The Poisoned Pilgrim: A Hangman's Daughter Tale (14 page)

Simon rolled his eyes. “Belladonna in small doses is very useful in curing fever, and henbane is something that quite a few monks have mixed in their beer in the past, and still do.”

“Aha, and the red powder? Tell me about the red powder.”

“Burgomaster, may I ask why you are so keen on seeing the monk burned at the stake?” Instinctively, Simon recoiled from
Semer. The medicus still hadn’t touched the glass of wine in front of him.

“Isn’t that obvious?” Semer hissed. “The Festival of the Three Hosts is in exactly six days, and crowds of pilgrims will be coming to the Holy Mountain. What do you think will happen if the culprit isn’t caught before then?”

“Let me guess,” Simon replied. “A rumor would go around about an automaton that’s murdering people, fewer pilgrims would come, and you’d be left with a lot of unsold candles, votive pictures, and wine carafes. Is that right?”

The burgomaster cringed. “Who told you that…” he flared up, before getting control of himself again. “All I care about is the welfare of the pilgrims,” he whined. “Look, Fronwieser—what would our Savior have to say about fear and terror on the Holy Mountain?” He shook his head regretfully. “It really would be best if you could convince the abbot to wrap up the case before the festival next Sunday.” He looked at him solicitously. “We’ll take care of you financially. I have powerful allies who are certainly ready to pay—”

Abruptly, Simon stood up from the table. “Thank you for your time, Burgomaster,” he said softly. “But unfortunately I have another report to prepare for the abbot. In addition, we expect the arrival of my father-in-law tomorrow, so there’s a lot to do.”

Semer’s face drained of color. “
Kuisl?
” he whispered. “But… but why is he coming here?”

“You wanted a hangman, didn’t you?” Simon replied with a smile. “One is coming, and he’s the best and cleverest damn hangman in the Priests’ Corner. He’ll certainly be able to solve these murders. And besides…” He shrugged. “If anyone needs to go on a pilgrimage, it’s an executioner, isn’t it? Now, farewell.”

Simon pushed the untouched wine glass back to Semer and headed for the door. The burgomaster could only sit there, astonished.

Finally, he reached for his glass and downed the wine in one gulp.

Shaking, Magdalena pulled her thin woolen shawl tight around her shoulders. In the cold abbey, she was finding it difficult to concentrate on the prayers, and the queasy feeling of the last few days came back. All she could do was hope this feeling had nothing to do with the sickness going around the monastery these days.

In the hopelessly overcrowded building, it was as cold and damp as a cave—even on this June evening. A strong wind whistled through the roof of the south wing, which had been only temporarily patched, and gusts in the high, pointed windows were so loud they sometimes drowned out the Latin murmuring of the mass. This was of little concern to most of the pilgrims and local parishioners, however, as they couldn’t understand the words in any case. But they listened reverently to the homily by Abbot Rambeck, who was performing the mass today himself.

The reason for the special mass today was the people sitting in the first rows of the congregation. Count Wartenberg sat with his family under a carved baldachin. Two pale, chubby children yawned and passed the time playing around while their young mother kept trying to quiet them. The older boy was perhaps eight, and the younger one sat sucking his thumb on the lap of the pert young countess. The count, a man in his forties with bushy eyebrows and a sharp, arrogant gaze, looked around the church as if wondering what could be confiscated next for the Wittelsbach treasury.

Though Magdalena had seen many churches, she was filled with awe by the Andechs abbey church. Some of the most important Christian relics were housed here on the Holy Mountain. The church interior was just as awe-inspiring, with numerous altars along the sides and in the nave and doors leading to additional
side chapels. Mighty columns supported the high vaulted ceiling and colorful stained glass sparkled everywhere amid the candlelight.

What impressed Magdalena even more than the opulence and splendor were the candles placed all around the church, brought here by pilgrims over the course of many centuries. On the walls, innumerable votive pictures, some yellow with age, bore testimony to miraculous acts of salvation.

