The Dark Monk (31 page)

Old Fronwieser had traveled around with his family during the Great War, following the Bavarian foot soldiers. He had sawed off innumerable arms and legs that were riddled with bullets, and he cauterized the stumps. It was during this time that his wife died, so after the war, Bonifaz Fronwieser settled down in Schongau with his son. He’d never forgiven his son for dropping out of an expensive medical school in Ingolstadt a few years ago, partly because he was short of money, but also because he lacked the interest. Even back then, Simon was attracted more to the latest fashions and games of dice than to Hippocrates, Paracelsus, and Galen.

His father became even more displeased when Simon started consorting with the Schongau hangman, borrowing books on medicine from him and often looking over his shoulder when he was treating patients. Simon then used what he had learned from the hangman on patients in Fronwieser’s own practice.

Simon was also critical of his father during the amputation of the wagon driver’s three fingers, an operation Bonifaz Fronwieser could do in his sleep. They had sedated the patient with a bottle of brandy and shoved a board between his teeth. When old Fronwieser picked up his surgical pincers to nip off the black stumps that had once been fingers, Simon pointed to the rusty cutting blades.

“You have to clean them first,” he whispered to his father, “or the wound will become infected.”

“Nonsense,” said Bonifaz Fronwieser. “We’ll cauterize the places afterward with boiling oil—that’s what I learned from my father, and that’s the logical way to do it.”

Simon shook his head. “The wound will become inflamed, believe me.”

Before his father could answer, he’d taken the pincers and washed them off in a pot of boiling water on the stove, and only then did he start to operate. Watching silently, his father had to admit that Simon knew what he was doing and completed the job quickly. There was no doubt that the boy was talented. Why, for heaven’s sake, had he ever dropped out of school in Ingolstadt? He could have become a great doctor, not a run-of-the-mill barber surgeon like himself, but a doctor with university training, a learned, esteemed physician whom people would respect and reimburse with silver coins—not with rusty kreuzers, eggs from the farm, and worm-infested corned beef. A Dr. Fronwieser, a first in the family…

Sullenly, the old man watched as Simon finally applied the white linen bandage. “Not bad work at all,” he grumbled, “but what are you going to do with the dirty pincers? Are you going to throw them away and buy new ones?”

Simon shook his head and smiled. “I’ll wash them off again in boiling water and use them again; that’s what the hangman does when he clips off a thief’s thumb or index finger, and nobody has died on him.” He checked the wagon driver’s breathing. “Just recently Kuisl told me about an old remedy. He smears sheep dung and mold on the wound and says there’s nothing better for inflammation. The mold…” He stopped because he could see he had gone too far. His father’s face had turned a bright red.

“Just cut it out with your damned hangman and his filthy drug collection!” Bonifaz Fronwieser shouted. “He just puts crazy ideas in your head. He should be forbidden from practicing! Sheep dung and mold—bah! I didn’t send you off to school to study that!” He walked to the other room and slammed the door behind him. Shrugging, Simon watched as his father left, then poured a bucket of water over the wagon driver’s face to wake him up.

A few more hours passed before Simon finally found time again to delve into the world of the Templars and the Wessobrunn Prayer. At six o’clock sharp, as the bells tolled, he closed the office and went down to the marketplace. When he opened the door to the Stern, where he’d arranged to meet Benedikta, he was greeted with the warmth and stuffy odor of wet clothing. At this time of day, the tavern was full of wagon drivers and merchants stranded by the storm and whiling away the time drinking and playing dice. Under the low ceiling of the taproom, about a dozen men were milling about, most of them engaged in serious, muffled conversations.

The merchant woman was sitting at a corner table in the very rear, engrossed in a parchment. As Simon approached, she rolled up the document and smiled at him.

Simon pointed to the roll. “Well? Are you taking notes on the damned riddle?”

Benedikta laughed. “No, this is just a terribly boring balance sheet. Business goes on in Landsberg even when it rains or snows. Believe me, the life of a merchant’s widow is a rather boring one. And unfortunately, I haven’t yet found a new husband who is clever and loving and also knows how to deal with this tedious stuff.” She winked at Simon. “All my suitors up to now could do only one or the other.” She stuck the parchment roll in a bag at the end of the table and gestured for him to take a seat. “But enough of this sad story. Have you studied this Templar’s book some more?”

