The Poisoned Pilgrim by Oliver Pötzsch
“I can attest to it,” the knacker answered quietly from his corner. “She smokes like a saber-rattling Saracen.”
“Then… then you’re lying too. I’ll—”
“Me? Lying?” Now Graetz’s voice became louder, as well, as he struggled to be heard over the screaming children. Despite his rather small stature, the knacker approached the confused youth threateningly and reached for the knife hanging on his waistband. “Even a filthy knacker has a sense of decency,” he trumpeted. “You’re calling me a liar? Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Uh, this is the son of the Schongau burgomaster,” Magdalena said, trying to calm him down as she rocked the two crying boys in her arms. “I’m sure we can clear this all up.”
“Then the son of the Schongau burgomaster should go back where he came from,” grumbled Graetz, only slightly mollified. “In any case, he’s not welcome here.”
Open-mouthed and trembling slightly, Sebastian Semer turned to his father. “Father, did you hear what this—”
Karl Semer waved him off angrily. Though he seemed about to explode, he managed to get control of himself. “Very well, hangman’s girl, we’ll leave,” he said softly. “But if I find your father anywhere in Andechs, I’ll have him arrested and interrogated on suspicion of breaking into the monastery and of blasphemy. And then we’ll see who’s more stubborn—the hangman from Schongau or the one from Weilheim. I’ve heard that Master Hans is a tough fellow. He’ll be glad to take on a colleague who’s been going around causing mischief dressed as a Franciscan monk.” Semer’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Who knows, perhaps your father even has something to do with the watchmaker’s corpse that was fished out of the well this morning.”
Magdalena looked at him, perplexed. “Virgilius’s corpse was found? But…”
The burgomaster chuckled. He clearly enjoyed seeing the self-confident young woman finally a bit unsettled.
“That’s the truth. Evidently, that damn apothecary burned him and then threw him in the well. The prior, who will probably soon be the new abbot, just told me about it. So the matter is clear.” Semer smiled maliciously. “Your father has been snooping around here in vain. This apothecary will be burned in Weilheim as a murderer, and we can soon all go about our business again.” He bowed stiffly. “And now I must really say goodbye before I get sick from the odor in here.” Turning up his nose, Karl Semer turned and beckoned to his son, who was still standing there alongside him, trembling with anger. “Come on, Sebastian, this is no place for people like us.”
Holding their heads high, the Semers left the knacker’s house with the two perplexed hunters as Magdalena and Michael Graetz watched silently.
“I’m afraid you owe me some explanation,” the knacker said once the footsteps had finally faded away. “Why isn’t your father here, when he clearly is here? And what is this matter with the fake Franciscan monk? I remember that I, in fact, saw someone in my house who looked like that.” He winked at Magdalena. “I don’t mind lying to these puffed-up old buzzards because they’ve offended our family, but I’d still like to know why that old show-off was so angry.”
“That’s… that’s a long story,” Magdalena sighed. “Let me put the children to bed; then I can probably explain a few things. In any event, it seems everything was all in vain. Now that Virgilius is dead, we can no longer count on the abbot’s help. And Nepomuk will be burned at the stake.”
She took the two boys into the bedroom, sang them a lullaby, then returned to the main room, where she sat down at the table beside the knacker.
“So…” she began hesitantly. “Where shall I begin?”
“Start with your father,” said Graetz. “What in the world is that stubborn old fool up to this time?”
Neither Magdalena nor Graetz noticed someone eavesdropping outside. When the man had heard what he wanted, he quietly slipped away through the hawthorn bushes.
His heart pounding, Simon entered the Prince’s Quarters in the monastery’s upper story.
Jakob Schreevogl had reappeared in the clinic half an hour before to tell Simon the condition of the count’s son had become critical. The medicus had checked some of his other patients before hurrying off, not without first reminding Schreevogl not to let the still-unconscious novitiate master out of his sight. Surprised, the councilor had nodded, then bent down to wash Laurentius’s burns with a damp towel.
As Simon entered the room of the sick boy in the Wittelsbach family tract, he saw right away how urgently the boy needed attention. He was deathly pale, groaning and rolling in his sleep from one side of the bed to the other, and his heart was racing like a tightly wound spring recently released. Simon put his hand on the four-year-old’s red-hot forehead. The count and his young wife sat on the edge of the four-poster canopy bed. She’d obviously been crying—her eyes were red and her makeup was running. She was wearing a tight-fitting, fur-trimmed silk dress, which Simon considered inappropriate for this visit to the bedside of her deathly sick son. Like her husband, she seemed to have a liking for too much perfume.
“Good Lord, can’t you do something?” the countess cried out as Simon felt for the pulse of his young patient. “Give him medicine; bleed him if necessary. I don’t need a doctor to hold my child’s hand.”
“Your Excellency, I’m only listening for a heartbeat,” replied Simon, trying to calm the overwrought woman.
“By holding his hand? How do you do that?”
“Josephine, let the man do his job,” the count urged her. “He was recommended to me by one of the Schongau aldermen.”
“That fat fellow you’re doing business with?”
