The Poisoned Pilgrim: A Hangman's Daughter Tale (43 page)

In the evening, they finally suspended the questioning. The next day was, after all, the Andechs Festival of the Three Hosts, famous throughout all of the German Empire. Christian brotherly love simply forbade pulling fingernails off on such a day, so they’d have to put it off until the next day.

Cursing, the prior dug his heels into the sides of his horse, spurring it on. There was so much left to do. The abbot had told him the morning before that he would assign him, Jeremias, the duty of conducting the festival mass. The prior smiled wanly. Evidently the old man had already accepted the fact that someone else would be in charge soon. It was therefore all the more important for Brother Johannes to confess—not only because the Weilheim judge had made it very clear that a successful interrogation was required before the prior could be appointed abbot, but also because Jeremias needed a scapegoat. This miserable affair had to be put behind them as soon as possible. There
had been much too much snooping around already. That bathhouse doctor from Schongau was driving him crazy, and Brother Benedikt had told him also that the phony monk had been searching the rooms in the monastery. And that the map had now disappeared, too—the map, so long concealed, that had been in the monastery’s possession for centuries. Had someone already gotten wind of them? The prior had a terrible suspicion.

As the howling of the wolves drew closer, Brother Jeremias finally realized he was in danger. This sounded like no less than the whole pack that had been striking terror into people’s hearts in the forests around Andechs. Grimly the prior grasped the reins and slapped the horse on its hindquarters. “Giddyap, run, you old mare, if you care for your life.”

Jeremias bent forward over the saddle to offer as little resistance to the wind as possible. When he was made abbot, he would send men out to deal with these beasts once and for all. And there were some things in the monastery that would change. For a long time, Jeremias had been dreaming of tearing down the old building and bringing in skilled tradesmen from Wessobrunn, and from the other side of the Alps, to build him a new monastery like the neighboring ones at Steingaden and Rottenbuch—bigger and more impressive. He wouldn’t allow the Holy Mountain to look like a storm-ravaged ruin dating back to the Great War. But to do that, he needed money, lots of money. The prior smiled.

Soon money would be no problem; in a few years, his dream would be realized—as long as nothing unexpected happened and their little hiding place wasn’t discovered…

If only for this reason, Johannes had to confess. For the good of the church. So that peace and order would reign again.

The wolves were so close now that Brother Jeremias could see their eyes shining in the dark. He could feel the horse tremble beneath him, its coat dripping with sweat. Soon the path would head up the steep slope of the Kien Valley and the horse would
have to slow down. The wolves were gaining on them; the prior could hear the howling and panting closing in.

With a wild cry, he suddenly whirled around, pulled an ivory-handled flintlock pistol from under his robe, and fired. The shot flashed through the darkness, and there was a loud report followed by howling. The wolves pulled back.

Breathing heavily, the prior put the pistol back under his robe and concentrated on the path in front of him. It was now so dark between the trees he could scarcely see branches that had fallen across the path. He trembled. The Weilheim judge had given him the weapon and gunpowder just the day before, a personal gift meant to seal the bond between them. Never did the prior think he would have to use the pistol so soon, but now, feeling the cold iron of the barrel beneath his robe, he noticed he’d really enjoyed using it.

He had… enjoyed it. The cool feel, the recoil, the tortured cries of the wolves…

Reaching for the weapon again, he turned around, but the wolves had disappeared.

A shame.

After what seemed an eternity, the lights of the houses at the foot of the monastery appeared. The prior slapped his horse one more time, and finally, bathed in sweat, he reached the outer gate, which the gatekeeper opened with a respectful nod.

After Jeremias had dismounted, he reached down again to touch the cool weapon between his legs. He smiled and absent-mindedly crossed himself.

Perhaps he would be able to use the pistol again sometime soon.

A
NDECHS, NOON ON
S
UNDAY
, J
UNE
20, 1666 AD

S
HORTLY BEFORE THE
noon bells, pilgrims gathered on the square in front of the church, though many had been there since dawn. Amid the tightly packed crowd were brightly colored flags showing the coats of arms of many cities and villages. Simon stood wedged among a few pale, exhausted city people from Munich and a crowd of pilgrims from Augsburg who kept reciting the Lord’s Prayer and Ave Maria endlessly in their Swabian dialect. By now, over a thousand pilgrims must have crowded into the little square, and below the monastery even more were pressing up the narrow road. The pilgrims kept looking up toward the bay window of the church where the Three Holy Hosts were to be displayed at noon.

