The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Kuisl cleared his throat loudly and spat on the ground. “What do you believe?”

  Teuber’s eyes probed Kuisl’s body as if searching for witch’s markings or suspicious liver spots under his clothing.

  “How many people have you executed, Kuisl?” he finally asked.

  The Schongau hangman shrugged. “No idea. Maybe a hundred? Two hundred? I’ve never tallied them up.”

  Teuber nodded approvingly. “Then you know at least what I’m talking about. Look here.” He pointed at his round, bearded face. “With these two ears of mine, I’ve heard more people whining that they were innocent than you have dumb farmers in Schongau. And these two eyes have seen more gallows birds hanged than there are fat priests in Rome. Regensburg’s a big city, and almost every month I have to hurt someone. And with time, Kuisl—” He sighed, looking at the inscriptions on the cell walls. “—with time, one learns to tell who’s innocent and who’s not,” he continued. “Believe me, most are guilty.”

  “Don’t preach to me,” Kuisl growled. “I don’t give a damn what you believe or think. There’s nothing you can do once the higher-ups have made up their minds.”

  Teuber nodded. “Right you are. Though it’s not nice when you have to lay the noose around someone’s neck while the real murderer’s still running free.”

  “So, you do believe I’m innocent?”

  The Regensburg hangman looked deep into his colleague’s eyes once more. “The city out there’s like a ravenous beast,” he said finally. “Every day she devours a few more, and it isn’t always the villains.”

  Kuisl sensed his interlocutor was keeping something from him.

  Teuber hesitated before attempting a smile again. “I’ll make you a proposal, Kuisl. Confess the double murder at the trial and you’ll at least spare yourself the torture. If they decide to break you on the wheel, I’ll crack your neck first with an iron rod so you won’t feel the rest. And if they decide to draw and quarter you instead, I have a nice little potion that will carry you off gently before your limbs are ripped from their sockets. How does that sound?”

  Kuisl spat on the ground again. “It wasn’t me, and I’m not going to confess. Now get out of here, and do what you have to do. No doubt you have a few pincers to polish.”

  Teuber took a deep breath. “You’re too damn proud, Kuisl. Believe me, you’ll end up screaming, and then all the pride in the world won’t do you a damn bit of good. I’ve seen it all too often.”

  “By God, I tell you, it wasn’t me!” Kuisl exploded. “Even if you break every bone in my body. If you believe I’m innocent, then help me or keep your damned mouth shut.”

  Teuber shook his head. “I won’t do anything that will bring ruin upon my family.”

  “Rubbish!” Kuisl snapped. “Bring me some paper and something to write with—that’s all I ask. And when I’m done, take the letter to my daughter. That shameless woman is gadding about somewhere in Regensburg.”

  “A farewell letter—I understand.” Teuber nodded. “I’ll have to ask the aldermen for permission, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Where do I find your daughter?”

  Kuisl laughed. “Who are you? The Regensburg hangman or his apprentice? Ask around, keep your eyes peeled, but do it in secret so that you don’t drag my Magdalena along to the gallows, too.”

  Teuber stroked his beard. “Fine, Kuisl,” he said finally. “I’ll help you because you’re one of us and because I don’t think you’re stupid enough to get yourself caught standing between two corpses with your dagger drawn. But as of tomorrow morning, I’ll have to hurt you all the same.”

  “Let that be my concern.” Kuisl had already returned to his cell and settled down on the floor. “Now leave me in peace, Teuber. I need to think.”

  The Regensburg executioner grinned as he slowly pulled the dungeon door closed. “Kuisl, Kuisl,” he said, wagging his finger impishly. “I’ve seen many a sinner before I tortured them—anxious, raving, screaming, praying—but you are by far the boldest. I can’t believe that will last long.”

  With a crash, the door slammed closed and darkness descended over Jakob Kuisl.

