The Seer and the Scribe (25 page)

He started pacing from one end of his small room to the other. The flagstone floor was beginning to show a wearing away from this, his frequent habit of worrying. The monk turned every now and then to his narrow bed where the distinctive shape of a man lay under his own blanket, apparently asleep. The sleeping figure's hand suddenly fell, dangling from under its meager covering. The monk yelped, slapping his own hand to his mouth in horror of being overheard. He listened to the apparent silence around him. With shaking hands he kissed his rosary and attempted once again to concentrate on saying more “Hail Mary” prayers.

“Stop laughing at me, Lucifer,” he replied firmly, throwing his rosary to the floor. The delicate string snapped and the tiny carved beads scattered everywhere. He sunk his head into his hands murmuring, “I know I'm of an accursed brood . . .”

Sanctuary of Disibodenberg Monastery

6
^th
of November, Matins

The morning was bitterly cold. Snow already lay heavy on the ground and was still falling as the bells rang out announcing Matins.
⁸⁸
Volmar stood in his place in line beside the other holy brothers in the Sanctuary. Bleary-eyed, he was finding it difficult to stay awake with the heady scent of incense and the rhythmic chanting enveloping him. His thoughts drifted, wrestling with chaos. He deliberately tried to organize their randomness. There was Sophie, of course, and her shocking kidnapping, not to mention the distinct possibility of Atif's cruel death . . . And what of Samson? Although he did not place his relationship with his cat on the same level as that of his two friends, Samson had disappeared, unusual for such a frightfully frigid night. It was his cat's first night away in seven years.

Brother Albertus, standing sleepily behind him, chanted on, completely flat. The notes hung menacingly in the air, triggering for Volmar the vivid memory of a horrific dream, a nightmare he had had earlier just before waking. He remembered trying to cry out, but no sound would come. In the dream, he was in Jerusalem and the city was engulfed in flames. Innocent men, women, and children were there, walking the streets beside him, droning on and on, eyeless skeletons, shuffling about in rags. Blood fell from the heavens instead of raindrops and seeped into the street's flooding gutters. It was a shocking apocalyptic scene. Volmar shifted his weight to his other leg and thought to himself how Matthias's account of the taking of Jerusalem from the Infidels had made him ashamed of his own countrymen . . . and he had to admit, of his own father, for surely his father was there, participating in the ghastly slaughter.

So many lives stained by so many horrific crimes. How could such actions not jeopardize the order of a civilized world? Could this be the Hell on earth the scriptures foretold of as the end times? Was Matthias's possession of the Spear of Destiny a power too tempting for mere mortals to possess? Volmar joined in with the others as they bowed their heads in prayer. Instead of mumbling the Mass of Matins, Volmar formulated a question and put it to God. “My Father in Heaven,” he murmured. “Is the relic's power inspired by the Devil? If so, surely it will only hasten man's downfall. Or is it a gift from You, Father? Is it an artifact of divine knowledge which will, in the end, enhance the lives of all men? Please, Father, I need to know Your purpose for the Holy Relic here on Earth.”

No sooner were the words spoken than a peculiar throaty cry was heard. Brother Hugo rushed into the Sanctuary. Silhouetted in the shadows, his hair was wild and his belt was missing from his cassock. He bent his knee towards the altar and made a quick sign of the cross before blurting out to the others, “There's been a hanging!”

Time stood still in the high-vaulted sanctuary. The chanting came to an abrupt discordant end. Brother Johannes gripped Volmar's arm. “A hanging?” he repeated in disbelief.

“Where?” someone said more loudly.

“In the stables.” Brother Hugo's knees finally gave out, and he collapsed at the Abbot's feet.

“Be respectful of our brother's age and the weariness of his mind,” the Abbot said, his voice both solemn and ominous, motioning the others to keep quiet.

At length, Hugo looked up, his eyes narrowed with revulsion. “It's the traveler, Father, the one you counseled in the Infirmary.” Hugo's face was flushed and his breathing came quickly. “The man's gone and hung himself from the rafters in my stables!”

