In moments like this, Magdalena feared her father. That’s the way he looks, she thought, when he wraps a noose around someone’s neck or breaks his bones on the wheel, one by one.
“I know that at least one of the men visited Koppmeyer before his death,” she said finally. She told him about her conversation with the dyer woman and the strange golden cross the woman had seen around the stranger’s neck. When she had finished speaking, her father shook his head.
“Templars, Latin verses, a golden cross with two crossbeams…The whole thing is getting more and more confusing!” He pounded his fist on the table so hard the pages of the book flew up. “In any case, Simon is going to the castle on the hill above Peiting tomorrow morning to see if he can find any clue there. Perhaps we’ll know more then about the people who are chasing us or about these confounded Templars who are making fools of us all.”
For a moment, Magdalena was tempted to reconsider her plans. What if Simon actually found a treasure up in the old ruins? Or if the strangers were lying in wait for him there? Wouldn’t he need her help? But then she thought about the trip on the ferry, the big city, the new smells and faces. She wanted to get away from everything-and from Simon, too.
She kissed her father on the forehead and went upstairs, where her mother and the twins were already asleep.
“Take good care of yourself, Father,” she whispered. “And of Simon, too.” Then she disappeared into her bedroom.
In the flickering light of the torch, Jakob Kuisl hunched down again over his books. Belladonna, nightshade, wolfsbane…There were many drawings of poisonous plants here, but none had an effect like the one that had made him as stiff as a corpse in the crypt. That preparation had to have come from some distant land-that much was certain. But how did those men get a hold of a poison like that? Did they themselves come from this distant place? Were they itinerant monks from a far-off monastery? One had spoken a peculiar dialect.
And Latin.
Suddenly, the strange words that he overheard in the crypt came back to him.
Deus lo vult…God wills it…
With a sigh, he closed the book and began cleaning the musket. He would have to get up early the next morning for the hunt. Johann Lechner had summoned the men to report to the marketplace on the ringing of the six o’clock bell. Young Fronwieser could go ahead and deal with the Templars, riddles, and assassins. Jakob Kuisl would chase the thieves; that was something the hangman could do better than anyone.
Leonhard Weyer cursed and whipped his horse. The animal whinnied, reared up on its hind legs, and pushed its rear hooves even deeper into the snow. Night was falling, and the Augsburg merchant had to squint to see through the heavy, blowing snow.
They were too late! They had left Schongau at the crack of dawn, but by noon, they should have known they would never make it to Füssen by nightfall. Weyer had decided to take the old road through the forest, which was longer but mostly unused, particularly now in wintertime. Bandits preferred to lie in wait along the broad military road along the Lech River, and the Augsburg clothier was certain that no bandit would sit here, freezing his ass off all day on the off chance he’d meet a solitary farmer with a wagonload of fodder for his livestock. Besides, Weyer had told only his closest friends in Augsburg and Schongau that he’d be taking this route, and in contrast to other times, he had taken just a simple wagon for this trip, leaving his comfortable well-sprung carriage behind in Augsburg. Who would ever suspect anything? Weyer felt safe, but that didn’t change the fact that night was falling and they still had not reached a village.
Around noon, snow had begun to come down harder, and his four servants made almost no progress getting the wagon through snow drifts that were three feet deep in places. Now, as night was falling, they could hardly see their hands in front of their faces. On both sides, the road was lined with tall pines that reached up like black fingers to the sky. Their two packhorses snorted and struggled to pull the wagon through the knee-high snow. Again and again, the servants had to climb down and push when the wheels got stuck in the slush and half-frozen puddles. The servants flailed away at the tired Haflingers, but no matter how hard they beat them, they wouldn’t move any faster. And now the wagon was stuck again in a drift. Shoveling and cursing, two servants tried to dig it out while the other two pushed the overloaded wagon from behind.
“Damn, can’t you go any faster? In an hour it will be pitch black here!”
While his gray horse pranced around nervously, Weyer stood there in his fur-lined mittens, panting and rubbing his cold hands together. He was wearing a snow-covered bearskin hat and a knee-length coat of smooth, shiny fur, but still, he was cold to the bone. His breath formed little white clouds in front of him and hoarfrost settled on his eyebrows and his freshly trimmed goatee.
He looked around anxiously. Like a black shroud, darkness had enveloped the pine trees at the edge of the road and was advancing slowly toward the small group. He cursed again and shouted at the servants, who were wearily pushing the wagon through the snowdrifts. It was at least half an hour to the nearest town! He had already given up on reaching Füssen that day and would be happy just to reach the safety of a cheap village inn. His plan had been perfect! Because of the bandits along the highway, no other large-business owner in Augsburg had dared to leave the safety of the city walls. When they did, it was in a large group guarded by dreadfully expensive mercenaries. Because Weyer had set out for Schongau alone, before everyone else, he would be able to dictate prices-if he ever got to Füssen. Nervous, he reached under his coat for the loaded pistol hanging on his belt. He had brought along four of his strongest men, and all were armed with sabers and clubs. Even the coachman was armed with a crossbow. But would all this be enough to hold off a ferocious, hungry band of highwaymen? Weyer shook his head. But really, would bandits be wandering around on such a lonely stretch of road? Nobody knew he was traveling here with such valuable cargo.
“Giddyap! Go, you damned mare!”
Joseph, his first servant, whipped one of the Haflingers so hard that it jumped and the wagon finally lurched forward, over the snowdrift. The journey could resume.
Wagon tracks with only a light covering of snow appeared on the road in front of them. Leonhard Weyer smiled. They would make it. He’d be doing business in Füssen before anyone else, and the profit would be considerable. Perhaps after he’d concluded this deal, he could finally retire and leave everything to his sons. A warm hearth, a good drink, a fat roast capon-what more could a person want?
A sound came from the right, a faint crackling in the icy branches. Leonhard Weyer squinted into the darkness in front of him, but all he could make out were the dense thickets of pines. His servants had heard something, too. They whispered and looked around warily in all directions. Something was lurking out there. Now Weyer heard a whistle from a tree nearby. Looking up in the tree, he could see branches moving as if they were alive, swaying back and forth in the almost windless air.
He noticed the eyes much too late.
They were gleaming white on an otherwise ashen face, and below the eyes, a crossbow was aimed directly at the merchant. Leonhard Weyer heard a soft click, then felt a searing pain in his right shoulder. Tumbling from his horse, he instinctively reached for his pistol but couldn’t find it. All around him, chaos broke out: There was shouting in the gathering darkness, shots, and the groans of men fighting. A shrill cry became a gurgle; then someone fell to the ground with a thud. He looked to the side and saw Joseph, his first servant, his eyes bulging in terror. Blood gushed from a broad wound across his neck onto Weyer’s expensive fur coat. The merchant gazed at the slaughter in disbelief. How was this happening?