The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,12

fast as I can.” He stopped, leaned down to Martin, and gave him a serious look. “But I have an important task for you, do you hear me? Stay with Mother and look after her. Wipe the sweat from her forehead, fetch hot water for her, and sweep up the old rushes. They smell like death. If she gets worse, run and get the barber, all right?”

Martin nodded. He could tell by his brother’s eyes that he was serious.

“And you’ll c . . . c . . . come back soon?” asked Martin anxiously.

Johann patted his shoulder. “That’s why I want to go on my own, so I can come back as fast as possible. Now go to Mother. She needs you.”

Martin obeyed, and Johann went on his way. He hurried along Market Street toward the upper city gate, which he passed a short while later. Knittlingen was a small town of about two thousand souls. Its walls were surrounded by a foul-smelling moat fed by a handful of brooks. The church and the prefecture formed the center of town. For as long as anyone could remember, Knittlingen had been in the tenure of the Maulbronn monastery, which also appointed the prefect. The monastery itself was about an hour’s walk from town.

Johann left the city and turned right, where the old imperial road led south. The path was dry and dusty, and hardly anyone was traveling this Sunday. Johann could make out a cart in the distance, and one lone horseman cantered past him; other than that, the road was quiet.

He’d walked this road many times before, knew every step, every tree, every field along the path. The track wound its way through cornfields and past gently sloping vineyards before climbing steeply toward the forest. Johann gazed at the fields and vineyards, spreading like a chessboard to his left and right. Everything around Knittlingen was well ordered, everything had its proper place—farmers, monks, the mighty Kraichgau houses of knights, the count palatine in Heidelberg, and above him, the king and the pope. Sometimes Johann felt he was the only one who didn’t fit into the fabric of the world.

He thought about the argument with his father. He’d often wondered why they always clashed. He guessed it was because they were so different. His father was a strong man with a bushy brown beard and a broad back, while Johann was delicate and sinewy, with raven-black hair, and he was much too short for his age. They were also worlds apart in their opinions, their desires, and what made them happy.

Johann wasn’t entirely sure yet what he considered happiness.

On the hilltop, he passed the ancient Knittlingen execution site, a square of mortared stones with old gallows. No one hung there today, but on many other occasions Johann had walked past the gently swaying remains of a convict. The German king himself afforded protection on all imperial roads, and to preserve safety, robbers and thieves were always hanged in elevated places by the roadside—a warning to other scoundrels near and far. To Johann, the stinking corpses were a reminder of the transitory nature of life.

He’d slowed down for the last steep part, but now, atop the hill, he ran until his heart raced. His thoughts were a jumble. Worry for his mother, anger about his father, and his feelings for Margarethe whirled through his mind like a storm. He passed an oxcart on its slow and steady way to the monastery. The driver was almost asleep from the heat. Then the forest ended and the road wound its way down into a lovely valley fringed by vineyards. On the left lay the well-known monastery.

It was an imposing complex made of sandstone with a wall, a church, and several other buildings. Eight fortified towers and a round walk showed that the monks were willing to defend their property. But they hadn’t needed to in a long time. Maulbronn grew and prospered, like so many monasteries in the German empire.

Johann entered the abbey through a huge gate into a courtyard that was bordered by another wall at the back. Here, in the front part, the worldly facilities were situated, like the bakery with the granary, the smithy, a mill, and accommodation for pilgrims and travelers. The narrow lanes between the sandstone buildings were as busy as ever. Two lay brothers in brown robes rolled an empty wine barrel toward the building housing the wine press; a shaggy dog lifted his leg at the trough