  A huge beech tree waved in the breeze above Simon. Its green leaves were rustling, birds were chirping, and the hum of insects filled the air. The medicus took a deep breath and felt at one with the world. All at once, however, a raucous noise clashed with the pleasant sounds of nature. A huge saw seemed to be cutting through the ancient beech trunk. The tree began to sway, its enormous bulk threatening to topple at any moment and bury the medicus beneath it. Then, with an earsplitting crash, the beech fell to the ground. Simon awoke with a shout, opened his eyes, and realized he’d just been dreaming. No blue summer sky spread out over him, only the sooty ceiling of the Whale. Yet the noise persisted.

  Chrrrrrrrr… Chrrrrrrrr…

  Simon turned on his side to see Magdalena lying on her back next to him, snoring like a drunken sailor. He wrinkled his nose. The hangman’s daughter not only snored like a drunken sailor, she smelled like one, too. Her mouth gaped open, and a thin string of saliva had formed in one corner. The medicus couldn’t help but grin. If the little Venetian could see his bella signorina now, he’d most certainly put an end to his inappropriate advances.

  The little Venetian?

  Simon sat bolt upright and looked over at the other side of the bed. With relief, he found he was alone with Magdalena. Nevertheless, the very idea that Silvio might have taken Magdalena off to bed while Simon slept like an infant beside them made his blood boil. Who could say what had already happened between them? Simon knew from personal experience what men were capable of when alcohol turned girls silly and weak. He closed his eyes and suppressed his worst imaginings.

  When he climbed out of bed, he felt a sharp, throbbing pain in his right ankle. In a flash he remembered how they’d broken into the bathhouse the night before and just barely made it out of the cellar. Cursing softly, he rubbed some arnica ointment on his swollen foot and wrapped it gently in a piece of linen. Then he dressed carefully. Fortunately, in the bag he managed to hang on to after being chased through the market square he discovered a fresh shirt and an only slightly soiled jacket among his medical instruments. He’d already given his trousers a quick, makeshift cleaning the night before with a cake of bone soap; he’d have to wear this outfit around Regensburg for the coming weeks—a prospect especially distasteful to him when he thought about how smartly dressed the little Venetian had been last night. Simon could only hope the bruises on his face had faded some in the meanwhile. In his present condition he no doubt resembled a small but dangerous barroom brawler.

  Without waking the snoring Magdalena, he hobbled out of the bedchamber and down to the empty taproom, where he poured himself a mug of watery beer and found a bowl with stale pieces of leftover bread. Two drunks were dozing on the bench by the stove, and in front of a steaming pot sat someone Simon didn’t recognize at first: the Regensburg raftmaster they’d met the day before at the docks.

  Karl Gessner smiled and motioned for Simon to come closer.

  “Ah, the little quack from the raft landing! I knew we’d meet again soon.” His smile immediately vanished. “Excuse me, I’m tactless. Right now you surely have enough worries.” He pushed the pot of lentil soup to the middle of the table so the medicus could help himself.

  “This double murder… was a heavy blow for the both of us,” Simon said hesitantly, dunking his bread crust into the soup. “We thought perhaps Hofmann would give me a job. We—we wanted to make a new beginning here. And then this!” He shook his head. “Now they’ve taken Magdalena’s father into custody because they think he’s the one who did it. Ludicrous!”

  “And? What do you intend to do now?”

  Simon dunked another crust of bread into the soup and swallowed before answering. “For the time being we’ll probably stay here at the Whale. There must be some way to prove that Magdalena’s father is innocent. The murder in the bathhouse…” He paused because he wasn
’t certain how much he could trust the raftmaster. After a while he continued in a soft voice. “You seem to know your way around Regensburg. Do you have any idea who might be behind this murder? Something about it just isn’t right. Yesterday the house was still under guard, as if it concealed some dark secret. Do you have any advice?”

  Gessner shrugged. “You both certainly know by now that the house burned to the ground last night. If there was anything of interest inside it, nothing is left of it now.”

  “But did you happen to hear anything before that?” Simon was grasping at straws. “Something, anything, that might exonerate Magdalena’s father?”

