The Poisoned Pilgrim_A Hangman's Daughter Tale

  Books by Oliver Pötzsch

  The Ludwig Conspiracy

  THE HANGMAN’S DAUGHTER SERIES

  The Hangman’s Daughter

  The Dark Monk: A Hangman’s Daughter Tale

  The Beggar King: A Hangman’s Daughter Tale

  The Poisoned Pilgrim: A Hangman’s Daughter Tale

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Oliver Pötzsch

  English translation copyright © 2013 by Lee Chadeayne

  Map illustration copyright © Peter Palm

  Author photo © Gerald von Foris

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  The Poisoned Pilgrim: A Hangman’s Daughter Tale was first published in 2012 by Ullstein Buchverlag GmbH as Der Hexer und die Henkerstochter. Translated from German by Lee Chadeayne. First published in English in 2013 by AmazonCrossing.

  Cover design by Ben Gibson

  Published by AmazonCrossing

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  Digital ISBN: 9781477856123

  For Marian, Wolfgang, Martin, Vitus, Michi, and all the rest. With hoods pulled far down over their faces and swords swinging in an almost perfect circle…

  CONTENTS

  Andechs Monastery

  ELECTORATE OF BAVARIA

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  GLOSSARY

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  SCHONGAU PILGRIMS

  MAGDALENA FRONWIESER (NÉE KUISL), the hangman’s daughter

  SIMON FRONWIESER, Schongau bathhouse medicus

  KARL SEMER, presiding burgomaster of Schongau

  SEBASTIAN SEMER, son of the presiding burgomaster

  JAKOB SCHREEVOGL, stove fitter and Schongau alderman

  BALTHASAR HEMERLE, Altenstadt carpenter

  KONRAD WEBER, city priest

  ANDRE LOSCH, LUKAS MÜLLER, HANS AND JOSEF TWANGLER, bricklayer’s journeymen

  OTHER CITIZENS OF SCHONGAU

  JAKOB KUISL, hangman of Schongau

  ANNA-MARIA KUISL, the hangman’s wife

  GEORG AND BARBARA, the hangman’s twin children

  PETER AND PAUL, Magdalena and Simon Fronwieser’s children

  MARTHA STECHLIN, midwife

  THE BERCHTHOLDT BROTHERS HANS, JOSEF, AND BENEDIKT JOHANN LECHNER, court clerk

  ANDECHS MONASTERY

  MAURUS RAMBECK, abbot

  BROTHER JEREMIAS, prior

  BROTHER ECKHART, cellarer

  BROTHER LAURENTIUS, novitiate master

  BROTHER BENEDIKT, cantor and librarian

  BROTHER VIRGILIUS, watchmaker

  BROTHER VITALIS, novitiate and watchmaker’s assistant

  BROTHER JOHANNES, apothecary

  COELESTIN, novitiate and apothecary’s assistant

  ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS

  MICHAEL GRAETZ, Erling knacker

  MATTHIAS, knacker’s journeyman

  COUNT LEOPOLD VON WARTENBERG, the Wittelsbachs’ ambassador

  COUNT VON CÄSANA UND COLLE, Weilheim district judge

  MASTER HANS, Weilheim executioner

  PROLOGUE

  ERLING, NEAR ANDECHS

  SATURDAY, JUNE 12, 1666 AD, EVENING

  DARK THUNDERCLOUDS HUNG overhead as the novitiate Coelestin, with a curse on his lips, marched toward his imminent death.

  In the west, beyond Lake Ammer, swirling clouds towered up, the first flashes of lightning appeared, and a distant rumble of thunder could be heard. When Coelestin squinted, he could make out gray rain clouds over the monastery in Dießen, five miles away. In only a matter of minutes the storm would be raging over the Holy Mountain, and now, of all times, the fat monk of an apothecary had sent him to fetch a carp from the monastery pond for supper. Coelestin cursed again and pulled the cape of his black robe farther down over his face. What could he do? Obedience was one of the three vows of the Benedictine order, and Brother Johannes was his superior—it was that simple. An occasionally hot-tempered, often enigmatic, and above all gluttonous lay brother, but nevertheless his superior.

