by G. M. Dyrek
The Abbot raised his hand to stop the Magistrate from rushing forward. “I’m fine, Wolfe,” he said, his voice unwavering. “Please, don’t risk your own life for mine.”
Ulrich steadied his grip on the Abbot, jerking the Abbot’s head even further back by grabbing his thinning hair. “You heard him. Let me leave in peace with the Holy Relic and the Abbot’s life will be spared.” Then, once again, Ulrich turned his head to talk to his deathly companion. “You think you can trick me into giving you the relic? By God’s blood, I will fight even you!”
Volmar risked peering out from behind his tree. Ulrich was still wearing his snow mask, which hampered his peripheral vision. Maybe, Volmar reasoned, there is a way out of this stalemate. He studied the tree’s branches overhead, noting the ones which leaned out over the clearing. The young scribe then met Brother Paulus’s gaze and communicated to him a plan. All those years of hand signaling now proved invaluable. The two communicated wordlessly, each fully aware of the grim consequences should their plan fail.
Paulus made a wide circle around to the stump where Ulrich’s warhorse was tethered and snorting impatiently, waiting for his master’s escape. The Infirmarian loosened the horse’s reins and watched with increasing confidence as Volmar shimmied his way up into the canopy of the slumbering apple tree.
Instinctively, Volmar was confident of his ability to move through the branches, yet wary of his prey below. When he brushed back the snow to move into position, he realized too late his misjudgment.
Abbot Burchard’s head was tilted upward. He also saw at that moment that the snowstorm had damaged the branch his young Scribe was inching silently across. Horror knotted up in his throat as the branch released a loud groan before splitting and cracking. At that same instant, Paulus let out a piercing yell, which frightened Ulrich’s horse and sent it galloping down the hillside.
In the confusion that followed, Ulrich swung around like a scorpion with his sword ready to fight, just as both the branch and Volmar fell, smashing the old soldier on his shoulder and causing his hand to release his sword. Volmar flung himself directly from the falling tree branch onto Ulrich’s back and wrestled him to the ground. The sword was kicked from Ulrich’s lunging hand in the last instant by the Magistrate himself, who leaped upon the two of them in their struggle.
Paulus rushed over to the Abbot, whom he led aside, drawing a clean linen cloth from his bag to bandage the nasty cut on his neck. Fortunately, it had missed Burchard’s major artery by no more than the width of a single hair.
In no time, the soldiers wrapped heavy chains around Ulrich’s neck and ankles. The Magistrate leaned forward and at last pulled off the mask. He gasped at the face sneering up at him. “Symon?”
Volmar turned to the Magistrate, then to Ulrich. “This man is Symon of Bermersheim?” he asked, his heart sinking.
“I am mistaken, son,” the Magistrate muttered, turning away. “This is not the man I once knew.” The same wooden cart which only a few hours earlier had held the wrapped corpses of Matthias and Donato was rolled out of the woods and into the clearing. “Load him up,” the Magistrate called to his men. “We’ve found our murderer.”
A few moments later, Volmar walked around the cart to the side where the assailant sat motionless, staring straight ahead, a sense of strength still emanating from him, despite his defeat. Volmar spoke aloud, emotion giving his voice a sense of unexpected harshness. “Show me your ring!”
The man smiled; his teeth were heavily stained from the exotic teas of the Middle East. “What is it to you?” he barked.
Volmar steeled himself before repeating, “Show me your ring!”
Something in the young monk’s penetrating gaze made the prisoner uncomfortable. “My family’s crest is of no consequence to a man of God.”
“It is of considerable consequence to this young monk. This is Volmar, Katherina’s son,” the Magistrate said, standing beside the young Scribe.
“So it is true, I was not dreaming you up.”
“Brother Volmar set this trap, Symon. Show him your ring or I will cut it off of your finger and show him myself.” To make clear his threat, the Magistrate pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt and held it in the rising light of dawn.
Symon finally relented. He lifted his hand and flashed his signet ring so all who had grown silent around them could see and bear witness to the shame of the once powerful crest of the family Bermersheim and how it had been brought to its knees. By now, the crowd of onlookers had grown. Wolfe’s men and the villagers watched in stunned silence, shoulder to shoulder.
