The Poisoned Pilgrim_A Hangman's Daughter Tale Read online

  “Yes, and anise,” said the medicus, turning again toward the ugly monk. “She has stomach pains and feels sick all over. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “God forbid. Now, let me see…” Brother Johannes set an eyepiece to his right eye, making his already frightening face just a bit more so. Then he walked over to the cupboard, paused a moment to think, and finally opened a drawer at eye-level. In the meantime he seemed to have forgotten his quarrel with the little monk. “Silverweed is really an excellent medicine for stomachache,” he mumbled, taking out a bundle of herbs, “though I actually prefer liver compresses and a mixture of gentian, centaury, and wormwood. Do you know the doses to use with the herbs? Always remember: dosis facit—”

  “Venenum. The dose makes the poison. I know.” Simon nodded and stretched out his hand in a greeting. “Excuse me if I haven’t introduced myself yet. My name is Simon Fronwieser. I am the bathhouse surgeon from the little town of Schongau on the other side of the Hoher Peißenberg. I lecture my patients almost every day with Paracelsus’s words about the correct dosage.”

  “A bathhouse surgeon who speaks Latin?” Brother Johannes smiled and shook Simon’s hand cordially. The monk’s grip was firm, as if he’d been swinging a hammer on the anvil all his life. With the ocular in his eye, he looked like a misshapen cyclops. “That’s rather unusual. Then are you familiar with the Macer Floridus in which the eighty-five healing plants are listed?”

  “Indeed.” Simon nodded and crammed the dried herbs into his leather bag. “I studied medicine in Ingolstadt. Unfortunately, I was unable to find a position as doctor. The… circumstances were not favorable.” He hesitated. The monk didn’t have to know he’d gone broke because of his gambling debts and the money he spent on fancy clothes.

  The medicus cast an approving glance around the dimly lit room. Everything here was exactly the way he wished his own office to be. The large pharmacy cupboard, heavy wooden shelves along the walls lined with pots and tinctures. A low entryway led into another room that evidently served as a laboratory. In the dim light, Simon could make out a stove with a few pieces of wood glowing inside and on the mantelpiece, some sooty flasks. In front of this, a huge marble table supported something long and misshapen, partially covered with a dirty linen cloth.

  At one end of the cloth a single pale foot protruded.

  “My God!” Simon gasped. “Is that—”

  “My assistant, Coelestin,” the Brother sighed, rubbing the sweat from his forehead. “Some farmers brought him to me shortly before sunrise today. Last night, the unfortunate fellow went to catch a carp for me in the pond down by the woods. And what does the dolt do? He falls off the walkway and drowns like a little cat. And then this charlatan Virgilius comes by and…” He broke off, shaking his head as if trying to shake off a bad dream.

  Carefully Simon stepped into the laboratory and sniffed. Now he could explain the sweet odor he’d noticed yesterday.

  The body was starting to decompose.

  “May I?” the medicus asked hesitantly, pointing at the corpse beneath the shroud. Simon had always had a strange fascination with dead people. Stiff and lifeless, they were like anatomical dolls God gave the world to demonstrate the miracle of the human body.

  “Go right ahead,” Johannes replied, finally removing his eyepiece and securing it in his robe. “Since you are evidently a sort of colleague, a second look certainly can’t harm. But there’s really nothing unusual about him. I can’t tell you how many drowned corpses I’ve seen in my life.” He sighed and crossed himself. “Man is not a fish, or God would have given him gills for breathing and fins to paddle.”

  Curious, Simon pulled back the wet cloth and stared into the white, slightly blue face of the young Coelestin. Some compassionate villager had closed his eyes and put two rusty kreutzers on them, but his mouth was wide open like that of a carp gasping for air. Leaves and pieces of algae stuck to the thinning hair of the monk’s tonsure, and green blowflies buzzed around the putrid corpse. The dead novitiate’s robe hung on his body like a wet sack.

  “I wanted to be alone with him a little longer,” Brother Johannes said hoarsely. “He was, after all, my loyal assistant for more than two years, and we lived through many things together, beautiful and some ugly…” He swallowed. “But now I shall have to go up and see the abbot, so please take your herbs and—”

  “There are spots there.”

