The Dark Monk (27 page)

Lechner seemed irritated. “No, why do you ask?”

“I’ve heard enough screaming in my life, and now I’d rather do a little healing.”

Without another word, the hangman left, closing the door behind him.

Inside, the clerk continued perusing his documents, but he was having trouble putting his mind to it. He would never understand this Kuisl. So be it. He had promised the wealthy messenger he’d get the hangman out of the way for a long time, so if there was a second gang, all the better. That would take time, and Lechner would also save himself the sixteen guilders it cost to break the prisoner on the wheel—two guilders for each blow—not to mention the additional money that might be added to the city coffers if they retrieved it.

Satisfied, he signed another document with a flourish. They could always break the leader of the second group on the wheel. For the sake of justice.

Simon drummed his fingers nervously on the armrest of the pew, waiting for the last amen from Elias Ziegler. He felt like jumping up during the service, running to the front of the church, and demanding some explanation from the drunken priest. Benedikta, too, had started fidgeting and shifting around in her pew, turning back to look at Simon with a wide-open mouth when Ziegler mentioned the riddle they’d seen in the crypt. But before the service was finally over, there were two prayers in Latin and what seemed to Simon like an endless
Kyrie eleison.

The citizens of Altenstadt now formed a line to offer condolences to Benedikta, who took a seat on a small wooden stool alongside the bier. At her side, the pastor nodded piously to the guests as they walked past the coffin and expressed their sympathy. Some of them placed dried flowers in the coffin, crossed themselves, or made signs with their fingers meant to ward off evil spirits. By now, most of them believed Andreas Koppmeyer had died simply from overeating, but thanks to the housekeeper, Magda, the rumor was still going around that the devil’s minions had poisoned him because he had done too much to promote good in the world. The housekeeper collapsed in tears in front of the bier and had to be taken outside by the sacristan, Abraham Gedler.

Simon stared at Benedikta. Even now, the Landsberg wine merchant preserved her composure. She thanked each person individually and reminded everyone about the funeral feast to follow. That really wasn’t necessary; Simon assumed that many Altenstadters came to the funeral only so they could gorge themselves on a big meal afterward.

“Well, Fronwieser, have you made any progress in your investigation?”

Simon spun around. It was Augustin Bonenmayr who had joined him in line. The tall, gaunt abbot from Steingaden was wearing his brass pince-nez here in the basilica as well, and from behind them, his tiny, alert eyes peered out at the physician.

“Unfortunately not, Your Excellency.”

“If you ever should consider leaving Schongau, then do come to Steingaden,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “The monastery needs another smart, open-minded physician like you, especially now that we are rebuilding and expanding. When the construction is finished, thousands of people will be making a pilgrimage to Steingaden each year—people with illnesses and infirmities. God can’t heal them all.” The abbot smiled benignly. Then his gaze fell on the coffin and he became serious again. “A great loss for us all,” he said. “Koppmeyer was a man of the people. The church needs more like him.”

“You’re right, Excellency.” Simon looked ahead nervously. There were just three mourners in front of him; he would be able to ask Elias Ziegler about his prayer. In his excitement, he had trouble concentrating on Augustin Bonenmayr’s words.

The abbot of Steingaden took off his pince-nez and polished it with a lace handkerchief. “Do you still think he was poisoned?” he asked softly. “Perhaps the good man truly just ate something that didn’t agree with him, or too much. Everyone knew he was not averse to the pleasures of this world. But then, if it really was a murder…” He kept polishing his glasses, though they were already as clear as limpid water. “Have you ever asked yourself who would benefit most from Koppmeyer’s death? As far as I know, he had only one relative, his sister.” The abbot turned away. “Good day to you, and God be with you.”

Simon stood there, gaping, the abbot’s words resounding in his ears. Could Benedikta have poisoned her brother? He couldn’t for the life of him imagine that, but there was no time to think about this, as he had arrived at the bier that very moment. Inside lay the body of Andreas Koppmeyer, his face waxen and peaceful and his hands folded around a crucifix. In the narrow box, he suddenly looked much smaller than he had been in life. The corpse already seemed slightly bloated. In spite of the cold, it was clearly time to put him in the ground.

Simon nodded to Benedikta, who was still standing at the coffin accepting expressions of concern. He mumbled some condolences, then turned to the priest.

