The Poisoned Pilgrim Page 5

  Suddenly a gust of wind tugged at her hair, and she tightened her grip on a wooden beam to keep from falling. When she had regained her balance, she turned around to get a look at the interior of the destroyed tower room.

  The walls were blackened and had burst in places from the heat, but beyond the empty window frames she could see only blue sky. In the middle of the belfry, three bells that had survived the flames hung in an iron-reinforced wooden frame. The floor around it had mostly burned away, so Magdalena could see through the beams into the yawning abyss below. A new rope dangled down from the bell cage.

  It occurred to Magdalena now that she’d heard the bells early that morning. Could it have been just the bell ringer checking things last night? She frowned. What in the world could he have been doing up here in the pitch black?

  Magdalena decided to climb over the balcony to the bells to get a better view of the room, taking care not to look down any more than absolutely necessary. As long as she put one foot in front of the other and kept looking straight ahead, she felt more or less secure.

  Finally she reached the huge bronze bells and placed her arms around the smallest one, feeling the cool metal in her hands and breathing a sigh of relief. Her dizziness was completely gone now. It was as if the exertion had renewed her strength and cured her. As she stood up carefully to look to the other side of the room behind the bells, she spotted something strange.

  Against the opposite wall, a sort of stretcher lined with metal clamps along the side leaned upended against the wall. On the ground in front of it lay some polished iron rods. Something squeaked, and looking up she saw on the ceiling directly above the stretcher a wire about the thickness of a finger, swaying in the wind like a hangman’s noose.

  As she approached the strange contraption, she heard a sound on her right and wheeled around.

  A black form ran toward her, like a human bat that had been sleeping in the tower rafters and was now swooping down on the unexpected visitor. The figure wore a black robe and a cowl, so Magdalena couldn’t see his face.

  In the next instant he attacked.

  Magdalena staggered, her hands lost their grip on the smooth metal bell, and she lost her balance. As she fell through an opening between the beams, something sharp scraped against her thigh. At the last moment she reached out and seized a wooden beam above her. The tendons in her wrists felt like they were going to rip out, but she held on with all her strength. As she swung wildly back and forth, she looked down, heart pounding, into the abyss beneath her. For a moment, she thought she was going to pass out, but then she heard steps on the stairs beneath her, and the figure disguised in black robes appeared again, then raced down the stairs so fast it almost appeared he was about to fly away. A moment later, the man had disappeared into the church nave.

  Magdalena swung back and forth like a thin branch in the wind, knowing her strength wouldn’t last much longer. Tears of anger and despair ran down her face. With a last ounce of strength, she pulled herself up to see the bell rope hanging just two arm’s lengths away.

  Would she be able to reach it?

  Inch by inch, she worked her way forward. At one point her left hand slipped and she was barely able to hold on. When finally she got close enough, she let out a gasp and leapt for the salvation of the rope. Grabbing it tightly, she tumbled one or two yards, then started to sway back and forth.

  The church bells rang wildly.

  Magdalena’s ears rang, too; it seemed as loud as if she were being tossed around inside the heavy, hollow bell itself as it swayed back and forth, yanking her up and down. Slowly she slid down the rope to the bottom of the tower, where several surprised workers were already looking up wide-mouthed at her, Jakob Schreevogl and Balthasar Hemerle among them.

  Magdalena could see they were both shouting and trying to tell her something, but all she could hear was the thundering bells—a constant and deafening booming, clanging, clanking, and rumbling.

  As if the angels were announcing the Last Judgment.

  The pealing bells could also be heard in the main building of the monastery, interrupting the Andechs abbot, Maurus Rambeck, for a moment. But the occasion was too serious to pause for long.

  “So do you really think it was murder?” The abbot raised his right eyebrow and cast a short glance through the window, as if in this way he might determine the reason for the ringing bells. Simon guessed that Rambeck was about fifty, but his shaved head and black Benedictine robe made him look considerably older. After what seemed like an eternity, the abbot turned back to his visitor. “What makes you say such a dreadful thing?”

