A small bundle of humanity in the midst of the thundering downpour.
4
REGENSBURG
AUGUST 19, 1662 AD
THE HANGMAN KICKED the iron-plated door so hard that the cell walls shook. Like a caged animal, he’d been pacing for hours, stooped over in the tiny chamber. His thoughts circled with him as he paced.
They’d been holding him in this dungeon for five days now. The room was made entirely of wood, an almost perfect cube built so low that Kuisl couldn’t stand upright inside it. Aside from a tiny hatch that opened once a day so that a foul-smelling soup and some bread could be passed to the prisoner, the room had no windows, and the darkness was so complete that even after hours in it, all he could make out were vague outlines. Fastened around Kuisl’s right ankle, a chain clanked as he trudged from one corner of the cell to the other.
The only piece of furniture was a hollowed-out wooden block that served as a toilet. A while ago, in a fit of rage, he’d picked it up and heaved it against the wall, a deed he now regretted, as the stinking contents had splashed all over the cell and had even managed to soil Kuisl’s cape. Never in his entire life had the Schongau hangman felt so powerless. He was convinced by now that someone had set a trap for him, a trap he’d stumbled into like a clumsy oaf. Whoever had so gruesomely murdered his sister and her husband was now attempting to frame him.
It made no difference that he declared his innocence when the guards entered the bathhouse, that he swore on his soul he’d only just discovered the two bodies moments before. The verdict had been decided at the outset, a fact that became amply clear when he saw the captain’s smirk. Now everything came into focus—his hasty arrest at the gate, his feeling of being watched, the unlocked door to the bathhouse. They had laid the bait and he’d taken it.
But why?
Ever since the Regensburg city guards had locked him in this cell, he’d been racking his brain to understand just who might be behind this conspiracy. He didn’t know a soul in the city, and presumably people here didn’t even know that Lisbeth Hofmann came from a hangman’s family in Schongau. Or could this be some kind of payback for his impudence toward the constables at Jakob’s Gate? Was it merely an accident that he crossed paths with the malevolent, scar-faced raftsman?
He was roused from his thoughts by loud footsteps echoing down the corridor outside his cell door. In the little window next to the door appeared the face of the captain with the shiny cuirass. “Well, country boy,” he said, twirling his mustache and smiling. “Have we softened you up a bit? A few days in this cell always does that to a person. And if not, the hangman has his own special ways of loosening your tongue… so to speak.”
When Kuisl didn’t answer, the captain continued. “In the meantime we’ve questioned the witnesses and inspected your pack.” He shook his head with feigned severity. “I don’t know much about herbs, but what you have in there is a bit more than a man might need for a cough, don’t you think? Opium, night-shade, hellebore… What were you planning to do with all that? Poison the whole city?”
Kuisl had been crouching in a corner so that the captain couldn’t see his face in the dark. “Those are medicinal herbs,” he said. “My sister was sick, as I’ve told you a hundred times. Her husband wrote me a letter, and I came here from Schongau to help her.”
The soldier furrowed his brow. “You don’t actually look like a physician, not even like a bathhouse owner. So, what are you?”
“I’m the Schongau hangman.”
There was a short pause; then the captain spluttered. He laughed so hard, in fact, that it sounded as if he might choke. “The Schongau hangman?” he gasped. “Ha, that’s a good one! Really good. We’ve never hanged a hangman here!” It took him a while to calm himself down again.
“Be that as it may…” he said, wiping a few tears from his eyes. In a flash his voice was cold and biting again. “You must know what’s in store for you, hangman, if you don’t confess soon. Believe me, the Regensburg hangman is a tough one and has brought many others much tougher than you to their knees.”
Kuisl folded his arms and leaned back. “Even if you break every last bone in my body, I’ll still be innocent.”
