“Wonderful,” he mumbled. “Marigold and chamomile… I’m going to need some medicine myself.”
Wearily he searched his bag for just one more coffee bean. He always carried a little emergency supply of the exotic bean to help him to fight exhaustion and concentrate, but now he realized that, sadly, he’d ground up the last of them the day before. Still, he found something else at the bottom of his bag. A little clay jar he’d picked up at the apothecary’s house and overlooked in all the excitement.
Jesuit’s powder.
He removed the cover and studied the yellowish powder. Imported from overseas, this medicine could work wonders in reducing fever, but unfortunately the amount here was just enough for one dose. That’s probably the reason Simon forgot about it. Now he rubbed his fingers in the dry powder and stared at the gasping novitiate master.
Should he give Laurentius the medicine? Perhaps the monk would talk once more before he died. Or should he save the powder for the count’s sick son? Simon imagined the little boy in front of him, the same age as one of his sons, a trembling little creature in the count’s much-too-large four-poster, his eyelids fluttering like the wings of a tiny bird.
After a few seconds Simon made up his mind. He closed the lid and put the jar back in his pocket.
A figure was standing in the shadows of the stable wall, watching as the hangman strode away.
The man rubbed his knuckles nervously, cracking them one after the other. What he’d just overheard would interest his master. The man still hadn’t carried out his order; something in him was reluctant to do so. It just felt so… wrong. With this news he might be able to appease his master, though he knew the master would never give in. And wasn’t he always right? Hadn’t he always been concerned for his servant’s well-being? Didn’t he promise him that everything would work out?
The man took a deep breath and crossed himself. The master had told him how important faith was-that faith could heal him, too. Soon his time would come. One more job to do, and they would reach their goal.
After eavesdropping on the conversation in the clinic, he believed, however, that his master would have another job for him. What was it the sullen giant had just said?
I think Laurentius’s life isn’t worth a speck of fly shit…
The man stopped briefly to think about that, then shook his head, leapt over a low wall, and finally disappeared behind the stables.
It was time to report to his master.
It was early evening when Magdalena sat on a bench in the main room of the knacker’s house, singing her children to sleep in a soft monotone.
Little Jack sat by the stove, fast asleep.
His trousers caught fire and up he did leap…
Excited shouts could be heard up on the Holy Mountain, but the noise disturbed neither the hangman’s daughter nor the two boys. The little ones stretched out comfortably on branches near the stove listening to their mother. Peter still had his eyes open, but they were already glassy; Paul dozed, sucking his thumb and dreaming.
The hangman’s daughter cast loving glances at her two boys. What could they be dreaming about? Something beautiful, she hoped-flowering meadows, butterflies, perhaps the enchanted monastery garden they’d seen yesterday.
Perhaps about their father?
Her face darkened when she thought of Simon. Since yesterday she’d spoken with him as little as possible, but he didn’t even seem to notice. It was always the same. When her husband was with patients, neither she nor the children could get through to him. She didn’t ask for Simon to stay with them all day, and she also realized that he was stressed by the difficult situation here in Andechs. What she missed was a loving glance, a few kind words with the children. She wished he would take them into his arms now and then, but Simon was as if behind a locked door in another world, and she didn’t have the key.
So Magdalena had spent both yesterday and today alone with the boys, strolling through town with them. She let them throw sticks in the brook nearby but always watched that they didn’t wander too far. She was still gripped by fear of the sorcerer and the automaton.
The door creaked as Matthias entered the room. Outside Magdalena could hear the squeaking of the knacker’s wagon, so she knew Michael Graetz had picked up a new animal carcass from one of the farmers.
When the mute assistant saw her, he smiled and raised his hand shyly in greeting. Magdalena returned the smile. She had gotten accustomed to the presence of the redheaded giant, and even if he didn’t speak, she liked having him around. He was loving with the children and made them laugh with all his funny faces. Softly, in order not to wake the boys, Matthias walked to the table and poured himself a glass of water, which he gulped down thirstily.
“Damn it all, where have you been, you good-for-nothing?” It was the voice of Michael Graetz, who had just entered the room, a knife dangling from his blood-spattered apron. The short knacker crossed his arms and glared furiously at his assistant, who was almost two heads taller.
“A cow died on the Kins’ farm and I had to do all the dirty work myself while the fine gentleman went for a leisurely stroll through the forest. If I catch you just once more…”
Only then did Michael Graetz see Magdalena and the two sleeping children. He continued in a somewhat softer voice. “Please go outside and burn the entrails behind the house. I’ve already skinned the animal. Now hurry up, you worthless slacker, before I tan your own hide.”
Matthias cringed as if he expected to be beaten, then grimaced and began to whimper.
“Oh, it’s okay,” the knacker grumbled, now a bit calmer. “Just do what I tell you, and next time leave me a message when you’re going out.”
When the mute assistant left, Magdalena looked at the knacker quizzically.
“He can write? Matthias can write?”
Michael Graetz grinned. “Someone who can’t speak has to make himself understood some other way. Heaven knows who taught him-maybe the monks he always hangs around with.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with a corner of his bloody apron. “My father taught me how to write a bit,” he said, “but Matthias is a hell of a lot smarter than he looks. He can write down the words of the four gospels as easily as if they were recipes.”
“You once told me that Croatian mercenaries cut out his tongue when he was a young boy. Is that true?”
Graetz nodded. “As true as I stand here before you. They raped and killed his mother and hanged his father right before his eyes over on the gallows hill in Erling. Half the village had to come and watch as a warning to the other peasants. It’s a miracle the boy didn’t lose his mind. He’s lived with me ever since he was twelve, as no one else wanted him. He was wandering through the forest until I took him in.” He laughed softly. “The best place for mute human garbage like him to live was with a dishonorable, filthy knacker.”
Magdalena glared at him. “Don’t say that. Nobody is ever going to say my children are dishonorable and dirty.”
Michael Graetz cut himself a slice of bread from the table. “What are you going to do about it, hangman’s daughter?” he asked with a full mouth. “Peter is never going to become a bishop, even with his beautiful eyes.” He choked briefly with laughter. “Maybe you can send him here to be my apprentice.”
“You just wait and see, Graetz,” she snapped. “My boy is going to amount to something, as sure as my name is Kuisl.”
“Believe me, my dear,” the knacker said sarcastically, pulling the pitcher of water to him. “The Kuisls and the Graetzes will never amount to anything. Ever. Not in three hundred years.”
At that moment came a knock at the door so loud it sounded as if someone were trying to kick it in.
“Open up!” shouted an angry voice that Magdalena thought she recognized. “In the name of the monastery, open this door at once before I have this pigsty torn down.”