  “Porca miseria!” As so often when he was in a bad mood, Coelestin switched to his mother tongue. He had grown up in an Italian village on the other side of the Alps, but in the turmoil of the war, his father had become a mercenary and his mother a whore who followed army camps. Here in the monastery on the Holy Mountain, Coelestin had found a home in the pharmacy at Andechs. Even though the incessant litanies and nightly prayers sometimes got on his nerves, he felt safe here. Three times a day he got a good meal; he had a warm, dry place to sleep, and the Andechs beer was said to be one of the best in the entire Electorate of Bavaria. In these hard times, one could have it much worse. Nevertheless, the spindly little novitiate cursed under his breath, and not just because he would soon be as wet as the carp in the pond of the Erling Monastery.

  Coelestin was afraid.

  Ever since the discovery he made three days ago, fear had been eating at him like a rabid beast. What he saw was so horrible that his blood almost froze in his veins. It still followed him at night in his dreams, when he woke up screaming and bathed in sweat. God would never allow such a crime to go unpunished; that much was certain. To Coelestin, the dark clouds and the flashes of lightning in the sky seemed like the first harbingers of an Old Testament revenge that would soon be visited on the monastery.

  Even more threatening than the heresy, actually, was the man’s hateful gaze. The man had recognized Coelestin when the novitiate tried to make a hasty escape—at least that’s what Coelestin thought. And the look on the novitiate’s face said more than a thousand words. In recent days they had reached out to him, prodding, as if checking that Coelestin hadn’t betrayed the secret.

  Coelestin knew that the other one had powerful advocates. Why would they believe him, the little novitiate? The accusation was so monstrous that he could be considered insane. Or even worse, a character assassin. This comfortable life, with meat, beer, and a warm, dry bed, would then no doubt be gone forever.

  Nevertheless, Coelestin had decided to speak up. The next morning he would tell the monastery council what he’d seen and his conscience would finally be clear.

  A loud clap of thunder rolled across the countryside, and the freezing novitiate could feel the first cool drops of rain on his face. Hastening, he tightened his hood and had soon left the last houses of Erling behind. Fields and meadows spread out before him. On the other side of a small wooded area, surrounded by fences and bushes, lay the fishpond. When Coelestin turned around, he saw storm clouds towering over the monastery up on the mountain—the home he might soon have to leave. He sighed and shuffled the last few yards to the pond, as if advancing toward his own execution.

  In the meantime, drops fell faster and faster, until the surface of the pond seemed to boil up like a poisonous brew. Coelestin could see the fat gray bodies of the c
arp slowly coursing through the dark water by the dozens. Their hungry mouths snapped at the raindrops as if they were manna from heaven. Coelestin shuddered as a wave of disgust came over him. He’d never cared for carp. They were dumb, slimy scavengers whose flesh tasted of moss and decay. The fish reminded him of the monsters he’d seen in pictures of Jonah and the Whale: horrible creatures of the deep that swallowed whole everything that wriggled in front of them in the water.

  Timidly Coelestin started down the narrow, slippery walkway and reached for a fishnet leaning on a post alongside the pier. With his hood deep down over his face, he leaned into the wall of rain and wind and moved his net back and forth listlessly in the water. If he hurried, he might be back in the monastery pharmacy before the trousers and socks under his thick black robe were soaked as well. In another life he probably would have slapped Brother Johannes across his chubby face with the carp, but for now, he was damned to prayer and obedience. This was the price he had to pay for such a comfortable life.

  A slight creaking sound, almost drowned out by the thunder, caused the novitiate to pause. It sounded as if someone had stepped onto the walkway behind him. But just as Coelestin was about to turn around, something started flopping about in his net, and with a sigh of relief, he pulled in the long pole.

  “Got you,” he mumbled. “Let’s have a look at what a big fish—”

  At that instant, something heavy hit him on the back of the head.