  Gessner looked at him sympathetically. “I’m sorry. As raftmaster, I sit on the Outer Council, but with regard to the bathhouse murders I’m more or less powerless. That’s someone else’s responsibility. I know only that Kuisl will be put on trial soon.” Falling silent, he poked around in his soup, but Simon could sense that Gessner had something more to say.

  “The world is unjust—that’s just the way it is,” the raftmaster finally added. “And often it’s the wrong man who suffers. But it’s not for you to decide what’s good and what’s right.”

  Simon looked at Gessner and frowned. “What are you trying to say?”

  Gessner sopped up the last bit of soup with the bread and stood up. “Be sensible and don’t get mixed up in things that are much bigger than you may be prepared to handle. There’s still time for you to return home. A good day to you, and greetings to your girl.” He placed a copper coin on the table, bowed slightly, and disappeared out the door without another word.

  Simon sat for a while thinking about Gessner’s final words. What did the raftmaster mean when he said they oughtn’t to get mixed up in things? What was going on behind the scenes?

  Finally the medicus gave up. If there was anything to be learned, he certainly wasn’t going to learn it sitting here all by himself in some cheap tavern. With a sigh, he headed out the door and into the blinding morning sun. He needed fresh air to get his mind off all this, even if his foot was still throbbing. The events of the previous day kept running through his mind. Obviously someone had set a trap for the Schongau hangman—but who, and why? Their visit to the bathhouse yesterday made it clear that someone had already been there looking for something. And that someone had followed them, locked them in the basement, and tried to burn them alive.

  Because they had discovered something?

  But what? Why had this arsonist tried to kill them, and what did any of it have to do with the plot against Magdalena’s father?

  Simon was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice he was approaching the cathedral square. Only after a few people had bumped into him did he think to look up, startled. A few peddlers had already set up their stalls, and people were streaming out of the main church portal after early mass. Many, wearing serious expressions, were deeply engaged in discussions about the fire the night before, which had destroyed so many homes and possessions. Each one seemed eager to outdo the others with gruesome, detailed stories. Simon couldn’t help but think of an old saying:

  Blessed Saint Florian, spare our house, and let the others burn…

  A sudden rolling drumbeat sounded across the plaza, and two guards approached from the right. One beat an old military drum while the other held a parchment in his hand. As a crowd began to gather, one guard broke the seal and began to read in a booming voice.

  “Citizens of Regensburg, lend an ear! A fire broke out in our beautiful city yester eve, destroying three dozen homes. Lives, too, were lost. Some say the devil himself is among us, along with his playmate.” Whispers went up among the crowd as it eagerly awaited the grisly details. After a dramatic pause the crier continued:

  “The city council is pleased to inform all citizens that it was not the devil who set the fire, but it was a foul deed by the hand of man. Two persons who were seen in the Weißgerbergraben area last night are under strong suspicion of having committed this dastardly crime. Persons in question are a little man with a limp and a black-haired girl in a coarse linen skirt…”

  What followed was a detailed description of the two suspects. The blood drained from Simon’s face as he listened. The watchmen were looking for him and Magdalena! Perhaps someone in the cathedral square had recognized him already! In fact, a murmur was passing softly through the crowd, and someone rose and approached the guard, pointing toward the river in the approximate direction of the Whale. Simon backed up against the wall of a nearby building and peered into a small lane behind it that branched into a labyrinth of ever-narrower alleys. A curious older couple stared down at him from a second-story window, so in spite of his swollen ankle, Simon hurried away, limping. He had to warn Magdalena as fast as possible! He only hoped it wasn’t already too late.

  Just as he was about to turn the corner, he heard a voice call to him from a dark entryway: “If it’s through these alleyways you want to escape, let me guide you, or someone will surely cut your throat even before the watchmen can arrest you for arson.”

  An old man clad in rags emerged from a stone portal. In the dim light it took Simon a few seconds to recognize him as Hans Reiser, the blind beggar he’d healed the day before in the market square. Reiser’s stubbled, pockmarked face beamed at Simon with joy. He wore a patch over his right eye, but he gave Simon a cheerful wink with his left as he ran up to the medicus with arms wide open.

