The Dark Monk (35 page)

“Careful with the fire,” murmured the abbot, who had disappeared behind some tall crates in a corner. “One false move and all of Western culture goes up in flames!”

Simon gingerly set his lantern down atop a pile of books and, sitting cross-legged on the floor, immersed himself in the world of letters. He felt neither the cold nor the wind whistling between the loose tiles of the roof.

It was Benedikta who shook him by the shoulder and roused him from his daydreams.

“Forget the books; we don’t have time!” she whispered. “Once we have the treasure in hand, you can buy all these books, for all I care, and lock yourself up with them for the rest of your life. But come now!”

In the meanwhile, the abbot reappeared from the rear of the attic carrying a small trunk closed with a heavy padlock. He took a key out from under his habit and opened the box decorated with silver fittings. Resting on a red velvet lining inside was a simple cross and, at the bottom, a single book bound in bright calfskin.

With slender fingers, the abbot opened two golden clasps along the side of the book, then turned the brittle parchment pages until he found a certain passage in the middle. Simon leaned over to get a closer look. Some of the letters were red, the color of dried blood in the lantern light, and others were written in fine dark-brown flourishes and only slighted yellowed. Despite their age, they were quite legible. “The Wessobrunn Prayer,” he whispered.

Abbot Bernhard nodded. “It’s many hundreds of years old,” he said, passing his hand gently over the page. “A treasure dating from the time the German Empire was still a primeval forest inhabited by heathens and wild animals. The prayer sounds like an ancient magic spell, and we Benedictines guard it like no other document.”

He sighed, quoting the beginning of the prayer with his eyes closed.

“This is what I learned among mortal men as the greatest wonder. That there was neither the earth nor the heaven above. Nor was there any tree nor mountain. Neither any star at all, nor any other thing, neither sun nor moon, nor the sparkling sea…”

Simon quickly read it through, but nothing stood out as a clue about where to turn next. Finally, he cleared his throat and interrupted the abbot’s monologue.

“Yes, a wonderful prayer, Your Excellency. Where was it stored before?”

Abbot Bernhard stopped and gave him a bewildered look. “Before?”

“Well,” said Simon, “I mean before it was brought to this tower during the Great War.”

Bernhard Gering smiled. “Ah, that’s what you mean. Well, it was in a little chapel in the rectory. We just barely had time to rescue the document. A few days later, the Swedes came to loot and pillage. The chapel, too, was burned to the ground.”

Simon gulped, and Benedikta, who stood beside him, turned even paler than usual. “Completely?” she asked.

“Yes, completely. We even carted away the foundations, and now a little herb garden is there in the summer. But are you feeling well?” Bernhard looked at them anxiously. “It was just a little chapel, after all, with no holy relics or church treasure, and the prayer, as I said, we were able to save. Were you acquainted with the little church before the war?”

Benedikta came to Simon’s aid. “My guide no doubt often prayed there as a child.” She turned toward the abbot. “Was anything else saved from the church along with the Wessobrunn Prayer? A picture? A statue? Perhaps a memorial plaque?”

The abbot shook his head. “Unfortunately not. Everything was destroyed. And there were no memorial plaques in the chapel. Did you want to go there to pray?”

Simon nodded. His head was spinning. They had placed such great hope in the prayer, in finding something that would give them a clue in their search for the treasure, but all they found was an ancient parchment that didn’t help at all. Was this the end of the search? Had the secret of the Templars’ treasure been buried forever with the destruction of the Wessobrunn chapel?

One last time, Simon scanned the lines, silently mouthing the verse to himself.

…that there was neither the earth nor the heaven above. Nor was there any tree…

Simon stopped short. They had overlooked something.

Tree…

Unlike the lines in the crypt of the ruined castle, the word here was not written in capital letters. So was there perhaps a certain tree here, and not in Peiting?

It was Benedikta who interrupted the silence. She, too, seemed to notice the discrepancy. “Is there perhaps somewhere around here a tree with some special significance?” she asked, trying to seem casual.

“A special significance?” The abbot looked even more confused. “What do you mean—”

“
Ah, oui, excusez-moi,
” Benedikta interrupted. “This is a prayer about the miraculous powers of nature, the heavens, the mountains, and trees. I am a devout soul in search of a powerful place for my prayer. Perhaps a tree?”

