Magdalena fell silent. She recognized the voice at once-it was the man who had stuck her in the arm with the dagger, the man the other brothers had called Brother Jakobus. The name brought memories flooding back: the cathedral, the cross around his bishop’s neck, the subterranean vault, the meeting. There must have been poison on the tip of the dagger that had paralyzed her and finally made her pass out-the same poison that had also made her father lose consciousness. Brother Jakobus was obviously taking her away somewhere to dispose of her.
But where?
“Listen, we’ll soon be going by a security post.” The man now sounded somewhat conciliatory. “Don’t make a sound, do you understand? Not a sound! I don’t mean to kill you, because we still need you, but if I have to, I will. Did your father ever tell you how long it takes to suffocate when you’re buried alive?”
Brother Jakobus did not wait for the answer but climbed back up to the coach box, judging from what she could hear. With the crack of a whip, the sled moved forward again.
Magdalena tried to put her thoughts in order. The monk knew her and her father! He was probably the man with the violet perfume who had been watching her all along in Schongau and Altenstadt. By coincidence, he’d run into her again in Augsburg. He was apparently out to find the Templars’ treasure, and clearly, there were many more people involved.
Magdalena shuddered. Only now did she remember she’d recognized the bishop among those disguised figures. It seemed clear he was the leader of this insane plot. The bishop had spoken of a brotherhood. What order could he have meant? And what treasure were these men looking for? What treasure could be so great as to turn pious, influential Christians into merciless killers?
Magdalena’s thoughts were interrupted when the sled suddenly stopped. She could hear voices-apparently, the watch post.
“Where are you going with the coffin, Father? We don’t need any plague victims in town!”
“Don’t worry, my son. An elderly brother of mine has gone to join God. I’m taking him back to his hometown.”
Magdalena was tempted to scream, but then she remembered what the monk had said.
Did your father ever tell you how long it takes to suffocate when you’re buried alive?
She kept quiet. Finally, the guard let them pass, and the sled continued its journey. She could hear footsteps outside, laughter, and individual voices. Someone with a strong Swabian accent was hawking hot chestnuts. Where was she? Where was the man taking her? She had no idea how long the poison had knocked her out. One day? Two?
Again the sled stopped, and she could hear the muffled sound of Jakobus’s voice. He was speaking with someone, but the conversation was too faint for her to understand anything. Suddenly, the coffin began to shake. Magdalena felt herself being lifted up and then carried down a flight of stairs. Imprisoned in her coffin, she slid from one side to the other.
“Careful, careful!” Brother Jakobus scolded. “Have some respect for the dead!”
“Where your brother is, it won’t bother him anymore,” she heard a deep voice reply grimly. Then the coffin fell to the ground, and Magdalena suppressed a cry of pain. She could hear coins being counted out, then heavy steps struggling up the stairway again. After that, only silence.
Magdalena waited a moment, then groped at the boards above her. Certainly, Brother Jakobus wanted to rest and had put up for the night in some inn. Would she be able to loosen the boards a bit now? Her father said that coffins were often very carelessly nailed together. After all, nobody figured the dead would want to escape their last resting place.
Pressing with both hands against the top of the coffin to check how secure the boards were, she heard a ripping sound. Someone was prying a board off the lid! A moment later, a bright light shone into the coffin through the crack, and a head with a monk’s haircut peered in above her. Brother Jakobus was shining his torch inside. His face was only a few inches from hers, but she wasn’t able to reach up and seize him since her arms were still pinned beneath the cover. A strong scent of violets filled her nose.
“Well, Hangman’s Daughter?” Brother Jakobus asked, passing his hand almost sympathetically over her cheeks. “How do you like your bed? Does it make you think of Judgment Day? Are you overcome with weeping and trembling? The wrath of the Lord catches up with everyone sooner or later.”
In answer, Magdalena spit in his face.
The monk wiped the spittle from his cheek and his eyes narrowed to little slits. But then he smiled. “You slut. Women have always brought sinfulness on mankind, and you shall pay for it in eternity!” He closed his eyes briefly. “But you, too, are part of God’s plans, at least for now…” He moved briefly out of her field of view and, seconds later reappeared with a wet sponge in hand. “Until then, I’ll have to silence your fresh, malicious tongue. Our journey is not yet over, and before then, your shouts might betray our cause.” As he spoke the last of these words, he pressed the sponge down over Magdalena’s face. “And I will take no pity on your children, for they are sons and daughters of a whore…” the monk whispered.
The hangman’s daughter writhed about, attempting in vain to call for help, but trapped beneath the boards, she couldn’t pull her head away. She held her breath, whimpering, as Brother Jakobus pressed the sponge down harder and harder against her face.
The monk looked up to the heavens, murmuring quietly. “Your mother is a harlot, and she who gave birth to you is an abomination. Thus, behold, I will block your way with thorns and erect a wall that you may not find your way…”
When Magdalena was finally overcome by the need to breathe, she opened her mouth in a stifled cry and a bitter fluid filled her throat. She could smell poppy seeds and the fragrance of herbs that her father used in relieving the misery of condemned men on their march to the gallows. Paris quadrifolia, ranunculus, wolfsbane…Now the voice of the monk sounded like a distant, monotone chant.
“Mine is the vengeance, saith the Lord…”
Then her world turned black and she sank back into the coffin, which now felt like a bed of fine linen. The last thing she perceived was the sound of a hammer pounding on the wood.
Death is knocking at my door…They’re coming to take me away to Last Judgment…
With vigorous blows, Brother Jakobus hammered new nails into the coffin.
Simon was awakened by the little bells sounding for the laudes, the Benedictines’ morning prayers. Although he’d pored over the books from the Wessobrunn Monastery library late into the night, he was wide awake now. He quickly washed his face and hands with the ice-cold water in a basin alongside the bed and ate a piece of dry bread. Then he hastened outside. Benedikta, who had already gotten directions from Abbot Bernhard to the Tassilo Linden, was waiting for Simon in the monastery yard. Together, they walked through the gate alongside the parish church. To their left were the three ice-filled springs and the well house. Along the outside of the monastery wall, a path led down into the valley. It soon veered away from the wall, and the path became icy and slippery as they entered a snow-covered deciduous forest. A few times Simon nearly fell, cursing and grabbing hold of branches in the dense growth of trees. A little stairway with worn steps led down into the valley. Finally, they reached a shadowy clearing, and in the middle stood an enormous tree, larger than any they had ever seen. They stopped and gazed at it in awe.
“The Tassilo Linden,” Simon whispered. “The word tree in the Wessobrunn Prayer! It must be this tree. In any case, it’s surely the oldest and most striking one here, if not in all of the Priests’ Corner.”
The linden, at least one hundred feet tall, had four trunks that grew up out of one. In winter, stripped of its leaves, it looked like the withered hand of a giant witch, its clawlike fingers reaching for the sky.