Jakob Kuisl stood alongside Simon, yawning. As so often in the past, he’d spent half the night wandering through the forest, thinking, and hadn’t returned to the knacker’s house until the early morning hours. In his black coat, the hangman tried to seem as inconspicuous as possible amid all the worshippers—which, in view of his size, was a rather hopeless undertaking. Nevertheless, Simon had been unable to dissuade him from attending the “Weisung,” or display of the hosts. Later they planned to attend mass, then join the crowd of pilgrims and
monks circling the church with the monstrance. Both men still hoped something would happen that day to help them in their search.

Simon rubbed his reddened eyes sleepily. He’d been summoned by Count Wartenberg in the early morning hours. Though he was convinced he was heading for his own execution, his fears had proven groundless. The Jesuit’s powder seemed to have worked. The boy’s fever had broken, and he was clearly on the road to recovery. When, once or twice, the count gave Simon a sidelong glance, the medicus feared his search of the study the day before had in fact not escaped notice. And when the count patted him on the shoulder, Simon had to be careful not to wince.

A sudden pain brought the medicus back to the present—a pilgrim had accidentally stepped on his foot. Simon suppressed a curse and turned to whisper to his father-in-law. “What are you going to do if someone recognizes you now?” After Magdalena told him of their unhappy confrontation with the Semers, Simon reckoned that the hangman’s cover would be blown at any moment. “You could at least have put on a less conspicuous coat. Didn’t you say yourself that the monastery bailiffs are out looking for you?”

“Nonsense,” Kuisl growled, pulling his collar a little tighter. “They really have better things to do today than to look for some no-account Franciscan monk. Just see for yourself what’s going on here.” With a sweep of his powerful arm, he indicated the crowds of pilgrims all around singing hymns and growing larger by the minute. The smell of incense was so strong it almost made him dizzy.

“We can only hope the sickness going around isn’t as contagious as I feared,” the medicus murmured, “or all of Bavaria will catch it.”

Indeed, pilgrims seemed to have come from the farthest corners of the electorate and beyond. Simon could hear dialects
from Swabia, Franconia, the Palatinate, and Saxony, and even a few foreign languages. The thought that the pilgrims might carry the disease back with them to their cities and villages made the medicus queasy. With everything going on, Simon still hadn’t had time to ask Jakob Schreevogl what he’d learned the day before in the tavern.

“Damn. I think it’s a good thing Magdalena isn’t here with the children,” Kuisl said. “The kids would be trampled to death or get lost.” Restlessly he shifted from one foot to the other, and Simon couldn’t repress a smirk. He knew from long experience how Kuisl hated large crowds. He preferred the silent forest, with just a few birds chirping in the trees.

“Magdalena wanted to talk with the abbot again,” Simon replied. “Perhaps he knows something that will help us in our search.”

“Today? No chance.” The hangman spat on the ground, just missing a little old woman nearby who glared back at him. “Why would the abbot have time for someone like Magdalena at the Festival of the Three Hosts?”

“I had a long talk with her last night,” replied Simon. “She met Maurus Rambeck recently in the monastery garden, and he told her the prior would have the honor of presenting the hosts this time.”

“An abbot who passes up the most important festival of the year?” Kuisl screwed his eyes up suspiciously. “Isn’t that a bit strange?”

“The matter with his brother really upset Maurus Rambeck. It’s completely understandable if he doesn’t feel like conducting a mass.” Simon shrugged. “In any case, Magdalena hopes to meet with the abbot again today in the monastery garden. He seems to be there quite a bit.”

Kuisl sneered. “And he wants to have a nice chat there with none other than my daughter? Dream on, son-in-law.”

“Your daughter, as you know yourself, is very persistent,”
Simon said with a grin. “I have no doubt on Judgment Day she’ll even get an audience with all the archangels, if only she leaves them alone after that.”