  “What?” Annoyed, Brother Johannes turned to the medicus, who was pointing at a spot on the dead man’s collarbone.

  “Look, black-and-blue spots here, both on the left and right shoulders.” Simon ripped open the wet robe. “And here on the breastbone as well.”

  “He probably got those when he fell into the water,” the monk retorted. “What does that tell you?”

  “Bruises on someone who fell into unresisting water?” Simon frowned. “I don’t know.” He began studying the body until he finally found what he was looking for on the back of Coelestin’s head.

  “It’s just as I thought,” he murmured. “A big bump. Someone clearly dealt your assistant a heavy blow, then held him under water until he drowned.”

  “Murder?” the Brother gasped. “Do you really think so?”

  Simon shrugged. “Murder or manslaughter I can’t say, but in any case there was a second person involved. Perhaps a tavern brawl? A robbery that turned to murder?”

  “Nonsense. A monk doesn’t get involved in brawls. Besides, why would…” Johannes hesitated and shook his huge head like a stubborn ox. “Of course there are still riffraff in the area. But the good Coelestin was nothing more than a simple novitiate in a thin robe! He had no money, nothing of value on him.” The fat monk raised his finger and his voice took on a singsong character. “Saint Benedict put it so nicely in one of his rules. No one may own a thing. No book or writing table or writing implement—nothing. So who could have wanted to harm Coelestin?”

  “Didn’t he have any enemies down in town or here in the monastery?” Simon inquired.

  Brother Johannes laughed so loudly his round belly bounced up and down. “Enemies? Good Lord, we are monks. We watch our tongue, we don’t steal, and if heaven permits, we don’t run after women, either. So why are you asking?” Suddenly his eyes narrowed to little slits. “But let me tell you something, barber surgeon. If you’re so sure of yourself, then come along to see the abbot and tell him. Brother Maurus is an intelligent, well-read man. Let him decide how Coelestin met his end.” Grimly he stomped out the door. “If the abbot agrees, you can use my apothecary as if it was your own,” he grumbled. “You have my word on that. And now, let’s go before my novitiate is completely eaten up by these damn blowflies.”

  Mumbling a curse, Simon ran after him. This is what he got for talking too much. All he really wanted to do was to get back to Magdalena as fast as possible.

  As the medicus turned around one last time, one of the blowflies, buzzing noisily, flew right into Coelestin’s mouth. It sounded like the corpse was softly mumbling to himself.

  Magdalena was sitting on the bench in front of the knacker’s house, getting angrier by the minute as she waited for Simon to return from the apothecary. He had been gone over an hour now! What could be taking him so long? He probably got involved in a long conversation with that ugly monk about man-drake root or daphne and had completely forgotten her.

  Impatiently she watched Michael Graetz as he struggled to hoist a stinking horse cadaver onto his cart. Despite the arduous work, the knacker hummed a soldier’s marching song and seemed completely happy with himself and the world. Beside him, a stocky young man pulled the dead nag onto the flatbed. Magdalena had learned from Graetz that this was his assistant, Matthias.

  The hangman’s daughter couldn’t help but think of her father at home, whose job it also was to cart away dead animals. Looking at her cousin clothed in rags, Magdalena swore once more that her children would someday be better off. Peter and Paul wouldn’t be dishonorable executioners, knackers, or
torturers but doctors or bathhouse surgeons like their father.

  The dry horse manure made her sneeze suddenly, and Michael looked at her with concern. “May Saint Blasius protect you from the fever,” he mumbled.

  “Nonsense!” Magdalena hissed, blowing her nose loudly on a rag she extracted from her skirt pocket. “I just had to sneeze, that’s all. So stop acting as if I had the Plague.”

  The knacker’s stocky helper grinned at her and made some inarticulate noise that sounded to Magdalena like a laugh.

  “What is it?” she growled. “Is there something funny about me? Is snot running out of my nose? Answer me, you scoundrel.”

  “Matthias can’t answer you,” Michael replied. “He doesn’t have a tongue anymore.”

  “What?”