“
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis…”
As the abbot spoke the sacred words, worshippers all around Magdalena fell humbly to their knees. She, too, knelt and bowed her head but couldn’t help glancing up at Maurus Rambeck, who appeared extremely upset. Several times, he seemed confused or lost his place, and his face was as pale as a corpse. Magdalena wondered whether this had anything to do with recent events or perhaps the presence of the noble family. She, too, was having difficulty concentrating on her prayers.

“
Domine, non sum dignus, ut intres sub tectum meum. Sed tantum dic verbo, et sanabitur anima mea…”

While Magdalena joined in murmuring the words of invitation to Holy Communion, she glanced up to the gallery, where the church dignitaries had gathered. From Simon’s descriptions of the church council, she thought she recognized the fat cellarer, as well as the white-haired librarian and the sensitive novitiate master. The latter, in fact, a relatively younger man, seemed strangely withdrawn. His eyes were red, and now and then he pulled out a silk handkerchief to wipe his face until a hook-nosed monk on his right finally poked him hard in the ribs. It took Magdalena a while to figure out this was the prior. He whispered something to the novitiate master, whereupon the latter put his handkerchief back in his pocket and mumbled a soft prayer. The other members of the council also seemed strangely tense.

Something is fishy here,
Magdalena thought.
Did the death of
the two young assistants and the disappearance of a Brother really upset the monks so much?

Finally, the abbot finished, raising his hand in the benediction, and the pilgrims pressed toward the exit to the accompaniment of loud organ music. Magdalena stayed seated in the pew for a while, watching as Maurus Rambeck descended from the apsis into the nave and bowed before Count Wartenberg. They exchanged a few words; then the count turned to his family and sent them to their quarters. Finally, the count and the abbot walked up a flight of stairs to the gallery, which was empty now except for the prior who awaited them there. The three men spoke softly for a while before exiting together through a small door. Magdalena noticed how the prior kept looking around cautiously as they left.

What in all the world was going on here?

After hesitating briefly, Magdalena stood up and approached the stairway leading up to the gallery. Now after evening mass, the church was almost empty. Only a few acolytes still moved about, extinguishing the many candles. It was getting noticeably darker.

The hangman’s daughter looked around again, then started up the well-worn staircase.

“Are you lost?”

Leaning on the railing above her, a broad-shouldered monk looked down suspiciously at her. It was the cellarer, and he was clearly in a bad mood. “The gallery and the choir are reserved for the monks. They’re not open to visitors,” he growled. “Especially not women. What are you looking for here?”

“I’m… I’m looking for the sacred relics,” Magdalena stuttered. “I’ve come all the way from Lake Constance on foot to pray before them.”

“Stupid woman,” the monk grumbled. “Do you think the sacred treasures just stand around here where anyone could steal
them?” He pointed to the little door the church officials and the count had passed through. “They are kept in the inner sanctum, where only a chosen few have access. If you wish to see the holy three hosts, you must wait till next Sunday.”

“And the noble gentleman who just came up here with two of your Brothers?” asked Magdalena, affecting the voice of a simple farm girl. “He’s allowed to see the treasure?”

“Count Wartenberg?” The cellarer laughed. “Naturally. As a member of the House of Wittelsbach, he always has the third key. Now get moving, before I chase you out.”

“The third key?” Magdalena was clearly astonished. “Which—”

“Get out, I told you!” The monk approached her threateningly. “Curious daughters of Eve. You should all be thrown out of the church. Brood of vipers!”

Magdalena raised her hands defensively, then rushed down the stairs, crossing herself and bowing obsequiously, until she finally eluded the cellarer.

Outside the main portal, she spat hard and mumbled a curse. That fat milksop would live to regret treating her like that. Something here was fishy, and she was damn well going to find out what was behind all these strange events.

Magdalena tossed her woolen shawl around her shivering body and took a deep breath. The square in front of the monastery was deserted now. Only piles of stones and sacks of limestone and mortar betrayed that this was a busy building site by day. In the nearby forest, trees rustled in the wind and scattered drops of rain fell on the pavement.

Just as Magdalena was about to descend the wide lane to the tavern to tell Simon the latest, she heard a sound that made her stop short. It was so faint and discreet that she took it at first for the singing of a far-off nightingale. Finally, she realized what she was really hearing.