A murmur suddenly went through the crowd. Simon looked up to see the prior on the balcony below the little bay window. Though the roof was still covered with scaffolding, the work on this important part of the monastery was already finished.

With a sublime mien, Brother Jeremias raised a silver object. The pilgrims on the square below fell to their knees, lowering their heads reverently. From the corner of his eye, Simon watched the old woman next to Kuisl turn up her eyes and tip to one side, where her elderly husband took her in his arms tenderly. Shouts and cries could be heard everywhere.

“The sacred hosts. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the sacred hosts. God bless us all.”

Simon and the hangman fell to their knees, too. The medicus could feel a warm tickle pass through him at the sight of the praying masses. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his eyes teared up in the heavy clouds of incense. He had never been an especially devout person, especially in contrast to his wife, whose idea it was to go on this pilgrimage. But now, among the crowd of young and old who had traveled so far to view the three consecrated oblates in the silver bowl, a shiver ran through him, too. Even Kuisl seemed moved. His eyes narrowed to little slits as he stared up at the balcony where the prior had just spoken the benediction.

“Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater,

et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus…

In the name of the Father, son, and holy spirit…”

The crowd bowed even deeper, prostrating itself on the ground; some cried, while others laughed hysterically or beat their backs and chests wildly.

Only Kuisl continued staring up in fascination at the balcony.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Simon whispered. “So much faith… one could almost—”

“Spare me the nonsense,” the hangman interrupted. “I know only too well how the Catholics attacked the people of Magdeburg with spears and swords, their eyes gleaming and hands dripping with blood. If anyone wants to pray, he should do it in the silence of the church and not carry on like people at a county fair.” He pointed up at the monstrance the prior was still holding up like a flaming sword. “I’ll bet the real hosts aren’t in there, in any case.”

Simon grinned. “And I thought you had just had an epiphany.”

“What God and I have to discuss we will do alone, privately. You can believe—”

Suddenly there came shouting nearby that sounded different from the other pious cries. Simon was startled to see two men approach through the crowd, flanked by four Andechs hunters armed with spears and crossbows.

The fat man in their midst was none other than the Schongau burgomaster, and at his side, his son grinned triumphantly at the sight of the hangman.

Quickening their pace, the two were only a few dozen yards away from Simon and Kuisl.

“Ha, Kuisl! I knew it,” Karl Semer shouted so loudly that many of the pilgrims turned around to look. Even the prior up on the balcony paused briefly in his benediction.

“Rotten hangman,” the burgomaster shouted. “Your head sticks out of the crowd like a flagpole, and this time you won’t get away. Seize the heretics and the false monk.”

The bailiffs pushed their way through the protesting crowd toward Simon and Kuisl.

“Well?” Simon hissed. “I warned you, but no, you wouldn’t
listen. The two troublemakers must have seen you from up there,” he continued, pointing at windows in a wing of the monastery where some of the better-off pilgrims were housed. “What in heaven’s name shall we do now?”

“What else?” The hangman pushed aside some of the pilgrims in the crowd, forming a little passageway. “We’ll run, and we’ll see who’s faster—the Schongau executioner or the fat old burgomaster and his bowlegged son. Remember, I was a hangman when that puffed-up little windbag was still shitting in his diapers.”

Cursing softly, Simon ran after him as the Semers’ wild cries rang out behind.

Magdalena strolled cheerfully with her children through a fragrant field of flowers behind the monastery. The sun had reached its zenith and shone down warmly on the fields, sending the last of the morning dew skyward in a soft haze.

She was humming quietly to herself. At breakfast in the knacker’s house, Simon had been noticeably attentive. He’d stroked her hair from time to time, letting her know he still loved her. After all their years together, all the arguments and worries, he seemed to be the right man for her, after all.

Despite Simon’s warning about possible infection, Magdalena had finally visited the clinic that morning with the children to help Jakob Schreevogl care for the patients. She intended to be there for the presentation of the hosts, but when she saw the huge crowd, she decided spontaneously not to meet Simon and her father until later, at the mass. First she wanted to see whether she’d assumed correctly that the Andechs abbot would indeed spend some time in the monastery garden that day, as well.