The Seer and the Scribe (35 page)

Volmar lay back in bed and stared up at the high beam ceiling. “Sister Hildegard was right after all.”

“What do you mean?” Johannes asked, sitting on the bed across from him. “Right, about what?”

“She told me this morning after Matins how Matthias's murderer was not human.”

Johannes turned to Paulus. “Did you give him something to make him talk out of his mind?”

“He is as lucid as he normally is,” Paulus said, smiling.

“What time is it?” Volmar said, slowly recalling the events following his meeting with Sister Hildegard. “Have I missed the bells for Prime?”

“Come now, surely the Abbot will understand you missing one of the offices,” Paulus said. “After all, you have confirmed my suspicions about how Matthias died. I suspected poison only after finding Isabella distraught over her dead worms. If she hadn't awoken during the hours before daybreak and went looking for a new home for her
worms, I would have been poisoned by Matthias's would when I went to clean it and prepare his body for burial. Thankfully, she saw the gaping wound on Matthias's calf and thought it a suitable home for her worms. Her actions kept me from experiencing what nearly killed you!”

Volmar stared at the candle on his bedside table, trying to focus his mind. “Will Isabella recover?”

“She is as well as can be expected; Isabella and Sophie are a great comfort to one another. Sophie is there with her now in the women's quarters. Our murderer is learned in the healing and deadly arts. Not many are aware of cyanide poison in peach pits, but the incident clarified in my mind that whatever weapon the murderer used was tainted with poison—cyanide poison.”

The early morning's activities continued to come back to Volmar. “It was a claw spur. The weapon was a rooster's claw spur, dipped in cyanide; a fighting cock was brought in by the murderers and it is this inhuman creature which murdered Matthias.”

Suddenly Johannes's face contorted in fear. “A rooster? Little brother, a rooster killed Matthias?”

“Yes. So confident in their scheme, the murderers were careless and left behind proof of their deed. I unearthed the silver claw spur in the compost pile behind the stables. It poisoned me and killed my cat Samson.”

“We must hurry,” Johannes said, standing and gripping Paulus's arm. “The Abbot and the Magistrate are to be served a special meal this morning of roasted capon. I'm afraid it is the same rooster; it was left at the cook's door during the night. It could still be poisonous!”

Brother Paulus reached for his medical bag and was at the door as Johannes helped Volmar back to his feet. “Go on, we'll catch up,” Johannes said, helping Volmar slip on his boots. The only thing Volmar could think about was that his Abbot's life was in danger.

Brother Andres was napping on a small stool outside the Abbot's chambers when the three monks arrived. The change in everyone's schedule at the monastery was certainly being felt. “The Abbot asked me to sit here until he returns,” he told them, stretching and yawning. “Rudegerus is acting strangely and apparently cannot be trusted. Brother Paulus, maybe you'll be able to help him.”

“This is important, Brother Andres; did the Abbot say anything else?” Volmar asked.

“No. Nothing that I can recall. Oh wait, he did say that he and the Magistrate had to meet someone by the old well. That's right. When the bells chimed for Prime,” he smiled as he stepped aside, content to have been of service. The three monks entered, their hearts beating wildly. The wood-paneled room was dark, lit only by the glow of embers still burning in the grate. Slowly their eyes began to adjust.

“What has happened in here?” Paulus said, resting his bag on the Abbot's desk, surveying the shattered plates and platter.

From the dismal recesses of the darkest corner, Rudegerus rose. His features were drawn and tired and aged him so much that he was barely recognizable.

“Brother Rudegerus—the Abbot and the Magistrate, what happened in here?” Volmar asked.

“I tried to confess to the Abbot,” Rudegerus sputtered, making a real effort to speak coherently. “You see, I knew about the two knights,” he said, catching Volmar's sleeve. “I recognized them that day you sparred with them outside the Infirmary. You must understand,” he pleaded, holding his head as if it might leave him. “I overheard them planning, planning to kill a traveler in our care here at the monastery!” he blurted out. Still, Rudegerus was not above trying to rationalize his horrific actions. “But if I spoke to anyone about what I knew, then I would also have had to explain why I was in the village and worse, why I was at a cock fight.”