Somewhere behind the monastery, music was playing.

Magdalena started. The glockenspiel! Hadn’t Simon said the automaton that vanished had a glockenspiel built into it? She couldn’t help but think of the golem the monks had spoken of, the one now supposedly haunting the monastery.

What was it again that Simon said?
An object that springs to life when life is breathed into it… It involves some very complicated rituals…

For a moment she hesitated; then she set out to find the source of the music. The sound seemed to come from the right, where an old wall separated the church square from the forest. There she found a little gate, and behind it, some weathered stairs leading to a path along the wall. On the other side, a steep gorge led down into the Kien Valley. In the distance, she could see the vague outlines of a chapel.

For a moment, Magdalena thought she couldn’t hear it anymore, but then the sound returned: it was somewhere in front of her, soft, but still clearly audible. She stopped and held her breath, listening intently, and also thought she could hear a rattle and whirring. Now the melody was close, not in front of her, or behind her, but… beneath her.

Magdalena was transfixed. The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the Holy Mountain. She looked around in the gathering twilight for a cleft in the rock, or a cave, but couldn’t find anything of the sort. As she continued to search, the melody became softer, as if its source were gradually moving away.

That’s when she heard something whiz by, brushing her neck, and she felt as if she’d been stung by a big horsefly. Putting her hand to her neck, she felt dampness, and when she took her hand away again, she could see blood in the moonlight.

What’s going on here? Is someone shooting at me? I didn’t hear a shot
…

There was no more time to think; she heard the whooshing sound again and threw herself on the ground at the last second.
Above her, something bored into a tree trunk, and now she was sure it was a shot. She picked herself up and ran down the path, stooped over. One last time something whizzed past her and hit the wall, producing a spray of mortar, but by then Magdalena had arrived at the gate. Seized by panic, she dashed into the middle of the deserted church square, almost fearing the automaton would emerge, rattling and humming, from behind the bags of limestone, its mouth open wide and ready to devour her. But when she turned around, there was nothing—just darkness and the rustling branches in the forest behind the wall.

Breathlessly she ran down the lane toward Simon, who was just coming out of the tavern.

“Magdalena!” he cried in relief. “I’ve been worried. Mass has been over for a long—” That’s when he got a closer look at her. “My God!” he gasped “You’re bleeding. What happened?”

Magdalena reached up to her neck, still wet with blood. Something had grazed her, and the wound was very painful. The collar of her cape was also wet with blood.

“The automaton… is… somewhere beneath us…” she blurted out as her legs gave way. The last thing she saw was Simon bending down over her, his mouth moving up and down like that of a huge puppet, while somewhere gigantic gears were turning.

Then terrified, exhausted, and suffering from loss of blood, she fell unconscious.

L
AKE
A
MMER
, T
UESDAY
, J
UNE
15, 1666 AD

T
HE BOAT PITCHED
and tossed so violently that Jakob Kuisl had his hands full keeping his grandchildren from drowning. Despite a blue sky, a strong wind was blowing over Lake Ammer, kicking up little whitecaps that covered the entire boat in a fine spray. The children shouted joyfully and kept trying to wriggle out of their grandfather’s strong arms and jump over the side into the water.

“You’ve got two real rascals there. Your grandchildren?” The old ferryman grinned as he rocked back and forth to the movements of his rowing. His weathered face was red with exertion as he dipped the oars deep into the water. Since the very start of their trip in Dießen, he hadn’t been silent a moment, and kept badgering the hangman nonstop with questions.

“Would you like to get out at Herrsching over there?” he continued. “Or are you going to sell them to the first traveling salesman you meet?”

“If they keep carrying on like this, I’ll donate them to the monastery as little cherubs for the altar. At least then they’ll have to keep still.”

Kuisl bared his teeth and pushed both children gently under the rowing seat, where, giggling and sniggering, they tangled
themselves in a rancid fishnet. Peter played with an old fish head while Paul reached out for a couple of crabs scuttling about in a basket. Although they weren’t causing any trouble now, the hangman gave up all hope of a leisurely smoke of his pipe.