The Seer and the Scribe (20 page)

The older man went on smiling. “So, we meet again, water boy.” With a look to his partner to be sure of his agreement, he stared down at Matthias, still asleep, and said in a cheery voice, “I was just checking to see if this is who I thought he might be.”

“And who do you think he is?” Atif asked, still holding his knife to the throat of the younger man.

The older man shifted his narrow look to him and said with no particular interest, “He's simply a tired old soldier. We will leave him alone. He's not the man we've been waiting for.”

Atif studied the older man, feeling there was something he wasn't letting on—or was he reading more into the situation than was necessary? As a spy, he ended up suspecting that everyone was as deceptive and cunning as he was.

The older man saw the glint of uncertainty and changed the subject. “I've heard about the Archbishop's arrest. You spent a great deal of time with that family in Rome and then in Mainz, did you not?”

Atif released the younger man with a shove and put his knife back into its sheath. “Where I choose to live and who I choose to know is none of your business. Leave me and my friend alone, understand?”

“Of course. Let us put this unfortunate incident behind us, shall we?” The older man bowed courteously and approached Atif as if to shake his hand in agreement. “It was an easy mistake to make.” He reached over, but instead of a friendly handshake, the old man shoved a knife through Atif's ribs and directly into his heart. “Good night, my friend. Sleep well.”

Atif crumpled to the ground. Images of his ill-spent youth darted through his dying brain as his own warm blood seeped through his fingers and began to soak through his shirt. At this solemn moment, he could feel his soul loosening itself from the shell of his body to return to God. There were voices, though, whispering voices of his assailants arguing with one another.

“Now why did you go and kill him?” The younger man whispered, clearly distraught.

“He knows too much. After all these years we've finally caught up to Matthias. I am not going to walk away now.”

“All right then, what are we going to do with his body?”

“You ask too many questions, just like him.” The old man kicked Atif's body so that he fell forward, his face nearly under Matthias's bed. “Don't worry, no one misses a spy. He'll have no mourners: He has no past and now no future.”

There was a stifled gasp. The two men turned from their victim and saw clearly in the shadows the anguished look of two very young, yet perceptive green eyes. The younger man went immediately to the girl and seized her arm, bringing her into the light of the moon streaming in from the window. “She knows too much,” he countered, tightening his grip as she squirmed to get away.

“Who do you have here, Donato?” spoke the older man, lifting the girl's chin to gaze into her upturned face. “I recognize you,” he
crowed. “We meet again.” He snatched the blanket from around the girl's shoulders and flung it to the floor. “I see you've matured into a pretty young thing,” he said, clearly admiring the curves of her young body, suggested in the flimsy folds of her long delicately embroidered undergarment.

The younger man hastily interrupted his companion. “Ulrich, this isn't the time to think of such pleasures; we've just killed a man!”

“You are right as usual, my friend. We will take her with us.” He grinned down at Sophie, who was shivering uncontrollably. He reached for her blanket and held it mockingly from her. “Give me a kiss right here and you may have it,” he said, pointing to his cheek.

Obediently, Sophie leaned forward and gave him a quick peck. He smelled of strong ale. The white hairs on his cheek felt scratchy.

“See, that didn't hurt,” he said, before whispering menacingly, “and don't even think of screaming or you will suffer the same fate as our friend here.” Once more he kicked at Atif's crumpled legs.

Atif felt for the rosary in his inside pocket. Soaked in his own blood, he used it to scrawl an “S” just under the bed before closing his eyes and giving in to death's insistent murmur.

Village of Staudernheim

5
^th
of November, Early Morning

From the back of Ulrich's horse, Sophie watched the townspeople ducking out of their low doorways. They were dressed in their heavy cloaks of coarse wool, shuddering in the chill of the morning air as they gathered their pails and headed down to the river to draw water. She tried in vain to make eye contact with one of them, hoping to communicate somehow that she had been kidnapped by these two finely dressed gentlemen. In the past she'd depended on the blindness of strangers, concealing from them for as long as she could the fact that she was her grandfather's apprentice. Now, she wished they would notice her. Unfortunately, her captors
were both knights and noblemen. Such status, she knew, meant they could do as they please. Few if any of the peasants raised their heads as they laced up their boots, and no one stole even a glance up to the height where she sat high on a chestnut warhorse. One man, however, did come right up to the flank of her horse and spat on the ground before turning to a nearby shrubbery to relieve himself. She interpreted this as an act of defiance. Ulrich and Donato chose to ignore the incident, she assumed, because they had more pressing business on their minds.

Sophie reasoned that these were simple hardworking people, keeping to themselves out of a sense of hopelessness. They were like her aunt's husband, leading lives controlled by poverty and fear inflicted on them by the wealthier classes. She forcibly turned her thoughts back to her captors. Ulrich and Donato had said little else to one another since leaving the Infirmary. Donato had saddled up the two horses and had tied her into Ulrich's saddle while Ulrich apparently had disposed of Atif's body. There was an unspoken urgency between the two men, though neither one of them seemed too terribly upset by killing the foreigner in the Infirmary. Their impatience had a greater purpose. They had left the monastery by riding upstream through a gap in the fortress wall surrounding the fields of Paulus's herbal garden and had turned towards the village just as the sun rose behind the distant hills.

At least whatever they were up to had taken priority over her. She blushed shamefully, remembering the look in Ulrich's eyes. How she longed to hold her pale hands out over the fire in the comfort of Brother Paulus's Infirmary. Even his giant aloof presence was preferable to this refined man's lewd comments. Now, however, she remembered her Grandda's words. “What you do, what you say, even what you think, girl, has a direct influence on what those around you may do.”

