Chapter 26
The J-Team
Nick walked back out into the sunlight from the Benedictine monastery alongside Gus. “Well, that was a waste of time,” he muttered.
“I warned you, did I not?” Gus’ tone was dry, but not displeased.
“You did, but we needed to check just in case they had seen or heard something.”
“Jah. So we’ve done the needful, and now we can continue on with our work.” Gus squinted up at the sun. “Which at this very moment, should encompass finding a meal and a flagon of beer or two—perhaps three.”
“Let’s try that Spotted Hound place,” Nick said.
“Why not? I like the name, and their sign makes me laugh.” Gus said. “It’s not far.”
So they wended their way toward the tavern, exchanging observations about the conversation they’d had with the monastery’s leaders until Gus elbowed Nick in the ribs and stopped with a “Hist! Now that’s something you don’t see every day.” He nodded toward something that was approaching them in the street.
It was a bier being carried by four brawny men, upon which lay a shroud covered corpse. It was trailed by a couple of older women, who were sniffling and dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs. But what stood out from what was obviously a pauper’s funeral procession was that it was led by two monks; one Benedictine, which was no great surprise in Füssen, and one Franciscan, which was.
Gus pulled his crucifix out from under his shirt and let it display on his chest. “Come on. My neck is bristling. I’ve got to find out what this is about.” Nick pulled his own crucifix out and paced alongside his partner as he approached the procession.
“Ave, Brothers,” Gus said in Latin as he made a sign of the cross, followed by Nick. “Who is this poor soul?”
The monks stopped, which perforce brought the whole procession to a halt. The two monks looked at each other, and the Benedictine nodded to the Franciscan. “This is—was—Brother Gregorio, an Augustinian monk originally from Innsbruck who was fleeing from Rome. He was burning with marsh fever when he fell across my doorsill a few days ago. I tended him as best I could, but he died sometime in the night. When I discovered that, Mistress Agata and her sister Berenice,” he waved a hand back at the two women, “were kind enough to prepare the body. I contacted Brother Andreas, here, who is in charge of the Potter’s Field, and he brought the bearers and the bier. We are on the way to bury Brother Gregorio now.”
“And you are?” Gus asked.
“Brother Wilhelm, of the Franciscan order.”
Gus walked around the monks and stood beside the bier. “May we see the face of the brother?”
The two monks looked at each other again, and Brother Andreas shrugged. Wilhelm stepped around to face Gus. The shroud turned out to have been nothing more than a blanket draped over the corpse. Wilhelm flipped the top edge of it down a couple of feet, revealing the face and naked shoulders of the corpse.
“Not him,” Gus muttered as Nick stepped beside him to view the visage of the corpse. Slender, gaunt, extremely short hair and bristled beard.
“Are you sure he was a monk?” Nick asked. “He has no tonsure.”
The Franciscan reached inside his cassock and brought out a sizable crucifix. He held it out before them both, letting the crucifix swing from its chain. “This was his. Observe the back.”
Nick reached out and caught the crucifix, turning it so they could observe the back. The letters stamped down the back of the vertical component of the crucifix spelled out FRATER GREGORIO. He let go of it after a moment, leaving it swinging from Brother Wilhelm’s fist.
The two Jesuits looked at each other, and Gus shook his head. Nick agreed. Although neither of them had ever seen Gottesfreund’s face before, there was no way this could be him. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have been the carrier of the codex.
“Did this man—Brother Gregorio, that is—have anything with him when he came your way?” Nick asked. “A box, or a bag, or a sack?” He felt Gus joining him in staring intently at the Franciscan monk.
Brother Wilhelm pursed his lips with lowered eyebrows, then nodded slowly. “He had a knapsack with him when he stumbled in my door.”
Gus grunted, and a thrill ran through Nick, body and mind and soul all at once. “Where is it now?” He gave the bier a quick glance. “Back at your house?”
Brother Wilhelm shook his head. “No, his friend came and gathered it up last night and left with it.”
Nick froze, but Gus picked up the questioning. “His friend—does he have a name?”
“I didn’t hear one,” the Franciscan replied. “But Gregorio did call him God’s Friend.”
Nick and Gus stared at each other, and Gus’ jaw tightened. „Gottesfreund!“ Gus spat in German. They turned back to Brother Wilhelm and resumed their Latin conversation. “Did you look in the knapsack? Do you know what was in it?”
The Franciscan shook his head again. “No, I didn’t look in it, and no, I don’t know what was in it.” He made shapes in the air with his hands. “It was about this big, and weighed a few pounds, judging by how Gregorio hefted it.”
“So his friend took it last night? Was it someone of Füssen?” Nick had shaken off the shock and was back to the inquisiting.
“No,” Brother Wilhelm said, shaking his head a third time. “Definitely not a Füssen native.”
“How do you know that?”
Wilhelm’s mouth quirked. “I am the son of a tailor and a weaver. I grew up seeing cloth and clothing all around me. I can tell you that his clothing was not sewn using the styles of clothing made in Füssen. They didn’t look Bavarian in general, for that matter. I’d say it was from the north, but I couldn’t tell you more than that. Not too different from yours, actually.”
“I’m starting to hate Gottesfreund, and I’m never met him,” Gus muttered through clenched teeth.
Nick sympathized. He dug in his purse, and pulled out two groschen, which he handed to the Benedictine. “Here, Brother Andreas. Please have your brothers at the monastery offer a week’s worth of Requiem masses for the sake of Brother Gregorio’s soul.” He faced the corpse, crossed himself, then traced a cross in the air above the corpse while he recited, “Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine.” He was echoed by everyone else there, clerics and lay folk alike.
A moment later, he and Gus were striding swiftly up the street, leaving the funeral procession to carry on behind them.
“Twelve hours!” Gus lamented. “We missed him by only twelve hours! If I thought God would hear my prayers after missing the mark so badly I would be casting every imprecation I know on the head of Archibald Gottesfreund.”
“Do we want to search for him in town now?” Nick asked, even though he was sure he knew the answer.
“No,” Gus said. “If he didn’t sneak out of town last night, he left first thing in the morning, so he’s at least six hours ahead of us on the road to Augsburg, and he’s got a good horse.”
“Are you sure he’s going to Augsburg?”
“Yes. He’s got to be headed back to Jena as quickly as he can get there, and that means Augsburg. If we can make up at least some of the time, we can hopefully catch him before he leaves Augsburg.” He looked over at Nick. “Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“I’m not, either. Not now. Let’s ride.”
Minutes later they applied heels to their horses’ flanks and galloped away from the north gate of Füssen.