  The knacker shrugged and looked sympathetically at the strong young man, who now was completely involved in his work. “Croatian mercenaries cut out his tongue while he was still a young lad,” Michael said in a low voice. “They were trying to force his father, the innkeeper in Frieding, to tell them where he’d hidden his savings.” The knacker sighed. “But the poor fellow really didn’t have anything. Finally they took him away and strung him up on the gallows hill in Erling, and the boy had to watch.”

  Magdalena stared at the strapping assistant in horror. “Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry. I had no idea…”

  “Don’t fret. He’s no doubt already forgiven you. Matthias is a good fellow, a bit shy around people, but we deal more with dead animals, in any case.”

  Michael laughed, and his assistant joined in with a dry coughing fit, casting a mischievous grin at Magdalena. He had a handsome face, a full head of sandy hair, and under his black smock, strong, bulging arm muscles like those of a blacksmith’s assistant.

  If they hadn’t cut your tongue out, you would certainly be the cock of the walk, Magdalena couldn’t help thinking. I wish men would hold their tongues more often.

  “No offense,” she said, standing up. “I think I’ll stretch my legs a bit. Simon isn’t coming back.” With a last nod to the mute assistant, she started down the path toward the village just as the bells began to ring.

  “Where are you going?” Michael called after her as the bells continued to ring. “Your husband said—”

  “My husband doesn’t tell me what to do,” Magdalena shouted. “If I were really sick, he wouldn’t have taken off and be spending so much time chitchatting with the apothecary. Now attend to your dead horse and leave the living alone.”

  She hurried off toward the monastery that was teeming now, in the late morning, with throngs of pilgrims and workmen. The walk in the fresh air made her feel noticeably better. The odor in the knacker’s house had reminded her too much of her own home in Schongau, the nasty looks and whispers of her fellow townspeople, and the feeling of being an outcast—your whole life.

  Without realizing it, Magdalena had climbed the hill and was standing now on the wide square directly in front of the church. From here it was easy to see the damage the lightning strike had caused. The roof of the belfry had burned almost entirely, and there was a huge hole in the ceiling in the front of the side aisle. Masons in overalls covered with plaster, as well as sturdy-looking carpenters and day laborers, ran about everywhere hauling stone, erecting new walls, and applying plaster to the parts already finished. At the edge of the building site, Magdalena found the carpenter Balthasar Hemerle from Altenstadt involved in a deep discussion with the patrician Jakob Schreevogl.

  Noticing the hangman’s daughter, the Schongau alderman beckoned to her. “You look pale,” Schreevogl said, concerned. “Are you well?”

  “Thanks,” Magdalena replied coolly. “I already have a husband and a cousin who are watching me like a hawk. That’s enough.” She pointed to the church belfry, which was covered with scaffolding. “It’s hard to believe the damage lightning can cause,” she said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t look like the church will really be finished in time for the Festival of the Three Hosts.”

  “We’re on a really tight schedule,” Hemerle grumbled. “Only seven days left, just time enough to repair the worst damage.” He pointed to the alderman at his side. “Master Schreevogl assured us, though, that he can deliver the new stone from his brickworks in Schongau by tomorrow.”

  Magdalena looked the young patrician up and down. “Then at least the lightning is good business for you, isn’t it, Master Schreevogl?”

  “Don’t worry about that, I’m giving you a special discount,” he assured them. “In Augsburg or in Landsberg I’d get a lot more. If someone has a good deal here, it’s our dear burgomaster.” He winked slyly and lowered his voice. “Karl Semer sold thirty barrels of Bolzano wine to the Andechs Monastery tavern, as well as wax for pilgrim candles, pickled fish from the North Sea, and petitions he had printed cheaply and wants to palm off on the pilgrims. For the Schongau mayor, the Festival of the Three Hosts is better than any Easter mass.”

  Magdalena whistled through her teeth. “I had no idea. I wondered what the old moneybags was doing on a pilgrimage. He insisted on our getting to the Holy Mountain last night in the middle of the thunderstorm.”

