Oliver Potzsch - The Dark Monk

“Certainly hundreds of years old. It has four trunks that have grown together, and some people consider this a symbol of the four elements. The Tassilo Linden is the most famous tree in our area.”

“Your Excellency,” Benedikta interrupted, “could you do us a great favor?”

“But of course.”

“Would you take us to this tree tomorrow morning? I believe it would be the perfect place for me to open my soul to God at daybreak.” She smiled at the abbot. “Surely, it will be revealed to me there what sum I should finally donate to the monastery.”

“Under these circumstances,” said the abbot, “I’ll make sure that no one will be there to disturb you tomorrow. And please include the monastery in your prayers.”

Simon nodded. “We shall do that. Your Excellency?”

“Yes, my son?”

“Might I borrow some books until tomorrow morning?”

The abbot smiled. “But of course. I’d be delighted if someone would read them again.”

After assembling a stack of books, Simon staggered down the stairs with his hands full. It would be a long night.

Magdalena was lying in a ship’s hold, being rocked gently side to side by waves that beat against the hull. She had difficulty keeping her eyes open as the sound of the water and the constant back and forth lulled her to sleep. A storm was brewing outside, however; the rocking became more violent, and she was thrown back and forth in the little ship like loose cargo. She would have to go up on deck to see what was wrong up there.

She stood up. Her head banged against a wooden wall, and with a cry of pain, she sunk back down again.

The pain woke her up, and the dream floated away like a cloud. She was not on a ship at all, but inside a tiny wooden crate. The rocking was from the movement of a wagon. Magdalena could hear the snorting of horses and a monotone hissing sound and, after a while realized it was the sound of runners of a sled being pulled through the snow. So it was not a wagon, but a sled that was taking her somewhere in a box. Now she could feel the cold coming through the slats of the box. A shaft of light entered through the cracks-too little to see more than a few indistinct figures rushing by. Her head pounded as if she had drunk a whole barrel of wine by herself.

Magdalena measured the narrow space around her with her hands and feet and quickly realized that the box was exactly the size of a coffin. Had she died perhaps and come back to life? Was someone taking her to the cemetery to bury her alive?

Or was she already dead?

“Help! Is someone there?” Her voice was nothing more than a soft wheezing sound. “I’m not dead! Get me out of here!”

The long, drawn-out call of a coachman was audible as he brought the sled to a stop. The shaking finally stopped and a crunching sound could be heard as someone trudged through the snow toward the box. Magdalena’s heart began to pound. Someone had heard her, and she was safe! In no time, the gravedigger would realize his error and break open the coffin. She would laugh in his face and tell him-

“Shut your damned mouth, Hangman’s Daughter, or I’ll dig a hole six feet deep and stick you in it, just like we used to do with sluts like you.”

Magdalena fell silent. She recognized the voice at once-it was the man who had stuck her in the arm with the dagger, the man the other brothers had called Brother Jakobus. The name brought memories flooding back: the cathedral, the cross around his bishop’s neck, the subterranean vault, the meeting. There must have been poison on the tip of the dagger that had paralyzed her and finally made her pass out-the same poison that had also made her father lose consciousness. Brother Jakobus was obviously taking her away somewhere to dispose of her.

But where?

“Listen, we’ll soon be going by a security post.” The man now sounded somewhat conciliatory. “Don’t make a sound, do you understand? Not a sound! I don’t mean to kill you, because we still need you, but if I have to, I will. Did your father ever tell you how long it takes to suffocate when you’re buried alive?”

Brother Jakobus did not wait for the answer but climbed back up to the coach box, judging from what she could hear. With the crack of a whip, the sled moved forward again.

Magdalena tried to put her thoughts in order. The monk knew her and her father! He was probably the man with the violet perfume who had been watching her all along in Schongau and Altenstadt. By coincidence, he’d run into her again in Augsburg. He was apparently out to find the Templars’ treasure, and clearly, there were many more people involved.

Magdalena shuddered. Only now did she remember she’d recognized the bishop among those disguised figures. It seemed clear he was the leader of this insane plot. The bishop had spoken of a brotherhood. What order could he have meant? And what treasure were these men looking for? What treasure could be so great as to turn pious, influential Christians into merciless killers?

Magdalena’s thoughts were interrupted when the sled suddenly stopped. She could hear voices-apparently, the watch post.

“Where are you going with the coffin, Father? We don’t need any plague victims in town!”

“Don’t worry, my son. An elderly brother of mine has gone to join God. I’m taking him back to his hometown.”

Magdalena was tempted to scream, but then she remembered what the monk had said.

Did your father ever tell you how long it takes to suffocate when you’re buried alive?

She kept quiet. Finally, the guard let them pass, and the sled continued its journey. She could hear footsteps outside, laughter, and individual voices. Someone with a strong Swabian accent was hawking hot chestnuts. Where was she? Where was the man taking her? She had no idea how long the poison had knocked her out. One day? Two?

Again the sled stopped, and she could hear the muffled sound of Jakobus’s voice. He was speaking with someone, but the conversation was too faint for her to understand anything. Suddenly, the coffin began to shake. Magdalena felt herself being lifted up and then carried down a flight of stairs. Imprisoned in her coffin, she slid from one side to the other.

“Careful, careful!” Brother Jakobus scolded. “Have some respect for the dead!”

“Where your brother is, it won’t bother him anymore,” she heard a deep voice reply grimly. Then the coffin fell to the ground, and Magdalena suppressed a cry of pain. She could hear coins being counted out, then heavy steps struggling up the stairway again. After that, only silence.

Magdalena waited a moment, then groped at the boards above her. Certainly, Brother Jakobus wanted to rest and had put up for the night in some inn. Would she be able to loosen the boards a bit now? Her father said that coffins were often very carelessly nailed together. After all, nobody figured the dead would want to escape their last resting place.

Pressing with both hands against the top of the coffin to check how secure the boards were, she heard a ripping sound. Someone was prying a board off the lid! A moment later, a bright light shone into the coffin through the crack, and a head with a monk’s haircut peered in above her. Brother Jakobus was shining his torch inside. His face was only a few inches from hers, but she wasn’t able to reach up and seize him since her arms were still pinned beneath the cover. A strong scent of violets filled her nose.

“Well, Hangman’s Daughter?” Brother Jakobus asked, passing his hand almost sympathetically over her cheeks. “How do you like your bed? Does it make you think of Judgment Day? Are you overcome with weeping and trembling? The wrath of the Lord catches up with everyone sooner or later.”

In answer, Magdalena spit in his face.