“Ah, he’ll be a free man by night’s end,” one of the villagers said to another. “Murderer or not, there’s money, influence and family history behind that name.”
An older man answered knowingly, “Could have told ya, when one forgets yer heritage, the lives of others become meaningless.”
The Magistrate took a moment to marshal his own thoughts before turning to address everyone present in a clear, authoritative voice. “Symon of Bermersheim has willfully killed three men in my jurisdiction and threatened the life of our beloved Abbot. My friends, there will be no buying of immunities or privileges from this Magistrate.”
“Then, it is true. You are my father,” Volmar said in quiet disbelief.
Symon’s rueful smile dissolved into a grimace. There was a long moment of silence.
“It is a simple question and I deserve an honest answer. Are you not my father?” Volmar was sickened by this man and all he stood for.
Symon stared straight ahead, the neck iron biting into his throat. “You want honesty? Then I will give you the God-forsaken truth. You, Scribe, are not kin to me.”
“Why do you persist with these lies? You are a man of God, a Knight of Jerusalem, of the order of the Hospitaller of Saint John, are you not?”
Symon turned to the Magistrate. Their eyes met, and what passed between them was left unspoken but deeply felt. Symon continued, with less audacity, less arrogance, as he returned his gaze to Volmar. “I am a man who, like so many before me, mislaid my trust in a woman. Your mother, however, did not love me; so I forced her to.”
Volmar turned to the Magistrate, then back to Symon. “How can that be?” he said in a low voice. “You were married to my mother and left her when you went to fight in the Holy Land. All of these years, I have waited for your return. Waited to tell you that I am your son, I did not die of the fever, I still lived.”
“Look, I was her husband, not her lover.” Symon laughed out loud—a harsh, cruel laughter that held no mirth. He stood, grasping the edge of the wooden cart with much difficulty. The cuts from the tree branch were bleeding freely and staining the rags he wore. “I, Symon of Bermersheim, have no family, no heirs, and likely no heavenly chance at eternity.” He glared down at Volmar. “Fear not, holy brother, your seed is not poisoned by my evil deeds. Remember this . . . you cannot forcibly take what is not yours, not a thousand-year-old Holy Relic and certainly not the love of a woman. Your mother betrayed me, for I gave her no other choice. She refused to love a man unworthy of her affection or respect. I know now you cannot change a person by simply forcing your will upon them.”
No one saw under the folds of his ragged cloak the small vial Symon held in his hand. He spat at the ground and in a gesture to wipe clean his lips, he instead raised the vial and drank from it. Still in his hand, he made a cynical gesture, toasting sarcastically the demonic companion staring at him from the end of the cart. “To Death,” he said, nodding to his ghastly companion, “and all of its lost, embittered souls,” he added with a sweeping motion, acknowledging the beady black eyes of his accusers, ravens of untold numbers which had suddenly gathered and perched on the gnarled trees surrounding him. “At least,” he added, “I’ll be amongst my own kind.”
“Stop him!” Wolfe shouted, but his warning had come too late.
Symon sputtered, coughing up phlegm and wheezing painfully. “Rest assured,” he croaked defiantly, “I�
��m prepared to kill my enemies all over again, this time in the legions of Hell.” He collapsed. The vial he had stealthily put to his lips fell from his hand and rolled to the front of the cart. The scent of almonds filled the air, as it suddenly got colder.
A dark heavy mist passed before them like a veil. The Magistrate squeezed Volmar’s weary shoulder.
“Justice has finally been served.”
CHAPTER 11: A VIOLENT WIND
Clearing Outside of Disibodenberg Monastery
6th of November, After Terce
As the comforting bells announced the end of prayers of Terce that same day, Volmar came upon Brother Rudegerus packing up a donkey in the clearing not far from the underground tunnel’s entrance. He had been searching all over the monastery for Rudegerus after Brother Paulus informed him that he had disappeared from the Infirmary.
“Remember the proverb, Brother Volmar? ‘A man tormented by the guilt of murder will be a fugitive till death; let no one support him.’”
“Where will you go?”
