The Seer and the Scribe (26 page)

The realization did not come in an instant. Somehow Volmar's mind knew he had to experience the horror in small increments. He went to the firebox, reached for another log, and threw it onto the grate before taking the poker and positioning it onto the center of some ash-covered embers which seemed to have retained a spark of life. Quietly, he blew on them. Cinders flew here and there, spitting and crackling with new life, illuminating the dark corner.

“It's amazing how a simple fire can warm a soul,” he said, the dread now almost unbearable. Still there was a deafening silence.
Slowly he turned and gazed up at the face of the dead man, ashen grey even in the warm glow of the fire. A wave of sadness came over him, deeper than any he had anticipated.

Atif's hands were folded across his chest, so life-like, and yet Volmar could tell there was no blood coursing through his once nimble fingers. He had to remind himself that this was but a body, a soul-less husk of the man who had taken an afternoon to instruct a mere beginner in the art of swordsmanship and, more importantly, giving him a lesson in how not to give up.

Stoically Volmar approached his friend, went to his knees, and held Atif's cold, gray-green lifeless hand in his. He prayed, “O God, be merciful. Bring comfort to this weary pilgrim's heart.” Volmar forced himself to peer up at Atif's discolored features, then at his chest. Out of respect, he closed Atif's eyelids. He did not need any medical knowledge to see that his friend had died from a knife wound to the chest as Sophie had described and that his death was at least a day old. The wound appeared sharp, not jagged, indicating that it had been the result of one single thrust. The murderer knew exactly how to kill.

Atif's mouth hung partially open as if he had one more secret to impart. Volmar reached inside the Arab's hidden pocket and retrieved the small codex. One look confirmed his and the Abbot's suspicions. The Emperor had in fact granted Atif his freedom, but at what cost? He slipped the codex into his leather pouch. He felt around in the pocket for Atif's rosary and confirmed its absence. In his own blood he must have wanted to communicate one more word.

“Your death, my friend,” Volmar said soberly, “will be as a thorn in my side. I will personally hunt down the man who did this to you and will bring him to justice. The forces of darkness have misjudged my determination.”

The Abbot's window suddenly blew open, its leaded-diamond pane knocked against the wooden frame by a harsh cold wind. It threatened to put out the fire. Volmar shivered, rose and went to close it. In the courtyard below he noticed at least a dozen or more yellow lights illuminating the misty white flurries of snow sweeping through the Abbot's withered garden. He squinted through the slanting snow below, a view all the way to the Porter's gates. He could tell that villagers dressed in heavy dark cloaks were making their way up the hillside to the stables. Several more seemed to be coming up the hill, their lanterns
swinging, like many rips in a black cloth. Volmar knew their intentions: To shed light on this sickening gloom which seemed to be spreading. Could outsiders be the only ones capable of unraveling the evil lurking in the recesses of this once holy stone fortress?

Volmar stared back down into Atif's face and for the first time felt as if Disibodenberg had somehow abandoned its calling as a center of civilized life. The sight was so unnerving, he couldn't move. How could God's people fumble something so central to their mission? They alone in this dark, dismal world were obligated to ensure that the Devil could not establish his kingdom in places consecrated to God. And now instead of peace, there was discord; instead of godliness, there was strife; and instead of charity there was senseless slaughter.

Cloister of Disibodenberg Monastery

6
^th
of November, After Matins

Volmar closed the gate to the Abbot's garden and headed off towards the stables. Now more than ever he was determined to make sense of what was happening. The shock was absolute: A possible suicide and now a cold-blooded murder. The Devil walked amongst them. The wind gathered strength as it blew great white clouds of snow onto the cobbled path that led to the Cloister. Volmar screwed up his eyes against the blinding ice pellets and walked on, nearly bumping directly into Rudegerus.

“Why aren't you at Matins, Brother Volmar?” Rudegerus's words were carefully enunciated and held a certain disdain.

Volmar noticed the color rise in Rudegerus's face. An odd smell emanated from him, covering up what seemed to be a much more disagreeable smell. With a puzzled grimace, Volmar answered, “I was, and where were you, Brother Rudegerus?”