  “Because he was afraid the merchants from Munich and Augsburg would get there first.” Schreevogl grinned. “At present that pious pilgrim is down at the tavern negotiating with the monastery’s business manager. And one of the Wittelsbachers is supposedly interested in what Semer has to sell. I just have to wonder what the elector’s family intends to do with all this stuff.”

  The hangman’s daughter nodded. Mention of the previous night had awakened memories of the strange light flickering in the belfry. She shielded her eyes and looked up. “Is there any construction being done up there?” she asked curiously.

  “In the belfry?” Hemerle shook his head. “The framework is complete, but we’re working our way up from the bottom. There’s still quite a bit of work to do up there where the lightning hit the tower. All that remains are charred beams and rubble. It’s a miracle that none of the bells has come down.”

  Suddenly Magdalena remembered how unfriendly Brother Johannes had been the night before when she asked whether there was someone up in the belfry with a torch. What had the monk said? Why would anyone be up there at this time of night? To enjoy the view?

  Magdalena stared up at the belfry ruins again. Even as a child, she never liked it when someone tried to hide something from her. And something deep inside warned her that Brother Johannes was not telling the whole truth. Suddenly feeling dizzy, she placed her hand on the patrician’s shoulder.

  “You really should lie down for a while,” Schreevogl told her. “My wife, God bless her soul, had the same dark rings around her eyes at the end.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” she said angrily, “is there anyone here who thinks I’m still alive? Goodbye, gentlemen. And if one of you sees my dear husband, that good-for-nothing bathhouse surgeon, tell him he can drink his potion himself. I’m going inside now to pray.”

  Leaving the dazed men standing there, she walked quickly toward the monastery church. Though she was not as pious as many others in Schongau, she had nevertheless come to Andechs with the firm intention of thanking God for the preceding good years. So why not start with a prayer, especially since she felt so miserable now? Perhaps there was something after all to Simon’s worries.

  She passed along the south side of the church, where the fire had caused the most damage. The foundation had collapsed and was covered with soot, and sun was falling through the narrow slits in the makeshift canvas beneath the hole in the roof. Magdalena took a deep breath and entered the old Gothic building where monks had more or less put things back in place. Now, after morning mass, only a few people were inside. On the right was the high altar with two golden statues of Mary, and in the nave four smaller altars. Narrow passageways led into dark side chapels lit only by flickering candlelight. Halfway up the wall was a gallery where a half dozen plasterers were busy cleaning dirt and soot from the frescoes or
replacing the burned-out gothic windows. None of the workers seemed to have noticed Magdalena yet, so she sat down in one of the back pews, closed her eyes, and prayed. She soon realized, however, that she was having trouble concentrating. Her thoughts kept turning to her husband’s disappearance; Michael, her lice-ridden cousin; the storm the night before; and the light in the blackened belfry. Especially the light.

  Opening her eyes, she looked around and discovered a winding staircase leading up to the balcony and from there farther up.

  Perhaps up into the tower?

  Just a few minutes, she thought. If I don’t find the entrance to the tower after a few minutes, I’ll come back and keep praying—I promise, Dear Lord.

  Magdalena left the pew on tiptoe and climbed up to the balcony. In fact, there was a low entrance there and, behind that, a newly constructed staircase leading up. The old wooden stairway had been almost completely destroyed by fire. In some places the remains of the old, worn steps were visible, but for the most part all that remained were charred stubs over the void below. Magdalena crossed herself and started up the creaking frame.

  After just a few steps, she was all alone. She could hear hammering and shouting down below, but the higher she climbed the more the sounds faded. Through the empty, charred window openings that appeared at regular intervals, Magdalena could look out into the green valley of the Kien, the beech forests around the monastery, and the construction site far below. The workers looked like ants crawling around the building site, pushing tiny stones.

  The makeshift staircase creaked and swayed; there was no hand railing, and Magdalena could feel herself getting dizzy again. One step at a time she climbed higher and higher. Drops of sweat ran into her eyes and she silently cursed herself for climbing the burned-out, rickety tower. She was about to turn back when she saw a square opening in the ceiling just above her. She climbed through it and had finally made it into the belfry. A cool wind blew through the blackened window openings. The view was splendid.