Simon nodded. “I actually do have some ideas.” He took the little guide out of his jacket pocket and started leafing through it, while Benedikta snapped her fingers to get the attention of the innkeeper and ordered two cups of brandy.

“The Order of the Knights Templar was founded by a certain…Hugues de Payens, a Norman knight,” the medicus began, his finger passing over the scrawled lines in the text. A small tallow candle on the table gave off so little light that Simon had difficulty continuing. “At first there were only nine men, a small fraternity, but the order soon spread, first to the Orient, along the routes to Jerusalem, and later to all of Europe—Italy, France, and England.”

“But how about German lands?” Benedikta interrupted.

Simon shrugged. “Not so much here. In our countries, the so-called Teutonic Order of Knights was in charge, an order that attempted to convert the heathen in Eastern Europe with fire and the sword…” He shook his head. The medicus had never thought highly of trying to convince people of the true faith through force of arms. Simon believed in the power of words over the sword. “Be that as it may,” he continued, “there were also German Templars and, naturally, German commanderies—that is to say, Templar settlements—here in Bavaria, in Augsburg, Bamberg, and Moosburg, for example. The settlement in Altenstadt must have been a part of the Moosburg commandery.” He sighed. “The little Saint Lawrence Church is all that remains of it, however.”

“And a certain Friedrich Wildgraf, who was no less than the German master of the Order of Templar Knights, sold this settlement, with all the land and the Saint Lawrence Church, to the monastery at Steingaden in the year 1289,” Benedikta continued. “Years later, when the Templars were being hunted down all over Europe, he hid a treasure here…”

She paused while a server set down two cups of brandy, giving Simon a flirtatious glance. Teresa, like so many other girls, had a crush on the medicus. Benedikta didn’t speak again until the girl left.

“All right, then, let’s assume this treasure is really buried somewhere around here. Then tell me something…Why is the grave of this Friedrich Wildgraf located in Altenstadt if nothing around here belonged to the Templars anymore?” She shook her head. “His date of death is given as 1329 on the memorial plaque at the Altenstadt basilica, and that’s long after the estate was sold. That doesn’t make any sense.”

Simon shrugged. “Or maybe it does. Let’s just imagine that Friedrich Wildgraf sells this settlement for the Templars because it’s just too remote, too far from the roads leading to Jerusalem. There’s too little activity here; it just doesn’t pay to keep the settlement. Twenty years later, the Templars are being hunted down all over Europe. Friedrich Wildgraf remembers this little remote commandery—”

“And decides to hide out here!” Benedikta interrupted him excitedly. “Naturally! No doubt he had compatriots here from back in the old days—loyal servants. Friedrich Wildgraf knew the aldermen in the area and influential citizens who were still well disposed toward him, and even the Templars’ church still existed. A perfect hiding place for him and for the treasure!”

Simon nodded. “This time he probably didn’t come as a Templar, but perhaps as a trader or the local priest—who knows? But he brought something to Schongau with him, something very valuable, and when he noticed that his hour of death was at hand, he decided to hide it in such a way that only a select group would be able to find it…”

“The Templars’ treasure,” Benedikta murmured. “It could have happened that way. Probably only a chosen few even knew that it existed! As the former master of the order in Paris, Wildgraf may have learned about the treasure and was given the assignment of finding a suitable place to hide it. He had already gone into hiding and his pursuers had lost track of him…”

The medicus smiled grimly. “Friedrich Wildgraf certainly went to a lot of trouble to hide his tracks. Only a small memorial plaque at the church in Altenstadt mentions his death.” He nipped on his strong brandy, which tasted of pepper, cloves, and cinnamon, before continuing. “But his grave is actually located under the former Templars’ church, and that’s where Friedrich Wildgraf left his riddle. He chose Christian symbolism to prevent the treasure from falling into the wrong hands. Perhaps the grave was meant to be opened again on a specific date, and if that’s the case, perhaps that was all forgotten—the date came and went unnoticed, with nothing happening. But perhaps, too, the riddle was meant to be solved only on Judgment Day. We’ll never find out…”

Benedikta frowned. “Then, during the restoration work in the church, my brother finds the sealed crypt, opens it, and tells me and the bishop about it,” she said, lost in thought.