There was no answer for a moment, then Rudegerus mumbled barely above the whistling of the wind in the white air. “I was detained by business.”

Volmar looked hard at Rudegerus. His face was marred by heavy shadows which ringed his eyes and gave his crooked nose a more pinched, sickly look. “The Abbot has requested our presence at the stables. I'm not sure if you heard the news, but the traveler the Abbot and I spoke with yesterday evening, Matthias, has been found dead there.” Volmar said this taking in finally what his eyes and nose were sensing. Rudegerus had recently washed. There was that faint smell of a freshening herb and his hair was slicked back, wet from having been recently cleaned. Three in the morning was an odd time to be bathing, he thought.

“I have not heard,” said Brother Rudegerus, a trace of worry slowing replacing his calculated look. “The church is very clear about suicide. Why would anyone choose to hang himself?”

“There is much still unknown about this man's motives,” Volmar asserted, wondering if Brother Rudegerus realized he'd stumbled. Something has unsettled him, he thought. He's acting too careless, for how could he deny hearing of this man's death and yet know that the stranger had hung himself? Swirling pellets of ice continued to fall.

Brother Rudegerus rattled on, oblivious to his apparent contradictions. “Surely Matthias was fleeing his responsibilities. His motivation was despair, a fatal vice inspired in him by the Devil.”

Behind Rudegerus's smug attitude, Volmar heard the fear. Not blind ambition but plain, deep-seated fear lurking behind every absurd accusation his fellow brother was making. He knew the monk was a man of narrow mind and total self-absorption, but an accomplice to murder? What was Rudegerus so fearful of? Rudegerus must be hiding some kind of lie. Volmar didn't know what exactly, only that it left an acrid taste in his mouth. Suddenly uncertain what to say, Volmar added softly, “Suicide, like murder, is an act counter to nature, and an affront to God. He alone gave us life and He alone should determine our moment to face death.”

Stables of Disibodenberg Monastery

6
^th
of November, After Matins

Come in, brothers,” Abbot Burchard said, approaching the two of them. “I was hoping, Brother Rudegerus,” he continued, handing Rudegerus a lit torch, “you might be able to shed some light on this gruesome situation. I need to know the names of all those visiting our monastery.” The Abbot rested his hand on Rudegerus's shoulder and also noted, Volmar could tell, the fact that he had recently bathed.

“Father, may I have a word with you?” Volmar said, stomping the snow from his heavy leather boots. He was well aware of the undercurrents of emotion in the room and was certain now that Rudegerus was involved somehow, some way with Atif's untimely death.

“Now?” The Abbot asked, clearly stunned.

“Yes, it will take but a moment.”

Outside, the violence of the wind softened to a moaning whisper. Brother Rudegerus stood to one side, his dark restless eyes downcast. If Volmar had to make a judgment, the man seemed genuinely terrified by his current circumstances.

Brother Paulus stood in silence beside his fellow brother, clearly aware and concerned over Rudegerus's demeanor. He studied his brother's features, noting that he had not once looked up into the face of the victim. Instead, his eyes were fervently scanning the area in which they stood, as if he half-expected a demon to come charging out of its darkened crevices and corners.

Abbot Burchard's lips twitched as if he wanted to say something more, thought better of it, and said nothing as he stepped aside to talk to Volmar in private.

Volmar wasted no time whispering to the Abbot how he'd come across Atif's dead body seated in Burchard's own chair. He reached into his leather pouch and pulled out Atif's codex, the papers acknowledging his freedom and his deceit. The Abbot took this news with considerable self-control, though, Volmar noted, he switched hands, for the torch he held in his right hand suddenly started shaking.

“So, our young Sophie was not dreaming. She observed a murder. And we've finally found the body.” He sighed deeply. “I've gone ahead and brought Brother Paulus into our confidence about the events we discussed last evening. For now, son, please tell no one else of this unfortunate death.” The Abbot returned the codex to Volmar for safe-keeping. “There is much we do not know as of yet.”

Volmar nodded, adding with equal seriousness, “We're witnessing the Holy Relic's curse.” The two turned back to the others, clearly upset by the turn of events, yet determined to sort it all out and bring justice to the architects of this terrible violence.

