The Poisoned Pilgrim_A Hangman's Daughter Tale Page 11

  Abruptly, Simon stood up from the table. “Thank you for your time, Burgomaster,” he said softly. “But unfortunately I have another report to prepare for the abbot. In addition, we expect the arrival of my father-in-law tomorrow, so there’s a lot to do.”

  Semer’s face drained of color. “Kuisl?” he whispered. “But… but why is he coming here?”

  “You wanted a hangman, didn’t you?” Simon replied with a smile. “One is coming, and he’s the best and cleverest damn hangman in the Priests’ Corner. He’ll certainly be able to solve these murders. And besides…” He shrugged. “If anyone needs to go on a pilgrimage, it’s an executioner, isn’t it? Now, farewell.”

  Simon pushed the untouched wine glass back to Semer and headed for the door. The burgomaster could only sit there, astonished.

  Finally, he reached for his glass and downed the wine in one gulp.

  Shaking, Magdalena pulled her thin woolen shawl tight around her shoulders. In the cold abbey, she was finding it difficult to concentrate on the prayers, and the queasy feeling of the last few days came back. All she could do was hope this feeling had nothing to do with the sickness going around the monastery these days.

  In the hopelessly overcrowded building, it was as cold and damp as a cave—even on this June evening. A strong wind whistled through the roof of the south wing, which had been only temporarily patched, and gusts in the high, pointed windows were so loud they sometimes drowned out the Latin murmuring of the mass. This was of little concern to most of the pilgrims and local parishioners, however, as they couldn’t understand the words in any case. But they listened reverently to the homily by Abbot Rambeck, who was performing the mass today himself.

  The reason for the special mass today was the people sitting in the first rows of the congregation. Count Wartenberg sat with his family under a carved baldachin. Two pale, chubby children yawned and passed the time playing around while their young mother kept trying to quiet them. The older boy was perhaps eight, and the younger one sat sucking his thumb on the lap of the pert young countess. The count, a man in his forties with bushy eyebrows and a sharp, arrogant gaze, looked around the church as if wondering what could be confiscated next for the Wittelsbach treasury.

  Though Magdalena had seen many churches, she was filled with awe by the Andechs abbey church. Some of the most important Christian relics were housed here on the Holy Mountain. The church interior was just as awe-inspiring, with numerous altars along the sides and in the nave and doors leading to additional side chapels. Mighty columns supported the high vaulted ceiling and colorful stained glass sparkled everywhere amid the candlelight.

  What impressed Magdalena even more than the opulence and splendor were the candles placed all around the church, brought here by pilgrims over the course of many centuries. On the walls, innumerable votive pictures, some yellow with age, bore testimony to miraculous acts of salvation.

  “Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis…” As the abbot spoke the sacred words, worshippers all around Magdalena fell humbly to their knees. She, too, knelt and bowed her head but couldn’t help glancing up at Maurus Rambeck, who appeared extremely upset. Several times, he seemed confused or lost his place, and his face was as pale as a corpse. Magdalena wondered whether this had anything to do with recent events or perhaps the presence of the noble family. She, too, was having difficulty concentrating on her prayers.

  “Domine, non sum dignus, ut intres sub tectum meum. Sed tantum dic verbo, et sanabitur anima mea…”

  While Magdalena joined in murmuring the words of invitation to Holy Communion, she glanced up to the gallery, where the church dignitaries had gathered. From Simon’s descriptions of the church council, she thought she recognized the fat cellarer, as well as the white-haired librarian and the sensitive novitiate master. The latter, in fact, a relatively younger man, seemed strangely withdrawn. His eyes were red, and now and then he pulled out a silk handkerchief to wipe his face until a hook-nosed monk on his right finally poked him hard in the ribs. It took Magdalena a while to figure out this was the prior. He whispered something to the novitiate master, whereupon the latter put his handkerchief back in his pocket and mumbled a soft prayer. The other members of the council also seemed strangely tense.

  Something is fishy here, Magdalena thought. Did the death of the two young assistants and the disappearance of a Brother really upset the monks so much?

