of the men. The stranger with the crossbow was the same man he’d seen sitting up in a tree near the Wessobrunn Monastery. The other was the one who had been lying in wait for them in the yew forest. They were surely out to get the Templars’ treasure as well. And the monks? Presumably, the Augustinian monks in Rottenbuch had seen the light in the church, come to check things out, and surprised the strangers there.
Simon had no time to think this through. Turning, he ran back to rip the sword from St. Felicianus’s bony hand.
There was a faint crunching sound as knucklebones fell to the ground like little dice. Simon grabbed the weapon, which was astonishingly heavy and reached up to his chest. Standing next to him, Benedikta still hadn’t moved. She couldn’t take her eyes from the two men staring back at them, still uncertain about what to do. Simon didn’t want to give them any time to decide.
“Benedikta, follow me! Now!”
Swinging the sword through the air like a madman, the medicus headed for the exit, past the overturned statue of Mary and the dead monk, hanging down headfirst into the baptismal font. For a moment, Simon was entranced by the bloody cloud slowly spreading out in the holy water; then he continued directly toward the two remaining men, who jumped to one side when they saw the medicus approaching, screaming wildly and swinging the huge broadsword. He was just a few steps from the large church portal now. But when he finally reached it, it wouldn’t open.
He shook it. Of course the door was locked.
Damn! This was the very reason they’d decided to enter the church through the window! In a state of panic, Simon looked in all directions. What next? He could never climb back up the rope with the sword in hand, and the two men were slowly drawing closer.
Suddenly, in one of the church’s wings, he noticed a stained-glass window depicting Mary hovering in the air, surrounded by little angels as she ascended to heaven. In contrast with the other new windows, this one was only chest high. Without hesitation, Simon rushed toward it, smashing the lovingly painted glass with the broadsword. The window burst into a thousand pieces, and Simon dived through it headfirst, landing outside on the snowy pavement of the church courtyard. He felt his aching shoulder to see if anything was broken. Glass splinters were embedded in his clothes, his hair, even his face, and drops of his blood were falling onto the white snow.
He looked around. Had Benedikta followed him? At that moment, he caught sight of her head in the opening of the broken window. She jumped through it as nimble as a cat, rolled over, and stood up again. With a certain satisfaction, Simon saw that she, too, was showing some signs of fear.
“Quick, let’s get back to our lodging,” she said to him. “For the time being, we’ll be safe there.”
They hurried over the forecourt, past the icy spring, the clock tower, and the monastery garden, then through the open entry gate. Finally, they arrived at their quarters.
After they’d knocked three times, a sleepy innkeeper opened the door. “What in the world…?” he asked in astonishment.
“A little brawl out in the street.” With the huge broadsword, Simon squeezed past the stout innkeeper. Blood trickled down his face, making him look like a somewhat small but very angry barroom brawler. “These days you’re not even safe on the monastery grounds. It’s good I always carry a weapon around with me.”
Without another word, he hurried up to his room with Benedikta, leaving the astonished innkeeper standing there. Not until Simon had locked the door behind them and checked the street in front of the inn did he feel safe. Panting and puffing, he collapsed on the bed. “Who or what in the world was that all about?”
Benedikta sat down beside him. “I…I just don’t know. But from now on, I’ll be a little less cavalier in what I say about possible highway bandits, I promise.”
Simon started to pick tiny splinters of glass from his face. Benedikta took out her white handkerchief and dabbed at the cuts.
“You look like-”
“Like some drunk who has fallen through a barroom window. Thanks, I know.” Simon arose and reached for the broadsword leaning against the bed. “In any case, it’s good we brought the sword along with us,” he said. “I’m sure these men have been after us a long time. They’re looking for the treasure, just as we are.”
He ran his hand along the blade, then scratched away the remainder of the rust with his stiletto until the entire quotation was visible. Individual words were spread out in wide intervals along the blade.
“The heritage in the grave of the baptist,” he translated aloud. “You can’t say that the riddles are getting any easier.”
“Well then, what do you make of it?” Benedikta asked.
Simon stopped to think. “The heritage could be the treasure. The baptist is, perhaps, John the Baptist-that part is easy. But his grave…?” He frowned. “I’ve never heard anything about John the Baptist’s grave. I presume it’s somewhere in the Holy Land.”
“But we’re in the Priests’ Corner,” Benedikta interrupted. “It
Simon rubbed his temples. “Give me some time. Today was a little too much for me…” he said, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he stared at the sword on the bed for a long time. “The coffin of Friedrich Wildgraf under the Saint Lawrence Church contained his bones, but no sword,” he said, running his fingers over the blade again. Now, with the rust scraped away, it gleamed as if it had been forged just the day before. The pommel was set in silver and the cross guard decorated with a number of engravings. He examined them more closely, thinking.
They were Templar crosses.
“Perhaps this sword belonged to the master of the German Templars, Friedrich Wildgraf,” Simon said. “His weapon is the riddle. That would be just like him, big enough.”
“But that still doesn’t solve our problem of what these accursed words mean! We’ve got to go first thing tomorrow-”
Benedikta was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who might that be?” Simon stood up and went to the door. “Perhaps the innkeeper…I’ll tell him that everything’s all right.”
He opened the door, and there standing before him was not the innkeeper, but someone he would never have expected to see here.
Brother Nathanael cursed, and not for the first time in his life, but as always he asked God for forgiveness right away. He rubbed his left shoulder, which, for a moment, he thought might be dislocated. It hurt like hell but still seemed secure in its socket. When he’d kicked the stranger in the face, Nathanael had fallen onto one of the pews. Climbing up the rope with only one arm had completely exhausted him. Despite the pain, he smiled. At least he’d sent one of those heretical dogs to hell. Now he was standing in a dark corner of the monastery courtyard murmuring the Confiteor.
The murder, like so many he’d committed, was necessary. Committed in the name of the church. Nevertheless, it was a mortal sin. Tonight, Nathanael would flagellate himself for it.
From where he was located, the monk observed the activity in the courtyard. The noise in the church had quickly attracted some of the Augustinian monks who were already awake for prayers. Despite the late hour, a rather large number of workers, peasants, and the monastery superintendent himself had come running to the church, along with some other monks. Some were already shouting, “The devil, the devil is afoot in Rottenbuch!” A rumor started flying around that God himself wanted to signal his opposition to the superintendent’s building mania.
When the group headed by Michael Piscator entered the church, shouting and wailing could be heard. Nathanael assumed the monks had just come upon the open coffin of St. Felicianus. Admittedly, that was not a very edifying sight. The martyr’s skeleton had fallen to pieces, an act of desecration that probably not even the Pope could forgive. Perhaps, however, the monks’ wailing had more to do with the destruction of the statue of Mary, the overturned church pews, the broken stained-glass window, or the soldier who had been stabbed to death.
