DOMINICAN PRIOR BALTAZAR Eckell had been feeling under the weather for some time. He was afflicted by aches, heartburn and sharp stinging pains; his appetite had disappeared, his head spun, the world swam before his eyes, and on some occasions, when his condition was acute, the Prior believed he could hear the voice of the Archangel Michael calling out to him, letting him know that he was expected. Maybe his time on this earth was indeed coming to an end, although he still had so much to do … Alas, one man’s time had reached its end just yesterday. He had heard this just now from the monastery cellarius Hinricus, who himself heard the news from the cook, who in his turn had learned of it at the market.
Henning von Clingenstain had been killed on Toompea. His head had been chopped off. Lord have mercy on his soul.
Prior Eckell was sitting with the young cellarius in the monastery scriptorium. The chapter meeting had just ended. For some years now the Prior had, without fail, come to the scriptorium at this time of day to contemplate heavenly and not-so-heavenly matters. The monks who were not in town preaching or handling other monastery affairs worked during this hour before their lunch. The Prior felt a strong need to sit and ruminate on this day because he had already prayed. He could not even remember whether or not he had slept the previous night. Prayer is an art. Genuine prayer, a beseeching force bursting from within a person that makes its way up to God, this must be learned and learned diligently. Prior Eckell had learned to pray before falling asleep in a way that his prayers remained with him for the entire night, sustained throughout his dreams. Eckell relived these orisons in his dreams; they spiralled around his thoughts, and he even heard himself speaking with the angels and saints to whom he prayed. He had cultivated this skill as a young man in order to find refuge from the night-time visions of a twenty-yearold monk. And Eckell had kept up this skill, this art. Sin stalks a person with every step. A monk’s thoughts must be like a town defended by a sturdy wall, but sleep is a time when the town gates are opened wide and the watchmen have vanished with the keys. It was for this precise reason that the young Baltazar learned to battle his dreams ceaselessly, so that night-time temptations might not poison his daytime thoughts.
He had experienced a profound need for this skill the previous night.
‘Father, was that member of the Order the very same who took confession from you yesterday on Toompea?’ the cellarius Hinricus enquired, agitated.
‘Yes, none other,’ Eckell replied wearily.
‘Then it is as if it occurred according to some heavenly prophecy, is it not? He went to confession during the day, and a few hours later … he is executed by the sword. As if he had foreseen the event …’
Eckell did not reply. He did not tell Hinricus that Commander Clingenstain had no reason to believe he would meet his death on that night on Toompea. The saints charge a prior to keep young monks away from worldly horrors – they do not yet know death, they do not know its smell, they do not remember death as a prior does. And he, Baltazar Eckell, remembered a great many kinds of death; he could recall every colour, every smell and sound. No, Clingenstain was certainly not expecting his death would be the lustrous red colour of blood glistening on grey slate or that it would reek of beer.
‘Should I have the infirmarer prepare for you an infusion for your aching bones?’ Hinricus asked with a hint of concern. ‘You are pale, Father.’
‘I am pale because my blood has already gone as white as my hair,’ the Prior replied. ‘No, the infirmarer is not required. Do you know where Wunbaldus is?’
‘He was in the brewery earlier tasting his bock – the very same that will be judged today at the Brotherhood of Blackheads. Should I have him summoned?’
‘Yes … or, that is, no,’ the Prior mumbled. ‘I must think.’ I must calm myself and think. ‘Please have my chessboard taken to Wundbaldus’s chambers and … He fell silent. Hinricus waited patiently. The old man breathed deeply, his hand resting on a closed book and his gaze fixed on the window, as if he had just glimpsed St Catherine there. Only birdsong came from outside, penetrating the absolute silence that reigned within the dank walls of the scriptorium. Eckell felt his present train of thought slip from his grasp, melting like snow in springtime.
‘Does the snow still fall, Hinricus?’ the Prior asked without warning, his gaze still trained on the window through which the monastery’s budding orchard trees were visible.
‘No, Father, it does not,’ Hinricus replied quietly. Snow has not fallen for two months. Virgin Mary have mercy on us.
‘Then the snowfall has passed,’ the Prior whispered. ‘That is good, Hinricus. Praised be the Lord, that is very good.’