It seemed that construction work had been suspended several days ago due to the huge snowstorm. Kuisl glanced at the unfinished roof beams of the future inn and surmised that Simon and Benedikta had no doubt sought shelter in the monastery next door. He decided to knock on the main door in the hopes of learning something from the cellarer.
As Kuisl walked toward the multistoried, whitewashed building, a door opened in a wing just a few steps in front of him. A group of people came out, but it was hard to make out anyone in the heavy snowfall.
The hangman stopped at a distance to allow the procession to pass by. He strained and squinted in the fading light, but still had trouble seeing who they were. The person in front appeared to be Augustin Bonenmayr, recognizable as an abbot by his purple robe. Unlike the others, he wore a white hat, which he gripped tightly in the wind. The two broad-shouldered monks following him were also dressed in white, like all the Premonstratensians, but the third wore a black habit and hood. His strides were light and springy, and though he was a small man, his musculature was visible through the robe. The way he moved while constantly looking around reminded Jakob Kuisl of a ferret.
A very bad, dangerous ferret, he thought.
The hangman’s experience as a soldier and warrior told him this man hadn’t spent his life just praying and copying manuscripts.
Jakob Kuisl was just a few steps away from them when the dark monk turned abruptly to the abbot and said in a harsh voice, “We should have gotten rid of them. This medicus is a clever fellow who can always weasel his way out of every situation. And that hussy-”
“Silence!” Augustin Bonenmayr interrupted. “Make room in your heart for Christendom’s greatest treasure. In mere moments, we will stand before it. Everything else can wait.”
Kuisl was startled. He knew the voice of this monk! He had heard it only briefly back in the crypt at the St. Lawrence Church, but he couldn’t forget the strange foreign accent and the hoarse panting. A few moments had been enough to burn the sound of that voice into his memory forever.
Kuisl tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He ducked behind a small snowdrift, but he was a big man and his hat stuck out over the drift. Suddenly, the dark monk turned in his direction. He stopped in his tracks and stared intently through the falling snow straight ahead. Slowly, the hangman turned to one side, hoping it was as hard for the monk to see in the snowfall as it was for him. The sound of footsteps in the snow receded, and the murmur of voices became fainter until finally dying away. Kuisl waited a moment, then set out after the group. By now his overcoat was covered in a thin layer of snow, so the monks didn’t notice the almost invisible colossus who followed them silently in the falling darkness.
After Magdalena had finished telling her story, they all grew quiet for a moment.
“The bishop of Augsburg is the leader of a secret order that will stop at nothing to steal the treasures of the church!” Simon shook his head. “And right at his side the abbot of Steingaden. No court of law in the world would ever believe this!” He gazed through the barred window; night was falling. “In any case, we don’t have much time. We can assume that Bonenmayr is already in Saint John’s Chapel to see the fruition of his life’s dream. And after that, the dark monk won’t waste any time getting rid of us.” He quickly summarized for Magdalena what they’d learned, then pointed to the stone archway that had opened up when the wall of books collapsed.
“We can assume it’s an old secret passageway leading from the monastery down into the Guelphs’ tomb,” he said. “It obviously hasn’t been used for a long time. There must be another way in, or this monk wouldn’t have been able to bring you something to eat every day.” He looked at Magdalena and pointed at the entrance. “And do you think something is lurking around down there, lying in wait for us?”
Magdalena nodded, glancing again at the opening from which cold, moldy air streamed into the room. All that could be seen from the library were a few steps of a winding staircase and then nothing but darkness.
“Even if it’s the devil himself prowling around down there,” said Benedikta, “we still have to go. There’s no other way out!” She pulled a little pistol out of her dress and began filling the weapon with powder. “At least the pious abbot did not search my skirt, so we still have one more shot.” She grinned and pointed the loaded pistol toward Magdalena before placing it back inside her clothing.
Simon walked over to the top of the spiral staircase. “Aren’t there any torches down there? I can’t see a thing.”
Magdalena walked over to join him. “It’s strange,” she murmured. “From here you should be able to see at least one torch. They’re attached to the walls at regular intervals. Someone must have extinguished them…”
“Or the wind blew them out,” Benedikta said, looking around. “In any case, we should take a few of these along,” she said, reaching for a few especially large books nearby.
“What are you doing?” Simon cried. “Are you really going to-”
“These parchments are centuries old. They’ll burn like the dickens,” Benedikta interrupted. “If you grab them by the cover, they make wonderful torches.”
Horrified, Simon pointed at the book in Benedikta’s hand. “But those are the Confessions of Saint Augustine! The book includes commentaries! It’s a sin to burn a book like that!”
Benedikta tossed the thick book to him and stuffed four others under her left arm. “That should be enough. Of course, if you want to, you can grope around in the dark and let someone creep up on you and slit your throat from behind.” Heading for the entrance, she added, “Now, follow me. Before the abbot comes back.”
She took one more step and disappeared in the darkness.
Augustin Bonenmayr’s nerves were shot. Again and again, he removed the pince-nez from his nose and polished them frantically.
“It must be here! Keep looking!” He kept blinking, as if that might help him see in the darkness. “The cross lies somewhere here at our feet!”
Along with Brother Nathanael and the two novitiates, Johannes and Lothar, the abbot had hurried over from the library to St. John’s Chapel in search of a clue, a secret chamber, anything that might lead them to the True Cross. For an hour they had been tapping on the walls, scanning for some kind of sign, but all they had seen so far were cold, bare walls. Augustin Bonenmayr looked around again, trying to figure out whether they had overlooked something.
The chapel was a small room built of sandstone blocks with a small altar to Mary on the east side. Modeled after the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, its circular form gave it the appearance of a stout, fortified tower from the outside. Above the portal hung a painting of Christ standing between Mary and John; a recumbent lion crouched on a stone slab on each side of the door.
Otherwise, the room was bare-and empty. Bonenmayr mumbled a soft curse.
Under his supervision, the monks had already tried to move the holy figures and pry up the large slabs beneath the lions. They had tapped along the walls searching for secret entrances and examined the flooring for trapdoors. They’d even checked underneath the vaulted chapel roof.
Now they were starting over again.
The abbot shouted and cursed, he kicked the altar, but all to no avail. St. John’s Chapel was not divulging its secrets.
“The treasure of the Templars in the house of the baptist in the grave of Christ,” Bonenmayr whispered, agitated. “The solution to the riddle is here! It must be here in the Chapel of Saint John! These accursed Templars…” He bit his lips and uttered a deep sigh. “We’ll dig up the floor,” he said finally.