by G. M. Dyrek
Hildegard shivered—ice entered her veins. She rose slowly and reached for the poker resting by the hearth behind her. She could wield it as a weapon if she had to. It was long and made of heavy iron, the tip definitely sharp.
A shape moved behind Hildegard, its voice familiar and warm. The Voice of the Living Light cautioned her. “Put it down,” the Voice said gently. “Take instead the basin of water mingled with Jutta’s sacrificial sweat over to the intruder.”
Hildegard released her grip around the poker and instead took the basin and approached the man in the doorway. Although her eyes were open, she saw neither the stranger nor the common room she was in. She was having a vision, a waking dream, and if she could continue to concentrate on the Voice, she knew she would feel no fear.
“So the coward sends a mere girl to protect him?” the hooded man said, clearly amused. He drew off his face hood and tossed it over his shoulder. He would have been considered a handsome man had not his sins marred his face and turned his eyes into more those of an animal than a human. Deliberately, he withdrew his sword from his cane and leveled it at Hildegard. “Where is the Holy Relic, Sister? Show me and you will live.”
Hildegard did not hear what he said. All she heard was the Voice telling her to repeat certain names. She did so dutifully, one after the other, in unison with the Voice: “Bayard of Bermersheim; Godfrey of Trier . . .”
The man froze. Fear suddenly crept into his eyes. “How do you know those people? They’ve been dead for years!”
Hildegard went on undeterred. “Sumner of Brauweiler; Amelia of Mainz; Letitia of Koblenz; Abul-Khayr; Khashram; Ishandiyar; Shadhan; Nafi’; Bashir; Yazid; Abu Idris; Hisham; Salih; Hamdun; Farqad; ‘Umar; Kathir; Abul-Qasim; Rashid; Anas; Makhid . . .” The names went on and on, terrifying in their implication, for these were the names of all the innocent lives wronged or murdered by this one man.
The man tightened his grip on his sword and his own sensibilities. “One more word,” he charged, vehemently, “and I will sever your tongue!”
Hildegard went on unrelentingly, “. . . Safwan son of ’Uthman; Dawud son of Masruq; Abu Yazid; Abul-Fath . . .”
Just as the man lunged forward, the sword’s tip clearly aimed for Hildegard’s mouth, the sword became so hot in his hand that it scalded his palm. The man threw down his sword, stunned.
Thankfully, Hildegard did not hear nor see what was happening to the man. She was submissive only to the words spoken to her from the Voice of the Living Light.
“Throw the water from the basin at his feet,” the Voice continued softly, “and tell him thus: Look evil in the eye, stare down the jaws of iniquity, swiftly burning at your feet. Fall on your knees and repent of your wickedness as Hell welcomes its own.”
The water splashed from the basin onto the flagstone floor. In its puddle the man was given a vision. In it he saw a chasm beginning to form, a chasm with sharp pointed teeth and a tongue, rough and oozing blood, a monstrous yawning mouth opening into Hell. Mercifully, Hildegard was seeing with the Spirit’s eyes and was standing in a blinding light that had taken root below her feet. Its radiance spread its warmth as a protective shield around her, so none of this hideous transformation was visible to her. She continued obediently to recite the names of the man’s victims. “. . . Sulayman son of ’Umar; Thawr; Mahistî daughter of Suwayd; Jahân Khâtun daughter of Hamdun; Pâdshâh Khâtun daughter of Abu Idris . . . .”
The man alone witnessed this living, breathing nightmare. In it were the emotions of all he tortured. Although muted by time, they were still palpable, the pain and misery of far too many deaths. The horrors surrounded him.
A heavily cloaked companion rose up from the gaping mouth. Its misty tendrils reached upward, taking the shape of a long flowing cape. The cape of this netherworld creature fluttered, turning into black ravens with their bellies bearing the recognizable faces, not fully formed, looking diabolical, yet unmistakably of all those people the man had wronged or murdered. Now the names Hildegard had patiently recited had faces, grisly and gruesome, distorted by their own rage at the time of their injury or death. These human-faced birds swarmed around the man, pricking him with their sharp claws, taunting him with their moaning and bitter accusations.
