Brother Jeremias frowned. “Yes, Burgomaster?”
“You will surely remember that I sold the monastery wax of excellent quality at a fair price-enough to make three hundred candles-as well as finely printed letters of petition from Augsburg…”
“What are you trying to say?”
Semer smiled broadly. “I’m certain that many pilgrims will be coming on Ascension Day, and All Saints’ Day, as well. Do you already have a supplier?”
The prior sighed ostentatiously, though secretly he was happy the burgomaster wanted to do business with him. The old Andechs abbot was clearly out of the picture. “Rest assured we will think of you,” he said benevolently. “Anyone helping the church is doing God’s work.”
Bowing deeply, the burgomaster and his son bade them farewell, leaving the prior and librarian alone in the great hall.
“Damn it,” hissed Brother Benedikt when the steps of the two Schongauers had finally died away. He slammed the book shut that he’d just been leafing through. “That’s all we need. A hangman snooping around. That dishonorable scoundrel is probably the one who stole the map, and now we can only hope the guards pick him up as soon as possible before he finds something down there.”
Brother Jeremias bit his lips nervously. “This Kuisl doesn’t give up so easily. You heard what they said. And until Johannes confesses, the case isn’t closed. It’s possible the Weilheim district judge will have the dumb idea of leaving no stone unturned here.”
The old librarian glared at him. “What does that mean-until Johannes confesses?” he blustered. “You were there during the torture yesterday. What are you doing there-tickling him with feathers?”
“I… I can’t understand myself why they haven’t been able to break him,” Brother Jeremias lamented. “The Weilheim executioner has tried everything, but we have to make sure that Johannes doesn’t die on us. That’s why Master Hans wants to wait until tomorrow and help him recover a bit.” The prior bent over the table now, almost pleading with the old monk. “Damn, Benedikt. We need the confession or there will be no sentence. You know yourself that Carolingian law is very strict in this respect.”
“Then you’d better see to it that they finally wring this confession from him,” Benedikt answered coolly, “or we could be the next ones Master Hans puts on the rack.” Hunched over like an oak that had survived countless storms, he struggled to his feet and stared at the prior angrily. “In my younger days, I took part myself in a number of inquisitions, and with me the offenders always confessed at once. You’re too soft, Jeremias.”
The prior clenched his fists under the table. Ever since he entered the monastery many years ago, the old man had always driven him crazy with such lectures. Jeremias knew that Benedikt considered himself the better abbot, but his books were more important to him than any position, and for this reason, he depended on collaborators for his secret plans.
Worthless idiots like me.
At one time, they’d mostly seen eye-to-eye on their goals, but still Jeremias had the feeling the old librarian hadn’t always taken him seriously. Jeremias reminded himself that he would be the Andechs abbot soon, and perhaps then everything would be different.
A proud old fool can always be put to use washing dishes in the refectory. We must serve God, whatever our position in life…
This thought comforted Jeremias. He thought, too, of the pistol the district judge had given him the day before, and of his run-in with the wolves. It had felt good to pull the trigger.
“Do you know that Laurentius is dead?” he suddenly asked the librarian.
The old man nodded. “Everyone knows about that, and then there are these horrible stories about the golem.”
Brother Benedikt crossed himself briefly. “May God have mercy on his soul. But perhaps it’s better that way. He was a sodomite and, even worse, a coward. He probably would have told the abbot about our plans sooner or later; now he’s quiet for good.”
For a while, neither spoke, and the silence in the room, with its thousands of books and parchment rolls, weighed heavily on Jeremias. The prior took a deep breath. Sometimes at night he would lie awake in bed, doubting the wisdom of their actions, but ultimately they were serving the monastery.
Everything is God’s will.
“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” Brother Jeremias said finally in a voice determined to regain control of the situation. “Perhaps Laurentius was right, and it’s really too dangerous to leave everything down there now. With Brother Eckhart, we’ll clear everything out and hide it in my prior’s residence until this hangman is caught or until Johannes has finally confessed. After all, we still don’t know what’s lurking down there.”
“Are you afraid?” Benedikt smiled coldly.
“Nonsense. I just don’t want to take any chances, so let’s dispose of the stuff today.”
The librarian seemed to think this over. “Very well,” he finally said. “It’s safer, and we can’t make any headway now in any case. Now that Laurentius is dead, we lack a skilled worker.”
He hobbled to the door, turned once again, and looked questioningly at Brother Jeremias. “I’d really like to know what it was that inflicted such terrible injuries on our dear Laurentius,” he said gloomily. “I’m starting to believe in this fairy tale about a golem.”
Nepomuk dozed fitfully in the dark hole in the Weilheim Faulturm, awaiting his next session in the torture chamber. He knew this was the end. The next session would be the last-he would confess, and then this nightmare would finally be over.
A short while ago… or was it an eternity? — he didn’t know… Master Hans had come to him with some bandages and jars of ointment. The hangman spread the cooling salves on his arms and legs and applied clean bandages with fragrant lotion, but these medicines could do nothing to make him want to carry on. He’d given up on life; the pain was too great. Next time, they’d probably hoist him up with his hands bound behind his back or break him on the rack.
Until now, Nepomuk had endured the torture only by closing his eyes and once more thinking back on the good times he’d spent with Jakob Kuisl…
The aroma of the capon roasting on the spit; the songs of the common soldiers ringing through the camp; a morning horseback ride through the fog; the fat market women and the skinny, made-up whores on whose breasts you could fall asleep for a few hours and forget the war; a practice battle with Jakob, swords clanging together noisily… “Can you feel it?” Jakob asks him with a grin, pinning him against the charred ruins of a house. “This is God, Nepomuk… This life, the screaming, the singing, the eating and carousing and dying. I don’t need any church to pray in, all I need is the forest and the battlefield… ”
When Nepomuk smelled smoke, he opened his eyes, knowing it wasn’t a capon roasting on a spit but his own flesh burning.
Master Hans had pressed a glowing poker against his right triceps.
Nepomuk picked up the crucifix he’d woven for himself from twigs and straw, pressed it against his trembling chest, and prepared for life everlasting. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…”
A smile passed over his lips as he thought of his friend. Deep inside, he felt Jakob had still not abandoned him and was trying to prove his innocence.
But it was too late.
Early the next morning, Master Hans would come, and it would all begin again under the supervision of the prior. He would confess everything they wanted; if necessary, he’d even confess to murdering his own mother, causing the last thunderstorm and all the dead, two-headed calves in the Priests’ Corner. Everything-if only they would finally stop torturing him.
“Forgive me, Jakob,” Nepomuk whispered, kissing the crucifix. “Forgive me, God. I’m not strong enough.”