Volmar had come face to face with death only a few moments ago, and still it didn't make walking up to Matthias's body any less disturbing. He looked up and met the old soldier's narrow blue eyes, staring down at him sightlessly.

Brother Rudegerus mumbled. “Most unfortunate situation, Father. As I said yesterday, the man was demon-possessed.”

The Abbot responded thoughtfully to his theory. “There are certainly demons present, but whether they were controlling Matthias, I seriously doubt it. When we spoke, he was in full control of his faculties. Volmar,” he said, looking over to his Scribe, “be sure to record our conversation. These observations may prove helpful to the Magistrate and his advisors when they arrive.”

“Interesting,” Brother Paulus interrupted, holding his torch higher and staring up at the body. “There are none of the usual physical signs of hanging present.”

Volmar glanced up from his writing. “Has anyone else been in here?”

“I think other than Brother Hugo, we are the only ones,” the Abbot said. “Why?”

“Well,” Volmar paused as he formed his thoughts, “when someone hangs himself, wouldn't he require a stool to stand on so he could hoist himself up higher before kicking it to the side? In this case, there is no stool or chair present.” Volmar went to the back door, opened it and peered out, confirming his suspicion. “The milking stool is unmoved. It is where I left it the evening before. It could have been suitable for such a ghastly deed.”

“Are there any indications of the victim's effort to resist an attack, such as bruises or torn clothing?” Abbot Burchard asked, turning to Brother Paulus.

Brother Paulus nodded. “The neck is obviously broken; yet, as I commented a moment ago, the man's eyes are not bulging, nor his tongue blackened or protruding. The man appears to have been dead before the hanging, Father. My guess would be that someone wanted to make this killing appear as a suicide.”

Abbot Burchard grimaced. “If Matthias was trying to leave, as his traveling clothes suggest, where are all the rest of his belongings?”

“Father,” Volmar said, interrupting, “all four horses appear to be missing.”

“So it seems,” Abbot Burchard said in measured tones. “Rudegerus, as the monastery's Guest Master, you're aware of the goings and comings of our civilian population. Who has visited the monastery in the past couple of days?”

“Father,” Rudegerus said, apparently worried, “without referring to my sign-in book, I cannot confirm or deny any of our recent visitors.”

“Please make that a priority,” the Abbot said sternly, “especially before the Magistrate arrives. I'm sure Wolfe will need the names of all those who are recent boarders in our guest house.”

“So,” Volmar said, thinking out loud, “if there were two murderers, not one, then they left the monastery on horseback with two horses in tow. It will certainly slow them down.”

The Abbot exchanged a knowing look with Volmar . . . Atif owned the third horse.

Brother Paulus added, twirling a strand of his long flowing beard, “I know of at least two breaks in the outer walls. Each would provide a way for men on horseback to leave without having to go by the Porter at the gate.”

“Surely once our two messengers get word to the Magistrate, he can have his search party track down these two or possibly three men, and see if they have Matthias's horse and belongings with them.” Abbot Burchard sounded more hopeful than he felt.

“It has been snowing all night,” Volmar mentioned. “It may prove nearly impossible for a search party to follow our suspects' tracks.”

Brother Paulus returned to the body. “You would think an old soldier like Matthias would not be easy to overcome, even if two men
surprised him. There are no facial contusions, strangulation finger marks, or bruises on his neck or fists.” Brother Paulus stood close, eye level with the only noticeable injury. “Father, take a look at his right leg. The trousers are shredded and heavily caked with blood. There appears to be a single gash up the calf of his leg that runs about the size of a man's hand.”

“Is this the injury you treated several days ago?”

“No, those were bite marks on his other ankle. This cut seems fresh, so it must have occurred within the last fortnight.”

“Could that have caused his death?” Abbot Burchard asked.

Paulus shook his head. “Highly unlikely. Such an injury, while painful, is seldom life-threatening. Remember, this is the man who already survived an attack by wild dogs. Though I must say, this injury is puzzling. If in fact Matthias died before he was strung up, then the broken neck did not kill him—something else did. Without thoroughly examining the body, Father, it is difficult to say how this man died.”