Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church (29 page)

‘Oh no,' he said to himself. ‘I believe that God and faith
do
exist here. Oh, certainly they do. Oh heavenly grace.'

T
HERE WERE FEWER
present at the Blackheads' guildhall for the second evening of beer-tasting, and those there were more sombre to begin with than they had been two days before. All manner of stories had made their way through the town by this time, including ones claiming Wunbaldus had taken his own life, yet those passing on the rumours only dared speak this from friend to friend or from wife to husband – no doubt it was to do with immoral acts behind the monastery walls; no doubt it was over sin; no doubt it was over money. The Toompea Murderer is stalking through the town and looking to claim his next head; it's impossible that there won't be another victim. The stories going around were many and varied, and quite a number of them had accompanied the men to the guildhall. As time passed, however, the beer flowed and the servants served food, so the conversations perked up somewhat. As host, Freisinger declared the words that he needed to say and that tradition required. Even Prior Eckell, who had been revitalized by bloodletting, responded with the proper phrases, accepting the challenge on behalf of all the monks and permitting those who had gathered there to decide who had brewed the better beer; that all must proclaim and laud this winning brew about the town and not lie about any particular beer's quality. Prior Eckell sat a few paces away from the long table at the place reserved for the guest of honour, and he was served food and drink by his own servant. Commander Spanheim – the second guest of honour – sat in a high chair at the end of the long table wearing a modest black scapular around his shoulders. In front of him were the other Blackheads, foreign naval captains and merchants and other guests, who, like Spanheim, were dressed somewhat less ostentatiously than before.

Melchior listened and observed. He caught fragments of conversations and glances and expressions. One can cloak feelings and genuine thoughts, and when someone is really angry, afraid, full of disdain, haughty or condescending towards someone or something the person will not openly demonstrate this fact. Tone of voice and words, a laugh and compliments – these may all be merely a ruse if one wishes to shroud one's true feelings. A listener cannot always judge a speaker based on his voice. But Melchior fully believed that a stealthily cast glance can say much more than any number of words.

Time passed, and the men became increasingly jovial, no longer fearing that they might accidentally let slip an unseemly word or touch upon an improper subject. When they had all sampled an ample amount of the beer brewed by the Blackheads and lavished it with praise – because it truly was a worthy beer – then they began to speak of Wunbaldus. The Blackheads' beer was good, but it could not compare with Wunbaldus's, that was the general opinion, and no doubt this was helped along by the fact that Wunbaldus was no longer in their company. To announce that Wunbaldus had been defeated by the Blackheads after his death would have seemed an affront to the Lay Brother's memory, and it appeared that Freisinger went along with this, too. Eventually the Commander stood up and proclaimed the words he was required to proclaim and which were expected of him, and everyone shouted back unanimously, and thus the Dominican beer was proclaimed the winner, and an oath was taken that everyone there would praise Wunbaldus's beer for the coming year, acknowledging its superiority over that of the Blackheads – and if anyone did the opposite then he would pay a fine of one mark. With that said, the men further complimented the beer selected by Sire Freisinger and admitted that its taste was not so poor either. The Commander even remarked that it might not be inappropriate if the Blackheads might perhaps have it rolled up the hill to the castle once in a while, especially given that the town's best brewer was now … in another world. The Commander then turned serious, looked at the faces around him all so full of questions and finally said, ‘I'll be damned if I can make sense out of any of these rumours. It really can't be true that Wunbaldus drank poison of his own accord …'

A deadly silence fell over the hall for a moment, which was broken by Prior Eckell's rasping voice, saying, ‘What is true and what is false is known only to the Almighty.'

‘Doubtless,' the Commander agreed without hesitation. ‘However, some portion of worldly truth should still become clear to mortals also.'

The Prior's gaze was fixed on the ceiling. His face was pale, although beads of sweat sparkled on his forehead. His tone was cautious, as when the truth can easily be guessed by all but actually saying it is too awful.