Simon started. “The bishop?”

“Didn’t I mention that?” Benedikta gave him a confused look. “My brother wrote in his letter that he would also tell the bishop in Augsburg about it. After all, the bishop was his superior.”

The physician frowned. “Did he send a messenger to the bishop, or did he write?”

“I…I don’t know.”

The wind rattled the windows. Simon gripped the cup of brandy tightly to keep warm.

“Perhaps someone intercepted the messenger and learned about the treasure that way,” he murmured, looking around carefully. “It’s quite possible that someone was watching us when we went to the Altenstadt basilica and to the castle ruins.” He leaned forward and continued in a whisper. “Benedikta, it’s all the more important for that reason that no one learns where we are going now, because the next riddle is something known only to us at present. We have to leave for Wessobrunn without anyone noticing!”

Benedikta smiled at him. “Let me take care of that. Mysterious disappearances are my specialty…along with reading balance sheets…”

Simon laughed, and for a moment his gloomy thoughts receded. But then it occurred to him that he hadn’t thought about Magdalena since the previous day. He sighed, washing his guilty conscience down with brandy that had become lukewarm in the meanwhile. Well, at least she was far from any possible danger she might encounter in Schongau. He grinned. Besides, a Kuisl never had any trouble taking care of him or herself, anyway.

Magdalena ran out into the street just in time to see the stranger taking a left turn. He was swinging the silk purse of poison almost playfully as he strode along the broad main street.

For the first time, the hangman’s daughter got a good look at him. Dressed in a black cloak and a white tunic, he was gaunt and his arms and legs seemed unnaturally long for his body. He was slightly stooped, as if carrying some invisible weight. With his cowl pulled down over his face and his arms swinging, he looked like a busy black bug scuttling for cover. The man was clearly a monk, though Magdalena couldn’t say what order he belonged to. Carefully, she followed.

The only path through the snow was a track just wide enough for two people. Hurrying, he passed bundled-up councillors and maids carrying baskets; once, he gave a shove to a farmer leading a stubborn ox to the butcher’s. The farmer landed in the snow, cursing, alongside the animal. Without paying him any attention, the stranger continued on. Magdalena had trouble keeping up, squeezing her way past grumbling people, forced to step into the knee-high snow to the left or right of the path. Soon her shoes and stockings were drenched. She needed to catch a glimpse of the man’s face, but he was still wearing his cowl and didn’t turn around once.

Deep inside, Magdalena hoped he would never turn around to look at her. That would probably mean certain death for her.

Farther ahead in the market square the path became wider. Market women, wrapped in layers of thick underskirts, were setting up their stands for the farmers’ market. The monk walked straight past them without looking one way or the other. Finally, Magdalena could see where he was headed.

The Domburg.

The hangman’s daughter knit her brow. The previous day, during the snowstorm, when Philipp Hartmann had told her some of the history of the imperial city, he had mentioned the Domburg. The center of Augsburg was a little city in itself, surrounded by a wall and gates. It was the site of the first Roman settlement, a military headquarters along the Lech River. Since then, the bishop’s offices, the cathedral, and the bishop’s palace were all located there, too, along with the homes of well-to-do tradesmen. What could Koppmeyer’s murderer be looking for there?

On each side of the gate, two of the bishop’s watchmen dressed in elegant uniforms leaned on their halberds. As the monk walked by, they saluted briefly, then went back to dreaming of mulled wine
and
warm gingerbread cookies. Magdalena paused for a moment. The man had entered the Domburg without being stopped! Had the watchmen recognized him?

She had no time to think about this. If she didn’t want to lose sight of the stranger, she would have to walk past the guards. Closing her eyes and crossing herself, she approached the gate, smiling broadly. The two bailiffs looked at her suspiciously.

“Stop! Where are you going?” one of them demanded. It didn’t really sound as if he was interested in knowing but was just doing his duty in asking the question. Magdalena smiled and showed the guard the bag of herbs she was holding under her coat. She also noted, with some satisfaction, the little leather bag of guilders from the Augsburg hangman still hanging at her side. Even if she lost track of the strange monk now, she still had done well in her business dealings. That little gnome of a pharmacist had it coming to him! Why was he selling poison to a murderer?