  “I prayed to God to send you back to me again so I could repay you!” he cried out. “Thanks be to God. He heard my prayers!”

  “Very well,” Simon said in a low voice. “Perhaps some other time. At the moment—well, I’m in a bit of a hurry, so please—”

  Reiser put his finger to his lips and grinned. “You needn’t tell me a thing. I know the authorities are looking for you and the girl because of the fire last night.”

  “But how do you—?” Simon began.

  “We beggars know many things,” the old man interrupted in a whisper. “The citizens think of us as lice-infested, starving sacks of shit who hold out our hands for every last little coin, but in reality we’re even more powerful than many of the guilds.” He winked. “We even have our own guild house, though it’s not as fine as those of the merchants, bakers, or goldsmiths. Believe me, nothing remains a secret from us for long.”

  “You promise you won’t betray me?” Simon whispered.

  Horrified, Reiser shook his head. “Betray my savior? Am I Judas? I wish to help you!”

  “But what do you intend to do?”

  “For starters, we’ll make you and your girl disappear,” the beggar replied. “I’ve already sent a messenger to the Whale who will bring the girl back here to us. I also know you’re trying to find out more about the bathhouse murders. Let’s see if we can’t find some clues for you.”

  “But that’s impossible!” Simon cried. “We haven’t told anyone about the murders!”

  “Aha, and your conversation in front of the bathhouse just yesterday morning?” Reiser grinned. “In Regensburg the walls have ears, and most of those ears belong to us beggars. Now quit standing there gaping like a fool and come along!”

  Tentatively Simon followed. “Where are we going?”

  Reiser looked over his shoulder to glance at the medicus with his good eye. “To the king of the beggars. I’ve already spoken with him, and he will grant you an audience.”

  “Who?”

  Reiser giggled. “The head of our guild, you idiot! Consider yourself lucky; it’s a great honor to be invited to see him. And now hurry along before the guards catch up!”

  Shaking his head, Simon followed the old man through the labyrinth of narrow lanes and trash-filled courtyards. Darting shadows reminded them that they weren’t alone.

  Magdalena awoke to a knocking sound that grew louder and louder. She was about to get up and give the troublemaker pounding at the door a slap when she realized the noise wasn’t coming from outside but from her own head. She slowly opened her cruste
d eyes but closed them again as a flash of light seared her pupils. Next she attempted a cautious squint as she groped for a pitcher of water she vaguely remembered had been standing beside the bed when she collapsed the night before. She grabbed it and poured its cold contents all over her face. Spluttering, she shook the water from her hair. The pounding had stopped, but a sharp ache still coursed through her head in waves.

  The thought of waves immediately made her nauseous.

  Suppressing the need to throw up, she tried to remember the night before. The fire in the bathhouse, their narrow escape, their arrival at the Whale… After Simon went up to bed, she’d loitered down in the tavern, showing the men there that holding one’s liquor wasn’t just a matter of body weight or years of training. The Kuisls were widely known for their cast-iron stomachs. The night before any execution, Magdalena’s father would get so drunk that Anna-Maria Kuisl had to lug him cursing and hollering into their bed in the wee hours of the morning. Yet odd as it was, without fail the hangman would be on the scaffold stone-cold sober just a few hours later, even if he did look rather grim—an appropriate appearance for a hangman on execution day. Magdalena had apparently inherited this particular brand of stamina from her father. Throughout the night she had also chewed on some of the bitter black coffee beans Simon so adored, and that had no doubt helped her stay at least partly sober.

  Simon?

  “Simon? Are you there?” she croaked, feeling the empty bed beside her. She sat up with a moan. The medicus must have gone downstairs already. She wondered whether he was still angry at her for having stayed down in the tavern the night before, drinking with the little Venetian. She opened the door and staggered down the stairway, her head pounding. The scent of frying bacon permeated the air, causing her stomach to rumble loudly. In the main room she saw the tavern keeper behind the bar, helping herself that very moment to a slug of brandy.