“Well, then, what do we have here?” The captain held a sheet of parchment up to the little hatch. “We found this letter upstairs in the bathhouse attic. Hofmann’s last will and testament. He had no children or surviving relatives, and upon his death a certain Jakob Kuisl from Schongau was to inherit everything. Your name is Kuisl, isn’t it?”
Blinking after being in the dark so long, the hangman stepped into the dim light to get a better look at the sheet. The parchment was embossed with a red seal, the bathhouse coat of arms. The handwriting was erratic, as if it had been written in a great hurry.
“You can’t possibly believe this rubbish, can you?” Kuisl said. “I’ve never even met this Hofmann fellow, and the last time I saw my sister was years ago. So why should I inherit anything? This scribbling is something you put together yourself. Give it to me!”
He thrust his hand through the hatch, but the captain pulled the parchment away just in time.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” he snarled. “To destroy the evidence! Now let me tell you a story. You knew your brother-in-law ran a successful bathhouse, and you knew about the will. You were having money problems, so you came to Regensburg. Maybe you pressed your sister for money, but she wouldn’t give you any, so you helped yourself. As a hangman you know only too well how to stick a pig.”
“Rubbish,” the hangman whispered. “Lisl is my sister. I would never so much as touch a hair—”
But the captain wouldn’t be interrupted. “You killed her, then began plotting your getaway,” he continued, “perhaps back to Schongau. There you could have safely waited until the postal coach arrived bearing the news of your sister’s tragic death. A savage robbery-murder—how very tragic indeed—but no one would have suspected you. Who would ever have known you’d just been to Regensburg? But you hadn’t reckoned you’d be controlled as you came through the city gate, and I saw right away that there was something fishy about you, country boy—”
“Dirty lies!” The hangman pounded his fists against the reinforced wooden door. “You’re nothing but dirty gallows birds, all of you! Tell me, how much did they pay you for locking me in the tower overnight? Who ordered you to take me prisoner in the bathhouse? Who? Say something!”
The alarmed captain’s face disappeared from the window for a moment. When he reappeared, he was smiling again.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally said. “Whatever the case, the investigation has concluded now, and the paperwork is complete. The city council will probably meet tomorrow morning to determine your fate. In Regensburg we make short shrift of scoundrels like you.” The watchman’s eyes wandered over the excrement-splattered cell walls. “I hope your stay in our lovely city dungeon has given you time to reflect. The hangman is already polishing his pincers. But why am I telling you this? You know all about these things, after all. Have a nice day in Regensburg.”
He winked at Kuisl, then walked away with a merry whistle.
Despairing, the Schongau hangman leaned back against the wall, then fell into a dejected heap in the corner. Things were not looking good for him. From experience he knew it was only a matter of days before torture would begin. According to age-old law, a suspect could be sentenced only once he’d made his confession, so the Regensburg hangman would use every means at his disposal to compel a confession from Kuisl. First, he would show him the instruments of torture. If this didn’t induce a confession, he would apply the thumb screws and remove Kuisl’s fingernails one by one. Finally, he would tie hundred-pound stones to his feet and hoist him up, arms bound behind his back, until his bones sprang from their sockets and cracked. The Schongau hangman knew the routine well; he’d performed it a dozen times himself. But he also knew that if the suspect wouldn’t confess in spite of al
l this, they’d let him go.
At least what was left of him.
Kuisl lay down on the dirty wooden floor, closed his eyes, and prepared himself for his long journey through the world of pain. He was sure that if he confessed, he would be broken on the wheel, at the very least. Probably they would hang him first, slit his belly open, and pull the guts from his body.
His gaze wandered over the dark cell walls, where innumerable prisoners had carved not only their names but their pleas, prayers, and curses into the wood. The captain had failed to fully close the little hatch in the door, so a small sliver of light fell across the words. Every inscription told a story, a fate, or gave testimony to a life that had no doubt ended much too soon and too painfully. His gaze stopped at a message just one line in length, a message carved deeply, apparently with a knife.