“Leave me alone,” the old man cried, his arms bleeding, his face filled with terror. He bent and retrieved his sword and with several clean swings, beheaded a few of these feathered tormentors. Their heads fell to the floor and rolled like dice into the stone crevices. To the man’s horror these human-like birds grew new heads and mocked him more than before.
The dark, black-faced creature wrapped his winged cloak around the man, carrying him aloft into the flaming tongue of the netherworld. In its cavernous mouth the man witnessed many souls, not just the ones he’d sent to an early death, like black birds hovering over steaming waters, wailing and calling to him by name. All had black souls like his and were cut off from eternal light, consumed in the depths of their despair in this abyss for eternity.
“I am a gentleman and a monk!” the man screamed in protest, his face illuminated as if lit up from the inside by flashes of lightning.
The unearthly, golden-eyed companion seemed to find it all very amusing. “You flatter yourself.”
“I’ve killed in the name of war. Why am I being persecuted?”
The companion acknowledged the man’s question, without speaking. “This is the seat of Eternal Hatred, built from the stones of your disobedience, covetousness, greed, and anger. In your quest for power and fame, you’ve neglected and destroyed your family and even your friends.”
“Are you talking about Donato?” the man said, choking on the name. “Donato was weak. He wasn’t up to the challenge before us. How could I be expected to share all the powers of the Holy Relic with him? The Holy Spear is my destiny, not his.”
The companion nodded and continued to communicate without words, explaining to the man that there was more to see and that here for eternity one must suffer according to their crimes. It was to be a ghastly revelation.
“Come,” the companion said, “you cannot hide from the truth through arrogance.”
The man could not resist, though he longed to, the companion’s invitation to accompany him on a tour of Hell.
“Enter the dismal chambers you’ve been building. As you see, there are many who share these chambers with you,” the companion said, leading the man to the depths of his own stone fortress. In one, the cheaters were being gnawed on by a beast with no eyes; in another, the thieves were hung suspended by their feet, their bones broken and separated; and in the third, the wrathful were suffering from possession by demonic creatures, forcing them to commit humiliating and horrible acts.
At long last they came to the final chamber. The companion said, “This one will be your residence.” In it, the man saw murderers being wounded by knives that moved about of their own will. “Harken unto my words,” the companion said this time without emotion. “All were condemned by the judgment of God and hurled from the heights of his authority, forever.”
The man screamed in terror and forced open his own eyes. He saw before him the young nun he had threatened. She had collapsed to the floor, entirely spent.
“I will leave this place, before I am forced to surrender to its living Hell!” he said aloud, his voice shrill with indescribable fear.
Hildegard heard his movements but though her eyes were open, she could only see a screen of fog, blurring the intruder and his living nightmare.
CHAPTER 9: HOODED INQUISITORS
Infirmary at Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, Before Prime
Volmar sat up in the bed, sipping a strengthening tonic of woundwort and Saint John’s wort in wine, with a hint of poppy syrup added. He still felt dizzy and nauseous, but very much alive, to his own astonishment and relief.
“Come on, little brother, you must drink it all if you want to feel better,” Brother Johannes said, tipping the cup until Volmar
had finished every drop.
“You will live, my son. But don’t you ever tempt Death like that again, do you understand?” Paulus took the cup from Johannes and sat it on the table nearby. His careful and sober judgment, though harsh, was reassuring. “With cyanide poisoning, as in all poisons, there is a considerable range of sensitivity among human individuals. Thankfully, you’ve been blessed with a strong constitution, or perhaps as I suspect it’s your sheer stubbornness which has kept you alive. The dosage appears to have been insufficient to cause loss of consciousness, which surely would have led to your death, just as it did for Matthias.”
Volmar lay back in bed and stared up at the high beam ceiling. “Sister Hildegard was right after all.”
“What do you mean?” Johannes asked, sitting on the bed across from him. “Right, about what?”
“She told me this morning after Matins how Matthias’s murderer was not human.”
Johannes turned to Paulus. “Did you give him something to make him talk out of his mind?”
“He is as lucid as he normally is,” Paulus said, smiling.
