shrouded in mystery.
Hildegard shivered uncontrollably, longing for the warmth and certainty of the heavenly light. She could not call upon a vision, it had to seek her out, and for the moment she felt like an empty vessel, wanting and abandoned. Deliberately, she brought the fingers Volmar had kissed to her lips. Was she deceiving herself? Could Disibodenberg be her safe spiritual harbor, or was she merely accepting a future as a caged bird? In time would her song fade perhaps to a whimper?
It was so tempting to run away with Volmar. Wouldn’t their life together be so much more than the prospect of being locked away in a damp and cold Anchorage attending to the self-inflicted wounds of her Anchoress? Could she survive such a dismal future?
Hildegard felt for the herbal remedies in the pouch under her habit. In all the turmoil, she’d forgotten the reason for her mission. Their crushed leaves and seeds had the power to heal, and yet Jutta resented her efforts and made each of her attempts to restore her to health a lost cause. She contemplated her breath as it escaped in great wisps of smoke. Are not all the arts serving human desires and needs derived from the breath that God sent into the human body? God gave her, a female, a peculiar charge to use her mind, her hands, and her music to reach Him, and by example inspire others to do so. And yet, He also gave her a singular vision that alienated others and set her at odds even with her own Anchoress. If she hadn’t been given to the church, surely she would have been locked away as mad, or worse, burned as a witch. The enclosure ceremony formally confirmed what her unique gifts had always dictated: She could only survive here, at an Anchorage, locked away and on the thin, fragile border between this life and the life hereafter.
Hildegard lingered outside the ice-coated wood-framed window. Behind the leather flap, she heard the deep, steady sleeping sounds of Jutta and Hiltrud’s less elegant snoring. Both were blissfully oblivious to the chaos going on around them. They knew nothing of Matthias’s murder or the Holy Relic and nothing of the love deepening between her and Volmar. Was this how her life would be? A life lived in the midst of others, yet always separate and lonely?
Volmar in his anguish had rebuked her high-minded, reclusive life. As he put it, “Is what I’m feeling towards you so unnatural that it should be considered a sin?” Had she been too hasty in making the decision to stay the course and not give in to love and stray from her vows? And yet, there was also something to be said for love from afar; love without hope of consummation. Could this be love in its purest sense?
There was an unexpected noise behind her, footsteps of one trying not to be detected. She turned around a moment too late. In an instant, a large cold hand seized her wrists and knotted her arms behind her back; a sharp knife pressed at her throat. A deep voice whispered fanatically into her right ear. “Boy, where is the Holy Relic? I saw you conspiring with Volmar. I must have it now!”
Hildegard knew who her assailant was even though she could not see him. She detected a strong smell of distrust emanating from him towards all human beings. Rudegerus must have witnessed Volmar and her leaving the altar of Saint Peter and stalked them, hoping they had the Holy Relic, which could save his life. She sensed that Rudegerus’s soul was in a stupefied sleep and did not know what his flesh was doing. A demon was warping him into insanity and was moving his limbs outwardly with its clever ways. God had allowed this to happen because of the man’s own arrogance. Somehow she must confound this malevolent spirit.
Indignantly, Hildegard lowered her voice, attempting to sound like a boy, and answered him deliberately. “Sir, if you let go of my hands, I shall give you what you deserve.”
Rudegerus had plunged so far into madness he’d lost all sense of reason. He relented, dropping his knife to his side and waited as Hildegard reached inside her habit. She fingered the leather pouch of herbs she’d stolen earlier from the Infirmary for Jutta. “Lord, help me,” she whispered before flinging a fistful of herbs into the shocked face of Rudegerus.
The terrified monk let out a yelp and cried, “My eyes! What have you done to my eyes, you fiend!”
Hildegard wasted no time. She lifted the leather flap of the Anchorage’s window and within seconds slipped through into safety.
By the time Rudegerus opened his stinging eyes, his victim had disappeared without a trace. He held his face upward, welcoming the cold flakes of falling snow as they soothed the burning sensation in his eyes and growled bitterly at God.