  “Well… ah, I found bruises on the novitiate’s shoulder blades and chest, Your Eminence,” Simon mumbled. “And a large bump on the back of his head. Feel free to examine the corpse yourself.”

  “You can be sure I’ll do that.”

  Simon looked down, silently examining the many books on the shelves all around them. Brother Johannes and he had met Maurus Rambeck in the so-called study on the second floor—a room meant exclusively for the abbot. He was sitting at a table, scrutinizing a tattered book full of strange signs that seemed vaguely familiar to Simon.

  “If your theory is correct,” Rambeck continued, “then it’s a matter for the district court in Weilheim—something I’d like very much to spare us all. Are there any clues who the culprit might be?”

  “Unfortunately not.” Simon sighed. “But perhaps we should pay a visit to this fish pond, if you will permit me to say so.”

  “Perhaps we should do that, indeed.”

  The abbot ran his tongue over his plump lips, lost in thought. Maurus Rambeck was a chubby man with the jowls of an old lap dog. He radiated an easy-going nature; only his eyes revealed the quick mind behind his demeanor. As they walked toward the monastery living quarters, Johannes told Simon that the abbot had assumed his duties only a few months ago and was regarded as one of the smartest minds in Bavaria. He spoke eight languages fluently and could read twice that number. Like many educated men of his time, he had studied not only theology but philosophy, mathematics, and experimental physics at the Benedictine University in Salzburg. After serving in his youth as a simple monk in the monastery, he had been sent back to the university in Salzburg as a lecturer. His call back to Andechs had caused quite a stir in the monastery council.

  “I think the whole thing is just imaginations running wild,” Brother Johannes interrupted for the first time. “Believe me, Your Excellency, I’ve seen many corpses, and—”

  “I know you’ve seen many corpses, my dear Brother,” the abbot interrupted. “Too many, if you ask me…” he added ominously. “In addition, you’ve been involved with some troubling things, Brother Johannes. The rumors concerning the lightning strike and your gluttonous behavior during the time of fasting, to say nothing of the eternal arguments with Brother Virgilius. Is it true, as I have heard, that there were harsh words between the two of you just today?”

  “How do you know…” Brother Johannes burst out. Then his shoulders sank, and he continued in a meek voice. “Very well, it’s true. We argued, but it was a… scholarly dispute, technical really, and nothing serious.”

  “Scholarly?” The abbot grinned. “Remember your place, Brother. You are our apothecary, nothing more. Heal the sick and make sure that no more of your patients die. That’s all I ask of you. Leave scholarly issues to the scholars.” He turned back to Simon. “And now to you, bathhouse surgeon. You seem to understand something about human anatomy, perhaps even more than Brother Johannes. And why wouldn’t you?” Maurus Rambeck rocked his head from side to side as if trying to decide what to do. Finally he nodded. “I’d be pleased if you’d write a short report about this incident. By tomorrow morning, let’s say? Cause of death, wounds, and so forth, something for our files if we actually have to call upon the judge from the district court. And naturally we will pay you for that.” He winked, and Simon thought he noticed a touch of mockery in his eyes. “And of course you should a
lso pay a visit to this mysterious pond,” he continued. “Or whatever you wish to do—it’s up to you. After that, I’ll decide how to proceed. And now, I wish you a good day.” Maurus Rambeck pointed at the tattered book in front of him. “This Hebrew manuscript about healing herbs in ancient Egypt is most enlightening. I’d like to prepare a translation of it today. In peace and quiet.” With a sigh, he looked out the window where the occasional pealing bells could still be heard. “And dear Brother Johannes, please find out why there’s all that nerve-racking ringing out there. It sounds almost as if the Swedes were at our gates again.”

  “As you wish, Your Excellency,” Brother Johannes mumbled. “I will check at once to see that everything’s in order.” He bowed and took leave of the abbot, but not without first casting an angry glance at Simon.

  The medicus swallowed hard. It looked as though his notorious curiosity had gotten him into a heap of trouble again.