“What time is it?” Volmar said, slowly recalling the events following his meeting with Sister Hildegard. “Have I missed the bells for Prime?”
“Come now, surely the Abbot will understand you missing one of the offices,” Paulus said. “After all, you have confirmed my suspicions about how Matthias died. I suspected poison only after finding Isabella distraught over her dead worms. If she hadn’t awoken during the hours before daybreak and went looking for a new home for her worms, I would have been poisoned by Matthias’s would when I went to clean it and prepare his body for burial. Thankfully, she saw the gaping wound on Matthias’s calf and thought it a suitable home for her worms. Her actions kept me from experiencing what nearly killed you!”
Volmar stared at the candle on his bedside table, trying to focus his mind. “Will Isabella recover?”
“She is as well as can be expected; Isabella and Sophie are a great comfort to one another. Sophie is there with her now in the women’s quarters. Our murderer is learned in the healing and deadly arts. Not many are aware of cyanide poison in peach pits, but the incident clarified in my mind that whatever weapon the murderer used was tainted with poison—cyanide poison.”
The early morning’s activities continued to come back to Volmar. “It was a claw spur. The weapon was a rooster’s claw spur, dipped in cyanide; a fighting cock was brought in by the murderers and it is this inhuman creature which murdered Matthias.”
Suddenly Johannes’s face contorted in fear. “A rooster? Little brother, a rooster killed Matthias?”
“Yes. So confident in their scheme, the murderers were careless and left behind proof of their deed. I unearthed the silver claw spur in the compost pile behind the stables. It poisoned me and killed my cat Samson.”
“We must hurry,” Johannes said, standing and gripping Paulus’s arm. “The Abbot and the Magistrate are to be served a special meal this morning of roasted capon. I’m afraid it is the same rooster; it was left at the cook’s door during the night. It could still be poisonous!”
Brother Paulus reached for his medical bag and was at the door as Johannes helped Volmar back to his feet. “Go on, we’ll catch up,” Johannes said, helping Volmar slip on his boots. The only thing Volmar could think about was that his Abbot’s life was in danger.
Brother Andres was napping on a small stool outside the Abbot’s chambers when the three monks arrived. The change in everyone’s schedule at the monastery was certainly being felt. “The Abbot asked me to sit here until he returns,” he told them, stretching and yawning. “Rudegerus is acting strangely and apparently cannot be trusted. Brother Paulus, maybe you’ll be able to help him.”
“This is important, Brother Andres; did the Abbot say anything else?” Volmar asked.
“No. Nothing that I can recall. Oh wait, he did say that he and the Magistrate had to meet someone by the old well. That’s right. When the bells chimed for Prime,” he smiled as he stepped aside, content to have been of service. The three monks entered, their hearts beating wildly. The wood-paneled room was dark, lit only by the glow of embers still burning in the grate. Slowly their eyes began to adjust.
“What has happened in here?” Paulus said, resting his bag on the Abbot’s desk, surveying the shattered plates and platter.
From the dismal recesses of the darkest corner, Rudegerus rose. His features were drawn and tired and aged him so much that he was barely recognizable.
“Brother Rudegerus—the Abbot and the Magistrate, what happened in here?” Volmar asked.
“I tried to confess to the Abbot,” Rudegerus sputtered, making a real effort to speak coherently. “You see, I knew about the two knights,” he said, catching Volmar’s sleeve. “I recognized them that day you sparred with them outside the Infirmary. You must understand,” he pleaded, holding his head as if it might leave him. “I overheard them planning, planning to kill a traveler in our care here at the monastery!” he blurted out. Still, Rudegerus was not above trying to rationalize his horrific actions. “But if I spoke to anyone about what I knew, then I would also have had to explain why I was in the village and worse, why I was at a cock fight.”
“You overheard a plan to kill Matthias and did nothing?” Volmar said, incredulously.
“I did nothing.” Brother Rudegerus shuddered, turning to each of his three brothers, who in his mind’s eye had been transfigured into stern, hooded inquisitors of the Church’s High Court. “I admit, I’m possessed by a demon of greed that thrives in the filthy alleyways of human waste and rot.”