“No, someone else. At least I have a good impression of him. I think the bathhouse surgeon knows what he’s doing, perhaps more than our sinfully expensive doctors in Munich.” The count glared menacingly at Simon. “And he knows what will happen to him if he fails.”
The countess rubbed her tear-stained eyes. “You’re… you’re right, Leopold,” she sighed. “It’s just this… sitting around not being able to do anything that’s driving me out of my mind.” Simon looked at her out of the corner of his eye and wondered whether she’d ever had much on her mind.
“Well?” Wartenberg asked harshly. “Is there hope, bathhouse surgeon? Be honest, please.”
The chances of your son surviving are so slight that a single pilgrimage probably won’t suffice, Simon thought darkly. But I can scarcely tell you that, because then you’ll be measuring me for the right-size noose.
“The most important thing for us to do now is to lower the fever,” he said. “I found a little Jesuit’s powder a few days ago in the apothecary here. It’s very rare and expensive, but I’ll give it to your son.”
“Jesuit’s powder?” the countess inquired, horrified. “What sort of witch’s brew is that?”
“It’s the bark of a tree that grows in the West Indies, Your Excellency. It cured a countess suffering from fever there, and it ought to help your son, as well.”
“A countess?” Wartenberg’s wife chewed on her painted lips. “Very well, then you may proceed with this… uh, whatever it is.”
Simon took the jar with the inauspicious-looking yellow dust out of his medicine bag, carefully poured the powder into a little phial, mixed it with wine, then finally dripped it into the boy’s mouth. Secretly, he was happy he’d almost forgotten the powder the last few days and hadn’t used it already. Now the appropriate moment seemed at hand—the tiny dose might just be enough for a child.
“With God’s grace the fever should subside,” Simon said after emptying the phial. Then he packed up his medicine bag. “Now we must wait and pray your son is strong enough to overcome the sickness himself.”
“Pray! You always just say pray.” The countess raised her hands. “This whole place does nothing but pray, and still my little Martin is dying.”
“Be still, Josephine,” the count whispered. “You are blaspheming God.”
“And so what if I am? I always
“Good God, I told you to hold your tongue.”
Clearly the count hadn’t intended to speak so loudly, and Simon could sense they were hiding something from him.
Leopold von Wartenberg eyed him suspiciously. “Did you want something else?” he asked harshly.
“Ah, yes, I do have one more question,” Simon said to change the subject. “Has your son done anything out of the ordinary? Did he eat or drink anything he wouldn’t otherwise? Something that could be the cause of this sickness?”
The count seemed to forget his distrust for a moment, struggling to remember. “Actually no,” he finally answered. “We brought our own cook with us who prepares our food in the monastery kitchen.” Suddenly he paused. “But three days ago, we had supper in the tavern in Andechs because our cook had gone to Herrsching to buy fish. The food in the tavern was simple but not bad. We had marinated leg of venison with dumplings and braised turnips. Very tasty, though a bit tough.”
“Leg of venison, I understand.” Simon nodded. Something about the answer made him prick up his ears, though he couldn’t say exactly what.
Finally he reached down one last time to feel the little boy’s pulse. It was still fast, but at least the child seemed to be sleeping calmly now. Simon rose, exhausted.
“I’d be very grateful, Your Excellency, if you would let me know of any change in his condition,” he said, bowing deeply. “For better or worse. And now, farewell. Unfortunately, other patients are waiting.”
Count Wartenberg dismissed him with a brusque wave of his hand, and Simon bowed repeatedly as he backed out of the room. Outside in the hall, he could hear the countess sobbing again.
Exhausted, the medicus rubbed his temples, trying not to think of the long night still awaiting him at the bedside of the novitiate master. Perhaps he could ask Schreevogl to take over at least the second part of his watch. He would tell him simply that the condition of the young monk was so grave he needed constant care.
As he slowly made his way toward the exit down a hall hung with Gobelin tapestries, he thought again of the strange exchange of words between the count and his wife. Evidently Wartenberg was sent on a mission by the elector. But why? And what was so secret about it that it couldn’t be discussed in front of a stranger?
Simon remembered that the count had arrived more than a week early to deliver the key to the relics room. There was really no need for him to arrive until the next day for the Festival of the Three Hosts. Why had he come so early? And what sort of business was he involved in with the Schongau burgomaster?
When the medicus arrived at the high portal leading from the prince’s quarters to the ordinary rooms, he stopped. The guards stood on the other side of the portal while the count and his wife still sat at the bedside of their sick son. Simon looked at the individual doors leading off from the hall with curiosity. Should he dare have a look around here?
Heart pounding, he tiptoed over to the first door and pressed the latch. The room was unlocked. Casting a hesitant glance inside, he spied an open wardrobe and dresses, colorful scarves, and fur caps scattered around the floor, a sign that this must be the countess’s room. Quickly he closed the door and turned to the second room.
This was what he was looking for.
A huge table of polished cherry took up almost the entire far end of the room. On top, inkpots and quills stood beside a pile of documents and rolls of paper. To the right of the table was a bookshelf reaching to the ceiling, and an armchair. The light of the afternoon sun filtered through a high window across the table and the documents scattered across it.
