Thirsty, Simon looked around and spotted a knee-high nightstand on one side of the bed with a clay pitcher on top. Not only the wooden ceiling, but also the night table seemed freshly constructed, as did the wide bed. There was a fragrance of resin and fresh-cut wood in the air. A small stove was crackling in a corner, but otherwise the room was empty. The shutters were closed, but judging by a narrow, bright ray of light entering the room, it had to be daytime.
Simon reached for the pitcher and tested the contents: something bitter and aromatic, a bit like mint-apparently a medicine that someone had put out for him. He was drinking in deep gulps when a creaking sound announced a visitor. In the doorframe stood Benedikta, smiling.
“Well, have you had a good sleep?” She pointed to his bandage. “We didn’t have a doctor here to do that, but I think the canons here know how to sew things up with needle and thread.”
“The canons?” Simon looked at her, bewildered.
Benedikta nodded. “The Premonstratensian canons. We’re at the monastery in Steingaden. As we were fleeing from the robbers, you hit your head against a tree. I put you on the horse and brought you here-it was only a few miles.”
“But the men…the voices…” Simon could feel the stabbing pain in his head getting worse. Benedikta looked down at him sympathetically, and he felt how he was starting to blush. He must be a pathetic sight: pale, bandaged up, and dressed only in a dirty linen shirt.
“What voices?” she asked.
“When I was unconscious…Who helped me back on the horse?”
Benedikta laughed. “It was me! But if it makes you feel any better, it was the monks who undressed you later.”
Simon smiled. “If it had been you, I would surely have remembered.”
She raised her eyebrows in feigned indignation and turned to leave. “Before we cross the boundaries of decency, it would probably be better if we stop and think about why we are actually here,” she said. “The abbot is waiting to see us, but naturally, only if your injury permits,” she added with a slightly derisive smile. “I’ll wait outside for you.”
The door closed, but Simon lay still a moment to collect his thoughts. This woman…confused him. When he finally got up and dressed, the headache was still bothering him, but after checking the bandage with his hands, he could see that the monks had done their work well. He could feel a neat suture; eventually a little scar above the hairline would be all that remained.
The medicus carefully opened the door and was at once blinded by the dazzling winter light. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the snow sparkled and glittered in such bright light that it took a while for his eyes to adjust. Then he looked out at the largest construction site he had ever seen.
Before him lay the Steingaden Monastery-or rather, what was being rebuilt in new splendor after the attack by the Swedes. Simon had heard that the current abbot, Augustin Bonenmayr, had ambitious plans, but only now could he see with his own eyes just how ambitious they were. Tall newly built structures stood all around. Many of the buildings sported new roof timbers, most were still covered with scaffolding, and white-robed monks and numerous workers scurried back and forth with trowels and wheelbarrows full of mortar. On Simon’s left, three men were calling loudly back and forth to one another as they tugged on a pulley, and somewhat farther away, an oxcart approached on a newly paved road, bringing freshly cut boards. The air smelled of resin and mortar.
Seeing Simon’s astonishment, Benedikta explained what was going on. “One of the foremen showed me around a bit. In the area where we were sleeping, they are building a new tavern, and right next to it will be the Latin school…” She pointed to a small building on the other side of the park. “There’s even a plan to build a theater here.” She walked ahead as she continued speaking. “I had a talk with the prior this morning. Abbot Bonenmayr plans to make the monastery the most beautiful in the entire region-at least as beautiful as the one in Rottenbuch, he says. He’s over there in the abbey and will receive us at noon.”
All that Simon could do was nod and jog along behind her. Benedikta had taken charge of everything as a matter of course, and Simon could see now why her brother would seek her advice. Behind her refined facade, Benedikta had an extremely direct way about her. He thought about the pistol and the shots she had fired the previous afternoon.
They met the abbot in the cloister between the abbey and the church. Augustin Bonenmayr was a gaunt man with a narrow face. On his nose he wore a pince-nez rimmed in brass, which he was using at the moment to study frescoes in a passageway leading from the chapel. In one arm he was carrying a bundle of parchments, and on his belt dangled a gigantic bundle of keys, along with a plumb line and a carpenter’s square. He looked more like a master builder than the leader of a great monastery.
When he heard the footsteps of the newcomers, he turned around to greet Simon and Benedikta.
“Ah, the young lady with the question! I have been informed of your arrival,” he said, removing the pince-nez. His deep voice resounded through the cloister. “And you must be young Fronwieser.” The abbot approached the medicus with a warm smile and extended his hand. Like all members of the Premonstratensian Order, he wore a white tunic, and a purple sash around his waist identified him as the abbot of the monastery. Simon knelt down and kissed a golden signet ring decorated with a cross.
“If you will permit me to say it,” Simon mumbled, still kneeling, “I have never seen such a magnificent monastery.”
Augustin Bonenmayr laughed and helped him to his feet. “Indeed, we shall rebuild everything-the mill, the brewery, a school, and of course, an abbey. We intend this to be a place of pilgrimage for the many who seek the closeness of God.”
“I am certain that Steingaden will be a showpiece in the Priests’ Corner,” Benedikta said.
The abbot smiled. “People again feel the need for places worthy of a pilgrimage, places where we can feel just how great God really is.” He stepped out of the chapel into the cloister. “But you have not come to talk about pilgrimages, have you? I have heard that you are here on a far sadder mission.”
Simon nodded, then briefly stated the purpose of their visit. “Perhaps the reason for the priest’s death has something to do with the history of the Saint Lawrence Church.”
The abbot frowned and turned to Benedikta. “Do you really think your brother was poisoned because of some dark secret having to do with his church? Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?”
Before Benedikta could answer, Simon interrupted. “Your Excellency,” he said matter-of-factly, “it is said that the Saint Lawrence Church is the property of your church. Are there any building plans? Or does someone know at least who the former owner was?”
Augustin Bonenmayr rubbed the bridge of his nose where the pince-nez had rested. “The monastery owns so many properties that I really don’t know about each individual one, but perhaps we can find something in our archives. Follow me.”
They walked along the cloister wall toward the abbey. On the second floor, they came to an unmarked, low door with two huge locks. As soon as the abbot opened them, Simon was confronted with the musty odor of old parchment. The room was at least twelve feet high. Individual shelves were recessed into niches and filled to the ceiling with books, folios, and rolls of parchment bearing the seal of the monastery. The room itself was covered with cobwebs, and a thin layer of dust had settled on a finely polished walnut table in the middle.
“Our centuries-old monastery library,” Bonenmayr said. “A miracle that it has survived and not fallen victim to fire. As you can see, we are rarely here these days, but the order is still the same. Wait…”