The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,139

Now he’d found Margarethe, but she was unobtainable. He’d never even find out how she was doing. The Neuburg convent was only about an hour away from Heidelberg, but it was practically impossible for an outsider to speak with the nuns. The Benedictine sisters were very withdrawn and hardly ever left the walls of their nunnery—least of all addled young souls sent there by distraught husbands or fathers. Those were the only men who might occasionally be granted access, but no one else.

No one else.

An idea flashed through Johann’s gloomy thoughts. He sat up in his bed and reached for the bowl of soup. Suddenly he felt ravenous. His usually bright mind had been boarded up for the last two days, but finally he saw a way.

A plan was ripening in his mind.

On the morning of the third day, Johann told Magister Partschneider that he was feeling better. He picked up his satchel with his quill and papers and went outside as if heading to class. He was careful not to let Valentin see him leave. His plan was only half-baked, and he was afraid his friend would talk him out of it. He turned north toward the place where small boats lay moored near the university chapel. He hired a rowboat from a fisherman and paddled up the Neckar, which was still lazy and calm in early September. To the north and the south rose Heiligenberg and Königstuhl, the two mountains that cradled Heidelberg in their middle. Vineyards stretched on both banks of the river, and sweaty winegrowers carrying packs were hard at work harvesting the first grapes. Margarethe’s husband, Jakob Kohlschreiber, was probably among them, unless he was sleeping it off somewhere beneath the vines. Hatred welled up in Johann. He gritted his teeth and rowed faster.

The river went around a gentle bend, and the bridge and the city disappeared out of sight. The Neckar wound its way into the Odenwald Mountains, the wooded ranges at whose foothills Heidelberg was situated. It wasn’t long before a monastery-like complex appeared on the slopes above the left bank. It lay on a plateau among meadows above a small village with a mill. A narrow path lined with linden trees led up to the imposing stone building. Johann tied the boat to a dock and walked up the hill, forcing himself not to run. Somewhere up there was Margarethe—so close and yet out of reach. He slowed down and finally arrived at the nunnery, which consisted of a church, several outbuildings, and the abbey. The entire complex was surrounded by a wall, and vineyards rose on the slopes behind it up to the edge of the forest.

Maintaining his distance, Johann circled around the complex, keeping a close eye on any window he saw. He tried to figure out which ones belonged to living quarters. On the east side, the wall ran close to a bulky building, and Johann thought he could make out moving shadows behind the second-story windows. He guessed the room beyond those windows might be the parlatory—the only place where the nuns were permitted to lead longer conversations.

Johann nodded with determination. He’d found the right place. He walked to a crumbling old wall and took the quill, inkwell, and paper from his bag and wrote down the letter he’d composed in his mind on the way. Then he pinched tiny holes with a needle in certain places. He folded the document and sealed it with the wax print of a Venetian coin that showed some kind of old crest. The sisters wouldn’t be able to place the coat of arms, but that didn’t matter—it was just about making an impression. He patted down his clothes, brushed his fingers through his hair, picked up his sealed letter, and approached the convent gate.

He pulled the bell three times before the small hatch in the door finally opened. The small, wrinkled face of a very old nun appeared. Like all Benedictine nuns, she wore a black bonnet.

“God bless you,” she croaked in a bored tone. “What do you want?”

“I’m here to deliver a letter,” replied Johann and held up the folded paper for the nun to see.

“A letter, you say? Who for?”

Johann pretended he struggled to remember the name. “Um, I think it was for a certain Margarethe . . .”

“All sisters give up their worldly names in here, you fool,” snarled the nun. “Didn’t you know that? There is no Sister Margarethe here.”

Johann rubbed his nose. “Well, then, I don’t