  3

  THE TANNERS’ QUARTER, SCHONGAU. THE MORNING OF SUNDAY, JUNE 13, 1666, AD.

  JAKOB KUISL CAUGHT the men in the zimmerstadl warehouse not far from the river.

  They were about a dozen young punks, pimply, broad-shouldered, and practically bursting with strength and cockiness. The hangman recognized two or three carpenter’s journeymen from Altenstadt and naturally the three Berchtholdt brothers. The oldest Berchtholdt boy was, as so often, the leader.

  “Well, just look at that,” growled Hans Berchtholdt. “The hangman’s taking his little brats for a walk.” He straightened up and puffed out his chest, pointing to the two children Kuisl was carrying in his huge arms. The boys were sucking sleepily on their thumbs, eyeing the angry young men as if hoping for some candy or a shiny toy.

  “Leave my grandkids out of this,” said Kuisl, glancing around furtively for a way to escape. But by now the youths had formed a circle around him.

  The hangman had wanted to spend the morning with the children down at the river, whittling wooden boats and water-wheels. When he entered the narrow path behind the storage building, though, he noticed at once that one of the loading hatches was open. A few men were sitting there on top of stolen sacks of grain with devious expressions on their faces, while others were climbing down from the hatch on a ladder they’d nailed to the side of the building. Two lookouts approached him from the front and back, each with a glint in his eyes that reminded the hangman of hungry wolves. Apparently, Kuisl’s last warning had had no effect. Berchtholdt and the others in the gang had broken into the warehouse again to steal grain.

  “Just get out of here, and I won’t have seen a thing,” he grumbled. “I’m in a good mood today, and this time I’ll let you go.”

  But a short look at Hans Berchtholdt told Kuisl things wouldn’t be so easy this time. The young man still had his hand with two broken fingers in a sling, and his lips quivered with anger and excitement.

  “I’m afraid we can’t let you off so easily,” Berchtholdt snarled. “It was a really stupid idea of yours to come by at this moment. Who’s to say you won’t report us to the council?”

  “You have my word.”

  “The word of a hangman? To hell with that.”

  Laughter broke out, and the baker looked around confidently at his companions.

  “So whaddya want? Maybe a sack of grain from the warehouse for your little brats, Kuisl?” Berchtholdt sneered, pointing at the grandchildren. “So maybe someday they’ll become fat, filthy executioners just like their grandfather?”

  “You mean so they can one day string up thieves and hoodlums like you and watch them dangle on gallows hill?” Kuisl replied calmly. “This is the second time I’ve caught you stealing, Berchtholdt. That’s a hanging offense. Go home, all of you, or there’s going to be big trouble. If the secretary learns of this, he’ll make short work of you.”

  Hans Berchtholdt bit his lip. This wasn’t the answer he expected. Clearly, this old goat was being insolent.

  “And who would testify against us, eh?” he growled. “Maybe you, hangman?” His laughter sounded like a bleating goat. “A dishonorable man testifying before the city council? Do you really think the secretary would believe you? Or the whining, babbling little brats?” Again he started bleating as the other men joined in. “Where is their lousy mother, huh?” he continued in a hoarse voice. “She and that quack doctor. Shouldn’t they be minding their brats themselves so that nothing happens to them? Where are they?”

  “You know exactly where they are,” Kuisl murmured. “So now let me through, and—”

  “The whole city was against a dishonorable person going on a pilgrimage,” screeched the second oldest of the Berchtholdts. At nineteen, he was bigger than most of the others and his angry red face shot forward like that of a snake. “A hangman’s daughter on a pilgrimage with honorable citizens to the Holy Mountain. That’s unheard of! Now look what the Lord God sent us as punishment: rain and hail and destroyed fields. And mice that eat up our seed corn.”

  “That doesn’t give you any right to break into the warehouse and steal the grain.”

  “The grain belonging to those rich moneybags in Augsburg? The devil take them all. By all the fourteen saints, we’re only taking what belongs to us anyway.”

