The Poisoned Pilgrim by Oliver Pötzsch
But in his place was another man.
A huge figure bent over Laurentius with his back to Simon. It looked as if he was trying to strangle the patient with his huge hands. The medicus ran toward the stranger and pulled him around by the shoulder.
“For God’s sake, stop—” he shouted, but then held his hand up to his mouth in shock. “Good Lord, Kuisl,” he gasped. “It’s you! Where have you been all this time? You scared the hell out of me.”
“You scared me, too,” said the hangman, glaring at his son-in-law. “I thought for a minute you were one of the damned guards. Since when is an executioner and healer forbidden to examine an injured person?” He cast a sympathetic glance at the unconscious novitiate master. “Of course it doesn’t look like much can be done to save this fellow here, not even by me.”
Simon noticed that Kuisl was no longer wearing his Franciscan robe but his own clothing. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous to walk around here like this?” he whispered, pointing to the far end of the room. “We have a few Schongauers here, and they might recognize you. If the church learns that a dishonorable hangman—”
Kuisl interrupted him with a brusque wave of the hand. “To hell with the robe,” he grumbled. “Anyway, they’re looking for me in that robe.”
“They’re what?”
“First tell me what the novitiate master is doing here and why everyone out there is blathering on about a miracle,” the hangman replied. “Who knows, maybe putting your story and mine together will give us a complete picture.”
“As you like, but let’s go to a corner,” said Simon, lowering his voice. “Most of the patients are too weak to understand anything, but one never knows.”
They withdrew to a quiet corner of the room where some mildewed boxes and barrels were piled up. Looking around at the dozing patients and whispering, Simon told Kuisl about finding the injured novitiate master and the monstrance. He also told Kuisl how Virgilius’s charred corpse had been found in a well by the monastery. The hangman listened silently, stuffing his pipe. Once he’d finally managed to light it with a burning pine chip, he pointed his foot toward the unconscious Laurentius.
“This fellow here, by the way, is why I disappeared yesterday noon. I thought it best to disappear in the forest for a while.” He took a deep draw on his pipe and told Simon about the conversation he had overheard between Brother Benedikt and Laurentius and about his hasty flight from the building. He also mentioned the love letters he’d found in the novitiate master’s chest and the old plan the librarian had lost a few days ago.
“In any event you’ll no doubt have to snoop around without me from now on.” Kuisl finally grumbled. “That’s actually fine by me. The old robe smelled like one huge gassy priest.”
“Damn,” Simon exclaimed. “We seemed so close to solving the mystery. It looks as if everyone in this monastery has something to hide.” He counted off on his fingers: “Nepomuk and the dead Virgilius had some heretical ideas; the abbot stole the hosts, even if for honorable reasons; the prior is an overly ambitious schemer; the novitiate master a sodomite—and now the librarian, too, appears to be hiding something in the basement of the monastery.”
“You’ve forgotten the cellarer, who obviously was helping him in all this,” Kuisl interrupted.
Simon rubbed his sweaty brow, trying to piece it all together. “What in God’s name can the two have concealed down there? And where is the hiding place? If I understand Laurentius correctly, he did see this automaton in the corridors of the monastery.”
“They’ve sealed the entrance in any case, and the plans showing how to get there have suddenly and mysteriously disappeared.” Kuisl grinned. “But wait—in your enumeration of these scoundrels and charlatans, you forgot the Wittelsbach count. We still don’t know what role that perfumed poodle is playing in the whole affair.”
Simon sighed. “For now, Wartenberg is quite convincingly playing the role of the anxious father. If I can’t heal his son soon, things really look bad for me.”
“The most important thing at the moment is to get this fellow to speak.” The hangman pointed at Brother Laurentius, who lay on his bed breathing in short gasps. “He’s the key to all this. If Laurentius can tell us where the monstrance comes from and who beat him so badly, we can probably solve the mystery.” He took another deep draw on his pipe and looked up at the ceiling absent-mindedly. “I’m afraid certain people don’t want him to talk.”
“What do you mean by that?” Simon asked, confused.
“What does that mean?” Kuisl laughed softly. “If you were the murderer and learned that your victim was still alive—what would you do?”
“Oh God,” Simon blanched. “Do you think—”
“I think that Laurentius’s life isn’t worth a speck of fly shit if someone doesn’t keep an eye on him.” Kuisl rose and headed toward the exit. “And I’m afraid that’s something only you can do. The church higher-ups know my disguise as a Franciscan now, and it would be too dangerous for me. And as the Schongau executioner, I can hardly sit here and care for the sick.”
“You want me to do that? Impossible.” Simon shook his head vigorously. “You forget I’m looking after the count’s son. And Magdalena is all in a huff because I’m never around to care for the children.”
“They’ll get over it. Anyway…” The hangman stopped in the doorway and looked into the sunlight. “During the daylight, the sorcerer won’t dare show up; too many patients are awake. If he strikes, it will be at night. You can calmly go about caring for your patients during the day and keep watch over the novitiate master at night. It would be best to rub his wounds with an ointment of bear fat, marigold, and chamomile.” Raising his hand in a wave, he added, “Now farewell, bathhouse surgeon. I’ve not had anything to eat since noon yesterday—except for the berries and mushrooms I found in the forest.”