Bernhard’s face brightened. “Ah, yes, the old Tassilo Linden southeast of the monastery! An ancient tree blessed by God! Duke Tassilo is said to have dreamed there of the three wellsprings that later made this place famous. An excellent place to pray!”

“How old is this linden?” Simon asked.

“Certainly hundreds of years old. It has four trunks that have grown together, and some people consider this a symbol of the four elements. The Tassilo Linden is the most famous tree in our area.”

“Your Excellency,” Benedikta interrupted, “could you do us a great favor?”

“But of course.”

“Would you take us to this tree tomorrow morning? I believe it would be the perfect place for me to open my soul to God at daybreak.” She smiled at the abbot. “Surely, it will be revealed to me there what sum I should finally donate to the monastery.”

“Under these circumstances,” said the abbot, “I’ll make sure that no one will be there to disturb you tomorrow. And please include the monastery in your prayers.”

Simon nodded. “We shall do that. Your Excellency?”

“Yes, my son?”

“Might I borrow some books until tomorrow morning?”

The abbot smiled. “But of course. I’d be delighted if someone would read them again.”

After assembling a stack of books, Simon staggered down the stairs with his hands full. It would be a long night.

Magdalena was lying in a ship’s hold, being rocked gently side to side by waves that beat against the hull. She had difficulty keeping her eyes open as the sound of the water and the constant back and forth lulled her to sleep. A storm was brewing outside, however; the rocking became more violent, and she was thrown back and forth in the little ship like loose cargo. She would have to go up on deck to see what was wrong up there.

She stood up. Her head banged against a wooden wall, and with a cry of pain, she sunk back down again.

The pain woke her up, and the dream floated away like a cloud. She was not on a ship at all, but inside a tiny wooden crate. The rocking was from the movement of a wagon. Magdalena could hear the snorting of horses and a monotone hissing sound and, after a while realized it was the sound of runners of a sled being pulled through the snow. So it was not a wagon, but a sled that was taking her somewhere in a box. Now she could feel the cold coming through the slats of the box. A shaft of light entered through the cracks—too little to see more than a few indistinct figures rushing by. Her head pounded as if she had drunk a whole barrel of wine by herself.

Magdalena measured the narrow space around her with her hands and feet and quickly realized that the box was exactly the size of a coffin. Had she died perhaps and come back to life? Was someone taking her to the cemetery to bury her alive?

Or was she already dead?

“Help! Is someone there?” Her voice was nothing more than a soft wheezing sound. “I’m not dead! Get me out of here!”

The long, drawn-out call of a coachman was audible as he brought the sled to a stop. The shaking finally stopped and a crunching sound could be heard as someone trudged through the snow toward the box. Magdalena’s heart began to pound. Someone had heard her, and she was safe! In no time, the gravedigger would realize his error and break open the coffin. She would laugh in his face and tell him—

“Shut your damned mouth, Hangman’s Daughter, or I’ll dig a hole six feet deep and stick you in it, just like we used to do with sluts like you.”

Magdalena fell silent. She recognized the voice at once—it was the man who had stuck her in the arm with the dagger, the man the other brothers had called Brother Jakobus. The name brought memories flooding back: the cathedral, the cross around his bishop’s neck, the subterranean vault, the meeting. There must have been poison on the tip of the dagger that had paralyzed her and finally made her pass out—the same poison that had also made her father lose consciousness. Brother Jakobus was obviously taking her away somewhere to dispose of her.

But where?

“Listen, we’ll soon be going by a security post.” The man now sounded somewhat conciliatory. “Don’t make a sound, do you understand? Not a sound! I don’t mean to kill you, because we still need you, but if I have to, I will. Did your father ever tell you how long it takes to suffocate when you’re buried alive?”

Brother Jakobus did not wait for the answer but climbed back up to the coach box, judging from what she could hear. With the crack of a whip, the sled moved forward again.

Magdalena tried to put her thoughts in order. The monk knew her and her father! He was probably the man with the violet perfume who had been watching her all along in Schongau and Altenstadt. By coincidence, he’d run into her again in Augsburg. He was apparently out to find the Templars’ treasure, and clearly, there were many more people involved.