“A wonderful sermon, Your Excellency,” he whispered. “So full of compassion.”

“Thank you.” Father Elias Ziegler smiled.

“I especially liked the closing words, the prayer about the greatest miracle, humankind, at a time when there was no earth, no heavens, and not a tree standing…Where does it come from?”

“Ah, the Wessobrunn Prayer.” The priest nodded appreciatively. “Did you know it is considered the oldest of all German prayers? There is something especially magical about it, I think. I’m glad you liked it. I haven’t used it in my sermons for ages.”

Simon nodded. “The Wessobrunn Prayer,” he murmured. “Why is it called that?”

The priest shrugged. “Well, because it has been safeguarded for many years in Wessobrunn in a monastery only a day’s trip from here. The monks keep it in a shrine, like a relic.”

Simon’s mouth suddenly turned dry. “Is this prayer more than three hundred years old?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“Indeed, much older, even.” Elias Ziegler looked worried. “Are you ill? You’re so pale.”

“Oh, no, it’s just that—”

Benedikta smiled sympathetically at the priest. “You must know he was very fond of my brother. This has all been a little too much for him.”

Elias Ziegler nodded earnestly. “Isn’t that true for us all?” he said. Then he turned to the next mourner.

Simon paused at Benedikta’s side. “The Wessobrunn Prayer,” he whispered. “I should have known! So the treasure is hidden in the Wessobrunn Monastery.”

“Or the next riddle,” Benedikta whispered, holding her head erect while accepting condolences from the mourners. “In any case, we’ll have to go to Wessobrunn. I hope in the meantime you’ve learned a little more about riding a horse,” she said, with a slight smile, “or we’ll never find out if this Templars’ treasure really exists.”

Simon returned the smile but felt a queasiness in his stomach. The Steingaden abbot had sown a seed of suspicion that took root in his mind. Nodding, he bade farewell and left the cold basilica.

The young boy led Magdalena through the narrow lanes of Augsburg, down into the Weavers’ Quarter. Little icy gutters lined the paved streets. Everywhere, there were millwheels that drove the weavers’ looms during the warmer part of the year but now were silent, covered with icicles and half submerged under ice where a number of brooks came together. Most houses didn’t have windows but just tiny peepholes, and Magdalena had the feeling that behind each of them a pair of eyes was staring at them as they walked by.

It was well past nightfall, and she kept looking around to see if the two thugs might be waiting around the next corner for her as she passed by with the boy.

Finally, they came to a large house directly along the city wall. With whitewashed stone walls, green shutters, and a heavy wood front door, it seemed almost elegant in comparison to the rundown weavers’ cottages, though it was nowhere near as magnificent as the three-story mansions closer to the city hall. Magdalena could hardly believe this was the hangman’s house, but the boy stopped and knocked. Shortly, steps could be heard, a little slit opened beside the door, and a bearded face appeared. As the man raised his lantern to get a look at his visitors, Magdalena could see the reddish-blond hair of his beard and two eyes sparkling in the dim light. The man looked at Magdalena and the boy with suspicion.

“No more customers today,” he growled. “Come back tomorrow if you’re still alive and kicking.”

The boy crossed himself, mumbled a brief prayer, and took off into the darkness. Magdalena stared at the hangman behind the peephole. Apparently, he hadn’t recognized her.

“Are you deaf, or what?” The man’s voice sounded threatening now. “Beat it fast, or I’ll come and get you, you goddamn harlot!”

He was just about to close the little hatch when Magdalena addressed him.

“It’s me, Magdalena Kuisl from Schongau. Don’t you recognize me?”

Eyes wide in astonishment, he opened the door. His massive frame was illuminated by the light from the room.

Philipp Hartmann was almost as big as the Schongau hangman. He had a long, thick, reddish-blond mane, which, along with his beard, framed a wrinkled face. His arms were as thick as tree trunks, and a massive paunch with a dense growth of hair spilled out from under his shirt. He could be mistaken for a day laborer or hired thug, except that his shirt was made of the finest fustian and the black jacket over it didn’t show a single patch. Philipp Hartmann sized her up with the narrow little slits of his eyes—the eyes of an intelligent but extremely proud man.