Simon wanted to tell his father-in-law one more thing, but Kuisl had already disappeared. Groaning softly, the exhausted medicus sat on the edge of Laurentius’s bed and stared down at his seriously injured patient.
“Wonderful,” he mumbled. “Marigold and chamomile… I’m going to need some medicine myself.”
Wearily he searched his bag for just one more coffee bean. He always carried a little emergency supply of the exotic bean to help him to fight exhaustion and concentrate, but now he realized that, sadly, he’d ground up the last of them the day before. Still, he found something else at the bottom of his bag. A little clay jar he’d picked up at the apothecary’s house and overlooked in all the excitement.
Jesuit’s powder.
He removed the cover and studied the yellowish powder. Imported from overseas, this medicine could work wonders in reducing fever, but unfortunately the amount here was just enough for one dose. That’s probably the reason Simon forgot about it. Now he rubbed his fingers in the dry powder and stared at the gasping novitiate master.
Should he give Laurentius the medicine? Perhaps the monk would talk once more before he died. Or should he save the powder for the count’s sick son? Simon imagined the little boy in front of him, the same age as one of his sons, a trembling little creature in the count’s much-too-large four-poster, his eyelids fluttering like the wings of a tiny bird.
After a few seconds Simon made up his mind. He closed the lid and put the jar back in his pocket.
A figure was standing in the shadows of the stable wall, watching as the hangman strode away.
The man rubbed his knuckles nervously, cracking them one after the other. What he’d just overheard would interest his master. The man still hadn’t carried out his order; something in him was reluctant to do so. It just felt so… wrong. With this news he might be able to appease his master, though he knew the master would never give in. And wasn’t he always right? Hadn’t he always been concerned for his servant’s well-being? Didn’t he promise him that everything would work out?
The man took a deep breath and crossed himself. The master had told him how impor
After eavesdropping on the conversation in the clinic, he believed, however, that his master would have another job for him. What was it the sullen giant had just said?
I think Laurentius’s life isn’t worth a speck of fly shit…
The man stopped briefly to think about that, then shook his head, leapt over a low wall, and finally disappeared behind the stables.
It was time to report to his master.
It was early evening when Magdalena sat on a bench in the main room of the knacker’s house, singing her children to sleep in a soft monotone.
Little Jack sat by the stove, fast asleep.
His trousers caught fire and up he did leap…
Excited shouts could be heard up on the Holy Mountain, but the noise disturbed neither the hangman’s daughter nor the two boys. The little ones stretched out comfortably on branches near the stove listening to their mother. Peter still had his eyes open, but they were already glassy; Paul dozed, sucking his thumb and dreaming.
The hangman’s daughter cast loving glances at her two boys. What could they be dreaming about? Something beautiful, she hoped—flowering meadows, butterflies, perhaps the enchanted monastery garden they’d seen yesterday.
Perhaps about their father?
Her face darkened when she thought of Simon. Since yesterday she’d spoken with him as little as possible, but he didn’t even seem to notice. It was always the same. When her husband was with patients, neither she nor the children could get through to him. She didn’t ask for Simon to stay with them all day, and she also realized that he was stressed by the difficult situation here in Andechs. What she missed was a loving glance, a few kind words with the children. She wished he would take them into his arms now and then, but Simon was as if behind a locked door in another world, and she didn’t have the key.
So Magdalena had spent both yesterday and today alone with the boys, strolling through town with them. She let them throw sticks in the brook nearby but always watched that they didn’t wander too far. She was still gripped by fear of the sorcerer and the automaton.
The door creaked as Matthias entered the room. Outside Magdalena could hear the squeaking of the knacker’s wagon, so she knew Michael Graetz had picked up a new animal carcass from one of the farmers.
When the mute assistant saw her, he smiled and raised his hand shyly in greeting. Magdalena returned the smile. She had gotten accustomed to the presence of the redheaded giant, and even if he didn’t speak, she liked having him around. He was loving with the children and made them laugh with all his funny faces. Softly, in order not to wake the boys, Matthias walked to the table and poured himself a glass of water, which he gulped down thirstily.
“Damn it all, where have you been, you good-for-nothing?” It was the voice of Michael Graetz, who had just entered the room, a knife dangling from his blood-spattered apron. The short knacker crossed his arms and glared furiously at his assistant, who was almost two heads taller.
“A cow died on the Kins’ farm and I had to do all the dirty work myself while the fine gentleman went for a leisurely stroll through the forest. If I catch you just once more…”
Only then did Michael Graetz see Magdalena and the two sleeping children. He continued in a somewhat softer voice. “Please go outside and burn the entrails behind the house. I’ve already skinned the animal. Now hurry up, you worthless slacker, before I tan your own hide.”
Matthias cringed as if he expected to be beaten, then grimaced and began to whimper.
“Oh, it’s okay,” the knacker grumbled, now a bit calmer. “Just do what I tell you, and next time leave me a message when you’re going out.”
When the mute assistant left, Magdalena looked at the knacker quizzically.
“He can write? Matthias can write?”
