Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church (14 page)

Prior Eckell was ill. Melchior could tell that immediately. Even the smell of vinegar could not mask the foul odour of sickness that seeped through his clothing. The old Prior trembled slightly. He was as pale as a skull, and red spots flashed in the whites of his eyes. Both men wore the
Dominicans' white tunic, which signified the purity of their souls, Melchior recalled. However, while the Prior was dressed completely in white and wore a cream-coloured scapular around his neck, Wunbaldus's scapular was black in the tradition of the lay brothers. The room was warm, and consequently the brothers were not wearing the Dominicans' traditional black hooded cloak over their shoulders.

Wunbaldus must have been about twenty years younger than the Prior, but strife and work had moulded his once proud and noble face into a wan and emotionless landscape. Melchior could not remember, if he had ever known, where Wunbaldus might have come from – but then he did not possess that knowledge about most of the monks. Based on the lay brother's speech, which the Apothecary had heard only rarely, he might have been born somewhere near Lübeck. A hump on the man's back forced him to walk bent over – Wunbaldus's tall figure in his lay brother's habit was always easy to recognize.

Dorn kissed the Prior's hand and said they had come on the Town Council's behalf to request a blessing for their difficult task – to find the Toompea Murderer from the town. The Prior nodded, wheezing slightly, and recited a barely audible prayer. Then he spoke. ‘If you wish for the Lord's blessing for your just charge, Magistrate, you have received it from both myself and the monastery – but, believe me, a blessing falls short in a task of this nature. If such matters could be solved by a blessing alone then would any criminal still walk about this earth freely?'

Dorn moved to reply, but Melchior got in first.

‘Consequently we indeed dare to enquire whether anything that might bring us closer to this murderer might have stood out to the holy Dominican Father that day on Toompea,' he said. ‘You did visit Toompea yesterday, and perhaps he saw or heard something there?'

The Prior eyed them for a moment and then motioned that they should stand.

‘What stood out?' His hoarse voice trembled. ‘Do you mean
aside
from that life of revelry and filth that knights lead when warfare is not presently under way? No, nothing stood out. However, I have seen and lived quite enough in this world to know that knights with alcohol in their veins tend to forget who and where their rightful enemy is.'

‘The merciful Prior does not mean to suggest that some other knight … ?' Dorn enquired haltingly.

‘The Prior does not wish to say anything he has not seen with his own
eyes, Magistrate,' Eckell replied. ‘I went to Toompea to fulfil my duty as the head of Tallinn's oldest monastery. It is my task to bow before our protector and overlord, the Teutonic Order and to thank its knights for all the good they have done for Livonia. As I did. What I observed on Toompea was excessive eating and excessive drinking, revelry and a life of depravity that a monk's oath should, in truth, prevent our knights from living yet does not.'

‘As we heard, Clingenstain wished to take confession,' Melchior spoke.

‘Which I should have refused,' the Prior replied sharply. ‘Only a person who is in their full and absolute senses may take confession, not one whose mouth only fumes beer and who cannot issue a single clear word from between his lips.'

‘Yet you did
not
refuse,' Brother Wunbaldus spoke from behind his table. Melchior sensed something in the Lay Brother's tone on which … on which he could not quite put his finger. It wasn't criticism but rather – remorse?

The Prior sighed. ‘By the guidance of St Catherine I thus administered this sacrament correctly in my pity, so the Knight Clingenstain was able to die with his sins absolved.'

Before Melchior could open his mouth Eckell continued, ‘Yes, I know what you want to ask, Sire Apothecary. You are aware that I took his confession, and you came to enquire whether anything he disclosed might help the Council find the murderer's trail.'

‘Oh, I could not even have imagined such a thing,' Melchior interjected quickly.

‘Is it not so that our Grand Master of the Dominican Order and keeper of canon law, the Pope's own chaplain, Raymond of Penyafort, has written that the sanctity of the confessional might no longer hold when it involves unjust absolution for the confessor when a man is no longer able to stand for his good name?' Wunbaldus asked in a soft voice.