Ulrich disappeared into the merchant's hovel. Donato stayed mounted next to her, holding onto the reins of her horse. She decided that she ought to now take advantage of the opportunity. It would be easier to win over this man than his fiendish friend.

Donato reached into his saddlebags and retrieved a simple oil cloth. “Eat up,” he said, handing her a hunk of wheat bread and a small onion. Sophie pulled her blanket closer around her and ate,
grateful for the nourishment. She tucked up her sleeve a chunk of the bread for later, not knowing when she might be offered her next meal.

After a short while, Donato appeared clearly uncomfortable with his new role as warden. “What is your name, child?”

“It's Sophie, sir,” she answered. Could there be some truth to her Grandda's teachings? Could she somehow change her circumstances by influencing Donato? Maybe, if she shared something of herself, he would see her as a real person. It was worth a try. “You have a foreign accent, where are you from?”

“Florence, Italy,” he said, proudly.

“I've heard they have beautiful cathedrals there. What is it really like?” she asked.

“Warmer than here,” he added quickly, pulling up his collar and reaching for his own slice of bread. “There is a color, Sophie, to the sky that suits me. It is always tinged with blue, not so heavy with clouds and so grey.”

“You miss your home very much. Do you have any family?” she went on encouragingly.

“I do,” he said wistfully. “I have a big family, with many brothers and sisters, and a wife. I left her to go fight in the Holy Land. She was pregnant. I do not know if I have a son or daughter, for I haven't returned in nigh eleven years.” There was regret in his voice.

“Your son or daughter would be but two years younger than me,” Sophie said with sadness. “I wish I knew my own father.”

Ulrich re-emerged, this time carrying what appeared to be a large wicker basket with iron hinges. It was covered in burlap, so it was difficult to tell what species of creature was making all the weird squawking noises. Without saying a word, the older man strapped the basket behind her. Likewise, she too was strapped down and had essentially no choice. Maybe, she thought, to Donato she was more than just a caged animal for someone's amusement.

Refectory at Disibodenberg Monastery

5
^th
of November, Sext, Mid-Day Meal

Volmar quickened his step to fall in line with Abbot Burchard. Both were on their way to dine in the Refectory. The bells were chiming the noon hour of Sext.

“And how, Brother Volmar, do you find your young student?” Abbot Burchard said with mock annoyance.

“More clever than I was at her age, Father.”

“Clever, you say? Humph! Funny you should use such a word. I see it all so clearly now . . . you came to me with a plaintive case of unused talents and even had me quoting Scripture supporting the sin of wasting God's gifts. The entire time, however, you omitted one important and relevant detail. Namely, this was not a man, but a girl you wanted to teach; and one imprisoned for life in an Anchorage!”

“I apologize for the deception, Father.”

“Yes, yes, but nevertheless, I see now, that it is
you
I need to be wary of.” Abbot Burchard wagged an accusative finger under the young monk's chin.

Volmar looked sheepishly at the Abbot, aware of all the other holy brothers who were now silent, listening in on the conversation. “Father, you and I both know it was a wise decision on many levels.”

The Abbot let his voice drop and motioned for the young monk to walk beside him. “It will be perceived by the Bishop as an outrage. Not even one week has passed since their enclosure, and we're already talking about turning the Anchorage into a school! The Bishop is not as young and idealistic as you are, Brother Volmar.”

“Father, Jutta is still an Anchoress; she will not leave the Anchorage. Hildegard is the only one I will be instructing in Latin. There is a window through which we can conduct our lessons. All proprieties will be insured because her servant girl never leaves her side. And, in turn, Hildegard will teach the other young women the
Opus Dei
⁸⁴
in Latin as it should be sung; that way they can join in with us from their Anchorage.”

“I suppose, I could appeal to the monetary benefits. If we could attract more young noblewomen to the Anchorage we could acquire more land, and in turn, more vineyards. The dowries these young women would bring with them will likely help the Bishop see the benefits of this new arrangement.”

“Precisely,” Volmar continued enthusiastically. “The Anchorage would no longer be a remnant of times past but a beacon for the future, a school for young women to learn of the ways of God. Certainly this change will be more aligned with our sentiments, Father, and should breathe new life into this old monastery.”

The Refectory glowed in the torchlight, and the heady smells of food and fresh rushes on the floor wafted through the corridor, reminding Volmar that he hadn't eaten since yesterday and was now very hungry. One by one, the monks took turns washing their hands in a small fountain by the entrance and wiping them dry on a white linen cloth. They filed into the room with its high ceiling and stood behind their places on the simple wooden bench. Quietly they lowered their cowls over their faces and buried their crossed hands under their sleeves. The Abbot went to stand at the head of the long table. Not everyone was present, but once the Abbot arrived, it was time for him to give the
Benedicite
. He called on all creation, from the angels in the height of Heaven down to the fish in the depths of the sea, to give glory to God.

Behind him on a raised platform, Brother Albertus took his turn and read as the Precentor.
⁸⁵
He'd chosen a passage in the Book of Daniel to read aloud, the one where Daniel interprets the handwriting on the wall, predicting the death of the Chaldean King Belshazzar. At the reading's conclusion, the Abbot raised his hands and said the final benediction. Everyone sat down to a meal that was to be enjoyed in silence. Many of the brothers used hand signals to greet one another, but tradition urged everyone to hold their tongues and to take time to reflect on their souls as they nourished their bodies.