The Dark Monk by Oliver Pötzsch, Lee Chadeayne Page B

and Walli had bitten his hand several times. Sweat was pouring down his brow, and his hat, with the coquettish ostrich feather, sat at a crooked angle on his head. He had even slipped once in the stable, and now a light yellow-brown spot adorned his jacket. Nevertheless, Simon tried to laugh.
    “Walli is a horse with a mind of her own,” he said as the horse attempted to rear up again and tugged at the reins. “And I have a special liking for stubborn women.”
    The merchant woman smiled. “That’s commendable, but perhaps the horse needs to have a little woman-to-woman talk.”
    Benedikta dismounted and slowly approached the snorting horse. When she reached the horse, she held her by the head, pulled her mane down, and whispered in her ear. At once, the horse settled down, stopped snorting, and stood there calmly.
    “How…how did you ever do that?” Simon asked incredulously.
    “Just un secret de femmes, a secret between us women.”
    Benedikta smiled and swung up onto her horse again. “We have to leave,” she said, “or we’ll never get to Steingaden before nightfall. It’s already noon.”
    They rode out through the Lech Gate in the direction of Peiting. The snow was heavier now, and Simon had to squint to see the road in front of them, orienting himself by the wagon tracks that were now almost covered again with snow. On the gently ascending road, they met the occasional hiker or team of oxen, but once they had passed the houses of Peiting, they were finally alone. Stillness prevailed as the snow dampened all sounds.
    The few towns they went through seemed inhospitable. The windows and doors were closed, and only occasionally could they see light shining through a crack in the window or a shy child peering around the corner of a house. At regular intervals, the two riders passed small frozen ponds, where frightened ducks flapped up out of the reeds and disappeared into the winter sky.
    Alongside him, Benedikta was humming a little French song.
    Belle qui tiens ma vie, captive dans tes yeux…
     
    Simon noticed how hearing her voice warmed the cockles of his heart. True, he understood only half the words, but the mere sound of the foreign tongue was enough to overwhelm him with wanderlust. Here in the Priests’ Corner, everything was so…God-fearing. So rigid and sleepy. Nothing changed. In Paris, on the other hand, people knew how to live! He heard there were theaters and tailors on every street corner; that people smelled of perfume, lavender, and forget-me-nots; and the best doctors in all of Europe taught at the Sorbonne!
    He was so lost in thought that he didn’t see the highwaymen until they were almost standing in front of them.
    Three figures stood waiting at the side of the road in the heavily falling snow. Two of them were leaning on long, rough-hewn clubs, and the third had a dagger dangling at his hip. Now Simon noticed a fourth man. He was crouching in a thicket, his musket supported casually on the branch of a tree and pointed at them. All four of them looked famished. Their faces were drawn, and little icicles hung from their shaggy beards. They were dressed in threadbare jackets and soiled army coats, and the boots on their feet were nothing but shreds.
    “Well, well, what do we have here?” asked the man holding the dagger, with a salacious grin. He was evidently the leader. “A pretty woman and her beau traveling all alone, and both dressed so elegantly!” He made a low bow, and the others broke out in raucous laughter. By now Simon was cursing his dandyish attire. Here in the forest, he probably looked like a pheasant searching for a mate.
    “How about a little charity for a few poor sinners who had a hard time in the war and can’t afford such finery?” the leader said. Still bowing, he held one hand out as he fingered the dagger with his other.
    Simon could see one of the robbers at the side of the road looking Benedikta up and down and running his tongue over his lips, while