Volmar turned to face the fire, resting his arm on the mantel. “You overheard two men plotting to murder a returning knight from the Holy Land, a fellow brother, and did nothing?” All he could think about was how a man could knowingly allow another man to suffer a horrible death. Was such knowledge reason enough to make Rudegerus an accomplice to this murder?
“I spoke not a word, and now a man has died because of my silence.” Rudegerus staggered and fell to his knees, thumping his chest.
Johannes took hold of the monk’s trembling fists and held them still. His voice was calm and steady as he spoke. “Paulus, did you bring anything in that bag of yours that will help Rudegerus?”
Paulus retrieved from his medical bag a small flask of concentrated oils from the lemon balm leaves and showed Johannes how a few drops in a small handkerchief could be held under Rudegerus’s nose; this would help calm him and bolster his depleted spirits.
The bells announcing Prime began to chime. Their clear resounding chorus reminded Volmar of his trap and urged him into action. “It’s time.”
“Go, you two,” Johannes motioned, understanding the significance of the meeting at the well. “I will stay with our brother and see that he returns to his cell safely.”
Paulus reached for his bag and then, taking Volmar’s arm, the two hurried off towards the stables.
CHAPTER 10: RISING LIGHT OF DAWN
Clearing by the Well at Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, Prime
The thicket of trees was dark and foreboding, black against the surrounding whiteness of snow. For a fleeting moment, Volmar thought they resembled the upturned hairy tentacles of a dead spider. Thankfully, it had finally stopped snowing. The sky was tinged with the awakening sunlight. Volmar welcomed its warmth against the numbing cold.
By the time the two monks reached the stone path leading from the compost pile to the well, they could feel something had gone terribly wrong.
A voice cut clean through the cold like a steel knife. “Stand back or the Abbot dies!”
“There’s trouble,” Paulus murmured, tightening his grip on Volmar’s arm. The two hurriedly left the path, circling wide around the clearing to get a better view of what was happening. Their lumbering steps sunk deep into the untouched snow and their breath rose like smoke. Volmar wondered, how could Hell be so close?
In the clea
ring, Wolfe took a step forward, his hands open, in a gesture of supplication. “Let him go, Ulrich, for God’s sake, let him go!”
Ulrich laughed. “There’s no use appealing to God, for He never listens. Why should He? Are we not to Him mere sheep, bleating in this snowy wilderness?”
“Good, very good. See how they tremble at the truth?” the golden-eyed companion wrapped in his winged cloak leaned into Ulrich’s ear and muttered.
Ulrich turned with fury to the voice whispering in his ear. “This is my bargain, not yours, evil spirit! I alone will take the Abbot’s life, if I deem it necessary. You will have nothing of it, understand?”
Wolfe moved another step towards him. “Ulrich, what do you mean? Who are you talking to?”
“Go on,” the dark companion said mockingly. “Tell Wolfe that we know of his role in this conspiracy. His innocent posturing is hypocritical. Ask him if he would be as popular with these people if they knew of his adulterous affair with your wife? Go on, ask him.”
Ulrich turned to the demon clinging to him from the depths of Hell. “I will not argue my past with the likes of you,” he barked.
The silence that followed was deafening. Volmar held his back stiff against the rough bark of the tree and listened, sensing the rising fear and stark madness. The Magistrate’s soldiers were in a circle, their swords drawn, yet powerless against the hooded assailant who held a sword hovering menacingly against the Abbot’s bare throat.
Volmar knew the assailant burned with a rage incited by this unexpected trap. He’d come for the Holy Relic but did not expect company. Now, it seemed he was haunted as well. Volmar tensed with icy dread and silently said five Pater Nosters.94
The Magistrate stood in front of the old soldier, his voice calm amid the terror. “Ulrich, do you really want to have more blood on your hands? Put the sword down and let the Abbot go.”
“Call your men off first!” Ulrich shouted, nodding to the group of soldiers with their swords already drawn. He backed away slowly, stumbling on one of the upraised roots of a tree hidden by the snow. This was enough for the sword’s blade to graze the Abbot’s throat. Blood oozed from the wound.