‘So it has been written,' Prior Eckell confirmed. ‘And the deceased Commander of the Order would certainly wish for his killer to be found and executed.' He sighed heavily, glanced briefly towards Wunbaldus and nodded. ‘Yes, it is so. However, I fear that it cannot help you … not even by Clingenstain's own desire. His burden of sin will not lead you closer to finding his murderer.'

The Prior took a sip from his cup and placed it on the floor. Melchior noticed that Eckell had difficulty speaking.

‘Not all have been given the ability to see and recognize their sins,' the Prior continued. ‘The more frequently a Christian takes confession the more he will cultivate an understanding of where his sins can be found. There are men who confess to infidelity in their thoughts yet who forget to confess stealing a last mouthful of bread from the poor. There are men who confess to killing their enemies too clemently yet who do not regard the killing of dozens of innocents to be a sin. But let us speak of this no more. Clingenstain was too intoxicated to produce a clear word from his mouth. He was also absolved of those sins which I believed he wished to confess.'

‘Given all of the good that he has done for the Dominican Order …' Wunbaldus said. Again – that tone, Melchior thought. He cast his gaze for a moment over the state of the unfinished chess game. Melchior's father had once shown him the game and probably even taught him how to play. He sometimes heard people speak of chess, but not many of Tallinn's townspeople played. In any case, Melchior had forgotten how the pieces moved across the board and the significance they held. He did, however, remember that each figure had a unique meaning, which many people believed mirrored earthly life.

‘Yes, Wunbaldus, I was unable to let go of the fact that Clingenstain has not always only wreaked havoc upon wine and beer but also upon the enemies of the Church and of honest men,' the Prior retorted then fell silent.

‘Commander Spanheim did indeed mention that you had come into contact with Clingenstain before, in Gotland,' said Dorn.

‘In days long past, yes,' said the Prior. ‘It has been almost ten years since that time. I was then the
cellarius
of our monastery in Visby. You see, Sire Apothecary, we Dominicans are a very transient group; we are not tied to a single monastery until the end of our days but instead roam from one place to another. This is, in fact, my seventh monastery. We travel around and proclaim the Word of God in every place to every person. We come and we go, but the Word does not change. People are born and they die, yet the Word of God remains …'

The Prior suddenly broke off before he could finish his sentence. He grabbed his chest, wheezed and began coughing intensely.

‘Are you ill, Father?' Wunbaldus exclaimed quickly. ‘Quick, hand him his cup.' Wunbaldus sprang up and supported the Prior, helping him to sit. In doing so the Lay Brother knocked over the chessboard, and the
pieces scattered across the floor. Dorn grabbed the cup from the floor and pressed it into the Prior's trembling hands. The old man shook like the last leaf of autumn and was breathing with difficulty, but his condition began to improve after a short time. He leaned back against the wall and reassured the others with a nod.

‘The Prior's health has not been in a commendable state for quite some time,' Wunbaldus said with a hint of rebuke.

‘And what is the opinion of the monastery's infirmarer?' Melchior asked.

‘Our infirmarer is in his twilight years and unable to suggest anything other than to let blood,' Wunbaldus replied.

‘It is said', the Magistrate chipped in, ‘that letting blood aids all ailments except the plague.'

Wunbaldus stared at Dorn expressionlessly and spoke slowly. ‘We pray for the Prior's health and hope that the relics will help him also. Nevertheless, I have a few salves and medicines here that I have mixed according to the old instructions of our Dominican Order; no doubt they will aid him as well. This, of course, does not mean that we doubt the power of our relics.'

‘Ah yes, those famed heads of yours …' Melchior murmured and turned his gaze to the relics lined up on the shelf. The monastery's relics – said to be the heads of saints – were the very objects that pilgrims made their way to Tallinn to see and for which the town's Dominicans were renowned throughout all lands around the sea. Aside from their beer, of course. Melchior took note with some surprise that the Lay Brother Wunbaldus had been entrusted with the job of caring for the relics. Lay brothers typically performed simpler tasks at monasteries. Much simpler tasks. Silverwork was the dominion of goldsmiths.