Michael Graetz grinned. “Someone who can’t speak has to make himself understood some other way. Heaven knows who taught him—maybe the monks he always hangs around with.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with a corner of his bloody apron. “My father taught me how to write a bit,” he said, “but Matthias is a hell of a lot smarter than he looks. He can write down the words of the four gospels as easily as if they were recipes.”
“You once told me that Croatian mercenaries cut out his tongue when he was a young boy. Is that true?”
Graetz nodded. “As true as I stand here before you. They raped and killed his mother and hanged his father right before his eyes over on the gallows hill in Erling. Half the village had to come and watch as a warning to the other peasants. It’s a miracle the boy didn’t lose his mind. He’s lived with me ever since he was twelve, as no one else wanted him. He was wandering through the forest until I took him in.” He laughed softly. “The best place for mute human garbage like him to live was with a dishonorable, filthy knacker.”
Magdalena glared at him. “Don’t say that. Nobody is ever going to say my children are dishonorable and dirty.”
Michael Graetz cut himself a slice of bread from the table. “What are you going to do about it, hangman’s daughter?” he asked with a full mouth. “Peter is never going to become a bishop, even with his beautiful eyes.” He choked briefly with laughter. “Maybe you can send him here to be my apprentice.”
“You just wait and see, Graetz,” she snapped. “My boy is going to amount to something, as sure as my name is Kuisl.”
“Believe me, my dear,” the knacker said sarcastically, pulling the pitcher of water to him. “The Kuisls and the Graetzes will never amount to anything. Ever. Not in three hundred years.”
At that moment came a knock at the door so loud it sounded as if someone were trying to kick it in.
“Open up!” shouted an angry voice that Magdalena thought she recognized. “In the name of the monastery, open this door at once before I have this pigsty torn down.”
“For God’s sake, all right, all right,” the short knacker rushed to the door and pressed the latch. Two hunters in green hunting costumes stormed in. Magdalena recognized them as the same men who had been guarding Nepomuk in the dairy a few days ago. They were armed with lances, and small crossbows hung from their belts. Behind them came a foppish youth and a potbellied older man whom the hangman’s daughter knew all too well: the Schongau burgomaster, Karl Semer, and his son, Sebastian.
Squinting, old Semer scrutinized the scantily furnished room before speaking. “Where is he?”
“Where is who?” Magdalena was puzzled. “I don’t know whom you’re talking about.”
“Your father, you dumb goose,” Karl Semer walked up to Magdalena and glared at her. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re up to? A stranger dressed as a Franciscan monk slipped into the monastery yesterday—a spy. He probably even stole documents from the monastery before running off. The prior told me everything.” He moved even closer, so close that Magdalena could smell his pungent sweat. “And do you know what else the prior told me? This fraudulent Franciscan was over six feet tall, a bear of a man with a hooked nose like nobody else in the Priests’ Corner. I know your father is behind this. Admit it.”
Magdalena appeared calm, but inside she was seething. She hadn’t seen her father since the morning before, and evidently he’d been caught snooping around the monastery. She could only hope nothing had happened to him.
“Nonsense,” she replied coolly. “Why would my father be here in Andechs? Perhaps he’s on a pilgrimage? An executioner?” she scoffed. Michael Graetz stood there silently, his arms crossed, and she hoped he wouldn’t betray her.
“Ha, hangman’s girl, you lie whenever you open your filthy mouth,” the burgomaster growled. His son’s lips curled into a faint smile, and Magdalena could feel him looking her up and down.
“Your own husband tipped us off,” he continued. “A few days ago in the tavern he boasted of how his father-in-law would straighten out things in Andechs.”
&n
The two hunters were still standing in the doorway with their lances, but now they looked uncertain. Evidently old Semer had promised them they could arrest the false monk in the knacker’s house and reap a handsome reward for it, but all they found was a rude woman with two screaming brats and a grim-looking knacker in a bloody work apron.
“What’s this all about, Alois?” Michael Graetz growled. Obviously, he knew one of the hunters. “Is this any way to behave, to just come crashing into the house of an honest man, shouting wild accusations?”
“I’m sorry, Michael, but—” the man started, but Karl Semer interrupted.
“This isn’t a house, it’s a pigsty,” he shouted. “And I’m not going to let myself be criticized by a filthy knacker, especially when he’s lying. There’s no question that Kuisl was here, and somewhere, we’re no doubt going to find that damned Franciscan robe.”
In the meantime, young Semer had been wandering through the room with visible disgust, carefully examining things. Finally, he stopped in front of a windowsill where he found a small leather pouch that looked familiar. When he tipped it over, little flakes of tobacco fell to the floor.
“Aha, and what is this here?” Sebastian Semer shouted triumphantly. “I know only one person who smokes this stinking weed, and that’s the Schongau hangman.”
“Then you’re sadly mistaken,” replied Magdalena without batting an eyelash. “I like to smoke a pipe now and then myself. It’s good for digestion, young councilor. You should try it sometime; then you wouldn’t have so much gas.”
“You smoke it, too? A woman?” It took Sebastian Semer a while to pull himself together. “That’s… that’s a damned lie.”