The medicus could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. This was clearly the count’s office.
He looked into the hallway once more. He could hear the countess sobbing in the sick room while her husband murmured some words of consolation. Hesitating briefly, Simon slipped into the room and hurried to the table. Frantically he searched the documents, which were all written in Latin and clearly dealt with the monastery’s relics. Instinctively, he stopped.
What in the world did the count have to do with the relics?
Simon discovered a list of dozens of items in the holy chapel, among them the victory cross of Charlemagne, the stole of Saint Nicolas, and a sudarium from the Mount of Olives.
Other ancient parchment rolls here dealt with the history of the Wittelsbachs and of the monastery. Hastily, Simon scanned the ones telling of the earlier castle of the Andechs-Meranier, its destruction by the Wittelsbachs, and the founding of the monastery of Andechs. He learned of the miraculous discovery of the relics that had been hidden during the storming of the castle and had come to light only centuries later, thanks to a mouse. He read of the increasing crowds of pilgrims, and he read that the relics had often been hidden or spirited away in times of war. None of this was really news to Simon, who had read it all before in the small Andechs chronicle. New, however, was another parchment sheet lying among the others on the table.
A map.
Torn on the edges and burned in places, the map clearly showed the outlines of a castle, with corridors that branched off into labyrinths and ended in several marked exits. A few trees sketched in around the castle suggested a forest, and below that there seemed to be a lake and some rocks indicating cliffs. After a while Simon was able to decipher a few hastily scribbled words.
Hic est porta ad loca infera…
“Here is the gateway to the underworld,” he mumbled. “What in God’s name…”
He was just bending over to examine the map closer when a sound caused him to spin around. Footsteps in the corridor. In a panic, the medicus looked for some way to escape, but the only way out was a large glass window at the back of the room. He ran toward it, turned the knob in the middle, and opened it. Looking down, he could feel his legs wobble under him.
God, don’t let this be the only way out of here.
Two stories below was the deserted courtyard. Beneath the window, a narrow ledge—about a hand’s-breadth in width—ran along the entire front of the building.
The footsteps in the hallway came to a stop just outside the office door. Simon crossed himself one final time, then stepped out on the ledge, closed the window, and moved one step to the right so he was not visible from inside. And not a second too soon, for in the next moment, he heard the latch being pressed and someone entering the room.
I hope he doesn’t notice that the window is ajar, Simon thought. If the count closes the window, my only option is to jump or knock politely and ask to be hanged.
He heard the easy chair in the office being moved aside.
He’s sitting down. The count is sitting down. Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus, don’t let him nod off. I can’t stand being out here that long.
Simon tried not to look down, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the ground fifty feet below seemingly reaching up to him. He sensed he was going to pass out, and his legs felt like rotting wood beneath him. An invisible force seemed to pull him toward the abyss.
Just as he was about to lose all hope, he heard the scraping of the armchair again, then the door to the corridor squeak closed.
Simon waited a few seconds, then worked his way carefully back toward the window. Casting a sidelong glance into the room behind the glass, he finally pushed the door open with a gentle, silent swing. He tiptoed back into the room and closed the window again. His jacket was soaked in sweat, and his knees so weak that walking on the parquet beneath him felt like wading through a deep swamp.
With three deep breaths, he hurried silently to the door where he first listened and then rushed out into the empty corridor. A few moments later, Simon hobbled past the guards at the door and nearly tumbled down the stairway.
“Everything… Everything is fine,” he shouted, his voice cracking, though he tried to sound more or les
“Did you see how ashen the bathhouse surgeon was?” the fat watchman asked, as Simon disappeared down the stairs. “If you ask me, he caught an infection from the little one.”
“Shady quack doctor,” the other hissed. “I’ll bet the count will have him hanged if that blasted fever doesn’t get him first.” He sighed, scratching himself hard between the legs. “It’s really time for us to get out of this hellhole.”
Simon staggered out into the courtyard and looked up at the ledge where he’d stood just a few minutes before. Just the sight made his head spin again. Deep in thought, he walked through the inner gate leading from the courtyard into the narrow lanes in front of the monastery, where he was immediately engulfed in an unending stream of noisy pilgrims.
His head was spinning, due only in small part to his experience on the ledge. What sort of map had he seen on the table in the count’s study? Was it the same the librarian was so eager to find, the map showing the way to the monks’ subterranean hiding place? And what was the strange reference to a door into the underworld?
The more the medicus thought about it, the more he was convinced that Leopold von Wartenberg was somehow implicated in the strange events taking place in the monastery. The count was clearly involved in the matter of the relics, and had been sent there personally by the elector for some mysterious reason. Besides that, he had a map presumably showing the corridors in the basement of the old castle—the same ones haunted by a golem, and the same ones where the effeminate novitiate master had almost met his death.
Simon pushed his way past the pilgrims as he hurried back to the clinic, where he’d last left the Andechs chronicle. In his free time, he’d leafed through it again and again, and now he positively had to read the little book to the end. Perhaps there was something in the little book pointing to what the count was searching for here. Or was the count himself the sorcerer?