  Coelestin staggered, slipped on the rain-soaked wood of the walkway, and finally fell—fishnet and all—into the swirling water of the pond, where he thrashed around and fought to save himself. Like so many people of his time, Coelestin could skin a rabbit, identify hundreds of herbs by their smell, and recite whole sections of the Bible by heart. But one thing he couldn’t do was swim.

  The young novitiate shouted, waved his arms around, and kicked his skinny legs, but his own weight pulled him inexorably down. When he felt the muddy bottom beneath his feet, he pushed himself back up to the surface, gasping. In despair he reached out in all directions until he suddenly felt the pole floating in front of him on the surface. He clung to it and pulled himself up. Through the increasingly violent downpour he could see a hooded figure on the walkway holding the other end of the net.

  “Oh, thank you,” he groaned. “You saved my—”

  At that moment the figure pushed the pole down so hard that Coelestin sank again, gurgling. When he came to the surface again, he felt the pole push him down violently once again.

  “But—” he started to say as his mouth filled with murky water, which stifled his last desperate cries. Silently he sank into the pond.

  As life ebbed from his body in little air bubbles, Coelestin could feel the fat, slimy carp rubbing against his cheeks and nibbling on the short hair of his tonsure. When the dying youth had finally sunk to the bottom, his mouth was as wide open as those of the fish around him that stared back at him with dumb, expressionless eyes.

  The man on the walkway watched the bubbles for a while and finally, nodding contentedly, put the net back in place and set out for home.

  The time had come for him to complete his work.

  1

  AT THE SAME MOMENT, IN THE FORESTS BELOW THE HOLY MOUNTAIN.

  LIGHTNING FLASHED FROM the sky like the finger of an angry god.

  Simon Fronwieser saw it directly over Lake Ammer, where for a fraction of a second, it lit up the foaming waves in a sickly green. It was followed by a peal of thunder and a steady downpour—a black, soaking wall of rain that within moments drenched the two dozen or so pilgrims from Schongau. Though it was only seven in the evening, night had fallen suddenly. The medicus gripped the hand of his wife, Magdalena, tighter and, along with the others, prepared to climb the steep hill to the Andechs Monastery.

  “We were lucky!” shouted Magdalena over the thundering downpour. “An hour earlier and the storm would have caught us out on the lake.”

  Simon nodded silently. It wouldn’t be the first time a ship of pilgrims had gone down with all hands in Lake Ammer. Now, barely twenty years after the end of the Great War, the crowds of pilgrims streaming to the famous Bavarian monastery were larger than anyone could remember. In a time of hunger, storms, ravenous wolves, and marauding brigands, people were more eager than ever to find protection in the arms of the church. This longing was fed by reports of miracles, and the Andechs Monastery in particular, thirty miles southwest of Munich, was renowned for its ancient relics that possessed magic powers—as well as for its beer, which helped people to forget their worries.

  When the medicus turned around again, he could just make out through the rainclouds the wind-whipped lake that they had just managed to escape. Two days earlier, he had left Schongau with Magdalena and a group from their hometown. The pilgrimage led them over the Hoher Peißenberg to Dießen on Lake Ammer, where a rickety rowboat took them to the other shore. Now they were proceeding through the forest along a steep, muddy path toward the monastery, which towered far above them in the dark clouds.

  Burgomaster Karl Semer led the procession on horseback, followed on foot by his grown son and the Schongau priest, who struggled to keep a huge painted wooden cross upright in the storm. Behind him came carpenters, masons, cabinetmakers, and, finally, the young patrician Jakob Schreevogl, the only other city councilman to follow the call for the pilgrimage.

  Simon assumed that both Schreevogl and the burgomaster had come less in search of spiritual salvation than for business reasons. A place like Andechs, with its thousands of hungry and thirsty pilgrims, was a gold mine. The medicus wondered what the dear Lord would have to say about this. Hadn’t Jesus chased all the merchants and money lenders from the temple? Well, at least Simon’s own conscience was clear. He and Magdalena had come to Andechs not to make money but only to thank God for saving their two children.

