“But what about the hosts and the monstrance?” Magdalena replied. “If the relic hasn’t been returned before the festival begins-”
“The relic will be back,” the abbot interrupted. “And if not in this monstrance, then in another, with other hosts. It’s faith that makes these things sacred, isn’t it? Faith… love… hope… These are the Christian virtues to which we must cling.”
“You mean the Festival of the Three Hosts will take place the day after tomorrow no matter what?” Magdalena asked.
Rambeck looked astonished. “Of course. It has always taken place. We can’t disappoint all the faithful.” He sighed. “Though this time I will not be presiding at the mass. The district judge in Weilheim made it clear to me that, in the future, he wants Brother Jeremias to take over more responsibilities in the monastery.” He shrugged and turned away. “But really I don’t mind. Until my brother’s fate has been decided, nothing else seems important.”
He pulled another hidden lever on the wall, and the statuettes squeaked to a stop, along with the music.
“I must ask you to leave now,” the abbot said.
Leading the way, Rambeck beckoned Magdalena and the children to follow. “It’s better for you to come behind me. The garden may be small, but it’s a labyrinth nonetheless.”
They strode past overgrown trellises and sun-baked little walls until they arrived back at the gate.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, hangman’s daughter,” said Rambeck, though his thoughts still seemed far away. “Perhaps the next time we can stay and chat a bit longer here in the garden-and not about such gloomy things, but just about herbs and medicines.”
Magdalena bowed formally. “Who can say? Perhaps with your brother, too?”
The abbot smiled, but he was staring off into space. “Who knows? I’ll pray for that.” Taking out a heavy key, he locked the gate, then turned silently and walked back through the flowering meadow toward the monastery.
Magdalena watched him for a long time, until his grief-stricken figure finally disappeared in the shadows of the church tower.
12
ANDECHS, NOON ON FRIDAY, JUNE 18, 1666 AD
The robe scratched and itched, and Jakob Kuisl thought he could smell in it the sweat of at least a dozen fat monks. Nonetheless, he pulled down his cowl as he made his way to the monastery. He had changed clothes down at the knacker’s house but then immediately returned to the Holy Mountain. The many pilgrims who had camped out in Erling and surrounding villages stepped aside respectfully, only a few stopping to wonder why the Franciscan was mumbling such unchristian curses.
The hangman didn’t really know what to look for up at the monastery, but time was running out, and in Weilheim his friend’s first interrogation would no doubt begin that day. Burning at the stake would quickly follow. If Kuisl didn’t come up soon with a clue leading him to the real sorcerer, the innocent Nepomuk would die a cruel, painful death.
On arriving, Kuisl saw that another mass was about to begin. Now, with the Festival of the Three Hosts fast approaching, there were up to a half dozen masses each day, and the first pilgrims were now heading toward the church portal that was covered with scaffolding.
Kuisl looked up skeptically at the hole in the roof and the new beams forming the steeple. It appeared the building wouldn’t be ready in time for the festival, especially since many of the workers at the site were bedridden with this mysterious fever.
When a large group of Benedictines entered the church, the hangman was about to follow them when it occurred to him this would be a good time to visit the monks’ cells. Perhaps he could learn something useful in the monastery’s living quarters.
His head bowed deeply as if in prayer, Kuisl hurried through the inner portal to the cloister and, from there, through another open door into the east wing of the three-story building. The hangman really had no idea where the individual monks’ cells were located, but fortunately most of the rooms in the monastery were empty now during mass. He saw only one very old, stooped monk sweeping the refectory where the Brothers took their meals three times a day. The old man didn’t notice him, so Kuisl continued walking through the corridors murmuring his Latin prayers in a monotone: “Dominus pascit me nihil mihi deerit, in pascuis herbarum adclinavit me…” The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; he maketh me to lie down in green pastures…
In the distance, he could hear the organ and the singing of the faithful, but these sounds faded as he got farther and farther from the church.
The monastery was a huge building with an inner courtyard that Kuisl could make out vaguely through the high bull’s-eye glass windows. He decided to look around first on the ground floor and then work his way up until he had found something, or was caught. Despite his clerical garb and murmured prayers, Kuisl had no illusions about what would happen if the monks discovered him in one of the cells; they wouldn’t let him go without a very good excuse.
By now he’d passed through a number of corridors and was about halfway around the building without having found a thing that could help him in his search. He passed the Museum Fratrum-a room the lay brothers used for moments of leisure or prayer with ornamental stucco cherubs on the ceiling and upholstered recessed seats along the walls; then the kitchen and a tiny library containing only a small selection of religious documents.
Just as he was about to give up and head to the second floor, he found himself standing in front of another corridor with small wooden doors along the sides at regular intervals. In contrast with the splendor of the rooms he’d just visited, these looked strikingly plain.
He pressed the handle on the first door and was relieved to find it unlocked. One look was enough to assure him he wasn’t mistaken. This was clearly a monk’s cell.
The barren, cavernous room contained nothing but a bed, a chest, and a stool alongside a rough-hewn table. Some parchment documents lay on the table next to the wax stub of a candle. Leaning down, Kuisl realized the document was a manifest of purchases made by the monastery, including the costs of wooden beams, nails, bricks and mortar, and a load of stone.
A broad grin spread across the hangman’s face. These were clearly the expense records for the monastery construction. The cellarer was always the one responsible for management and financial matters at a monastery, and in fact he soon found his signature on the document.
Greetings, Brother Eckhart. I’m sure you have no objection to my having a quick look at this.
The hangman cast a fleeting glance at the documents but could find nothing more than financial statements and calculations. Finally he turned to the chest. To his great delight, it too was unlocked and its contents very neatly arranged. He found another monk’s robe, a worn Bible, and a scourge with dry blood still adhering to lead spikes at the end of ropes. In disgust, the executioner turned the short whip in his hands. In Schongau, he’d used a similar instrument on several occasions to beat criminals and drive them out of town. Kuisl found it hard to believe that anyone would subject himself to this painful punishment of his own free will. What fantasies were tormenting the fat cellarer so much that he had to drive them out with this whip? The hangman had heard of people who enjoyed torturing themselves like that, but he’d never met any in his torture chamber.
Disappointed, he laid the scourge back in the chest, closed the lid carefully, and returned to the corridor. Then he turned the handle on the next cell.
This door was also unlocked. He entered, closing the door behind him to avoid arousing the suspicion of anyone who might pass by. Looking around curiously, he saw a bare room laid out with exactly the same furniture, but with a table that was empty except for a candle, a quill, and a pot of ink.