“I will manage,” Rudegerus said, shedding his monk’s cassock and revealing the more humble clothes of a poor peasant underneath. It was the same disguise Sophie had seen, mistaking him for Saint Peter over a year ago. He removed his crucifix and kissed it before handing it over to Volmar. A simple wool cap disguised his tonsure and a wrap of animal skins for warmth completed the transformation. A heavy chest, the one Volmar had come across in the underground chamber, weighed upon the back of his donkey.
“Coins won from cock fights, Brother Rudegerus?” Volmar asked.
“I am no longer Brother Rudegerus. My name is Balaam.”
Brother Volmar frowned. “History repeats itself, does it not, Brother? From Judas to Rudegerus and now to Balaam. Changing your name does not remove you from the crime. Many young novitiates change their name when they take their vows, such as Symon to Ulrich and Judas to Rudegerus.”
“Such arcane traditions do serve a purpose.”
“Your name may be different, but you are still guilty of two brothers’ murders, those of Brother Arnoul and Brother Matthias.”
Balaam answered defensively, his voice suddenly shaking. “You have no proof, no proof whatsoever. Brother Arnoul attacked me for no reason. He was the thief, not me. He’s the one who gave me this crooked nose and stole that priceless book from the library.”
“I would be more careful with your tongue, if I were you. Your accuser is here.” A heavy fog had gathered, twisting and writhing in a violent wind around the snow-laden branches of the formidable yew tree. A moaning came from its emptiness.
“Surely you jest,” Balaam sneered.
The cold pale sun of the winter morning peeked through the branches, illuminating the clearing with its eerie light. From the thickening fog, a fine white mist arose and embodied a shape seen only by Balaam—a man he recognized as Brother Arnoul.
“Brother Arnoul’s spirit is watching our exchange. You will have no peace on Earth until you have peace with God.” Volmar hung back, as the distinctive odor of death rose from the mist. This time it not only smelled of decay, but of a long-nursed resentment.
Balaam reached for his knife and held it out, twisting and turning in every direction, anxiously attempting to defend himself against the approach of this vengeful spirit. Arnoul’s face was veined and pale. Balaam addressed him frantically. “Leave me in peace, you shadow of the Devil!”
Volmar could’ve sworn he heard a voice answer Balaam back; of course, unbelievers would say it was only the wind.
Balaam suddenly clutched his throat, feeling cold, icy hands wrap around it. He was then forced to his knees by an unseen force. He struggled; someone or something was strangling him. He stabbed at the space where the spirit was, to no avail. A fearless voice whispered in Balaam’s ears, a voice recognizable from his distant past and one he’d been trying to forget all these years. “You lie. It was you who stole the book, not I. Give it back!”
Volmar watched from the protruding roots of the old yew tree, knowing full well the boundaries of this spirit’s revenge and wanting to be sure Balaam did not escape this time.
Suddenly Balaam was on his knees, gasping for air, his own knife turned and held against his own throat. His knees were covered in blood, as the sharp rocks ripped through his trousers and his skin. Balaam began to sob—a pitiful, ugly sound. He rose and staggered towards his donkey, as freezing fingers threw his knife to the ground. With much effort, Balaam took a wrapped parcel from his leather pack, tore away its humble wrapping, and revealed the priceless stolen book. He then lifted the trunk of gold coins from his donkey and set it in front of the young Scribe along with the book. In that instant, Arnoul’s grim features began to dissolve. The flesh around his shadowy eyes drooped, the bones of his cheeks fell as his expression revealed a glimpse of satisfaction.
Slowly, Balaam’s breathing returned to normal. Volmar caught the weight of his body and helped him up onto his donkey. Dispirited, Balaam sat upright, rubbing his neck and wiping the tears from his cheeks before whispering, “Pray for me, Brother Volmar.”
Volmar nodded and remained for a long time watching as Balaam and his donkey faded into a distant speck on the snow-covered road below.
Abbot Burchard crested the hill, still breathing hard. He approached Volmar, shielding his eyes from the snowy whiteness of the fields beyond. There, with his young scribe, he watched the small black figure of their disgraced brother disappear into the distance.