  Finally, the abbot finished, raising his hand in the benediction, and the pilgrims pressed toward the exit to the accompaniment of loud organ music. Magdalena stayed seated in the pew for a while, watching as Maurus Rambeck descended from the apsis into the nave and bowed before Count Wartenberg. They exchanged a few words; then the count turned to his family and sent them to their quarters. Finally, the count and the abbot walked up a flight of stairs to the gallery, which was empty now except for the prior who awaited them there. The three men spoke softly for a while before exiting together through a small door. Magdalena noticed how the prior kept looking around cautiously as they left.

  What in all the world was going on here?

  After hesitating briefly, Magdalena stood up and approached the stairway leading up to the gallery. Now after evening mass, the church was almost empty. Only a few acolytes still moved about, extinguishing the many candles. It was getting noticeably darker.

  The hangman’s daughter looked around again, then started up the well-worn staircase.

  “Are you lost?”

  Leaning on the railing above her, a broad-shouldered monk looked down suspiciously at her. It was the cellarer, and he was clearly in a bad mood. “The gallery and the choir are reserved for the monks. They’re not open to visitors,” he growled. “Especially not women. What are you looking for here?”

  “I’m… I’m looking for the sacred relics,” Magdalena stuttered. “I’ve come all the way from Lake Constance on foot to pray before them.”

  “Stupid woman,” the monk grumbled. “Do you think the sacred treasures just stand around here where anyone could steal them?” He pointed to the little door the church officials and the count had passed through. “They are kept in the inner sanctum, where only a chosen few have access. If you wish to see the holy three hosts, you must wait till next Sunday.”

  “And the noble gentleman who just came up here with two of your Brothers?” asked Magdalena, affecting the voice of a simple farm girl. “He’s allowed to see the treasure?”

  “Count Wartenberg?” The cellarer laughed. “Naturally. As a member of the House of Wittelsbach, he always has the third key. Now get moving, before I chase you out.”

  “The third key?” Magdalena was clearly astonished. “Which—”

  “Get out, I told you!” The monk approached her threateningly. “Curious daughters of Eve. You should all be thrown out of the church. Brood of vipers!”

  Magdalena raised her hands defensively, then rushed down the stairs, crossing herself and bowing obsequiously, until she finally eluded the cellarer.

  Outside the main portal, she spat hard and mumbled a curse. That fat milksop would live to regret treating her like that. Something here was fishy, and she was damn well going to find out what was behind all these strange events.

  Magdalena tossed her woolen shawl around her shivering body and took a deep breath. The square in front of the monastery was deserted now. Only piles of stones and sacks of limestone and mortar betrayed that this was a busy building site by day. In the nearby forest, trees rustled in the wind and scattered drops of rain fell on the pavement.

  Just as Magdalena was about to descend the wide lane to the tavern to tell Simon the latest, she heard a sound that made her stop short. It was so faint and discreet that she took it at first for the singing of a far-off nightingale. Finally, she realized what she was really hearing.

  Somewhere behind the monastery, music was playing.

  Magdalena started. The glockenspiel! Hadn’t Simon said the automaton that vanished had a glockenspiel built in
to it? She couldn’t help but think of the golem the monks had spoken of, the one now supposedly haunting the monastery.

  What was it again that Simon said? An object that springs to life when life is breathed into it… It involves some very complicated rituals…

  For a moment she hesitated; then she set out to find the source of the music. The sound seemed to come from the right, where an old wall separated the church square from the forest. There she found a little gate, and behind it, some weathered stairs leading to a path along the wall. On the other side, a steep gorge led down into the Kien Valley. In the distance, she could see the vague outlines of a chapel.

  For a moment, Magdalena thought she couldn’t hear it anymore, but then the sound returned: it was somewhere in front of her, soft, but still clearly audible. She stopped and held her breath, listening intently, and also thought she could hear a rattle and whirring. Now the melody was close, not in front of her, or behind her, but… beneath her.

  Magdalena was transfixed. The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the Holy Mountain. She looked around in the gathering twilight for a cleft in the rock, or a cave, but couldn’t find anything of the sort. As she continued to search, the melody became softer, as if its source were gradually moving away.

