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?
“Herbs from pharmacist Biermann,” she said, addressing the watchmen and pouting. “Sage and chamomile. The prior has a terrible cough.”
The soldier glanced briefly into the bag, then let her pass with a nod. Only after Magdalena had passed through did he stop to think.
“Strange,” he remarked to his colleague. “The prior looked the picture of health this morning. He was well enough to give his usual fire-and-brimstone sermon. Hey, girl!” But the hangman’s daughter had already disappeared around the corner.
Magdalena had trouble finding the stranger again. The little streets, lined with the homes of goldsmiths, silversmiths, engravers, and clothiers, were narrower and more winding than in the lower part of Augsburg. On a hunch, she turned right, only to wind up at a dead end. She spun around, ran this time in the other direction, and found herself suddenly right in front of the cathedral, a structure at least three times higher than the church in Schongau. Bells echoed through the cathedral courtyard as pilgrims and others who’d come to pray streamed out through the mighty portal, making way for those entering. On the steps, tattered beggars held out their hands, pleading with passersby. A mass must have just finished. Magdalena had to hold her breath—how many people could fit inside this enormous dome? She looked around hastily but saw only a sea of unfamiliar forms and faces.
The stranger had disappeared.
She was about to give up when she saw something glitter among the churchgoers and beggars on the wide steps leading up to the portal. She ran up the steps and was just able to catch a glimpse of the man as he disappeared inside the cathedral. The golden cross on his chain sparkled briefly once more in the sun, and then he was swallowed up inside the enormous building. Magdalena ran after him at a brisk pace.
Entering the cathedral, she couldn’t help pausing a moment. It seemed as if she were in another world; she had never before seen such an imposing building. As she continued to move forward, she looked up at the towering columns, the balcony, and the bright, colorful stained-glass windows with the morning sun streaming in. On all sides, angels and saints stared down from richly decorated walls.
The monk strode through the cathedral and finally turned left toward the end of a side aisle. Here, he knelt down in front of a sarcophagus and bowed his head in prayer.
Magdalena hid behind a column, where she finally had a chance to catch her breath.
A murderer who prays…
Had he come, perhaps, to confess his sins? Magdalena considered this for a moment before rejecting it. After all, the stranger had just purchased more poison. A penitent sinner wouldn’t do that.
She wanted to get a look at his face, but the haggard monk still hadn’t removed his cowl, and the only thing visible was his protruding, pointed nose. The bag with the poison was still dangling from his wrist, and the cross hung down from his broad shoulders like a heavy padlock.
Magdalena couldn’t see whose coffin the man kneeled at. Concealed behind the column, she watched him impatiently. When she realized the prayer might take a while, she looked up once more to admire the size of the cathedral. She studied the columns and side altars, the many niches, and the stairways that led up and down. On the left, a well-worn stone staircase led down into a crypt, and farther back, a small walkway branched off. On her right, above the stone altar where the stranger was praying, a row of paintings depicted some old men wearing mitres and capes. Each held a shepherd’s crook in his hand and looked down benevolently on his followers. Magdalena noticed that the paintings on top left were old and faded, and their subjects had a strange gray hue, like messengers from a distant era. Farther down to the right, the paintings seemed newer and more colorful. Each painting was dated, and Magdalena realized these were portraits of all the Augsburg bishops. In the last painting on the bottom row, an astonishingly young man was depicted with thinning black hair, a hooked nose, and a strange penetrating gaze. Magdalena read the name beneath it.
Bishop Sigismund Franz. Appointed 1646.
The bishop up there seemed to be staring directly into her soul with his unpleasant piercing eyes.
She hesitated.
Something about the painting irritated her. Was it the black, almost impoverished look of the cloak? The cold gaze? The surprising youth amid all these old men? As she looked closer, she realized what it was, but it took a while to accept it.
Around the bishop’s neck hung a golden chain with a cross—with two crossbeams.
Just like the one the monk wore!
Magdalena almost cried out loud. Thoughts raced through her head, but she had no time to organize them—the monk had finished praying. He stood up, crossed himself, and bowed now. Finally, he headed for the cloister and disappeared through an ancient stone doorway. He hadn’t once turned around. Casting a final glance at the young bishop above her, Magdalena took off after the stranger. She felt as if Bishop Sigismund Franz’s eyes were boring right through her from behind.
Just after the first cockcrow, there was such a loud pounding at Jakob Kuisl’s door that it sounded as if he himself were being summoned for execution. Outside, it was still the dead of night. Kuisl lay in bed alongside the soft, warm body of his wife, who turned, blinking and groggy, to her husband after the visitor had pounded on the door a third time.
“It doesn’t matter who it is…Wring his neck,” she mumbled and buried her head under a down pillow.
“You can bet on it,” the hangman groaned, swinging his legs out of bed, almost falling down the stairs when the knocking began again a fourth time. In the next room, the twins woke up and began to cry.
“All right, all right,” the hangman growled, “I’m coming!”
As he stumbled down the ice-cold stairs barefoot and dressed only in his nightshi
rt, he swore to himself he would, at the least, apply thumbscrews to this disturber of the peace. He would probably also shove burning matches under his fingernails.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!”
Jakob Kuisl had had a strenuous night. The little ones had a terrible cough and couldn’t be calmed down, even with hot milk and honey. Once Georg and Barbara had finally drifted off to sleep, Kuisl rolled around in bed for hours thinking about the second gang of robbers. He was brooding about the mysterious fourth man when he’d finally fallen asleep.
Only to be awakened what seemed like five minutes later by this fool trying to break down his door.
Furious, Jakob Kuisl ran down the steps, threw aside the bolt, tore open the door, and shouted at his visitor so loudly that the guest almost fell over into a large snowdrift behind him.
“What is God’s name do you think you’re doing, you stupid clod, coming here in the middle of the night…” Too late, he noticed it was Burgomaster Karl Semer standing there. “Confound it…” the hangman muttered.
The hangman stood a full head taller than the burgomaster, and the patrician looked up at Kuisl in terror. There were dark circles under Semer’s eyes, he was pale, and his left cheek was badly swollen.
“Excuse my bothering you at such an early hour, Kuisl,” he whispered, pointing at his cheek. “But I just couldn’t stand it…the pain…”
The hangman frowned, then opened the door. “Come in.”
Leading the burgomaster into the main room, he relit the fire in the hearth with a few pieces of kindling he kept in holders on the table.
In the faint light, Karl Semer looked around the hangman’s quarters—the executioner’s sword next to the devotional corner, the rough-hewn stool, the huge well-worn table, the gallows ladder in the corner. A few books lay open on the table.