The Poisoned Pilgrim: A Hangman's Daughter Tale (52 page)

“Brother Eckhart can take care of the girl all by himself,” the prior snarled, pointing at the fat cellarer still standing uncertainly on the floor of the keep. “He’s been looking forward to dealing with that girl so long, and we don’t want to disappoint him, do we?”

Until then, Magdalena had been standing behind one of the closed crates, observing the three Benedictines. Now she stepped forward angrily.

“Some fine monks you are,” she shouted up to the prior on
the staircase. “Is this what our Savior understood by brotherly love? Rape and murder?”

“Silence, woman,” Father Benedict chimed in. “You don’t understand what’s going on.”

“I don’t
understand?
” Magdalena pointed at the crates around her. In the torchlight, she saw rusty crucifixes lying around on the tables, along with jawbones, colorful glass stones, and cheap tin chalices. “I’ll tell you what I understand. You’re making counterfeit relics here. I’ve no idea what you’re doing with them, but certainly you’re not putting the fake chalices in your own chapel.”

The librarian laughed again. “Didn’t I tell you, stupid hangman’s girl, that you really don’t understand?”

Magdalena looked at him incredulously. “Does that mean—”

“I’ll tell you what it means,” her father interrupted, swinging his cudgel. “The three of them are probably selling the
genuine
relics and putting the counterfeit ones in the holy chapel. Isn’t that right? You’re selling all the beautiful chalices, monstrances, and crucifixes, and the people in Andechs are praying to tin-plated counterfeits?”

Magdalena looked back again at the tables with the glass stones and rolls of fabric. To the right stood a brazier with a small bellows, and alongside them a few sparkling gold figurines.

“You’re… you’re melting down the chalices and crucifixes?” she cried out in horror. “You’re destroying the sacred treasures of Andechs Monastery and selling them as gold bars? Everything up there is nothing but cheap imitations?”

“Stupid brat.” The prior rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Of course not everything. Do you have any idea how many relics have been accumulating up there? Hundreds! Nobody notices when one or two relics are replaced by cheap imitations. The bones and cloth are returned. We change only the containers, so to speak, and the contents remain the same.”

He smiled broadly and continued pointing the pistol at Kuisl. The weapon seemed to lend him an enormous degree of self-confidence, and Magdalena could positively feel how the prior was enjoying this scene.

“Believe us, we didn’t plan it this way,” Jeremias continued almost apologetically. “During the Great War, hordes of mercenaries descended on us looking for our relics, and Benedikt and I had to hide them again and again. We hid the treasures deep down below the monastery. Then one day, we happened to find a walled-over section in the beer cellar. We broke through the wall and the passage led us here.”

“To the buried keep of Andechs Castle,” Magdalena murmured. “How many of these underground passageways do you think are still here?”

“We never looked any farther,” said the librarian, rubbing his tired little eyes. “It didn’t interest us. We were happy to find a good hiding place during the war.” His voice turned shrill and hatred gleamed in his eyes. “In any case, our own soldiers were worse than the enemy mercenaries. The elector always demanded money for his expensive military campaigns. Where do you think we got that? We melted down some of our relics and replaced them with cheap tin and glass stones. Nobody noticed a thing—on the contrary. The worse the war became, the more pilgrims came here, and they didn’t care what they were worshipping—tin or gold. The only thing they needed was faith.”

“And then after the war you simply carried on and pocketed the money yourselves,” the hangman snorted. “Greedy little monks. You’re all the same.” Warily he eyed the muzzle of the pistol, but Brother Jeremias didn’t let Kuisl out of his sight for a minute.

The old librarian smiled wanly. “I knew a stupid, dishonorable hangman would see it that way,” he finally replied. “But if you really want to know—no, we didn’t pocket the money ourselves. We used it to buy books, valuable knowledge that would
otherwise be lost to history, and we’re saving it to make this monastery into something great someday. Soon we can begin with our new construction, isn’t that right, Brother Jeremias?”

The prior nodded. “The war taught us that faith doesn’t need money. What’s the point of all the bric-a-brac that just collects dust in the chests of the holy chapel? A few times each year, we display some of them from the bay window of the church and people are happy—they pray just as fervently even if these objects are just glass stones and cheap metal. And they will be even happier when the monastery is decked out in new splendor. Our actions are God’s work.”

