The Poisoned Pilgrim: A Hangman's Daughter Tale (11 page)

“Nonsense,” the young novitiate master mumbled. “Nobody goes up in smoke. There must be another explanation.”

“Think of the wounds poor Vitalis suffered,” the prior pleaded. “May his soul rest in peace. They were clearly not of natural origin.”

“To know that for certain, we’d have to examine—” Simon started to object, but the old librarian interrupted, raising a trembling hand.

“Something else must be noted,” he said hoarsely. “You know all these automata that Virgilius was so fond of—this woman made of metal who plays the glockenspiel.”

“I do hope it has been destroyed,” Brother Eckhart grumbled. “That at least would be something positive. God alone, and not man, should create life.”

“Well, it’s even worse,” the librarian continued hesitantly. “Our Brothers Martin and Jakobus have told me that the… well, the automaton has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” The prior shook his head. “Just like Virgilius? But how is that possible? The doll is as large as a human and certainly very heavy. How could anyone—”

“My God,” Brother Eckhart, who was still standing, raised his hands in prayer and directed his gaze theatrically to the ceiling. “Don’t you understand what happened? Don’t you understand the full horror of this?” His voice was trembling. “This… creature… has come to life and has seized its master. Somewhere here in the monastery a golem is stalking about. God help us!”

Excited murmurs could be heard from all sides; some of the monks crossed themselves or clung tightly to their rosaries. Simon, too, felt a shiver run up his spine. He couldn’t help thinking of the automaton in the watchmaker’s shop, the lifeless face and the slightly off-key melody of a glockenspiel playing inside. He could practically see the puppet in front of him as it whirred through the room.

Like a ghost gliding along weightlessly,
he thought,
driven by a lust for revenge—one that never stops until its task is complete.

The abbot stood now and pounded the table angrily with the palm of his hand, bringing Simon back to reality.

“Quiet!” he shouted. “Dear Brothers, I beg for silence.”

Only gradually did quiet return to the room. The abbot took a deep breath before continuing in a broken voice. “We won’t understand what has happened until… until Brother Johannes
is back among us. We have to be grateful for every clue.” Turning to Simon, he added, “I shall read your report carefully, and I’d be very grateful if you can contribute anything else to clarify this case. You’ve seemed quite astute thus far.”

Prior Jeremias gasped. “A bathhouse surgeon, a dishonorable person, helping to solve a murder in the monastery? My dear Brother, I beg you—”

“And I beg you to be silent,” Abbot Rambeck interrupted. “Dishonorable or not, this bathhouse surgeon has made more intelligent observations than all of us together. It would be stupid not to accept his help. I’m asking him to continue work on his report.” Rambeck seemed to get briefly lost in thought, and his hands began to tremble again. After a brief pause, he turned back to Simon. “Ah, there’s something else, Master Fronwieser. It’s come to my attention that some of the pilgrims are ill. Now that our apothecary is no longer available, someone else is needed to care for them…”

It sounded like an order, so Simon nodded respectfully. “Naturally, Your Eminence, as you wish.”

Wonderful,
he thought.
Until today, I was an ordinary pilgrim, and now I must write a report about a mysterious murder and care for sick pilgrims. Why didn’t I just go to Altötting with Magdalena?

The abbot closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross. “Then let us pray to God for our dead and missing Brothers.”

Simon watched each monk, one after the other, as Maurus Rambeck recited a psalm in Latin. The Brothers had folded their hands, murmuring the prayers as they lowered their eyes. It seemed each radiated an evil aura quite out of place in this cloistered atmosphere. Suddenly the prior raised his head and looked Simon directly in the eye.

The medicus winced. In Brother Jeremias’s eyes Simon saw a hateful spark that rattled him to the core.

Brother Johannes ran through the forest as if the devil himself were in pursuit.

He stumbled over roots, picked himself up again breathlessly, jumped over muddy ditches, and rushed through thick underbrush. The hem of his robe had long been reduced to tatters; thistles and branches clung to the material, and his face was sweaty and mud-stained. Tears ran down his chubby cheeks and his heart pounded. Except for a linen bag with his essential belongings, he hadn’t been able to save a thing.

