“It’s all true!” Simon cried. “So help me God!” As proof, he picked the sword up from the bed and handed it to Bonenmayr, who ran his finger across the blade, examining the inscription.
“Heredium in baptistae sepulcro…” he murmured. “The heritage in the grave of the baptist…”
He looked up. “That doesn’t prove a thing. An epigraph on a sword, nothing more. Besides, who can prove this is, in fact, the sword of Saint Felicianus? It could be your own.”
“Ask Michael Piscator!” Benedikta chimed in. “He’ll verify that this is the sword from the coffin!”
“To do that, I’d have to hand you over to the Augustinian monks,” he said. “Desecration of relics is one of the worst crimes again Christianity. They’ll skin you alive-”
“I have a proposal,” Simon interjected. “We’ll work together to find this treasure! If we succeed, that will be the proof we’re not lying. We’ll donate all the money to the monastery in Steingaden, and nobody will ever find out who desecrated the bones of Saint Felicianus.”
Augustin Bonenmayr frowned. “I’m supposed to make a pact with heretics and the defilers of holy relics?”
“For the good of the church!” Simon replied. “After all, you have nothing to lose. If we don’t find the treasure, you can still turn us in.”
The abbot thought it over a long time. Outside, they could hear church bells ringing and shouts from far off. Evidently, the people of Rottenbuch still believed the devil was afoot in the monastery.
I hope they don’t look for him here in the inn, Simon thought anxiously.
Finally, Bonenmayr cleared his throat. “Very well, then. I’ll take the gamble. Under one condition.”
“Whatever you say,” replied Simon.
“Beginning now, the two of you will be in my custody. Here in Rottenbuch, you’re no longer safe, anyway. Brother Michael is not stupid. He’ll soon have people out searching for a French lady and her companion. Therefore, we’ll return to Steingaden at once.” He took the sword and opened the door. Only now did Simon see two burly looking monks who had been waiting outside. Noticing the look on Simon’s face, the abbot smiled. “Brother Johannes and Brother Lothar,” he said, introducing the two. “Both are novitiates who haven’t yet taken their vows and thus haven’t yet foresworn violence. They have many…experiences from before.” He started down the stairs. “Or did you think I would enter the room of two wanted defilers of the church without protection?”
Simon and Benedikta followed the abbot, with the two grim monks close behind.
Outside, four black horses hitched to a covered sleigh awaited them. Simon noticed that someone had already hitched Benedikta’s horse and his own to the rear of the sleigh. They would disappear without a trace. They took their places on padded seats alongside the silent monks and the abbot. The two huge novitiates stared impassively into the night, but Simon was certain that the two thugs dressed in monk’s habits would attack fast and decisively at the mere hint of an escape.
A whip sounded and the four-in-hand set out. Just before the wagon disappeared around the corner, a figure appeared and jumped up onto the back. Silently, the person climbed onto the roof and lay down flat so the cold wind would meet no resistance.
12
THE EXECUTION WAS set for twelve o’clock noon sharp on Saturday.
Since the early morning hours, people had streamed into the city from surrounding towns. At market stalls around the square, vendors sold sausages dripping with fat and piping-hot mulled wine that made everyone’s cheeks red and their eyes sparkle. A scissors grinder strolled down the Münzgasse with his whetstone, loudly proclaiming his services, and in the wooden booths hastily set up the night before, copper pots, clay bowls, and withered apples were displayed for sale. The air smelled of coal, horse sweat, and cow dung, which had been trodden underfoot. People laughed and chatted, and only occasionally did anyone cast a furtive eye in the direction of the dungeon, where watchmen stood guard.
Finally, at around eleven thirty, the death knell began-a high-pitched, plaintive sound-and the crowd fell silent. Now all eyes turned to the dungeon door, which opened with a loud grating sound and spewed out a small band of ragged figures.
People laughed and hooted, pointing at the slowly approaching line of prisoners. Was this pathetic group really the notorious Scheller gang? The night before, one of the robbers had died of cold and exhaustion. The five remaining men didn’t walk so much as they staggered, looking straight ahead, their filthy faces black and blue, their hands roped together. The two measures of wine to which each condemned man was entitled on his execution day had all been emptied in a few gulps, and the men were clearly having trouble walking upright. Accordingly, the confessions the priest had taken from them earlier that morning were slurred and halting.
Behind them came the robbers’ wives. One carried a screaming infant in a sling on her back, while the other pushed a crying boy forward. The boy kept reaching for the hand of his drunken father, but the bailiffs pushed him away each time.
The hangman walked in front. Despite the cold, he wore only a leather waistcoat over a linen shirt and gloves that would be burned immediately after the execution. He dispensed with the usual wide-brimmed hat that day so that his long black hair and shaggy beard blew in the wind. In his right hand, Jakob Kuisl swung a long, heavy iron rod like a walking stick. It was this rod he would use in a little more than half an hour to break the bones of Hans Scheller, the robber chief.
The crowd jeered and threw snowballs, bones they’d been gnawing on, and moldy bread at the robbers. In the midst of the group was Hans Scheller. He appeared composed and carried his head high. Despite his wounds and bruises, there was something almost sublime about his gaze. People could sense that and tried to say things to frighten him.
“Hey, Scheller,” one called out. “Are your bones aching from loafing around so much? They’ll hurt even more in just a while!”
“Start with the legs! Kuisl, start with the legs! Then he won’t be able to run away!”
The Schongauers laughed, but Jakob Kuisl paid them no mind. At six feet tall, he towered over them. When the crowd got too close, he swung the iron rod through the air as if he were chasing away some barking dogs.
In the market square, they were joined by the aldermen and the court clerk, Lechner, who would preside over the execution as the representative of the elector. He gazed over the ragged crowd of robbers, nodded to Jakob Kuisl, then together they moved through the Hof Gate and down the Altenstadt Road, along a noisy line of people winding through the snowy countryside.
Accompanied by a fiddle, a street musician improvised on an ancient melody. “Scheller, Hans, Scheller, Hans, Just wait to feel Kuisl’s batons…!”
Arriving at the gallows, Johann Lechner looked approvingly at the broad area that had been cleared of snow. The hangman had done a thorough job in the last few days. Alongside the ten-foot-high platform where the convict was to be placed on the wheel, Kuisl had sunk three posts into the frozen ground, each with a crossbar so as to form a triangle. This is where the other four robbers would be hanged. In the front row, benches had been set up for the aldermen. The rest of the crowd would have to be content standing.
The death knell was still ringing. When everyone had arrived at the site, the clerk climbed the narrow stairway up to the wooden platform and held up a thin black wooden stick. Despite the large crowd, absolute silence reigned for a moment. The only thing audible was the ringing of the bell and the breaking of the stick.