“The wretched Templars have hidden it in a place not far from here. But in his infinite mercy, God has sent us a sign that this treasure will soon be ours and we will soon be able to embark on our Holy War! We must not allow this Lutheran rabble to again sully the name of our Savior. It was here, in this city, that the heresy began to spread through German lands, and here it will end! I am certain that, with the help of this treasure, the Great War can begin again! Down with the heretics! Victory is ours!”
“Deus lo vult! Deus lo vult!” cried a number of the monks. Others fell on their knees and began to pray or flagellate themselves with their belts.
Again, their leader demanded silence.
“Most of you already know about the treasure, but now Brother Jakobus, a true servant of our brotherhood, will give you further details. I don’t need to stress how important it is to maintain strict secrecy about everything he tells us. Traitors will meet a fiery death.”
“Death to traitors!” someone shouted. “Death to the heretics and Lutherans!” Others joined in the shouting.
Magdalena gulped, crouching even lower behind the skulls.
Now a man dressed in a cowl and cloak stepped forward. As he started to speak, a chill ran up and down Magdalena’s spine. It was the stranger from the apothecary! Somewhere down below here in the vault, he must have donned the white coat with the strange cross. But it was his voice she recognized.
“My brethren! He speaks the truth. Victory is close at hand!” Though he had a slight lisp, Magdalena understood every word. “It’s a miracle, believe me! Many years ago, but just a few miles from here, the accursed Templars buried the greatest treasure in all Christendom. These heretics made up a few childish riddles to keep the secret from us, but just recently-”
Much too late, Magdalena noticed that she had leaned too far over the pile of skulls. She bumped one with her right elbow. Falling from the pyramid, it rolled noisily across the floor toward the vault.
Brother Jakobus paused and looked suspiciously in Magdalena’s direction. He was about to resume speaking when the other skulls started tumbling forward as well. Frantic, Magdalena tried to stop them, but it was too late.
A centuries-old equilibrium disturbed, the skulls now started falling on all sides with a clattering and banging. Soon Magdalena found herself standing in the corridor in plain view. For a moment, time seemed to stand still.
“Seize her!” the leader shouted to his comrades-in-arms, who were just as shocked as Magdalena. The man’s cowl slipped off the back of his head and Magdalena found herself staring into a spiteful face-the same face she had seen in the portrait up in the cathedral.
The bishop.
In a fraction of a second, Magdalena realized what this meant. The Augsburg dignitary was not the murderer of Andreas Koppmeyer. No, he was the leader of this insane group-a group presumably capable of far worse crimes, one that, barring a miracle, would torture her as a witch, strangle her, and commit her body to the fire. If she were lucky, they would tear her into pieces first.
Brother Jakobus was the first to get over his shock and run toward the hangman’s daughter, who was rushing down the corridor, stumbling over bones, getting back on her feet again, and racing up the stairs. Behind her she could hear the monk’s footfalls. She ran and ran, spiraling up the staircase as if trapped on a nightmarish merry-go-round, until she finally reached the door.
It was then she realized the door had no handle on the inside.
Gasping for breath, she threw herself against the stone, but this was like hitting her head against a wall. The door would not yield a bit.
She pounded and kicked the stone slab.
“Help!” she cried. “Doesn’t anyone hear me out there? Help me!”
Smiling broadly, Brother Jakobus moved toward her, his hands raised as if in benediction. Only at the last minute did she see the curved dagger in his right hand.
“I’ll give you just a little cut, I promise,” he whispered. “Just like your father. You’ll sleep like the stone knight behind you.” He feigned a blow from above, then thrust the knife at her from below. Magdalena reached for his hand, but the man was quicker. The blade came down, and even though she ducked to one side, it cut her upper arm, which she had raised to fend off her attacker.
“Divine providence has led you to us!” Brother Jakobus murmured. “I know your name, Maria Magdalena, the whore of Christ. You are much too precious to commit to the flames. I have great plans for you.”
Magdalena could feel her body going stiff. When numbness reached her legs, she slid down the gravestone behind her and came to rest on the floor, her eyes wide in fear. From far off, she could hear an organ.
Maria zu lieben ist allzeit mein Sinn, in Freuden und Leiden ihr Diener ich bin…My heart is devoted to Mary, my queen, in joy and in sorrow to serve her I mean…
In the cathedral above, just a few yards away, mass had begun.
10
EARLY THE NEXT morning, Simon and Benedikta set out for Wessobrunn on horseback. They avoided major roads leading north along the Lech River that might be under the robbers’ surveillance. Instead, they crossed the bridge over the Lech to Peiting and, from there, headed directly toward Mount Hoher Peißenberg, which towered like a giant above the villages and little towns in the otherwise flat countryside. The blizzard of the last two days had passed, and the air was clear and pure. The sun shone so brightly in the blue sky that Simon had to close his eyes whenever he looked too long at the snowy fields and trees.
In the last hour, Simon had often glanced back. Whenever he and Benedikta left a clearing and entered the endless forests around the mountain, the feeling came over him that he was being watched. It felt like an itch between his shoulders, and Simon expected any moment to hear the twang of a bowstring or the rattle of a saber. Whenever he turned around, though, all he saw was an impenetrable thicket of pines. Occasionally, a startled bird flew away, squawking, or snow trickled softly down from branches. Otherwise, silence prevailed.
In many places, the blizzard had bent the trees down like reeds, and from atop his horse, Simon looked down on wide swaths of downed trees in the forest. At least the farmers wouldn’t complain this winter about a lack of firewood.
“Don’t look so cross!” Benedikta called to him. “It doesn’t go well with your beautiful eyes. The robbers are on the Lech, not here. What is there of any value here?”
In contrast to Simon, the businesswoman seemed carefree, humming a French tune and spurring her horse on across the wide clearings. Simon had trouble keeping up with her. He’d borrowed the hangman’s old mare again for their ride to Wessobrunn. Walli seemed to have gotten somewhat used to him, but she stopped from time to time whenever something green poked its head out of the snow cover. Then even kicking her wouldn’t get her to move. Occasionally, she snapped at Simon or tried to throw him off, but the medicus was determined to teach the beast some manners. The horse came to a dead stop again and tugged calmly at a weed poking its head up out of the snow. Simon tugged desperately on the reins and dug his heels into Walli’s scrawny body, but he might as well have been sitting on a rock.