Kuisl laughed out loud. “Damn it, you really think you’re doing the right thing, don’t you?” he chuckled. “You’re so muddled you can’t see how removed you are from your Savior. You have one foot in hell and really believe you’re working for paradise.” Kuisl nodded grimly. “Your kind was always the worst type I had to string up—those who believed to the end that they were just doing good.”

“I don’t give a damn what you think, hangman,” the prior shouted. “We’ve almost reached our goal. I waited a long time to be named abbot. Everything seemed to be going my way, and then they sent Rambeck from Salzburg University back to the monastery. What a scandal. But under my leadership this monastery will shine again in renewed splendor. And now, Eckhart, grab that woman and—”

Suddenly Kuisl lunged forward, striking the cellarer on the shoulder. The monk grunted with surprise, staggered back, and tipped over a table, spilling glass stones and little bones onto the ground.

“Eckhart, grab him,” the librarian shouted. “He mustn’t escape.”

As the black-robed monk regained his balance, a strange fire gleamed in his eyes, as if the blow he’d received had awakened in him long-forgotten memories of bar-house brawls and beatings.
Magdalena sensed his life before taking on the Benedictine order must have been distinctly unchristian. With his bald head, bullish neck, and flabby but muscular upper arms, he looked more like a waterfront thug than a monk. Growling, he charged Kuisl, who deftly stepped aside. Nevertheless Eckhart landed a passing blow, and Magdalena watched in horror as her father stumbled. Kuisl was just able to grab one of the crates to steady himself.

He’s really starting to show his age,
she thought.
Only a few years ago he would have wiped up the floor of the keep with the fat monk.

As if divining her thoughts, Kuisl rose up defiantly, seized his cudgel, and approached the cellarer like an angry bull.

“Say your prayers, brother,” he growled. “You won’t have to flagellate yourself any more for your sins. I’ll take care of that now.”

With hateful little eyes, Brother Eckhart gazed at Kuisl and groped for something on a table behind him. With his huge hands, he finally seized a golden crucifix which he held up before him.

“Even if you’re not a golem, you come straight from hell,” he hissed. “
Vade, Satanas, vade
! Die, you devil!”

With a scream the monk swung the cross, aiming for the top of Kuisl’s head, but at the last moment Kuisl dodged, raised his cudgel, and brought it down with full force on Eckhart’s skull.

The monk collapsed like an ox struck between the eyes by a bolt from a crossbow. Blood trickled across the dirty floor of the keep as Brother Eckhart twitched one final time, then passed away. The hangman wiped sweat from his forehead.

“You can be glad it’s over for you, little monk,” he gasped. “The punishment for counterfeiting relics is a much more painful death.”

Magdalena, who had been watching the fight from behind one of the crates, was about to rush out to help her father when
she was grabbed by the neck from behind and felt something sharp and cold press against her right temple.

“Drop the club right now, hangman,” the prior hissed. He’d snuck down the stairway and was now holding the cool barrel of the pistol against Magdalena’s head. “Or your daughter will roast in hell even before you.”

Kuisl turned toward his daughter, and when he saw the weapon in the prior’s hand, he immediately lowered his cudgel. Magdalena could now see fear in her father’s eyes.

He had trouble concealing his anger. “Listen, monk,” he began, “I don’t care what you do with me—I’ve lived a full life—but keep my daughter out of this.”

“Run with the dogs, die with the dogs,” Brother Benedikt jeered as he stepped out from behind the prior, looking like a hungry old crow. He glanced down at the dead Eckhart. “That fat rapist is no great loss,” he hissed. “He was evil and sick, but we needed him to move the heavy crates. Just as we needed Laurentius. The novitiate master, with his delicate fingers, was the only one who could make convincing counterfeits out of stone and metal.” Benedikt sighed. “A real artist. It’s a shame we lost him.”

“Such a hypocrite,” Magdalena snapped as the prior pressed the mouth of the pistol so hard against her temple that a small trickle of blood ran down her cheek. She continued, undeterred. “You probably killed Laurentius yourself because he was afraid and was about to betray you.”

“You’re wrong, girl,” Brother Benedikt replied coolly. “We ourselves don’t know who did that to the good fellow.” He pointed at the hole in the floor. “There’s something lurking around down there. We covered the opening with the stone slab, but you removed it. So tell me. You came from down there. What did you see?”