‘Our brothers trained in the art of medicine inspected Wunbaldus's dead body. They said the very same as Melchior, that a person who dies in such a manner could have ingested poison. However, it might also have been a dreadful, sudden sickness, and that of which he perished is … is a mystery that may never become clear to us.'

Through the rising din Tweffell's husky voice could be heard fulminating that there had been too many deaths and too many riddles over the last few days for a small town. Since there were no councilmen other than Dorn present the men began demanding facts from the Magistrate.

‘The Council is hard on his heels, and he will not evade justice for much longer. I spoke to the councilmen just this morning, and –' Dorn began to announce, but was interrupted by the Goldsmith Casendorpe.

‘Precisely. You are on his heels, yet he is ahead of you with his sword and axe. Two days ago a Knight of the Order, today a church mason, tomorrow … Who will it be tomorrow?'

The merchants complained in chorus that soon no one would dare bring their goods to such a town. It was Great Guild Alderman Tweffell who summed up the merchants' fears.

‘If the town of Tallinn acquires the reputation that master builders are murdered here then no good can come of it. You must apprehend him quickly or trade will suffer. And when monks start drinking poison …'

‘You should not say such things about Wunbaldus. That pious man would never have taken his own life,' Eckell stated.

‘I'm not saying anything of the sort,' Tweffell retorted. ‘What I am saying is that if this is indeed so the monastery should make certain that word of this is not spread and that the poor Brother's body still be buried in the Dominican cemetery. We still do fine trade with you, and if the townspeople know that –'

At this point Pastor Rode's voice soared above the other exclamations. He even stood up from the table and declared that Sire Tweffell was blaspheming. The merchants became agitated, and Tweffell, seething, forced himself into a standing position with Ludke's assistance.

‘I am only saying that which is good for the town of Tallinn. What is
good for the town is good for merchants, and what is good for merchants is also good for the Order, for the townspeople and the church as well.'

‘If that man indeed laid hand upon himself then his corpse should be dragged through the town by horses and hanged at the gallows,' Rode shouted.

‘Only the Bishop of Tallinn and the Dominican Abbot in Denmark can make such a decree, Sire Rode,' Eckell replied. ‘Brother Wunbaldus was a Dominican and not a citizen of the town.'

‘However, he was a lay brother, and that is not the same as an ordained Dominican.'

The town's pastors and the Dominicans will always find something to fight about, Melchior mused. He stood up and saw Freisinger do the same.

‘Sires, sires,' Freisinger cried out, raising his beer tankard. ‘As host I ask that you do not bicker here within our guildhall – we want to avoid arguments and fights. We have not gathered here in order to pass judgement upon anyone.' He looked towards Melchior and added, ‘Does the Sire Apothecary wish to say something?'

Melchior took a deep breath, sipped his beer and then addressed Rode. ‘Esteemed Sire Rode, I wish to ask whether you know of any reason by which you can claim with conviction that Brother Wunbaldus's corpse may not be buried in the cemetery's blessed soil? If this reason does exist then speak up; if not then let us drink to ratify this so that truth might rise higher than rumour.'

Rode appeared uneasy. He spread his hands and looked around pleadingly, but everyone shouted, demanding a reply.

‘Even if I did know …' he said, stammering. ‘That is, if I were able, then I …'

‘Sire Rode's tongue is bound by the holy secrecy of the confessional,' Prior Eckell declared.

‘That is true,' Rode asserted. ‘Brother Wunbaldus came to the Church of the Holy Ghost yesterday – that is fact; however, his confession is a secret of the holy sacrament, and I may not speak of it.'

This came as a surprise to most present, even to the Commander, Melchior noted. Yet Eckell then raised his hand, and the uproar slowly subsided.

‘You may, Sire Rode, because I free you from your obligation to keep secret the holy sacrament,' the Prior said. ‘I may do this under canon law.
The abbot of my monastery in Lund has given me this right, and the Bishop of Tallinn is also subject to his word. I free you from your obligation to keep the confession secret.'

‘I don't know whether here and now is the proper time and place, Prior?' the Commander exclaimed. ‘Sire Blackhead?'