  That’s when she heard something whiz by, brushing her neck, and she felt as if she’d been stung by a big horsefly. Putting her hand to her neck, she felt dampness, and when she took her hand away again, she could see blood in the moonlight.

  What’s going on here? Is someone shooting at me? I didn’t hear a shot…

  There was no more time to think; she heard the whooshing sound again and threw herself on the ground at the last second. Above her, something bored into a tree trunk, and now she was sure it was a shot. She picked herself up and ran down the path, stooped over. One last time something whizzed past her and hit the wall, producing a spray of mortar, but by then Magdalena had arrived at the gate. Seized by panic, she dashed into the middle of the deserted church square, almost fearing the automaton would emerge, rattling and humming, from behind the bags of limestone, its mouth open wide and ready to devour her. But when she turned around, there was nothing—just darkness and the rustling branches in the forest behind the wall.

  Breathlessly she ran down the lane toward Simon, who was just coming out of the tavern.

  “Magdalena!” he cried in relief. “I’ve been worried. Mass has been over for a long—” That’s when he got a closer look at her. “My God!” he gasped “You’re bleeding. What happened?”

  Magdalena reached up to her neck, still wet with blood. Something had grazed her, and the wound was very painful. The collar of her cape was also wet with blood.

  “The automaton… is… somewhere beneath us…” she blurted out as her legs gave way. The last thing she saw was Simon bending down over her, his mouth moving up and down like that of a huge puppet, while somewhere gigantic gears were turning.

  Then terrified, exhausted, and suffering from loss of blood, she fell unconscious.

  6

  LAKE AMMER, TUESDAY, JUNE 15, 1666 AD

  THE BOAT PITCHED and tossed so violently that Jakob Kuisl had his hands full keeping his grandchildren from drowning. Despite a blue sky, a strong wind was blowing over Lake Ammer, kicking up little whitecaps that covered the entire boat in a fine spray. The children shouted joyfully and kept trying to wriggle out of their grandfather’s strong arms and jump over the side into the water.

  “You’ve got two real rascals there. Your grandchildren?” The old ferryman grinned as he rocked back and forth to the movements of his rowing. His weathered face was red with exertion as he dipped the oars deep into the water. Since the very start of their trip in Dießen, he hadn’t been silent a moment, and kept badgering the hangman nonstop with questions.

  “Would you like to get out at Herrsching over there?” he continued. “Or are you going to sell them to the first traveling salesman you meet?”

  “If they keep carrying on like this, I’ll donate them to the monastery as little cherubs for the altar. At least then they’ll have to keep still.”

  Kuisl bared his teeth and pushed both children gently under the rowing seat, where, giggling and sniggering, they tangled themselves in a rancid fishnet. Peter played with an old fish head while Paul reached out for a couple of crabs scuttling about in a basket. Although they weren’t causing any trouble now, the hangman gave up all hope of a leisurely smoke of his pipe.

  Snorting, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He’d asked himself a dozen times whether it had been such a good idea to take his two grandchildren along to Andechs. After all, it was a matter of life or death for his best friend, who sat in the dungeon accused of murder and witchcraft. Well, as soon as they arrived up on the Holy Mountain, this foolishness would end and he could finally hand the children over to their mother. That way Magdalena would at least have something to do and stop sticking her nose into things that were none of her business.

  Kuisl mulled these things over as he watched the shore in Dießen gradually recede in the distance. The tower of the monastery church now looked no longer than his hand, and behind it, he could see the Wessobrunn Highlands and Mount Hoher Peißenberg. The hangman had left Schongau early in the morning with his son Georg on two horses he’d borrowed from the well-to-do Schreevogls. Georg returned home with the horses while Kuisl looked around Dießen for a boat. The old ferryman knew nothing about Kuisl’s job, and it was better that way. The men who worked on the lake were especially superstitious, and no fisherman in the world would have permitted a living, breathing hangman on his boat. With winds increasing in force, Kuisl’s ferryman had already prayed several times to Saint Peter, the patron saint of fishermen and seafarers.