“You overheard a plan to kill Matthias and did nothing?” Volmar said, incredulously.

“I did nothing.” Brother Rudegerus shuddered, turning to each of his three brothers, who in his mind's eye had been transfigured into stern, hooded inquisitors of the Church's High Court. “I admit, I'm possessed by a demon of greed that thrives in the filthy alleyways of human waste and rot.”

Volmar turned to face the fire, resting his arm on the mantel. “You overheard two men plotting to murder a returning knight from the Holy Land, a fellow brother, and did nothing?” All he could think about was how a man could knowingly allow another man to suffer a horrible death. Was such knowledge reason enough to make Rudegerus an accomplice to this murder?

“I spoke not a word, and now a man has died because of my silence.” Rudegerus staggered and fell to his knees, thumping his chest.

Johannes took hold of the monk's trembling fists and held them still. His voice was calm and steady as he spoke. “Paulus, did you bring anything in that bag of yours that will help Rudegerus?”

Paulus retrieved from his medical bag a small flask of concentrated oils from the lemon balm leaves and showed Johannes how a few drops in a small handkerchief could be held under Rudegerus's nose; this would help calm him and bolster his depleted spirits.

The bells announcing Prime began to chime. Their clear resounding chorus reminded Volmar of his trap and urged him into action. “It's time.”

“Go, you two,” Johannes motioned, understanding the significance of the meeting at the well. “I will stay with our brother and see that he returns to his cell safely.”

Paulus reached for his bag and then, taking Volmar's arm, the two hurried off towards the stables.

Clearing by the Well at Disibodenberg Monastery

6th of November, Prime

The thicket of trees was dark and foreboding, black against the surrounding whiteness of snow. For a fleeting moment, Volmar thought they resembled the upturned hairy tentacles of a dead spider. Thankfully, it had finally stopped snowing. The sky was tinged with the awakening sunlight. Volmar welcomed its warmth against the numbing cold.

By the time the two monks reached the stone path leading from the compost pile to the well, they could feel something had gone terribly wrong.

A voice cut clean through the cold like a steel knife. “Stand back or the Abbot dies!”

“There's trouble,” Paulus murmured, tightening his grip on Volmar's arm. The two hurriedly left the path, circling wide around the
clearing to get a better view of what was happening. Their lumbering steps sunk deep into the untouched snow and their breath rose like smoke. Volmar wondered, how could Hell be so close?

In the clearing, Wolfe took a step forward, his hands open, in a gesture of supplication. “Let him go, Ulrich, for God's sake, let him go!”

Ulrich laughed. “There's no use appealing to God, for He never listens. Why should He? Are we not to Him mere sheep, bleating in this snowy wilderness?”

“Good, very good. See how they tremble at the truth?”
the golden-eyed companion wrapped in his winged cloak leaned into Ulrich's ear and muttered.

Ulrich turned with fury to the voice whispering in his ear. “This is my bargain, not yours, evil spirit! I alone will take the Abbot's life, if I deem it necessary. You will have nothing of it, understand?”

Wolfe moved another step towards him. “Ulrich, what do you mean? Who are you talking to?”

“Go on,”
the dark companion said mockingly.
“Tell Wolfe that we know of his role in this conspiracy. His innocent posturing is hypocritical. Ask him if he would be as popular with these people if they knew of his adulterous affair with your wife? Go on, ask him.”

Ulrich turned to the demon clinging to him from the depths of Hell. “I will not argue my past with the likes of you,” he barked.

The silence that followed was deafening. Volmar held his back stiff against the rough bark of the tree and listened, sensing the rising fear and stark madness. The Magistrate's soldiers were in a circle, their swords drawn, yet powerless against the hooded assailant who held a sword hovering menacingly against the Abbot's bare throat.

Volmar knew the assailant burned with a rage incited by this unexpected trap. He'd come for the Holy Relic but did not expect company. Now, it seemed he was haunted as well. Volmar tensed with icy dread and silently said five
Pater Nosters
.
⁹⁴

The Magistrate stood in front of the old soldier, his voice calm amid the terror. “Ulrich, do you really want to have more blood on your hands? Put the sword down and let the Abbot go.”