Magdalena shuddered. Only now did she remember she’d recognized the bishop among those disguised figures. It seemed clear he was the leader of this insane plot. The bishop had spoken of a brotherhood. What order could he have meant? And what treasure were these men looking for? What treasure could be so great as to turn pious, influential Christians into merciless killers?

Magdalena’s thoughts were interrupted when the sled suddenly stopped. She could hear voices—apparently, the watch post.

“Where are you going with the coffin, Father? We don’t need any plague victims in town!”

“Don’t worry, my son. An elderly brother of mine has gone to join God. I’m taking him back to his hometown.”

Magdalena was tempted to scream, but then she remembered what the monk had said.

Did your father ever tell you how long it takes to suffocate when you’re buried alive?

She kept quiet. Finally, the guard let them pass, and the sled continued its journey. She could hear footsteps outside, laughter, and individual voices. Someone with a strong Swabian accent was hawking hot chestnuts. Where was she? Where was the man taking her? She had no idea how long the poison had knocked her out. One day? Two?

Again the sled stopped, and she could hear the muffled sound of Jakobus’s voice. He was speaking with someone, but the conversation was too faint for her to understand anything. Suddenly, the coffin began to shake. Magdalena felt herself being lifted up and then carried down a flight of stairs. Imprisoned in her coffin, she slid from one side to the other.

“Careful, careful!” Brother Jakobus scolded. “Have some respect for the dead!”

“Where your brother is, it won’t bother him anymore,” she heard a deep voice reply grimly. Then the coffin fell to the ground, and Magdalena suppressed a cry of pain. She could hear coins being counted out, then heavy steps struggling up the stairway again. After that, only silence.

Magdalena waited a moment, then groped at the boards above her. Certainly, Brother Jakobus wanted to rest and had put up for the night in some inn. Would she be able to loosen the boards a bit now? Her father said that coffins were often very carelessly nailed together. After all, nobody figured the dead would want to escape their last resting place.

Pressing with both hands against the top of the coffin to check how secure the boards were, she heard a ripping sound. Someone was prying a board off the lid! A moment later, a bright light shone into the coffin through the crack, and a head with a monk’s haircut peered in above her. Brother Jakobus was shining his torch inside. His face was only a few inches from hers, but she wasn’t able to reach up and seize him since her arms were still pinned beneath the cover. A strong scent of violets filled her nose.

“Well, Hangman’s Daughter?” Brother Jakobus asked, passing his hand almost sympathetically over her cheeks. “How do you like your bed? Does it make you think of Judgment Day? Are you overcome with weeping and trembling? The wrath of the Lord catches up with everyone sooner or later.”

In answer, Magdalena spit in his face.

The monk wiped the spittle from his cheek and his eyes narrowed to little slits. But then he smiled. “You slut. Women have always brought sinfulness on mankind, and you shall pay for it in eternity!” He closed his eyes briefly. “But you, too, are part of God’s plans, at least for now…” He moved briefly out of her field of view and, seconds later reappeared with a wet sponge in hand. “Until then, I’ll have to silence your fresh, malicious tongue. Our journey is not yet over, and before then, your shouts might betray our cause.” As he spoke the last of these words, he pressed the sponge down over Magdalena’s face. “And I will take no pity on your children, for they are sons and daughters of a whore…” the monk whispered.

The hangman’s daughter writhed about, attempting in vain to call for help, but trapped beneath the boards, she couldn’t pull her head away. She held her breath, whimpering, as Brother Jakobus pressed the sponge down harder and harder against her face.

The monk looked up to the heavens, murmuring quietly. “Your mother is a harlot, and she who gave birth to you is an abomination. Thus, behold, I will block your way with thorns and erect a wall that you may not find your way…”

When Magdalena was finally overcome by the need to breathe, she opened her mouth in a stifled cry and a bitter fluid filled her throat. She could smell poppy seeds and the fragrance of herbs that her father used in relieving the misery of condemned men on their march to the gallows. Paris quadrifolia, ranunculus, wolfsbane…Now the voice of the monk sounded like a distant, monotone chant.