It was unheard of, shocking, that a pastor be freed from keeping the secrecy of the confessional in a guildhall. Melchior noticed Hinricus speedily approach the Prior and whisper in his ear, but the old Dominican merely shook his head. He was agitated and unsettled, but he was certain of his privilege and his rights.

Freisinger called for silence, consulted a pair of Blackheads and finally declared, ‘In the name of the Brotherhood of Blackheads, I allow this to be done. And what is more, I demand it. If Wunbaldus can help us find a murderer from beyond the grave, then speak, Sire Rode, speak.'

Rode was still having doubts. He admitted that he was not that familiar with canon law and pointed out that the Council and the Bishop of Tallinn were his superiors.

Dorn reassured him. ‘Fear not, Sire Rode. Even I have heard – and I believe that the esteemed Prior may confirm my words – that the secrecy of the confessional is not sacred when the confessor has taken his own life. He then no longer has a right to the divine sacraments. Is this not so?'

‘That is true indeed,' the men rumbled in consent.

‘Speak, Sire Rode, speak,' Eckell demanded, ‘and do it quickly because I must soon ask Hinricus to lead me to our infirmary. Speak and fear not. I free you from secrecy. I hold myself responsible and assure you that God will soon allow light to be shed on the truth, and even you will understand. Speak.'

Rode prayed, and the Commander promised that Tallinn's bishop would confirm everything the Prior had said if needs be. Pastors had been freed of their obligations to secrecy on previous occasions.

A clear sense of relief could be heard in Rode's voice when he at last finished praying, squeezed his wooden cross tightly in his hands and rose with determination. He certainly seemed to doubt whether what he was doing was correct by canon law, but it evidently brought him some relief.

‘I will speak, I will speak,' he sighed, and everyone around him fell silent. ‘And may all the saints be my witnesses that I do this in the firm belief in the secrecy of the holy sacrament and in the confidence that the man to whom I administered confession yesterday is not worthy of
it. Esteemed Commander, Prior, sires, last evening when I was locking the door to the Church of the Holy Ghost a man whom I recognized as the Dominican Lay Brother Wunbaldus stepped into the church. He called to me that he wished to confess and strode quickly towards the confessional bench. He went so quickly that when I caught up with him he was already sitting and saying that his burden of sin was grievous.'

Only the Prior's heavy breathing pierced the quiet. All eyes were fixed on Rode, as if he were about to relay to everyone the Pope's confession.

‘He said that he had thrust the Word of God away from him and that greed had driven him to criminal acts. He did not allow me to speak or to question. He said that he had killed two people; he said that he had cut off their heads; he said that one of them was a high-ranked Knight of the Order and the other a master mason –'

Rode's words were buried in shouts of outrage. Everyone leaped up, knocking beer tankards flying, and a pair of mutts scampered out from beneath the table, howling and running to cower in the corner. Only Melchior remained seated as if he had not heard anything surprising, although only the more acutely did he thus observe the others.

The Commander's thunderous and enraged roar drowned out the other men. ‘Wunbaldus? It was
Wunbaldus
? The
brewer
?'

Melchior noticed that Eckell wished to say something. He was waving his arms in the air wildly, but no one paid attention. Only Hinricus stood near him, supporting him and attempting to hold him back. However, the old monk ripped himself free of Hinricus's grasp. He wanted to speak, but it was as if his words were caught in his throat.

When Freisinger had succeeded in quietening the men, Rode continued, ‘Yes, he said those very words. He said he had killed two men, that he had done what he had to do, although he also knew that these sins had ruined his life. He said he could no longer bear to live – he recognized that he no longer had the right to live. He would not hear me and said that he only had one step left to take. He was to drink from the cup that he had filled with his two murders.'

‘Did that filthy miscreant say why he killed Clingenstain?' Spanheim shouted, incandescent with rage.

‘No, he did not. He said nothing after stating that a cup of poison now awaited him …'

A screech cut through Rode's speech. ‘You poisoned … It is poison. You …' It was Prior Eckell whose frantic voice silenced everyone.