Hushed voices repeated the dreaded word which in turn eerily echoed throughout the great vaulted roof of the austere sanctuary and back again to their intimate circle.

“Matthias hung himself?” Brother Paulus uttered in disbelief. “Why would he go and do a fool thing like that?” He cupped his hands together thoughtfully, suppressing an inner tension that the others around him found impossible to contain.

Brother Albertus blessed himself with an expression of disgust on his face and said aloud what the others were thinking. “This man's tortured soul is eternally damned. We all know how the church views taking one's own life. It's considered a cowardly act of avoidance and not one of martyrdom.”

Volmar remained silent. Even a highly decorated Knight of the Brotherhood such as Matthias would be forbidden to be buried in consecrated ground if he committed suicide. “S” for suicide; could this, in some bizarre ritual, be the meaning of the blood message left at the base of Matthias's bed? Had he been preparing himself for an act scorned even by his better self?

“God protect us,” cried one of the brothers, and a few others joined in, repeating the same prayer in a despairing lament.

The Abbot pulled a linen handkerchief from his sleeve and patted the beads of perspiration on his forehead. Even in the shadowy glow of candlelight, Burchard had a pale cast to his features, clearly distressed by the news.

Brother Paulus approached Volmar and put his hand on the young monk's shoulder. Under his breath, he said, “We have lived in splendid isolation in Disibodenberg, but not any more. I fear we've been caught up in a game of strange and wicked alliances.”

Volmar couldn't help but feel that here, playing before him in all its evilness, was the burden of God's answer to his question. The Holy Relic and its sordid history now seemed a poor excuse, an inflated lie,
to justify man's selfish greed and self-destructive tendencies. “The story is certainly becoming more complicated,” Volmar answered, allowing no expression to be read on his young face.

Sanctuary of Disibodenberg Monastery

6
^th
of November, Matins

The room was alive with whispered speculations. Abbot Burchard went and stood before the richly adorned high altar and raised his hands, awaiting silence. It took a few moments before an unnatural hush came over the gathering.

In the moment of silence, Volmar prayed to himself. “God give me a discerning spirit.” He then searched the other brothers' faces, specifically looking for that of Brother Rudegerus. His absence was duly noted. He turned to the Abbot, who met his eyes with the same understanding.

“Please, dear brothers,” the Abbot said, taking charge, “I think we've given enough time for idle conjectures, none of which, I'm afraid, will bring us any closer to the facts. We will need to involve the district Magistrate in this. I do not want to risk any confrontations between civil and ecclesiastical justice. Brother Julius, let the Porter know what has happened and ride with Brother Andres to Bermersheim to alert the Magistrate
⁸⁹
of our predicament. We need his help.”

Brother Albertus shook his head. “Father, can't we simply take care of our own and not involve the outside world?”

“That would be all well and good, my son, but leaving the district Magistrate out of this would further the perception of those who are convinced that our message is only about the next world, and has little bearing on how we live our lives in this world.”

Like the dogs they kept for hunting, Brother Julius and Brother Andres knew the countryside well even though it was blanketed with snow and the river was indistinguishable from the fields. These were sensible men who quietly nodded to one another and took their leave.

“I'd like only three brothers to accompany me to the stables. The rest of you may want to continue your prayers in your cells. We will all meet back here in a short while to further discuss what has happened.”

“Father, it would be blasphemous to lay such a body here in the Sanctuary.” A few of the other brothers nodded in agreement.

“Please, dear brothers, it is premature to discuss burial arrangements when we haven't even seen the body. For the sake of my sanity and the law of this land we need to proceed cautiously, observing all manners of propriety and care. I do not look forward to opening our gates to the people of Staudernheim and the district Magistrate for an investigation, but it now seems that we have no choice.”

“What do we tell those in the Guesthouse and Infirmary when they wake up, Father?” Brother Albertus asked.

“For now, hold your tongues and let them sleep. It is best if we all refrain from speaking untruths to one another until we know more of this frightful situation.” The Abbot sighed with resignation. “No one, I repeat, no one, will touch the body until a clear verdict has been ascertained by Brother Paulus. God has led us all into this mystery; and we must believe that He will protect us while we try to unravel it. And, regardless of the ruling, I will not allow this man's body to be desecrated in any way.”