There is a reaper, Death’s his name…
Kuisl frowned. It was strange to see the words here, of all places. It was just the first line of a silly old mercenary’s song, but to the hangman the line said volumes. A muffled roar sounded in his ears. Long ago the words had been banished to the furthest reaches of his mind—almost forgotten entirely—but now, as he read the inscription, it all came rushing back.
There is a reaper, Death’s his name…
Images, sounds, even scents overwhelmed him—the smell of gun smoke, booze, and decay, a droning chorus of men’s voices, the rhythmic marching of feet.
There is a reaper, Death’s his name
From God above his power came.
The memory struck him like the blow of a hammer.
…The foot soldiers’ ballad resounds through the city, though individual words are impossible to discern—a low thrum, like the sound of a thousand insects. The nearer Jakob comes to the market square, the louder it grows. He can feel his heart pounding as he sets eyes on the crowd before him—day laborers, tailors, cobblers, greedy adventurers, and penniless wretches. They’re standing in a long line that snakes around the entire square, ending at a large, battered wooden table. Behind the table sits an officer with a big book, noting the names of new recruits. Drummers and fifers stand in tight formation behind the table, while brandy flows freely and anyone who is still able to sing is singing.
There is a reaper, Death’s his name
FROM GOD ABOVE HIS POWER CAME.
HIS BLADE KEEN AND STEADY
To mow us is ready…
Slowly, very slowly, the book swallows the line until finally Jakob stands before the officer, who considers him with a smirk, chewing a wad of tobacco and spitting brown liquid onto the pavement.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Jakob Kuisl.”
“And how old are you?”
“I’ll be fifteen this summer.”
The officer rubs his nose. “You look older. And damned strong, too. Ever been to war?”
Jakob shakes his head, silent.
“War’s a bloody affair. A lot of honor, a lot of death. A lot like a slaughterhouse. Can you stand the sight of death, hmm? Bodies hacked to pieces, severed heads… Well?”
Jakob remains silent.
“Very well,” the officer says with a sigh. “We could use a boy to carry supplies, or perhaps you could play the drums. Or—”
“I’m here to join the infantry, sir.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I want to fight—with a longsword.”
The officer hesitates, then breaks into a broad grin. His grin turns into a soft chuckle, then to an outright laugh, louder and louder until he turns around at last to his comrades. “Did you hear that?” he cries. “The young sprout wants a two-hander. Hasn’t even run a pike up a farmer’s ass in his life, and he wants a two-hander!”
The crowd roars. Some of the fifers stop playing to point at the big, pimply, clumsy boy whose shirt and trousers are much too small for his shapeless frame. Jakob is growing too fast; his mother says he’ll soon be able to spit on the heads of everyone in Schongau. But Schongau is far away.
Now the young man picks up a dirty bundle of linen covering a long and narrow object, which he handles as if it contains the kaiser’s own scepter. He lays it out on the table carefully and removes the wrapping.
Inside is a sword so long it reaches to the boy’s chest. With a short cross-guard and no point, its blade glints in the sun.
The crowd’s jeers die down to a murmur as all eyes turn to the weapon. The officer bends down over the longsword and runs a finger along the blood groove.
“By God, a genuine executioner’s sword,” he whispers. “Where did you get this? Did you steal it?”
The boy shakes his head. “It belonged to my father, and to my grandfather and great-grandfather before him.”
Jakob carefully wraps the weapon back up in the dirty, bloodstained linen. His words sound reverent and unusual from the mouth of a snot-nosed fifteen-year-old village boy who wants to enlist.
“My father is dead. Now the sword belongs to me.”
Then the hangman’s son walks down the silent ranks of infantrymen until he reaches the yoke, a horizontal pike supported by two halberds set in the ground.
An old ritual of mercenary foot soldiers: whoever passes through commits himself to war.
Jakob Kuisl was still lying on the floor of his cell at the Regensburg city hall, staring at the inscription on the wall.
