Oliver Potzsch - The Dark Monk

Magdalena is a little girl who probably doesn’t know a word of Latin…

It was at that moment that he felt how much he missed Magdalena. What he once thought of as Magdalena’s weaknesses-her quick temper, lack of education, her practicality, and shrewdness, things that were so far removed from Benedikta’s French etiquette and finesse-all that now made Magdalena seem beyond compare, unique.

Once again Simon’s thoughts were interrupted, as they were so often, by Clara’s long, rattling coughing fits. The girl’s chest rose and fell, and she spit up hard green mucus. Simon was glad to see that the phlegm was not red. Red phlegm, he knew, meant certain death in most cases.

As he sat holding Clara’s hand, waiting for the next coughing fit, he wondered why he was so concerned about this one child when people were dying in their beds in Schongau almost every day. But with Clara it was different. A paternal love, nurtured in their adventures almost a year ago, bound him to this girl. He had freed this child from the hands of the devil, and he had saved her once before from a terrible fever. Could he sit by idly now as she died before his eyes? A few times she awoke, smiled at him, mumbled something unintelligible in her sleep, then drifted off again. Simon changed the cheese compress on her feet, wiped the sweat from her brow, and took turns with the Schreevogls in sitting at her bedside. All the while, Maria Schreevogl never stopped running rosary beads between her fingers and praying.

Ave Maria, the Lord be with you…

On the second day, Clara’s condition seemed to improve. Simon knew from experience that the sickness entered its critical stage on about the second day. The fact that the fever was receding was a good sign.

It was Jakob Schreevogl who finally urged him to take a break.

“I don’t think there’s anything more you can do, Simon,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed with the physician. “My wife and I thank you for your concern, but you should leave for Rottenbuch as you had planned.” He stood up and stretched. “But take the hangman along. According to everything you’ve told me, you’re not alone out there.”

Simon shook his head. “You forget that Scheller has his big day tomorrow. Kuisl has to break him on the wheel, and we certainly wouldn’t be back in time for the execution.” He stood up stiffly and looked out the window at a light snow that had been drifting down since early that morning, once again covering the city in a white, whirling shroud. “I’d actually be happy if I didn’t have to be in Schongau on a day like tomorrow,” he said. “We can only hope for bad weather. At least that would spoil Lechner’s plans and his party would have to be canceled.”

Jakob Schreevogl, too, was now looking out the window at the falling snow. “I want you to know that I spoke out in the city council meeting against breaking the prisoner on the wheel. It’s…bestial, a throwback to a time I thought we had outgrown. But the war turned us into beasts again.” He sighed. “As an alderman, I must unfortunately attend the execution. Perhaps I’m one of the few who takes no joy in the spectacle.”

He motioned for Simon to accompany him out of the room, where Maria Schreevogl was still kneeling in prayer. As they descended the stairs, the alderman put his hand on Simon’s shoulder again.

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me and about these words the men were whispering in the crypt- Deus lo vult. I’ve been wondering for a long time where I heard this expression.”

“And?” Simon asked.

“Last night it came to me. It’s the cry the Crusaders made as they rode off into battle against the unbelievers- God wills it. This is how they attempt to excuse all the massacres of the Arabs. God wills it…”

Simon shook his head. “The old Crusaders’ battle cry on the lips of murderers and bandits. Just who are these lunatics we’re trying to track down?” He hesitated. “Do you know the bishop of Augsburg?” he finally asked.

“The bishop of Augsburg?” The alderman frowned. “Well, I’ve seen him once or twice in the Imperial City at large receptions-a young, ambitious man, people say. He’s said to be very literal in his understanding of the Bible, very pious.” Schreevogl smiled wanly. “The pope certainly has his reasons for sending one of his strictest shepherds to Augsburg, this den of iniquity, full of Protestants. But why do you ask?”

Simon shrugged. “Nothing in particular…a suspicion, that’s all. No doubt complete nonsense.”

Jakob Schreevogl shook his hand firmly. “In any case, keep alert. And there’s something else…”

“Yes?”

“This Friedrich Wildgraf. I’ve seen his name somewhere before.” The patrician bit his lip. “If only I knew where!”

Simon nodded. “I feel the same way. It’s like a ghost that keeps coming back to haunt me, but when I try to grab hold of it, it slips away and dissolves into thin air. I think it has something to do with that little book about the Templars you gave me. Could you spare it for two more days?”

“Certainly,” Schreevogl replied. “All I really want is for my Clara to get well again.” They’d reached the front door now, and snowflakes were blowing over the doorsill into the house.

“I wish you much luck. Godspeed!” Jakob Schreevogl looked Simon firmly in the eye again, then closed the door.

The medicus turned to leave. And then he stopped short.

Benedikta was standing down below on the street. She had loaded her things onto her horse and bridled it, and she was waving good-bye.

Magdalena stared up at the benevolent Jesus on the ceiling, knowing he wouldn’t be able to help her, either. Time slowed to a drag. She had been locked in this chapel for three days-three days of waiting, cursing, and sometimes crying. At first she thought of nothing except how to escape, but the only window, no more than a hand’s breadth across and made of some sort of translucent stone, was located about fifteen feet above the altar.

Her cries for help had echoed from the walls of the chapel unanswered. The door was massive and furnished with a lock, an additional bolt, and a peephole at eye level that her jailer, the monk, used regularly to keep an eye on her.

Brother Jakobus was, in fact, the only person she’d been able to talk to during these three days. He brought her food and drink, provided her with blankets, and once a day took away the bucket she had to use to relieve herself under the watchful eyes of all the archangels and evangelists. Before entering the chapel, Brother Jakobus would open the peephole. Magdalena then had to sit on one of the prayer stools visible from the peephole, and only then would he push back the bolt and enter. This was intended to keep her from attacking him when he entered the chapel, and indeed, she soon gave up on the idea. The monk might have been haggard, but he was also very hardy and muscular and, besides that, always carried a dagger at his side, which Magdalena assumed to be poisoned.

At first she refused to say more than just a few words to him, even though Brother Jakobus tried several times to engage her in conversation. With time, however, she became more and more bored in the drafty chapel. By now she knew the ceiling frescos like the back of her hand, as well as how many paces it was from the altar to the door and from the shrine of the Virgin to the altar. The only book here was a dog-eared prayer and hymn book whose Catholic hymns she had practically memorized by now.

On the second day, she started paying more attention to the monk’s diatribes-for the most part, endless, bigoted lectures full of quotes from the Bible. Brother Jakobus approached her with a mix of contempt, hatred, and even…adoration, something that increasingly confused her. Often, he passed his hands through her hair, only to break away a moment later and start pacing furiously among the pews again. More than once, she was afraid he would cut her throat in a sudden fit of madness.