Chapter Sixteen

While he walked back to the monastery in the company of Brother Noel and Brother Almeric, Reinmar tried to take more careful note of his surroundings and of the buildings towards which they were moving. Because they were walking along the valley floor his vantage was not ideal, but he had a reasonably good view of the slopes on either side of the lake. They were heavily wooded, and there was no sign of a vineyard.

The temple by the burial ground was not so very different from the Temple of Morr in Eilhart. The main part of the building was surmounted by a rounded dome. Its narrow windows were filled with leaded lights, so that the interior might be invisible from without while being softly illuminated within by the colour-stained rays of the sun.

Behind the temple there was a huddle of subsidiary buildings, presumably storerooms where tools were kept and perhaps a closeted shrine for private prayer. Then there was an open space separating the temple from a single-storeyed U-shaped edifice which Reinmar assumed to be the monks’ living-quarters. That too was augmented by a set of wooden outhouses, but most of them were hidden from view by its bulk.

The grey stone of the temple and the living quarters was considerably darker than that from which the Wieland house was constructed, and the architectural style of the monastery complex was sterner and more angular than the one in which the grander houses of Eilhart were cast. Even so, the contrast between the buildings and their woodland setting did not seem as strong as Reinmar had expected. The stones comprising the temple and its outbuildings were square and sullen, while the trees were green and full of the vivid enthusiasm of high summer, but there was something about the way that the weather had worn and pitted the fabric of the monastery, while mosses and creepers had made themselves at home upon its walls, that suited the man-made constructions to their natural surrounds.

Reinmar also realised while he walked that this was not at all the same kind of woodland as the one through which he and Vaedecker had trekked the day before. Its trees grew less straight and its greenery was more confused. The hard berries which decked its thorny bushes were bright with warning colours to bid the birds beware.

Reinmar could not suppress a shudder as the three of them passed the burial-ground, and he could not keep his eyes from the freshly-turned earth with which the monks had covered Marcilla’s body.

“It would be best if you could put her from your mind,” said Brother Noel, quietly. “The living must give themselves to life, while the dead have business of their own. You are sad because you found her beautiful, but those who are chosen are chosen, and those who are not must choose instead to live.”

“Chosen?” Reinmar repeated. “Who chose her?”

Almeric looked sharply at him, but Noel remained solicitous.

“It is but a manner of speaking,” the monk assured him. “All men and women are born with appetites and potentialities already established in their souls. We have freedom of choice, but not of desire. We are guided to our different fates by yearnings not of our own making. Each of us has to find himself, and those who find themselves in the wine of dreams are as fortunate in their way as those who find themselves in monastic discipline or the machinations of trade.”

While he was delivering this speech Noel guided Reinmar into the quadrangle protected on three sides by the U-shaped building. It was rimmed by cloisters, where more monks were abroad. Most bowed to their visitor as they passed but none spoke to him, although one took Brother Noel aside and whispered something in his ear. It seemed to Reinmar that whatever news was passed by this means was unwelcome; Noel frowned deeply before rejoining Almeric.

The two monks did not take Reinmar to the main door, but to a smaller one set in one of the wings. He had no chance to explore the mazy corridors within, because he was taken into the first room that presented its door, to the left of the entrance. There was a table within, on which three small casks had been set, along with a jug of water, three glass goblets and a ladle. There was also a leather bucket on the floor. The goblets were neatly formed, but they could hardly be reckoned exquisite examples of the glassblower’s art.

“These are three of our most recent vintages,” Almeric told Reinmar. “AH are now in short supply, so we cannot offer you more than a drop of each to taste. We shall be forced to ask high prices if you wish to buy—but I think you are better placed now to estimate their worth than you were last night/

The casks were not spigoted, but their tops were loose and Almeric used the ladle to fetch a tiny measure from the first, which he tipped into the first of the goblets. Reinmar accepted it, and touched it to his lips. He took the whole measure into his mouth—there was little more than a drop—and let it lie on his tongue for a moment or two before spitting it into the bucket. He suspected that he was being tantalised, and that the monks expected him to become greedy for a more generous portion, but he was determined to resist any such temptation. He swilled out his mouth with water before taking a second meagre drop from the second goblet, and then repeated the whole sequence for a third time.

All three samples were the same sweet wine, but Reinmar could discern the subtle differences imposed by ageing, and knew without having to be told which vintage was the youngest and which the most mature. He did his best to consider the offerings as a winemaster would, focusing his entire attention on the taste sensations and putting aside all thought of dreams. Noel watched him closely throughout, his expression clouded by thought—and perhaps by doubt.

“I saw no vines as we approached the monastery,” Reinmar remarked, offhandedly. “Nor did I see any other sign of elaborate cultivation, save for Zygmund’s vegetable-plots. Where do you grow the fruit from which the wine is made?”

“That is our secret,” Almeric told him.

“What fruit is it?” Reinmar asked. “If it is a grape, it is none that is grown elsewhere in the surrounding hills.”

“That too is a secret known only to the members of our order,” Almeric told him. “All you need to know is that the wine is good, and that we can send consignments to Eilhart three or four times a year if there is enough demand.”

“We normally buy once a year from each of our suppliers and store the casks in our own cellars,” Reinmar said. “It is more convenient for everyone concerned.”

“Not for us,” Almeric said. “We prefer to store our supplies until they are needed. Our agents only sell what is required for imminent consumption.”

