Oliver Potzsch - The Dark Monk

As quietly as possible, Simon crept back through the thicket of yews. The crackle of even a tiny branch sounded to him like a peal of thunder, but finally he reached the road. When he emerged from the ditch with twigs in his hair and trousers wet from the snow, Benedikta looked down at him in amusement.

“Did you find a badger hole to do your business? As far as I’m concerned, you could have just gone in the ditch.” Then she noticed the anxious expression on his face and turned serious. “What happened?”

Simon mouthed his next words. “Robbers. On both sides of the street. We have to get out of here.”

Again, one jay call followed another.

Benedikta hesitated briefly. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “As long as we’re on our horses and keep moving, they can’t catch us.” She grinned and pointed to her skirt pocket. “Don’t forget, I’m not completely defenseless. Allez! ”

Her horse bounded forward and galloped away, and to Simon’s great relief, Walli promptly followed. The medicus thought he saw something move behind the trees. He expected to hear the crack of a shot, the whistle of a bullet, or the pain of one impacting his shoulder-but nothing happened.

Clearly, they had shaken off the robbers.

But how? Had he been mistaken? He’d expected that, at the very least, the men would shoot at them with their muskets or crossbows as he and Benedikta rode away. But there was no time to think. The horses raced off, and Benedikta was already entering another part of the forest far ahead. Her laughter dispelled his dark thoughts. Perhaps the highwaymen had simply decided to wait for a more promising victim.

Soon they left the yew forest and a large clearing opened up in front of them. The road climbed steeply, lined by houses on both sides. Simon breathed a deep sigh of relief. They’d reached the village of Gaispoint, and high above them, on a hill, was the Wessobrunn Monastery.

As the medicus looked around, it struck him how well maintained the houses looked. Many of them were built of stone and had obviously survived the war with little damage. Many stucco workers had settled in Gaispoint to take advantage of the booming construction business in the surrounding churches and monasteries. The physician had heard that the Gaispoint stucco workers were well known and highly regarded in Venice and as far away as Florence and Rome. At present, the stucco workers were engaged principally in restoring the neighboring Benedictine monastery to its former glory. Even though the Swedes had left the village largely untouched, they had plundered and set fire to the monastery itself.

Simon and Benedikta rode over a narrow bridge toward the rectory. The grounds seemed gloomy in the light of the setting sun. Parts of the encircling wall had collapsed, and many of the outer buildings had been burned down by the marauding soldiers. Loose stucco was crumbling from the church walls, and all that remained of the well house roof was the timber frame. Crows rose up from a heavy layer of ice covering the fountain and flew off. Only the squat bell tower standing off behind the parish church seemed to have weathered the tumultuous times.

Benedikta knocked on the heavy door of the main house, but it took a while before someone answered. A bald monk peered out at them suspiciously through a narrow crack in the door.

“Yes?”

Benedikta put on her sweetest smile. “We’ve ridden a long way to see this famous monastery. It would be a great honor for us if the abbot-”

“Abbot Bernhard is not available now. Go over to the tavern next door, and perhaps tomorrow-”

Sticking his foot in the crack, Simon pushed the door open a bit. The monk stepped back, startled.

“My companion has come all the way from Paris to view the famous Wessobrunn Prayer,” the medicus said in a commanding tone. “Madame Lefevre is not accustomed to waiting, especially as she is considering a substantial donation to the monastery.”

Benedikta looked at him for a moment in astonishment, then joined in the game. “ C’est vrai, ” she mumbled. “ Je suis tres fatiguee …”

For a moment, the monk looked confused, then finally ushered them into the vestibule.

“Wait a moment,” he said, disappearing through a doorway.

“A substantial donation?” Benedikta whispered. “What were you thinking? I don’t have anything substantial to give.”

Simon grinned. “It won’t necessarily get to that point, Madame Lefevre. All we want is to see this prayer. I do believe we shall have to leave tomorrow in a great hurry. Compris? ”

Benedikta smirked. “Simon Fronwieser,” she whispered, “it seems I’ve underestimated you until now.”

At that moment, a side door opened on a tall black-robed monk with penetrating eyes. Breadcrumbs still clung to his mouth, which he wiped with his sleeve. His Excellency had clearly been disturbed at supper.

“I am Abbot Bernhard Gering,” he said. He was at least two heads taller than Simon. Looking down, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

The abbot raised his eyebrows as if he were examining a bug in the monastery kitchen. Obviously, Father Bernhard was hungry and thus rather ill-disposed. His pronounced nose reminded Simon a bit of Jakob Kuisl’s.

“ Ah, frere Bernhard, ” Benedikta sighed, extending her hand. “ Comme c’est agreable de faire la connaissance de l’abbe de Wessobrunn! ”

Father Bernhard hesitated, then smiled wanly. “You come from France?” he asked in a much softer voice as he shook her hand.

Benedikta smiled back. “ De Paris, pour etre precis. Business matters in Augsburg have brought me to your beautiful isolated region.” She pointed to Simon. “My charming guide offered to show me the way to your monastery. In Paris, I heard of your… comment dit-on …Wessobrunn Prayer, and now I am dying to see it.”

Suddenly, the abbot perked up. “Paris, you say? I spent part of my younger years in Paris! What a wonderful city! Parlez-moi de Paris! J’ai appris que le Cardinal Richelieu a fait construire une chapelle a la Sorbonne. ”

Simon closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. Hearing Benedikta speak the purest Parisian French with the abbot, he opened his eyes again. Father Bernhard nodded and smiled, and now and then posed an interested question. He suddenly seemed years younger, as if he’d fallen under a spell.

After just a few moments, Bernhard Gering led them to his private quarters, where excellent French wine and tender chicken awaited them. The medicus grinned. It was astonishing how a foreign language could open doors. Then he feasted on the coq au vin.

Outside the monastery gates, two monks huddled in a niche against the biting winter wind. A blizzard was brewing again and tugged at their black cowls. A thin layer of snow had fallen on the backs of the horses standing next to them. These men were not Benedictines like the monks of Wessobrunn, and though they would never admit it, they despised their brothers inside the monastery. The Benedictines prayed, ate well, and drank. They spent their tithes on stucco and gold leaf and honored God by reveling in pomp and splendor. They’d lost sight of what was sometimes necessary-a strong hand to free the rose of God from the rampant weeds.

These two monks belonged to an order that thought of itself as Christendom’s elite. For centuries, these brothers had been on the frontlines of the war against the heretics. Other monks quietly tended their cloister gardens and decorated their churches, but these monks were destined for higher things! Their third man had returned to Augsburg, and now they were waiting here in the cold, as they had promised not to let the two busybodies out of their sight. As God’s watchdogs, they followed their master undeterred through storms and snow.