Oliver Potzsch - The Dark Monk

Simon swallowed. Frantically, he tried to think how to dig himself out of this trap. Downstairs the Rottenbuch bailiffs were no doubt waiting to drag him off to the dungeon. He knew what would follow. It was as inevitable as the amen in church-namely, torture and an execution that would be the equal in every respect to what was in store for Hans Scheller. Desecration of relics! The hangman would probably rip open their stomachs, pull out their guts for all to see, and then burn them alive.

At the same moment, it occurred to Simon that the hangman would be none other than Jakob Kuisl! Ever since the death of the old Rottenbuch executioner, this district fell under his jurisdiction. Kuisl would look at them both with sad, empty eyes; shake his head, perhaps; then stuff them into an animal hide like slaughterhouse waste and drag them off to be burned.

And Magdalena would stand by and watch…

But perhaps there was a way out, after all. The medicus decided to lay all his cards on the table. He looked over at Benedikta, who was still sitting on the bed. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

“It’s not what you think,” he began. “This woman here is really the sister of Andreas Koppmeyer. Her brother discovered something that probably cost him his life…” Then Simon told the Steingaden abbot the entire story. He started with the death of the Altenstadt priest, then the crypt and the riddles, and his suspicion they were on the trail of the fabulous Templar treasure. He poured his heart out and put his future in the abbot’s hands.

Bonenmayr sat down on the only stool in the room, listening attentively while Simon told his story. When Simon had finished, the abbot remained silent for a long time. Outside, the bells were still tolling.

Finally Bonenmayr turned to the medicus. “Riddles pointing to a treasure that people have been looking for centuries…” He shook his head. “Simon, either you are crazy or that is the greatest lie that a convicted heretic ever told.”

“It’s all true!” Simon cried. “So help me God!” As proof, he picked the sword up from the bed and handed it to Bonenmayr, who ran his finger across the blade, examining the inscription.

“ Heredium in baptistae sepulcro…” he murmured. “ The heritage in the grave of the baptist …”

He looked up. “That doesn’t prove a thing. An epigraph on a sword, nothing more. Besides, who can prove this is, in fact, the sword of Saint Felicianus? It could be your own.”

“Ask Michael Piscator!” Benedikta chimed in. “He’ll verify that this is the sword from the coffin!”

“To do that, I’d have to hand you over to the Augustinian monks,” he said. “Desecration of relics is one of the worst crimes again Christianity. They’ll skin you alive-”

“I have a proposal,” Simon interjected. “We’ll work together to find this treasure! If we succeed, that will be the proof we’re not lying. We’ll donate all the money to the monastery in Steingaden, and nobody will ever find out who desecrated the bones of Saint Felicianus.”

Augustin Bonenmayr frowned. “I’m supposed to make a pact with heretics and the defilers of holy relics?”

“For the good of the church!” Simon replied. “After all, you have nothing to lose. If we don’t find the treasure, you can still turn us in.”

The abbot thought it over a long time. Outside, they could hear church bells ringing and shouts from far off. Evidently, the people of Rottenbuch still believed the devil was afoot in the monastery.

I hope they don’t look for him here in the inn, Simon thought anxiously.

Finally, Bonenmayr cleared his throat. “Very well, then. I’ll take the gamble. Under one condition.”

“Whatever you say,” replied Simon.

“Beginning now, the two of you will be in my custody. Here in Rottenbuch, you’re no longer safe, anyway. Brother Michael is not stupid. He’ll soon have people out searching for a French lady and her companion. Therefore, we’ll return to Steingaden at once.” He took the sword and opened the door. Only now did Simon see two burly looking monks who had been waiting outside. Noticing the look on Simon’s face, the abbot smiled. “Brother Johannes and Brother Lothar,” he said, introducing the two. “Both are novitiates who haven’t yet taken their vows and thus haven’t yet foresworn violence. They have many…experiences from before.” He started down the stairs. “Or did you think I would enter the room of two wanted defilers of the church without protection?”

Simon and Benedikta followed the abbot, with the two grim monks close behind.

Outside, four black horses hitched to a covered sleigh awaited them. Simon noticed that someone had already hitched Benedikta’s horse and his own to the rear of the sleigh. They would disappear without a trace. They took their places on padded seats alongside the silent monks and the abbot. The two huge novitiates stared impassively into the night, but Simon was certain that the two thugs dressed in monk’s habits would attack fast and decisively at the mere hint of an escape.

A whip sounded and the four-in-hand set out. Just before the wagon disappeared around the corner, a figure appeared and jumped up onto the back. Silently, the person climbed onto the roof and lay down flat so the cold wind would meet no resistance.

The execution was set for twelve o’clock noon sharp on Saturday.

Since the early morning hours, people had streamed into the city from surrounding towns. At market stalls around the square, vendors sold sausages dripping with fat and piping-hot mulled wine that made everyone’s cheeks red and their eyes sparkle. A scissors grinder strolled down the Munzgasse with his whetstone, loudly proclaiming his services, and in the wooden booths hastily set up the night before, copper pots, clay bowls, and withered apples were displayed for sale. The air smelled of coal, horse sweat, and cow dung, which had been trodden underfoot. People laughed and chatted, and only occasionally did anyone cast a furtive eye in the direction of the dungeon, where watchmen stood guard.

Finally, at around eleven thirty, the death knell began-a high-pitched, plaintive sound-and the crowd fell silent. Now all eyes turned to the dungeon door, which opened with a loud grating sound and spewed out a small band of ragged figures.

People laughed and hooted, pointing at the slowly approaching line of prisoners. Was this pathetic group really the notorious Scheller gang? The night before, one of the robbers had died of cold and exhaustion. The five remaining men didn’t walk so much as they staggered, looking straight ahead, their filthy faces black and blue, their hands roped together. The two measures of wine to which each condemned man was entitled on his execution day had all been emptied in a few gulps, and the men were clearly having trouble walking upright. Accordingly, the confessions the priest had taken from them earlier that morning were slurred and halting.

Behind them came the robbers’ wives. One carried a screaming infant in a sling on her back, while the other pushed a crying boy forward. The boy kept reaching for the hand of his drunken father, but the bailiffs pushed him away each time.

The hangman walked in front. Despite the cold, he wore only a leather waistcoat over a linen shirt and gloves that would be burned immediately after the execution. He dispensed with the usual wide-brimmed hat that day so that his long black hair and shaggy beard blew in the wind. In his right hand, Jakob Kuisl swung a long, heavy iron rod like a walking stick. It was this rod he would use in a little more than half an hour to break the bones of Hans Scheller, the robber chief.

The crowd jeered and threw snowballs, bones they’d been gnawing on, and moldy bread at the robbers. In the midst of the group was Hans Scheller. He appeared composed and carried his head high. Despite his wounds and bruises, there was something almost sublime about his gaze. People could sense that and tried to say things to frighten him.