  Kuisl sighed softly. Josef Berchtholdt had learned such narrow-mindedness from his late father. It was true that in recent days bad storms had swept over Schongau and mice had become a real plague. The vermin had practically stripped bare many of the fields. The hangman had warned his daughter about going on a pilgrimage with the other citizens—he knew it would be the subject of gossip. But as so often, she didn’t want to listen. Now Kuisl was standing down here on the Lech with his grandsons, facing a mob that would have liked nothing better than to start a fight.

  “Where is your hangman’s sword, Kuisl?” one of the boys taunted. “Did you forget and leave it at home? Or are you going to carve yourself one here?” Again this was followed by loud, gloating laughter. Mumbling and hissing, the mob moved toward the hangman, who stood with his back to the warehouse.

  “I would never have thought you’d get involved with a group like this, Berchtholdt,” Kuisl growled. “Your father would turn over in his grave.”

  “Shut up, hangman,” the baker’s son shouted. “If my father were still alive he’d whip the whole Kuisl gang and drive them out of town.”

  “I’m the one here who whips people and drives them out of town, Berchtholdt. Don’t forget that.”

  The hangman tried to size up the group of young men blocking his path. Kuisl was fifty-four now, no longer a spring chicken, but people still feared his anger and strength. They’d seen how he broke the bones of a bandit chief, one by one, and how he cut off the heads of condemned murderers with a single blow. Kuisl had a bloody reputation all over the region; nevertheless he could sense that his authority was beginning to crumble. Today loud words or a quick blow would no longer suffice to drive away this mob.

  Especially not with two babbling, thumb-sucking kids on his arm.

  “Let me tell you, Kuisl,” Hans Berchtholdt hissed as a mean smile spread across his lips. “You bow your head and ask humbly for forgiveness for your daughter, that good-for-nothing hangman’s girl, and we’ll let the three of you go.”

  As raucous laughter broke out, little Peter began to cry, and it wasn’t long before his younger brother joined in. Kuisl closed his eyes and tried to breathe calmly. They wanted to anger him, but he couldn’t endanger the children. What could he do? He didn’t want to risk a brawl because of his grandsons. Should he call for help? It was a long way up to town, and the rushing water would no doubt drown out any sound. Should he accept Berchtholdt’s demand?

  Remorsefully, Kuisl bowed his head. “I plead—” he began softly.

  Hans Berchtholdt grinned, his eyes glistening like two pieces of ice. “Humbly,” he snarled. “You plead humbly.”

  “I plead humbly,” the hangman continued. He paused, then he continued in a monotone: “I plead humbly that God will giv
e me the strength to endure such a big mob of stupid, blockheaded, low-down bastards like this without bashing their heads in. Now for the sake of the Holy Virgin let me through before I smash the nose of the first one of you.”

  A horrified silence ensued. It seemed the young journeymen couldn’t believe what they’d just heard. Finally Hans Berchtholdt got control of himself again. “You’ll… you’ll regret that,” he said softly. “There are a dozen of us, and you’re an old man with two children in his arms. Now the little bastards will learn how their grandfather can put up with—”

  He stopped suddenly, screamed, and put his hand to his forehead where blood was pouring out. Now other boys were howling and wailing as they sought refuge behind carts and barrels while a hail of stones fell down on them. Kuisl looked around, puzzled. Finally, up on the roof of the warehouse he spied a crowd of children and young people tossing stones and clumps of dirt down on the gang.

  At the crest of the ridge up front stood Kuisl’s thirteen-year-old son, Georg, with a slingshot in hand.

  The hangman was shocked. What was that snotty little brat doing down here? Wasn’t he supposed to be cleaning the knacker’s wagon in the barn? Wasn’t it enough for the two grandchildren to be in danger?

  Kuisl was about to give the boy a good tongue-lashing when he realized the possibility that his son might just have saved his life. Again he looked up at the roof. Georg Kuisl looked very big for his age; everything about him seemed to have been hewn out of solid rock. A little fuzz was starting to form around his lips and his shirt and trousers looked much too small for his hefty body.