  “Are you making a pilgrimage to Andechs with the two young lads?” the old fisherman asked now. When he got no answer, he continued fervently: “We should thank the Holy Virgin every day that we live so near this blessed place. I’ve been up on the Holy Mountain at least ten times, and I swear I’ve seen more relics than would fit in this boat.”

  And people still drown in the lake just the same, Kuisl thought. A lot of good all that praying does.

  Shuddering, the hangman remembered a stormy night some years back when a ship sank in Lake Ammer and a large group of pilgrims drowned. Only two children could be saved at that time, yet people spoke of this as a miracle, as if it somehow lessened the grief over the other thirty who had drowned.

  “The most precious of them are the three sacred hosts,” the fisherman kept on babbling cheerfully, paying no heed to the silence of the man opposite him. “They are displayed only once a year at the Festival of the Three Hosts, but there are others, such as the Charlemagne’s Victory Cross; a branch from Christ’s crown of thorns; half of His kerchief; Mary’s belt; the wedding dress of Saint Elizabeth; Saint Nicolas’s stole, and…” He stopped for a moment and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “And our Savior’s foreskin, taken from him by the accursed Jews at the age of—”

  “Please just pay attention to your rowing, or all the beautiful relics in the world won’t help us,” the hangman interrupted, pointing to the sky. “It looks as if a new storm is brewing.”

  The ferryman winced and dipped his oars deep in the water. Indeed, a dark bank of clouds was moving toward the lake from the west.

  “Damned weather,” the old man cursed. “Have hardly ever seen so much as in the past few weeks. If it keeps up like this, there won’t be a thing still growing in the fields. The Lord is angry at us, and I’d just like to know why.”

  “He’s probably punishing people who never stop talking,” Kuisl murmured. “Maybe you should make another pilgrimage to Andechs. At least up there you can’t drown.”

  “But lightning can strike you dead there.” The ferryman laughed and pushed his hat back on his neck. “Believe me, there’s more lightning up there than anywhere else—it’s almost as if the steeple attracts it. Just a few days ago I saw it hit th
e ruined steeple again, flashing green and blue like at the Last Judgment. I thought the whole mountain was on fire. If you ask me, it all has something to do with that new abbot who spends too much time with his nose in books instead of praying for our salvation.”

  While the fisherman cackled on like an old chicken, they arrived at Herrsching Bay on the other side of the lake. To the right, at the little village of Wartaweil, pilgrims departed on the strenuous route to the monastery.

  The water here was noticeably calmer, and the wind had abated to a gentle breeze. Jakob Kuisl saw at least two dozen fishing boats tied to rotting piers as fishermen on the shore laboriously patched their nets. Behind them, the Holy Mountain rose up out of a forest of green beeches.

  “And how are you going to get up to the monastery with the two youngsters?” the old man asked curiously. “The path is pretty steep.”

  “Just let me take care of that. I’ve hauled bigger guys off to say their prayers.”

  The fisherman looked at him, confused. “What do you mean by that?”

  “God bless you.” Kuisl handed the old man a few coins, then, despite the child’s loud objections, lifted Peter into a wooden frame and, groaning, strapped the pack on his back. With an old cloth, he tied little Paul around his waist where the two-year-old watched with curiosity as the boats bobbed in the water.

  “So now I’ll take you to your mother,” the hangman grumbled. “Just quit rubbing that fish head through my hair.” Kuisl took the foul carcass from Peter’s hands, tossed it in the water, and then stomped along the path to the landing site in Wartaweil.

  Soon the hangman had left the few houses behind him and entered the shady forest that surrounded the monastery on all sides. He had decided to take a little-used path to avoid being annoyed again by another chatterbox on a pilgrimage. The children seemed to enjoy their grandfather’s rolling strides and squealed with delight. Again and again Peter pointed out birds and squirrels poised on tree branches over the path that stared back down curiously on the teetering, six-armed monster. The three-year-old gave the animals imaginary names and sang a little song in a squeaky voice.