Wunbaldus handed the Prior his elixir and dabbed his brow. Whatever was in the tankard seemed truly to relieve the old main's ailments – or perhaps it was the power of the relics. The manner in which the hulking, hunchbacked Lay Brother cared for the old Prior was somehow moving, Melchior thought. Eckell looked like a dwarf alongside Wunbaldus. The Lay Brother was certainly his junior by some decades, but the pair seemed to be very close despite this. It was perhaps surprising that they found the Prior – who, furthermore, appeared to be suffering from a grave illness – right here in the tiny workshop of a lay brother.

‘The Prior should rest a great deal more,' said Wunbaldus, and Melchior grunted in agreement.

‘I am already better,' Eckell said in a whisper. ‘The Almighty wishes to remind me of the fact that I am no longer young. I am already better. Thank you, Wunbaldus.'

‘You should indeed rest more, Father,' Melchior spoke up. ‘And, of course, I would dare to recommend a salve, rub or treatment mixed according to Council Doctor Grawertz's instructions, if I only knew your ailments in greater detail.'

‘Old age is the name of those ailments,' Eckell sighed. ‘Wunbaldus's salves and medications bring me respite only for a moment. The Almighty wishes to give me a sign that the time will soon come when He calls me unto Himself.'

‘Come now, you are not at all that advanced in your years. Just as Sire Dorn said, fine old remedies such as bloodletting – or, for example, Melchior's pharmacy elixir – always help in all cases short of the plague,' Melchior said with a smile.

‘So far Wunbaldus's elixir has brought me more relief than absolutely any other kind of doctors' wisdom from Lübeck or Rostock,' Eckell replied. He smiled for a moment then turned serious. ‘Regarding the plague … I presume neither of you have witnessed plague, have you?' he asked.

‘Thanks be to God, no great plague has yet befallen Tallinn,' Dorn said. ‘Alas, I have heard, oh yes, I have heard of what devastation it wreaks in German towns. It is a dreadful disease, dreadful. Scourge and punishment for sins.'

‘I am indeed unable to offer medicine that counters the plague,' Melchior reflected. ‘Have you seen plague, Father?'

The old man sighed heavily. It was difficult for him to speak, but he had a strong desire to do so. ‘I have seen two plagues during my lifetime. That called the Black Death when I was just a small boy in Fleckenberg and then later in Flanders. The Lord spared me, although I did not regard myself worthy of such a blessing. I lost my parents and my teachers; I saw distress, destitution and despair, the likes of which one cannot begin to imagine. However, it was at that very time that I made the decision to dedicate my life to serving the Almighty.' He turned towards Dorn suddenly. ‘And if you, Magistrate, say with such certainty that plague is a scourge sent by God for sins then I ask, how have those saintly, God-fearing and pious men and women whom that sickness has snuffed out in their countless thousands across the entire Christian world, how have they sinned?'

Dorn shifted uncomfortably. Theological debate was not exactly his forte. He grunted something about whether not all in the world is born of the Lord's grace and looked towards Melchior imploringly.

‘
All
in the world?' Eckell retorted sharply. ‘Do heretics then also exist by the Lord's grace?'

Dorn shot back. ‘Heretics? They are followers of false teachings, those who misread the Word of the Lord …'

‘No, not all in this world is born of the Lord's grace, and plague has
certainly
not descended upon the land by His mercy,' the Prior stated with confidence. ‘It is through God's grace that we are given a head and intelligence, that we are able to determine both right and wrong, that which is just and that which is unfair. We have been given free will and intelligence, and if we use the latter correctly then we are also capable of seeing that plague spreads first throughout places where there is filth and mire, where people care not for their health. If we have wit then we eat fresh foods and drink pure water, and if we have even greater wit then we are also able to protect ourselves against the plague by using other means.'

‘Do you then know of some other medicines against the plague, Father?' Melchior asked with interest. ‘I have read one or two books, and –'

‘Oh yes, Melchior is a well-educated man. He has four entire books at his home,' Dorn interrupted.

‘Three, actually,' Melchior corrected. ‘However, are there then other medications to ward off the plague?'

‘Certainly,' Eckell replied. ‘Certainly. Man can help himself in fighting this epidemic, although there is not yet a definitive treatment known in the world. But if you are indeed a learned man, Melchior, then tell me, do you also believe that plague has been sent by the Lord as punishment for sin?'