“Father, I believe you’ll find that this book was stolen from the Library over ten years ago by Brother Rudegerus. Another monk, Brother Arnoul, was accused of thievery and died tragically trying to protect his good name. Cormac will be pleased to see it.”
“I see,” the Abbot said, patting the book with a look of satisfaction. “Rudegerus stole the fake relic, too, you know.”
“I know. I saw it tucked under his belt.” Volmar paused. “Isn’t it ironic, Father, how one so devious has, himself, been deceived?”
AFTERWORD
Volmar scooted the milking stool up to the leather flap over the window opening outside the Anchorage and sat down on it. He listened quietly so as not to disturb the musician, nor her music drifting out into the cold late afternoon. He had much to ponder. In the end, the Spear of Destiny had brought Symon of Bermersheim back to face the past he had loathed and run from all those years ago, and had given Volmar a glimpse into his own murky past. He might never know who his real father is, he thought, in the aftermath of the shocking revelations of the morning. But, he’d lived this long without knowing—at least, he thought with an air of cynicism, his illegitimacy assured him that he was not contaminated by Symon’s wicked nature.
In a little while, Volmar reminded himself, he would give Sister Hildegard a letter he’d written using her secret alphabet. In it, he apologized to her for his unseemly behavior. He winced over the memory of his pathetic attempts to convince Hildegard to renounce her vows. Symon had been right about one thing. Love cannot be forced. Life was certainly more complicated since she had danced her way into his heart. He also wrote to her all about Symon of Bermersheim’s arrest, Katherina’s disdain, and the knight’s relentless quest for the Holy Spear of Longinus.
For the moment, the monastery rested, understandably exhausted from the ordeal of the past few hours. Fresh snow gave it a serene atmosphere. The world around him seemed crisper and whiter than ever. There was no other sound save the melodic notes of Hildegard’s lyrical music.
The Magistrate had already left with his entourage, obligated by law to return Symon’s body to his family’s estate in Bermersheim. Rumor had it that he and his men would be back in a few days for Donato’s remains, which were to be returned to the knight’s home village outside of Florence, accompanied by an official letter to the Pope concerning their crimes. They might never know for certain if the two knights had been acting entirely on their own or if they had been a part of a larger conspiracy and were simply followi
ng orders from their powerful leader, Brother Gerard.
As was customary, two of the three bodies remaining, Atif and Matthias, were to be laid in state in the church for three days. Their coffins were surrounded by a blaze of candles. One by one, the holy brothers were to take turns sitting in watch, keeping a holy vigil and praying for their souls. Curious townspeople and peasants from the surrounding villages were already filing into the nave, despite the wretched cold. Whispers of beleaguered fallen knights, a foreigner, and their deadly quest for the Holiest of Relics, the Spear of Destiny could not be silenced. There had been too many witnesses. Volmar sighed. Whether or not they were prepared, rumors would spread . . . of how the monastery of Disibodenberg possessed the most elusive and arguably one of the most valued of all Holy Relics . . . the Spear of Destiny. Yet, over time, even these rumors would subside.
Volmar recalled the time he had spent the rest of the morning taking dictation for the letter to the High Court in the Church, Pope Paschal II. Given the complexities of the current political climate and the allegations Matthias had made of the Holy See’s corruption, this letter had to be carefully edited. As the monastery’s chronicler, he was beginning to understand that recording history, like most things in life, was a subjective, compromising affair.
In this letter, the Abbot requested the Pope’s permission to exhume the body of one French traveling monk to re-inter his remains in the monks’ consecrated cemetery. Volmar heaved a sigh. At least, justice had prevailed here. Brother Arnoul’s spirit would at last find peace. The Abbot had also informed the Pope that Matthias, a travelling knight, would be buried in consecrated ground in the monks’ cemetery, his death having been sufficiently cleared of any suspicions of suicide. He would be the first Knight of the Hospitaller of Saint John to be buried in Disibodenberg’s cemetery, and his headstone would glorify his sacrifice for Christendom. Atif’s remains, too, were mentioned in the letter. He was to be buried next to his old friend and mentor. Sophie, on hearing the full story from Brother Paulus, insisted on a suitable epitaph for Atif’s headstone: “A Good Samaritan.” The Abbot had given her his approval.