There is a reaper, Death’s his name…
He got up at last, reached for a pebble on the floor, and began to scratch away the inscription.
Letter by letter.
At that moment Magdalena was farther from home than she’d ever been in her life.
Blissful, she stretched out on the hard planks of the river raft and looked up at clouds passing over her like white dragons. For the first time in a long while she was happy. The waves slapped rhythmically against the heavy boards, the raftsmen’s shouts sounded far-off, and only Simon, humming softly beside her, seemed real. The medicus was leaning on a wine barrel, staring dreamily across the water at the passing riverbank. His face was still black and blue from the Berchtholdts’ beating, but at least he could open his eyes again. From time to time he spat cherry pits in a wide arc into the water. When one struck the helmsman by mistake, he turned around and shook his finger playfully at Simon.
“If you keep that up, I’m going to have to dump you both into the Danube. Then you can swim all the way to Regensburg for all I care.” He shook his head. “The river is no place for children and lovers—this is a place for work.” He was grinning again, likely thinking back on how he’d met his own wife.
Magdalena picked up a cherry and let the soft, juicy flesh dissolve in her mouth. Schongau was so far away! Less than a week ago they’d fled to the ferry landing in the middle of the night, carrying no more than a sack and a bag. Heaviest were Simon’s medical instruments and a few books he couldn’t bear to part with. Other than that, they brought only a few changes of clothes, a little food, and two blankets. Everything else they left behind: their past, the satirical verses, the paternalism, their secret rendezvous, and the constant fear they might be discovered.
They’d traveled down the Lech past Augsburg in the direction of Donauwörth, then along the Danube on a raft transporting cloth and salt to the Black Sea. Along the way they’d passed the university city of Ingolstadt, where Simon had once studied; the little city of Vohburg; and finally the infamous Weltenburg Narrows, where the raft was whisked through whirlpools like a mere leaf blowing along the surface of the water. The steady movement and changing landscape gave Magdalena a feeling of greater freedom than she’d ever known before.
Away from home at last…
But a shadow passed over her face when she thought of her mother and the twins. She’d kissed the sleeping children farewell before closing the door to the house behind her for the last time. The letter she left for her mother was brief and tearstained, but never in her life had Magdalena felt so clearly that she was doing the right thing. Had she staye
d, there surely would have been no end to the hectoring—the townspeople’s prejudices were just too deep—and eventually one or another zealot would actually set fire to the house. Master Baker Berchtholdt would see to it that she never had a moment’s peace.
Magdalena could only hope that her mother saw things the same way.
Ultimately, it wasn’t a question of whether they would leave, but of where their journey might take them. In the end it was Magdalena’s aunt who helped them make up their minds. Magdalena admired Aunt Lisbeth Kuisl for her courage in leaving everything behind. Magdalena could be just as strong herself! If her aunt was still alive, she would certainly understand. Magdalena would simply wait until her hardheaded father had left; then she’d knock on Lisbeth’s door, her aunt would open the door and embrace her, and Simon would be given a position as Andreas Hofmann’s assistant at the bathhouse. He could bleed the guests and treat their minor ailments. That would be a start, and who knows? With time Simon might even go on to become the Regensburg city surgeon. A new life would open up for them, a life in which no one would know she was a hangman’s daughter.
But suppose her aunt had died in the meantime, of some kind of growth that even Magdalena’s father couldn’t cure?
She shook her head, trying to drive away these sinister thoughts. She wanted to enjoy the moment. Only the dear Lord knew what the future held.
“We’re here! Magdalena, we’re here!”
Simon’s cries roused her from her musings. She sat up to see Regensburg emerge behind the next bend in the river—a silhouette of buildings, bridges, and churches gleaming in the af ternoon sun. An imposing defensive city wall began at river’s edge and extended, with its redoubts and outbuildings, far inland to the south. Beyond the wall towered the cathedral, the city’s landmark. Bells chimed across the water as if in greeting.
The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale Page 8