Johannes cursed and sobbed. His former life behind him, he would have to hit the road again. He didn’t know what the future held for him, only what would happen if they caught him: They’d pull out his fingernails and toenails and stretch his bones until they popped out of their sockets. Then they’d crush his thumbs, burn his wizened skin with matches, and throw him on a huge pile of wood and brush to be consumed by fire.

Brother Johannes knew all this because he was familiar with torture and executions. He had seen far too many up close; he knew what awaited a murderer and warlock.

Without stopping once to look around, the fat apothecary ran through the Kien Valley. By now it was early morning, and the sun bore down mercilessly through the boughs and branches. Like most of the other monks, Johannes had been awakened at the crack of dawn by loud wailing. Something dreadful must have happened, and he had a dark suspicion what it was. He’d secretly hurried to the watchmaker’s house, only to find the bathhouse owner and his woman leaving, both of them as white as a sheet. From the bits of conversation he overheard, he pieced together what they’d discovered inside.

When he heard them mention his name, Brother Johannes knew he couldn’t return. They would find out everything—the experiments, the fire in the tower, all about his former life…

A curse on you, Virgilius!

Thus Johannes snuck back to his little house, picked up some provisions, a blanket, and his old wooden cross, and made off toward the Kien Valley. He ran through a narrow hidden gorge, which many Erlingers had used during the Great War to escape the Swedes and was known to them as
The Ox’s Gorge
… From time to time Johannes had to gather up the folds of his robe and wade through the Kien Brook. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear dogs barking and a horn sounding. Were they already on his heels?

He suppressed the thought and rushed forward blindly. If he could make it down to Mühlfeld or Wartaweil, perhaps he had a chance. He could find a fisherman to take him over to Dießen, and from there he could keep going toward Landsberg, where he had friends who would help him. Perhaps somewhere he would find an army he could join up with. People with his experience were always needed.

The trees in front of him were thinning out, so he could already see the lake sparkling down in the valley. His goal, the little fisherman’s port not far from Mühlfeld Castle, seemed within reach. As soon as Brother Johannes stepped out of the forest, he heard a shot. A bullet whizzed by his ear, missing him by just inches. Gasping, he threw himself down in the mud.

“There he is, the filthy bastard. You were right; he fled through the Ox’s Gorge.”

A man stepped out from behind the trees with a smoking musket, followed by a second and a third. All were experienced hunters employed by the monastery, and Johannes knew them. In the tavern they sometimes whispered behind his back; they didn’t like it that he collected herbs in their hunting grounds and scared the wildlife. To them, he was just a fat, ugly priest who ate what by rights belonged to them. A monster in a monk’s cassock who terrified children.

Today was the day of reckoning.

“We heard you killed three of your Brothers, you scum,” the
oldest growled, nudging the monk with his foot. His eyes gleamed with the thrill of the chase. “It was easy for you with the three priests, but we’re made of different stuff.” Laughing, he turned to his friends. “Well, what do you think? Do we want to see the fat toad jump again?” When the others howled their approval, he held his musket in the air and fired. A swarm of sparrows scattered, chirping angrily in the direction of the monastery.

Dazed by the noise and fearful, Brother Johannes leapt up and stumbled toward a field of barley. Behind it was the lake with little boats rocking on the waves—he could almost smell the water. As he began to run, he looked up and could see between the low-lying clouds on the horizon the monastery in Dießen. And he could hear the rustle of the grain beneath his feet as he ran.

The world is so beautiful,
he thought.
Why are the people in it so cruel? Will they let me go in the end?

When Johannes heard the dogs barking behind him, he knew it was all over.

Magdalena crouched on the floor of the filthy provision cellar, watching flies buzz about in the light from a small window. For a while she had paced around, but now she settled down in a corner where she brooded and cursed her husband for getting her into this disastrous situation.

After Simon had been taken off to see the abbot, a few grim-faced helpers had silently led Magdalena away. Since then, the hangman’s daughter had been awaiting her fate in the cellar of the monastery dairy farm. There was an odor of old cheese and fermented milk in the air, and in one corner, a pile of moldy boards and broken containers made of willow bark. Otherwise the room was empty. A massive wooden door with a heavy sliding bolt was the only way in or out.