Finally, he grinned. “Indeed, Magdalena Kuisl!” he cried, and his deep voice echoed through the streets. “What a surprise! Come in before you freeze to death standing outside the hangman’s house.”

He put his hand on her shoulder and guided her into the warm house. A fire rumbled softly in a tile stove, and some leftovers from supper were still on the table: roast pheasant, a half wheel of cheese, and a sliced leg of ham, alongside a pitcher of wine and a plate of sliced white bread. Magdalena felt her mouth water, reminding her she had eaten nothing substantial since the night before. Philipp Hartmann noticed her gaze and gestured for her to sit down. “Come and eat; it’s too much for one person.”

Magdalena sat down to eat. The bread was still warm, and the fine, white pheasant leg delicious. It was like Easter and a church fair combined. The Kuisls could afford a meal like this only when there were a lot of executions—and even then, only when the pay was good. Philipp Hartmann looked at her, impressed with her beauty, but kept his silence.

Suddenly, footsteps could be heard on the stairs, the door squeaked, and a little girl peeked in. She was about five years old, wore a nightshirt, and had reddish-blonde pigtails.

“Go back upstairs, Barbara,” the hangman said. “We have company. Magdalena will certainly stay overnight, so you can play with her tomorrow morning.” He smiled, a facial expression that clearly did not come naturally to him. “Perhaps she’ll even stay longer.”

Magdalena swallowed the rest of the pheasant, but suddenly the meat had lost its taste and seemed dry. The little girl nodded, scrutinized the hangman’s daughter from head to toe again, and then disappeared up the stairs.

“You can have more, if you like,” Philipp Hartmann said, pouring her another cup of wine. “I’ve also got some nuts and other delicacies. We’re not hurting for money.”

Magdalena shook her head in wonderment and admired the whitewashed walls, the brightly polished copper kettles, and the enameled pitchers and plates. Philipp Hartmann’s wife had died more than a year ago, and still, the house was in remarkably good condition. The reeds and straw on the floor smelled fresh, and Magdalena couldn’t find a single cobweb anywhere. In the devotional corner, an oil painting of the Madonna, which looked as if it had just been framed, hung next to a polished executioner’s sword. Beneath this, fresh linen and colorful clothes were stacked on the brass-studded cover of a walnut chest. Magdalena nodded to herself. Her father had been right; the Augsburg hangman would, in fact, be a great match for a girl, but even in her wildest dreams, she couldn’t even consider marrying him.

Philipp Hartmann sat down next to her, poured himself a cup of wine, and raised his glass to her. “And now tell me what you’re doing in Augsburg at this time of year. Actually, it’s the man who is supposed to be the suitor and pay a visit to his intended—or do you do things differently in Schongau?” Again, he tried to smile.

“It’s…not exactly what you think,” Magdalena began hesitantly. It was wrong for her to come here; she knew that. She was leading him on by coming here, but what other choice did she have? Even as far away as Schongau, people knew the Augsburg hangman’s wife had died of consumption the year before. Since that time, Philipp Hartmann had been looking for a new wife and a good mother for his little girl, Barbara. The only possible match for him as a hangman was the daughter of a butcher or a hangman.

Three months had passed since Philipp Hartmann had paid a visit to the Kuisls in order to get to know Magdalena a little better. The men had quickly come to an agreement, and her father had described the life of the Augsburg hangman’s wife to her in glowing colors. In contrast to the Schongau hangman, Philipp Hartmann was well-to-do. Admittedly, he was also a so-called dishonorable man whom people avoided, but with hard work and ambition, Hartmann had made a name for himself in recent years. He was viewed not just as an experienced hangman, but as an excellent healer who was consulted by well-off citizens as well as the simple people. Workers, merchants’ daughters, and patricians all came to him for treatment and they all left behind decent sums of money.

For hours her father had tried to reason with her, tried to explain she would never be allowed to marry Simon and that all she would achieve would be mockery and, in the worst case, banishment from town. But in the end, all his arguments were in vain and Philipp Hartmann finally left empty-handed, taking his dowry in a safely guarded little chest back to Augsburg with him.

And now Magdalena was here at his house, eating his food and asking for a place to stay the night. She felt dirty and wrong, and only slowly and hesitantly did she tell him what had happened to her.