The Abbot searched the faces of the brothers, sensing in them a wide range of volatile emotions. He paused for a moment, trying to decide what else he should say. “I'd like to have someone who is skilled in medicinal arts and someone who is familiar with the goings and comings of all our guests, so I'd like Brother Paulus and Brother Rudegerus to accompany me. Brother Volmar, we will also need a chronicler to record what has happened, so please retrieve your writing instruments and meet us at the entrance to the stables.”

There was silence, followed by quiet murmurs as the other brothers now noticed that Rudegerus was not among their numbers. Someone in the back mumbled. “I think the Abbot needs to find out where that one was last night.”

“Very well, then,” Abbot Burchard said, ignoring the scandalous accusation. “Brother Paulus and Brother Volmar will accompany me.
The rest of you will need to gather your wits and pray for the Lord's guidance.”

Keeping a stranglehold on his growing sense of dread, Volmar grabbed a torch and, for the first time, walked quickly through the hushed nave of the Sanctuary in the direction of the Abbot's private chamber. The young scribe's thoughts were racing as fast as his booted feet once he exited God's Sanctuary. Why would a man returning home after fifteen years hang himself? Surely Matthias knew that the church condemns suicide. None of it made any sense. Paulus was right, it was a foolish man's recourse. Why would a man leave a heroic battlefield promising an honorable death only to commit suicide in an obscure monastery's stables? Other questions darted in and out of his thoughts like moths around a light: What of Matthias's suspicions that he was being followed, and the strange disappearance of Atif's body? And what, pray tell, was Rudegerus's involvement in all this? More than likely, Volmar concluded, Matthias's death had more to do with the Holy Relic's curse than a wild moment of cowardice. Once Matthias had parted with the Holy Relic and the hedge of protection around him was lifted, he died in mysterious circumstances!

Abbot's Quarters of Disibodenberg Monastery

6
^th
of November, After Matins

As Volmar turned the corner and approached the Abbot's quarters, he could see that the heavy oak door was left ajar. He stood at the entrance and noticed right away a drop of wax on the floor from a taper someone must have been carrying. He bent down and touched the wax. It still felt warm.

Volmar stood in disbelief on the threshold of the Abbot's private chamber. His keen eyes picked out each and every detail. The room had been searched, turned inside out. Papers from the desk were scattered about and drawers were dumped onto the floor, their contents strewn everywhere. Even the straw mattress where the Abbot slept
had been dragged off of its wooden platform and stood leaning upright against the far stone wall. Toiletry items, too, were spilled and lay in waste beneath the bedside table.

Someone desperately had been hunting for something. Volmar studied the scene in silence. He grasped that whoever had done such a thing knew of the Holy Relic and was hoping to find it in the Abbot's possession. He was grateful that it was safe in Sister Hildegard's care. Volmar approached the desk and saw that the drawer he had locked the night before lay wide open. His leather pouch was still there, although there was a tear in its leather stitching. At least he had safeguarded as well all of the notes he had taken of the details concerning Peter Bartholomew and the Holy Spear; for otherwise, the history of the Holy Relic would now be in this thieving scoundrel's hands.

Volmar then remembered why he'd come. Hastily he gathered a quill and ink and a small clay jar to hold the ink, and rolled up a blank sheet of parchment before tucking it into his leather pouch. As he headed for the door to leave, he stopped suddenly.

Only then did he notice that someone was sitting in the Abbot's chair. The person was seated with his back to him facing the fireplace. It was difficult to determine the man's features silhouetted by the glowing embers of last night's fire. The stranger sitting in absolute stillness sent a chill up Volmar's spine. Even from this distance he could tell that the man was obviously dressed as a gentleman in fine velvets and brocades.

Volmar spoke with authority. “Sir, the Abbot has been detained. I am his Scribe. My name is Brother Volmar; may I be of service?” There was no answer, not even a simple nod in acknowledgment. Volmar had a sinking feeling. He spoke even louder, in case the stranger was hard of hearing. “Sir, how may I help you?”