Lost in thought, Magdalena ran her hand through her hair and tried to ignore the strong odor of the old cheese baskets. She
couldn’t imagine they would charge her and Simon with the murder of the watchmaker’s assistant just because they’d found the corpses. But she wasn’t entirely sure, either. The way the two monks ran screaming from the scene made it clear to her how inflamed the mood was in the monastery. Magdalena had to admit that all the strange events—the bestial murder of the assistant, the disappearance of his master, and an automaton that had likewise vanished—all this made her also wonder if the devil was at work here.

She was just about to get up to stretch her legs a bit when she heard steps outside the door. A moment later, the bolt was pushed back, a disheveled Brother Johannes staggered in, and fell lifelessly to the floor.

“Lots of luck with the bathhouse owner’s woman, you scum,” jeered one of the two men standing outside in the corridor with their muskets. “But leave something for us—don’t eat her up afterward the way you did the watchmaker.” Laughter rang out, then the door closed with a crash.

For a while, the only sounds were the gasps of the apothecary. Finally, Magdalena bent down to him and touched him gently on the shoulder.

“How… how are you?” she asked hesitantly. “Do you need…”

Suddenly Brother Johannes raised his head and stared her in the eye without saying a word. With a muted cry, Magdalena jumped. The monk’s face, already an ugly sight, was beaten black and blue, one eye was swollen shut, and blood dripped from his swollen lips onto the ground. He looked like something resurrected from the Andechs cemetery. He crawled into a corner and held his swollen nose.

“I’ve… lived through worse things,” he muttered. “And this is nothing compared with what I still have coming. I know what I’m up against.”

Suspiciously, Magdalena observed the monk doubled up in
the corner. Simon had found the apothecary’s eyepiece at the crime site and had witnessed the argument between Johannes and the watchmaker. His entire behavior to that point made him look suspicious. He was no doubt the murderer of two of the men, if not all three. Still, as Magdalena looked at him, beaten and bloody like a wounded animal, a wave of pity came over her. She tore off a part of her skirt and handed it to him.

“Here, take this, or nobody will be able to see your pretty face again.”

In the dim light, Johannes’s faint grimace looked like that of a badly stitched puppet. “Thanks,” he murmured. “I know I’m not the handsomest fellow.”

“It still remains to be seen whether you are also a murderer.” Magdalena moved back to her corner and watched Johannes dab at his face. Flies buzzed around, trying to settle on his bloody lips, and though Johannes chased them away each time, they kept coming back. Magdalena couldn’t help but think of a stoic ox being whipped.

“You must be the wife of that Schongau bathhouse surgeon,” the monk said after a while. By now he was looking halfway human. “Are you feeling better? Your husband said you were suffering from stomach trouble.”

Magdalena laughed despairingly. “Thank you for asking, but I think that’s the least of my problems at present.” She sighed. “It looks like we’re in the same boat. We’re suspected in the murder of the watchmaker’s helper.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be released soon.” Johannes said, waving her off. “They want to get me, and no one else.”

“Why? Are your accusers right?” Magdalena asked in a soft voice. “Are you a warlock and a murderer?”

The ugly monk looked her up and down. “Do you seriously believe I’d tell you that if I really was?” he said finally. “And if I’m not the murderer but nevertheless have other dark secrets, why should I tell you? Who’s to say you wouldn’t betray me?”

Shaking her head, Magdalena leaned back against the wall. “Whether I betray you or not makes no difference. No doubt they’ll call the local judge tomorrow, then they’ll take you to the torture chamber in Weilheim. They’ll show you the instruments, and if you still don’t confess, they’ll start breaking your bones.”

Brother Johannes took a deep breath. Magdalena could see how he was shaking. “It’s astonishing a bathhouse owner’s wife like you knows so much about these things,” he murmured. “It’s almost as if you’d seen a torture once yourself.”

“But I haven’t. I’ve just listened carefully to what my father has to say.”

“Your father?” For the first time Johannes appeared really confused.

“He’s the Schongau executioner, Jakob Kuisl.”

“Jakob
Kuisl?
”

A sudden change came over the Benedictine monk. His face turned ashen, his eyes widened, and he mumbled softly to himself. After a while Magdalena could hear him praying.