CHAPTER 2: RUSE
Stable at Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, Lauds
Bells of Prime would ring in less than two hours. Rudegerus’s existence, Volmar reasoned, however miserable, was not beyond redemption. Inaction was not the answer to this frightful predicament. Volmar quickened his steps, determined to uncover this nest of serpents. The heavy snowfall made his hike back up the hill more arduous. Halfway up, he paused and spread his arms wide. He twirled about several times, lifting his head to the heavens, tasting the cold flakes of snow and thanked the Holy Spirit for Sister Hildegard’s safe return to the Anchorage and for her professed love towards him, even if it was of a spiritual nature only. And he also prayed for guidance.
Volmar stomped the snow from his boots as he entered the stable. Several men were standing on the edge of a cart, under Matthias’s corpse. As one held a burning torch aloft to shed light, another one supported the body, and the other one cut the rope. Matthias’s body collapsed with a heavy thud onto a cloth. Conversation in the stable fell silent out of respect for the fallen knight, as one of the men wrapped his body in a clean cloth.
The Magistrate raised his hand to keep the silence and announced in a voice well accustomed to diplomacy and leadership, “Matthias’s body will not be desecrated in any way. In my educated opinion, I believe we have been called at this early hour to investigate a heinous crime of murder, not suicide. Matthias’s body will be carefully laid out in the Infirmary where it will be further examined by Brother Paulus and our own learned village physician. Perhaps this examination will throw further light on this dreadful mystery.”
Abbot Burchard looked visibly relieved to hear the Magistrate declare this verdict, the same as his own. The heavy wheels of the wagon jerked forward as the sturdy mules strained and tugged, pulling the wagon through a snowdrift, its wooden wheels crunching on the crisp surface.
Several horses suddenly entered the courtyard beside the stable’s entrance. The steam rising from their nostrils and panting mouths made it difficult to make out their exact number. The soldier who seemed to be the leader of this search party dismounted and went directly to report their progress to the Magist
rate.
“Quite a storm . . . I’m surprised to see you back so soon. Any luck?” the Magistrate said, his voice almost silenced by the howling wind.
“We’ve been tracking two horses all night. Come to find we’ve fallen for a simple ruse.” 91
“Explain yourself,” Wolfe said, trying to keep his disappointment at bay.
“Men, you may all take a break.” The leader dismissed the others with a wave. Turning to his superior, he said with little emotion, “I will do better than explain myself, I will show you. Come.” Volmar approached with the others, noting all but one of the search team had dismounted. The leader walked up to the powerful warhorse and took its reins from his sergeant. The man left in its saddle was slumped forward, his face indistinguishable under the wrappings of woolens.
The chatter slowed down, then all the voices around died. There was a brief moment of bewilderment. The Magistrate put his arm on the Abbot and the two watched as the sergeant hoisted himself up into the saddle and pulled off the mysterious rider’s woolens. In the light of the torches Volmar saw the poor man’s face. It was the very image of death—rigid, taut, and dry, the color of his cheeks yellowing into shades of brown, like a bruise. The eyes were fixed, staring sightlessly at the audience who beheld him with shock. The Abbot and Volmar crossed themselves.
Volmar approached the body and slipped the leather glove off the dead man’s right hand. He could see the man was missing both his forefinger and half of his middle finger. He turned to the Magistrate. “Justice has been only partly secured. This is the body of the murderer’s accomplice. I believe his name was Donato.”
CHAPTER 3: A DEVIL’S TRIANGLE
Infirmary at Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, Lauds
“His companion did in fact call him Donato. He, like Matthias, was a brother of the Knights Hospitaller. He spoke with an Italian accent and fondly recalled his family in Florence.” Paulus drew up the sleeve on the dead man’s arm and showed the severe cut he’d bandaged. “I dressed this wound on Saturday. This man’s so-called friend had cut him while sparring outside my Infirmary.”
