When she arrived home, Kilian was alone in the woodshop. “Where’s Father?” Madlen asked after she greeted her brother.
“In town. You must have passed him on the way.”
“But I didn’t see him at all.”
Kilian shrugged. “Then you must have missed each other.”
“Look at this, Kilian.” Madlen held the little money pouch underneath his nose. Her brother took it and weighed it in his hand before he opened it. He whistled appreciatively. “Well, would you look at that. Our little girl.”
“It’s from Adelhaid. I told her it was too much, but she insisted.”
Kilian pulled the pouch’s cord tight. “No wonder.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you understand? She is buying your silence.”
Madlen stared at the pouch. “Do you really think that?”
“Of course.” Kilian noticed the disgusted expression on his sister’s face. “Now don’t get any crazy ideas about returning the money. If she wants to give it to you, that’s her business. You would not have turned him in anyway.”
“I won’t take it.” She pushed it at her brother, but he took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye.
“And whatever you do with it, little sister”—he took a step back and lifted his finger—“don’t make the silly mistake of giving it all to Father.”
“You mean, I shouldn’t tell him?”
“Oh sure, and he’ll want it all. But don’t give him more than twenty-five pfennigs.”
“Why not?”
“Madlen, listen to me. The spice merchant is going to put you in a beautiful house where you will want for nothing. But this money”—he pressed the pouch into her hand—“will buy you some freedom. None of his employees will keep your secrets out of kindness. If you don’t want your husband finding something out, then I advise you to hide your money and use it wisely.”
Madlen shook her head. “I never would have thought of that.”
“You have to think like this now if you want a real future.” Kilian urged, “Give me the money again.”
She handed it to him, and he pulled out some coins and laid them on the wooden table. “Show this to Father later this evening; he’ll be more than pleased with the amount”—he closed the pouch back up again—“and put the rest away so no one can find it. Understand?”
She nodded. “Thank you, Kilian.”
“Oh, my darling sister. Who will take care of you when I’m no longer by your side?”
Over the next two days, Madlen prepared everything for her upcoming journey, gathering a few personal belongings and tidying the cottage. More importantly, she had to ensure that Clara received a decent burial. There would be no Mass with a priest like she would have wanted, but at least she could be buried in the cemetery within the city walls, and not outside them, in unconsecrated ground.
Madlen took everything out of Clara’s little house she thought she might be able to use. She took the mortar and pestle as well as a few of the jars in which Clara kept her herbs. Madlen was certain that Clara would have wanted her to have them. Although she could very well have started without any of these things in her new home, she didn’t want to leave these precious items behind. These were the only mementos that she had left of Clara. Madlen could almost smell her dear friend in the jars and mortar, and it gave her a great sense of comfort. She had just sorted out some utensils when someone knocked on the door. Madlen answered and was shocked to see the two constables from the evening Clara died. Luckily, they were unaccompanied by the man who had gruffly grabbed Madlen’s arm, which caused her to drop the torch onto Clara’s dress.
“The sheriff wants to speak with you,” one said, coming right to the point.
Madlen thought about that evening when Clara died. Fear crept up her spine. “Why?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“He’ll tell you once we bring you in. Put on your cloak; let’s go.”
Madlen wanted to protest, but she was too overcome by fear. “I have to tell my brother and my father,” she answered quickly, pointing in that direction. “They’re over there in the woodshop.”
The older constable gave his colleague a sign to go on ahead. As the younger constable disappeared, Madlen screwed up all her courage. “Can you please tell me what’s going on?” Her heart pounded at the thought of Clara’s jars of herbs, now in her possession.
“It’s regarding the noblewoman, Adelhaid Trauenstein.” He said nothing more and Madlen sighed in relief. So Adelhaid had turned in that bastard of a husband. She smiled. “In that case”—she grabbed her cloak—“it’s my pleasure to accompany you.”