  Simon couldn’t help smiling when he thought of three-year-old Peter at home and his brother, Paul, who had just turned two. He wondered if the children were giving their grandfather, the Schongau hangman, a hard time at home.

  When another bolt of lightning hit a nearby beech, the pilgrims screamed and threw themselves to the ground. There was a snapping and crackling as sparks jumped to other trees. In no time, the entire forest seemed to be on fire.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God!”

  In the twilight, Simon could see Karl Semer fall to his knees a few paces away and cross himself several times. Alongside him, his petrified son stared open-mouthed at the burning beeches while, all around him, the other Schongauers fled into a nearby ravine. Simon’s ears were ringing from the bone-jarring thunderclap that seemed to come at the same instant from right over their heads, so he could only hear his wife’s voice as if through a wall of water.

  “Let’s get out of here. We’ll be safer down there by the brook.”

  Simon hesitated, but his wife seized him and pulled him away just as flames shot up from two beeches and a number of small firs at the edge of the narrow path. Simon stumbled over a rotten branch, then slid down the smooth slope covered with dead leaves. Arriving at the bottom of the ravine, he stood up, groaning, and wiped a few twigs from his hair while scanning the apocalyptic scene all around.

  The lightning had split the huge beech straight down the middle, and burning boughs and branches were strewn down the slope. The flames cast a flickering light on the Schongauers, who moaned, prayed, and rubbed their bruised arms and legs. Fortunately, none of them appeared injured; even the burgomaster and his son seemed to have survived the disaster unscathed. In the gathering dusk, old Semer was busy searching for his horse, which had galloped away with his baggage.

  Simon felt a slight satisfaction as he watched the burgomaster running through the forest, bellowing loudly.

  Hopefully the mare took off with his moneybags, he thought. If that fat old goat shouts one more hallelujah from up there on his horse, I’m going to commit a mortal sin.

  Simon quickly dismissed this thought as u
nworthy of a pilgrim and quietly cursed himself for not having brought along a warmer coat. The new green woolen cape he’d bought at the Augsburg cloth market was dapper, but after the rain it hung on him like a limp rag.

  “One might almost think God had some objection to our visiting the monastery today.”

  Simon turned to Magdalena, who was looking up at the sky as rain ran down her mud-spattered cheeks.

  “Thundershowers are rather common this time of year,” Simon replied, trying to sound matter-of-fact and somewhat composed again. “I don’t think that—”

  “It’s a sign,” cried a trembling voice off to one side. Sebastian Semer, son of the burgomaster, held out the fingers of his right hand in a gesture meant to ward off evil spirits. “I told you right away we should leave the woman at home.” He pointed at Magdalena and Simon. “Anyone who takes a hangman’s daughter and a filthy bathhouse owner along on a pilgrimage to the Holy Mountain might as well invite Beelzebub, too. The lightning is a sign from God warning us to do penance and—”

  “Shut your fresh mouth, Semer boy,” Magdalena scolded, narrowing her eyes. “What do you know about penance, hm? Wipe your britches off before everyone notices you’ve peed in your pants again.”

  Ashamed, Sebastian Semer stared at the dark spot on the front of his wide-cut reddish-purple petticoat breeches. Then he turned away silently, but not without casting one last angry look at Magdalena.

  “Don’t mind him. The little rascal is nothing but the spoiled offspring of his father.”

  Jakob Schreevogl now emerged from the darkness of the forest, wearing a tight-fitting jerkin, high leather boots, and a white lace collar framing an unusual face with a Vandyke beard and a hooked nose. A fine rain trickled down his ornamented sword.

  “In general I agree with you, Fronwieser.” Schreevogl turned to Simon and pointed at the sky. “Such violent storms aren’t unusual in June, but when the lightning strikes right beside you, it’s like you’re feeling God’s anger.”

  “Or the anger of your fellow citizens,” Simon added gloomily.