“I do not know the market,” Reinmar said, carefully setting out his stall for a hard bargaining session. “I do not know who your regular customers are, or the price they usually pay. I would be taking a risk if I were to make an offer for the produce. My father might be very angry if I were to turn up with goods that he is not expecting, for which he has no ready-made buyers. I ought to consult him before making any decision—but I shall be happy to return here, if he thinks the matter worth further exploration.”

“That is not possible,” Almeric said—but Noel immediately put a hand on his arm to instruct him to be silent.

“How do you like the wine, Master Wieland?” Noel asked, quietly. “How does it sit upon your tongue? Do you feel an affinity for its special qualities?” He seemed disappointed by Reinmar’s attitude, and his own had undergone a marked change since the other monk had whispered in his ear. If someone had brought intelligence from Eilhart, Reinmar thought, there might be more contained in it than news of Machar von Spurzheim’s arrival. Even if the message had not come so far, it might say that he had been seen with Matthias Vaedecker, a witch hunter’s man.

Now that Noel had raised the question, however, Reinmar was forced to consider it earnestly. He did like the wine, although he had nothing left of it in his mouth but the aftertaste. It had sat upon his tongue very comfortably, as if there had indeed been an appetite inborn in him that he had never before understood or had the opportunity to serve. And he did, indeed, feel an affinity for the prospect of luxury that it held out to him. But honesty was not the game he had come to play.

“It is too sweet and too rich for my taste,” he said, cautiously. “The people of Eilhart are used to plainer and simpler wines, whose taste is brisk and clean. That is what I have been brought up to value. If my own taste were to determine my decision, I might be disinclined to make you any offer—but I will admit that the wine is of good quality, and it is certainly interesting. I wonder, though, whether there are too many imponderables to allow me to strike a wise bargain.”

Almeric seemed to be ready to argue with him, but Noel’s hand was still resting on his companion’s arm and it was Noel who spoke. “I understand your reluctance,” he said, amiably. “It requires a certain boldness to be adventurous in trade, and you are evidently a careful man. We will not press you. Produce like ours requires a sympathetic distributor, and we had better search until we find one. We shall bid you farewell. I’ll accompany you back to the farm and ask Zygmund to guide you back to your wagon.”

“That’s not necessary,” Reinmar said, trying hard to overcome his astonishment at the abrupt closure of negotiations. “I can find my own way easily enough, and Zygmund has been far too kind already.”

Brother Noel made no protest. “As you wish,” he said. “I am sorry that we could not find common ground.”

Brother Almeric did not seem satisfied, but he had divined that the situation had changed since they all set out from Zygmund’s house. He said nothing as Noel led Reinmar back to the door.

“I am sure that you have business of your own to attend to, Brother Noel,” Reinmar said, as they stepped out into the sunlight. “I can retrace my steps easily enough, and will make better time if I travel alone. I need to reach the wagon before dusk.”

“Very well,” Noel said. “I wish you a safe and profitable journey home, Master Wieland. I am truly sorry that we could not do business, but if you cannot commit yourself to the wine the loss is yours.”

“Perhaps we shall meet again,” Reinmar ventured.

“Perhaps we shall, if it is our fate,” Brother Noel echoed, although the tone of his voice suggested otherwise.

Reinmar immediately set out to walk back to the farm, intending to pass by in clear sight of Zygmund and his wife and to continue towards the neck of the valley at least until Matthias Vaedecker rejoined him. This time he refused to look into the burial-ground as he walked past it.

He never reached the farmhouse, because Vaedecker appeared by his side at almost exactly the same spot as before, in the wood between the farm and the monastery.

“You should not risk being seen here,” Reinmar complained.

“I was wrong,” Vaedecker told him, without any preamble. “They did not wait before taking the girl from her shallow grave. Almost as soon as you had passed the burial-ground on your way to the wine-tasting they came for her. They are obviously in a hurry. Did you see anything in the big building—anything that von Spurzheim will be glad to know?”

“Nothing at all. Where did they take her?” Reinmar demanded.

“Into the temple,” Vaedecker said, glumly. “They have not come out again, although I could see no sign of them when I went to peep through the door that they had left ajar. Nothing at all, you say?”

“A cloister and a single room,” Reinmar told him. “They did not give me a tour, and when I established my starting-point for what I expected to be a lengthy bargaining session, they took my apparent reluctance to deal at face value. Brother Noel apparently decided that he would rather be rid of me than work for my conversion. One of the other monks whispered in his ear while he passed through the cloister. The gypsies may have sent word to say that the wagon had an extra passenger, and that he is a witchfinder’s spy; if so, any inclination they had to trust me would have disappeared on the instant.”

“Something has happened,” Vaedecker said, pensively. “It may have been a message from outside that instilled a new urgency in the monks. If they are discomfited, that is our advantage. We must find out more while we still have the chance.”

“If Marcilla is not dead,” Reinmar reminded him, “we cannot leave her here. If they intend to harm her, we must do our utmost to save her.”

“We must certainly try to find out what has become of her,” Vaedecker agreed. “If we are lucky, we might come out of this with exactly what von Spurzheim needs, and the answer to a riddle that has lain unsolved for centuries—but it will be dangerous. We have no idea what odds we might be facing. Are you ready?

“If there is a possibility that Marcilla is alive,” Reinmar insisted, “I would risk anything.”

“It is not the best possible reason,” Vaedecker told him, “but it’s the right pledge. We are comrades in arms, then?” He offered his hand, as a token of the compact.

“Comrades,” Reinmar agreed, clasping the hand as firmly as he could.