Oliver Potzsch - The Dark Monk

“The fact that we learned so suddenly of Christendom’s greatest treasure through a simple village priest’s letter is a sign that God wants us to go forth and do battle in the greatest of all holy wars. The treasure is here! Right before our eyes!” Bonenmayr stopped and raised his arms to heaven. “It will adorn this church, and crowds of pilgrims will once again come flocking to Steingaden! Right here in the Priests’ Corner we will have a pilgrimage site to rival Santiago de Compostela! The bishop has already promised that at least a part of the treasure will be kept here.”

Smiling broadly, he approached Simon and Benedikta with his hand extended in benediction.

“You’ve helped us find it again and bring it back into the bosom of the Church,” he whispered. “For that we owe you eternal thanks. I am certain that God has set aside a very special place for you in heaven.”

“You can just go to hell for all I care; I’m not ready to go to heaven yet!” Benedikta shouted, running to the door. She tore it open and stormed out, bumping right into the two stocky novitiates, who were still standing guard. Brother Nathanael’s muscular fingers dug into her shoulder and pulled her back into the library. He pressed his dagger against her throat and a thin trickle of blood ran down her neck.

“Shall I…?” Nathanael asked, but Bonenmayr shook his head.

“Not yet. First I want to have the treasure in hand. We’ll leave them here in the library. The windows are too small for an escape, and the door has a strong lock. We’ll take care of them later.”

Simon made one more desperate attempt. “Listen, Your Excellency! You’re making a grave error. We will be missed. Surely the Schongau hangman is already looking for us and-”

“The Schongau hangman?” Bonenmayr interrupted him, laughing softly. “I don’t think so. No one knows you are here, and even if someone did…” He seemed to be thinking it over. “Who knows, perhaps I should hand you over to the Augustinians in Rottenbuch, and then this Kuisl can draw and quarter you and break you on the wheel-a just punishment for the destruction of the relics of Saint Felicianus, don’t you think?”

“We can keep quiet!” Benedikta pleaded. “And as for the Templars’ treasure, you can keep the money! We don’t want it, anyway. There’s too much blood on it.”

“Money?” The Steingaden abbot looked at them in surprise. “Do you really think all we care about is money?” He shook his head dolefully. “I thought you were smarter than that. You disappoint me.”

Still shaking his head, Bonenmayr left the library with Brother Nathanael. The door closed with a crash, leaving Simon and Benedikta to stare at the tall shelves of dusty books, folios, and parchments.

My grave, Simon thought.

Then he stopped to think about the meaning of Bonenmayr’s last words.

Do you really think all we care about is money…?

Simon could feel things coming together. He was sure he was holding all the pieces of the puzzle in his hands now, and all he had to do was put them together.

A site to rival Santiago de Compostela…Crowds of pilgrims will once again come flocking to Steingaden…the treasures of Christendom…

“Of course! That must be the solution!”

The physician jumped up and started searching for a book in what seemed like endless rows of shelves.

If he had to die, then at least he wanted to know why.

Shortly after leaving Rottenbuch, Jakob Kuisl sensed he was being followed. He turned off the broad road into a forest and took a small path known only to a few of the locals. Nevertheless, he wasn’t alone.

It was that familiar feeling between his shoulder blades, plus a soft, recurring rustling he could hear in the branches and the dull thud of snow falling in clumps from pine trees that he hadn’t even brushed up against. His instincts were now on high alert. The men behind him were good, but they weren’t good enough.

Suddenly, the hangman veered off the path, disappearing into a withered thicket of blackberry bushes weighed down by snow. Before him, a deer path appeared that had not been visible from the outside. Kuisl hunkered down amid the bushes and became completely silent. His years of hiking through the forest looking for herbs or hunting game had taught him how to blend in with his environment. If the wind was right, he could wait for a deer to pass, then break its neck with one well-placed blow with the side of his hand.

A crackling in the bushes told him the men were approaching. They communicated without speaking; only the faint sound of their steps in the snow revealed that one was entering the thicket, while the other walked around to the other side. He’d be able to knock them off one at a time. The hangman grinned.

An advantage for me…

Kuisl reached for the larch-wood club he always carried with him and waited for the first man to approach. He finally saw him crawling along the deer path, looking intently in all directions with a loaded pistol in his hand. He was wearing a slouch hat decorated with feathers and a colorful jacket beneath a ragged overcoat, showing him to be a former mercenary foot soldier-a bearded war veteran, hardened through innumerable battles, with the strength and skill of a man who had learned the art of killing at a very young age, a man just like the one Kuisl used to be.

Kuisl waited until the soldier crawled past him, then hit him hard on the hand with the club.

The man was quick.

At the last moment, he must have noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and rolled to one side, cursing and pointing his pistol toward the hangman. A shot rang out. Though Jakob Kuisl could feel a burning sensation on his cheek, he had no time to think about it. Howling furiously, he charged the man, who tossed the useless pistol to one side and drew his dagger. In the thick underbrush, the mercenary couldn’t swing his arm back far enough, so he lunged at the hangman a few times, then made a headlong dive out of the bush. Jakob Kuisl was able to give the man one more light blow with the club between the shoulder blades before the man completely disappeared.

The hangman cursed. He’d lost the element of surprise. Now both soldiers were standing in front of the bush, while he himself crouched in his hiding place like a wild animal at bay. He could hear the men outside panting, and he could make out their shapes amid the branches. A snapping sound told him that one of them was loading his crossbow, while the other seemed to be refilling his pistol with powder.

I’ve got to beat them to it, or they’ll shoot me down like a mad dog…

Without further hesitation, Jakob Kuisl stormed out of the bushes, howling. With a bloodied face and a torn coat splattered with mud, he now looked every bit a threatened animal at bay. His wild screams petrified the men for a moment, long enough to give Kuisl the advantage. The man with the pistol hastily threw his weapon aside and reached for his sword. The other was unable to load the crossbow in time and an arrow flew with a loud twang, nailing the hangman’s boot to the forest floor. Now Jakob Kuisl screamed even louder. He tore himself free and rammed the club into the pit of the first man’s stomach, and the man dropped to the ground like a felled tree. Then he took a wide swing and brought the cudgel down on the man’s head. There was a loud crack like a walnut being shelled.

Next he turned to the second man, who tried to hold him off with a sword. The weapon whizzed through the air as the man danced back and forth, bobbing and weaving, lunging and retreating. He managed to hit the hangman’s arm and slit open his coat, but the hangman retreated in time. When the man thrust at him again, Kuisl ducked down and suddenly came up face to face with his attacker.