Chapter 8
Füssen
Four days later Gregorio stood in the evening twilight looking at the Abbey of St. Mang in Füssen. There were several buildings, including a basilica. It was smaller than St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, of course, and the remaining complex was smaller than the Vatican Palace, but it was still large enough to be impressive. And it frightened him. It was a Benedictine abbey, while he belonged to an Augustinian order, but the presence of a large religious community in the town he was supposed to find a residence in worried him. He had no idea who they aligned with—Pope Urban or Cardinal Borja—but he couldn’t take any chances. He couldn’t approach them. He would have to find some other place to reside, to hide himself and his precious burden.
“Impressive, is it not?”
Gregorio jumped a bit when someone spoke right beside him. He looked over to see a smallish man in a Franciscan’s gray robe smiling at him.
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“One has to wonder what could have been done for the poor with all the gold it took to build it, though.”
Gregorio nodded. The Franciscan pursed his lips and shook his head, then continued on down the street.
As Gregorio turned to walk away, a wave of dizziness fell over him, and he staggered. He prevented a fall only by putting a hand on the wall of the building he was standing in front of. His bread sack was empty—he’d eaten the last of it the previous morning. And getting caught in a rainstorm the day before that had left him chilled. His burden hadn’t been harmed…Gregorio had checked that. Fortunately, the oiled leather of the knapsack had shed the water rather well, and he’d slung the knapsack across his chest and hunched over it to shelter it as he’d walked and looked for shelter of his own, so the great book was dry. Too bad the same couldn’t have been said for him. He was thoroughly wet and cold by the time he’d found shelter, and two days later he was still feeling the effects. He hadn’t felt warm in that whole time.
When he straightened, Gregorio could still see the Franciscan, so he started following him. He didn’t know why…it just seemed right.
The twilight started to deepen, and Gregorio found himself shivering, first as he moved through dark patches of shade, and then more so as the evening breezes blew across him. He was dry, but he wasn’t warm, even with his jacket buttoned to the top. The shivering became continuous, and the sense of being chilled grew stronger and more painful.
He managed to keep his eyes on the Franciscan, who was still ahead of him but not walking particularly fast. They were in fact approaching the outer edge of the city. The street they were on led to one of the city gates, but the Franciscan turned left into a small street, not much better than an alleyway. Gregorio tried to hurry his steps, which wasn’t easy with the constant shivering, but he made it to the corner in time to see the monk pause in front of a door set into the front of a small building, cross himself, and then step inside.
Gregorio made his way down the side street to the building the Franciscan had entered. Both the building and the door were plain and unornamented, much like the buildings to either side of them. Plain but for the carved wooden crucifix that was mounted on the door. Gregorio gazed at that, wondering at its presence. After another shiver, he signed himself with the cross much as the Franciscan had done, then mustered the courage to step forward and knock on the door.
Just as the door opened, another wave of dizziness fell on Gregorio, this time of such speed and strength that he fell forward into the arms of the very surprised Franciscan.
“Wha…” the monk exclaimed as he managed to catch Gregorio before he fell to the floor. Gregorio was surprised at the strength of the smaller man, but was grateful for it as well.
“Sorry,” Gregorio slurred. “Dizzy.”
“Come this way, then,” the Franciscan said, guiding Gregorio to a nearby chair and helping him slide his knapsack off and settle into it. He stepped away to close the door, then returned to bend over Gregorio. “Are you all right, my friend?”
The dizziness was beginning to ebb, but Gregorio didn’t shake his head. “Maybe.”
“Would some wine help?”
“Not now,” Gregorio mumbled. “Haven’t eaten since yesterday sunrise.”
“Ah. Well, we can do something about that.”
There was a table beside Gregorio. The monk stepped away for a moment, then returned with two bowls, a roll of bread, and an open wine bottle. He tore the bread into small pieces into one of the bowls which he set beside Gregorio, then poured some of the wine into the other bowl. He drew a stool up before Gregorio, took the bowl of wine in one hand and took a piece of bread from the first bowl. Dipping it in the wine, he held it to Gregorio’s lips.
“Eat, my friend.”
Gregorio opened his mouth and allowed the Franciscan to place the bread in it. He chewed and swallowed, only to find the next piece waiting before him. Piece followed piece, until the monk said, “That’s enough for now,” setting the wine bowl in the other.
Looking back at Gregorio, the Franciscan said, “I am Brother Wilhelm, from Munich originally, of the order of St. Francis.” From the look of him, he was older than Gregorio, at least thirty, maybe older. “And you are?”
“I am Brother Gregorio, born in Innsbruck originally, but most recently from Rome. Of an Augustinian order.”
Brother Wilhelm’s eyebrows rose. “Rome? Were you…”
Gregorio looked down. “I was in the Vatican infirmary the day the Spaniards attacked. I fled the city the next day. So many dead.”
The Franciscan looked sad, brought the crucifix that hung around his neck to his lips, then said, “Requiescat in pace.”
Gregorio brought out his own crucifix, kissed it, and repeated the other monk’s words.
“So do you know anything of the Pope?” Wilhelm asked.
“No. I’ve been trying to get out of Italy since then, and have had no contact with any clergy or others. I didn’t dare.”
“Ah. So you are here now, though, north of the Alps. Can you make contact now?”
“I’m afraid to,” Gregorio said. “I didn’t go to the abbey because I’m afraid someone would send word to the Spaniards.”
The Franciscan’s mouth twisted. “I don’t know that they would…but I don’t know that they wouldn’t, either. So I guess I understand. What did you do?”
“I was a scriptorian in the library. They killed the library curator and a messenger in the library. I’m afraid they might want me.” Gregorio forbore mentioning the great book. He didn’t want to trust anyone about that.
“So why are you here?” Wilhelm waved a hand. “Not Füssen—here—with me?”
“I need to wait for someone here in Füssen—someone not Spanish—who will come looking for me.” Gregorio shivered. “And I am ill, I am afraid. Not plague,” he said, as the Franciscan straightened in alarm. “Marsh fever. I caught it in Roma. That’s why I was in the infirmary when…And it came back while I was in Florence.” He shivered again.
Wilhelm leaned forward and rested a hand on Gregorio’s forehead. “You do feel a bit feverish. You should go to the hospital at the abbey.”
“No!” Gregorio said, jerking upright. “No. I cannot go there. Let me stay here, please.”
“All right,” Wilhelm said. “I will make you a pallet by the fireplace and let you rest there with hot stones for your stomach and feet. Maybe that will help.”
“Thank you,” Gregorio said, slumping against the back of the chair and dropping a hand down to touch the knapsack.
It was only a few moments later when Gregorio found himself on that pallet, with his knapsack under his head and hot stones wrapped in scraps of toweling against his belly and feet. He looked up as Wilhelm laid a blanket over him. “Thank you, Brother,” he murmured as his eyes closed themselves despite his intention to look Wilhelm in the face.
“Rest, Brother,” he heard as if from far away. “We’ll talk more later.”