“We didn’t find a golem or a sorcerer,” the hangman interrupted
in his deep bass voice. “We were just looking for my grandchildren.”

“Your…
grandchildren?
” The librarian paused briefly then started cackling like a chicken. “Ha! Don’t tell me all this is happening just because the dumb girl’s brats ran away on her.”

“The sorcerer abducted them, you old fool,” Magdalena shouted as angry tears ran down her face. “If none of you is the sorcerer, who is? Speak up! Who knows what this madman is doing with my children?”

But Brother Benedikt just continued laughing, his scornful, hysterical cackle echoing loudly through the cellar of the keep. Finally, he stopped and wiped his face. “That’s so funny,” he replied, breathlessly. “You really believe that one of us is the sorcerer—and all this time, we thought it was one of you. And while we stand here beating up on each other, the real sorcerer goes happily about his business. That’s just precious.”

Magdalena hesitated. It didn’t seem Brother Benedikt was just trying to fool her. “And… and you have nothing to do with the hosts that were stolen and have now reappeared?” she asked uncertainly.

“God, no!” The librarian shrugged. “Why should we be interested in a few old wafers? They can’t be melted down. But in one regard, I must disappoint you—the hosts still haven’t reappeared. The monstrance that the unfortunate Laurentius brought with him from the forest was empty.”

“Just as I thought,” Kuisl cursed. “The sorcerer had already removed the hosts. What in God’s name does he want with them?”

“That, my good fellow, is something you’ll never learn,” Prior Jeremias hissed, pointing the flintlock pistol directly into Kuisl’s face. “You’re right. There’s only one bullet in the gun, but after we’ve taken care of you, we’ll deal with your daughter. Strange, isn’t it, that this is all starting to really amuse me.” In a flash, he picked up a stiletto from one of the tables and held it to
Magdalena’s throat. “Perhaps we’ll take a little time with the girl, but you’re on your way to hell now, hangman. Farewell.”

As the pistol clicked, Kuisl dodged to one side, but the fatal shot never came.

Horrified, the Andechs prior stared at a crossbow bolt protruding from his upper right arm. His fingers went limp, and the pistol clattered to the ground. The face of the old librarian beside him turned white, and his eyes were glued to the top of the stairway leading to the exit above.

“Don’t kill her. I want her alive.”

Turning, Magdalena saw four unfamiliar soldiers in uniforms at the top of the staircase. Their leather cuirasses were emblazoned with a coat of arms depicting a golden lion in a black field. Two of the men aimed crossbows at the two Benedictines.

Between the soldiers stood Count Leopold von Wartenberg. “Behold! We’ve finally found the nest of the relics thieves,” he said coldly. “The executioner in Weilheim can really look forward to a good year. Two little execution pyres won’t suffice for this dreadful crime.”

S
HORTLY AFTER NIGHTFALL ON
S
UNDAY,
J
UNE
20, 1666 AD

S
IMON CRINGED AS
the man from the underworld bent over him almost solicitously. His humpback looked almost like a little animal bulging out of his black Benedictine robe. In his right hand, he grasped the silver pommel of his walking stick.

This isn’t possible,
Simon thought.
You’re dead. I saw you—a charred corpse—with my own eyes in the cemetery.

But unlike the shriveled black corpse the medicus had examined just two days ago,
this
Virgilius was most definitely alive. His face was twisted into an insane grimace, and he cocked his head to one side as if observing his patient’s paralysis with great interest.

“Am I mistaken or did I just see a tiny movement?” the watchmaker said in a hoarse voice. “It would be interesting to see if the effect of the poison lessens over time, but unfortunately we’ll not be able to continue this experiment.”

“Nnnnn
…
”
For the first time Simon was able to summon up all his strength and produce a sound. He had to strain so hard he almost passed out.

“Papa?” Peter asked anxiously. He kneeled with his brother
on the stone floor, both of them running their fingers back and forth across their father’s face. “Papa is sick?”

“Your father isn’t sick; he’s just resting before going on a very long trip.”

Virgilius rose and, supported by his walking stick, hobbled over to the puppet still standing in the middle of the room. Its mouth had fallen silent, and the rattling and clicking had ceased, as well. It was nothing more than a lifeless automaton whose mechanism had stopped.