“Call your men off first!” Ulrich shouted, nodding to the group of soldiers with their swords already drawn. He backed away slowly, stumbling on one of the upraised roots of a tree hidden by the snow. This was enough for the sword's blade to graze the Abbot's throat. Blood oozed from the wound.

The Abbot raised his hand to stop the Magistrate from rushing forward. “I'm fine, Wolfe,” he said, his voice unwavering. “Please, don't risk your own life for mine.”

Ulrich steadied his grip on the Abbot, jerking the Abbot's head even further back by grabbing his thinning hair. “You heard him. Let me leave in peace with the Holy Relic and the Abbot's life will be spared.” Then, once again, Ulrich turned his head to talk to his deathly companion. “You think you can trick me into giving you the relic? By God's blood, I will fight even you!”

Volmar risked peering out from behind his tree. Ulrich was still wearing his snow mask, which hampered his peripheral vision. Maybe, Volmar reasoned, there is a way out of this stalemate. He studied the tree's branches overhead, noting the ones which leaned out over the clearing. The young scribe then met Brother Paulus's gaze and communicated to him a plan. All those years of hand signaling now proved invaluable. The two communicated wordlessly, each fully aware of the grim consequences should their plan fail.

Paulus made a wide circle around to the stump where Ulrich's warhorse was tethered and snorting impatiently, waiting for his master's escape. The Infirmarian loosened the horse's reins and watched with increasing confidence as Volmar shimmied his way up into the canopy of the slumbering apple tree.

Instinctively, Volmar was confident of his ability to move through the branches, yet wary of his prey below. When he brushed back the snow to move into position, he realized too late his misjudgment.

Abbot Burchard's head was tilted upward. He also saw at that moment that the snowstorm had damaged the branch his young Scribe was inching silently across. Horror knotted up in his throat as the branch released a loud groan before splitting and cracking. At that same instant, Paulus let out a piercing yell, which frightened Ulrich's horse and sent it galloping down the hillside.

In the confusion that followed, Ulrich swung around like a scorpion with his sword ready to fight, just as both the branch and Volmar
fell, smashing the old soldier on his shoulder and causing his hand to release his sword. Volmar flung himself directly from the falling tree branch onto Ulrich's back and wrestled him to the ground. The sword was kicked from Ulrich's lunging hand in the last instant by the Magistrate himself, who leaped upon the two of them in their struggle.

Paulus rushed over to the Abbot, whom he led aside, drawing a clean linen cloth from his bag to bandage the nasty cut on his neck. Fortunately, it had missed Burchard's major artery by no more than the width of a single hair.

In no time, the soldiers wrapped heavy chains around Ulrich's neck and ankles. The Magistrate leaned forward and at last pulled off the mask. He gasped at the face sneering up at him. “Symon?”

Volmar turned to the Magistrate, then to Ulrich. “This man is Symon of Bermersheim?” he asked, his heart sinking.

“I am mistaken, son,” the Magistrate muttered, turning away. “This is not the man I once knew.” The same wooden cart which only a few hours earlier had held the wrapped corpses of Matthias and Donato was rolled out of the woods and into the clearing. “Load him up,” the Magistrate called to his men. “We've found our murderer.”

A few moments later, Volmar walked around the cart to the side where the assailant sat motionless, staring straight ahead, a sense of strength still emanating from him, despite his defeat. Volmar spoke aloud, emotion giving his voice a sense of unexpected harshness. “Show me your ring!”

The man smiled; his teeth were heavily stained from the exotic teas of the Middle East. “What is it to you?” he barked.

Volmar steeled himself before repeating, “Show me your ring!”

Something in the young monk's penetrating gaze made the prisoner uncomfortable. “My family's crest is of no consequence to a man of God.”

“It is of considerable consequence to this young monk. This is Volmar, Katherina's son,” the Magistrate said, standing beside the young Scribe.

“So it is true, I was not dreaming you up.”

“Brother Volmar set this trap, Symon. Show him your ring or I will cut it off of your finger and show him myself.” To make clear his threat, the Magistrate pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt and held it in the rising light of dawn.