The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Simon got up and went over to a corner of the hall for a better look at his patients. Fat blowflies swarmed around him as if to welcome their new guest.

  What Jakob Kuisl missed most was not the sunlight and fresh air but his beloved tobacco. The guards had confiscated his pack, which held his tin of the sweet-smelling weed.

  The hangman sighed and wet his parched lips with his tongue. He’d paid a sinful price for the tobacco he ordered specially from Augsburg, and he needed it the way others needed drink—especially when he had to think. He missed his beloved pipe now more than ever, as he lay on the cold floor of his cell, hands tucked behind his head, staring out into the darkness and thinking back on the trial that morning, which had made him realize just how hopeless his situation really was.

  They had hauled him up to the office, where they read the short indictment to him. The president of the council and the three lay assessors were convinced of his guilt from the outset: his presence at the crime scene and the will spoke volumes. Only Kuisl’s confession was needed to settle the matter. But the Schongau hangman insisted on his innocence and, in the end, even grew combative. Finally it took four bailiffs to bind his hands and feet and drag him back to his cell.

  Ever since, Kuisl could do nothing but wait to be tortured.

  He was certain they’d begin soon. The matter demanded immediate attention—the accusations were too grave. Once the torture began, it all depended on him to determine how long it was before the sentence was pronounced and the execution carried out. The longer he held out, the more time Magdalena and Simon would have to find the real killer.

  There is a reaper, Death’s his name…

  The hangman slapped his forehead but couldn’t get the accursed song out of his mind. He felt as if he were imprisoned twice over—once in this cell and again in his head. The memories were the prelude to his impending torture.

  For the hundredth time his gaze wandered over the cell wall, stopping at a bright, smooth spot in the wood. At Kuisl’s request the Regensburg executioner had left the small hatch in the door open so that the scribbling on the walls was legible in the faint light. Kuisl recognized some old sayings and names, among them a handful of initials. Only a few prisoners were able to write out their whole names, and some signed their confessions with simple crosses or initials. Often their last messages to the world were therefore just a few lines or circles carved laboriously into the wood.

  Kuisl read the letters and dates: D. L., January 1617; J. R., May 1653; F. M., March 1650; P.F.K. Weidenfeld, anno domini 1637…

  P.F.K. Weidenfeld, anno domini 1637?

  Kuisl stopped short. Something clicked in his head, but it remained vague and diaphanous. Was it possible?

  P.F.K. Weidenfeld, anno domini 1637…

  Kuisl was trying to concentrate when he heard footsteps coming down the corridor. The bolt was pushed aside, and a guard entered.

  “Your grub, you dog.” The soldier shoved a wooden dish toward him in which unidentifiable lumps were floating around in a grayish sludge. The man stood, waiting. When Kuisl didn’t react, the bailiff cleared his throat, then dug around in his nostril with his finger, as if a fat worm hid up there.

  “The hangman told me I had to bring the bowl back right away,” he said finally. “And the paperwork, too.”

  Kuisl nodded. The Regensburg executioner had sent him some paper, ink, and a quill, as promised. Until that moment Kuisl didn’t know what he wanted to say to his daughter. He hoped to give Magdalena some ideas about where to look for clues in the city, but the damned memories of the war kept distracting him. Now, all of a sudden, he had a vague thought, possibly just a whim, but Kuisl felt it worth looking into, since time was so short.

  “You’ll have to wait a while,” the hangman said. He took out the pen and ink and hastily scribbled some lines on the paper while the guard drummed his fingers impatiently against the door. Finally Kuisl folded the paper and handed it to the bailiff. “Here. And you can take back the soup, as well, and feed it to the pigs.”

  The hangman kicked the steaming bowl, sending it flying into the corridor where it landed with a clatter.

  “Later, I promise you, you’ll beg for a bowl of soup half as delicious as that one,” the surprised guard replied. “You’ll whimper and pray when Teuber has at you with the red-hot pincers. You’ll die like a dog, you goddamned Bavarian, and I’ll be standing there, front and center, when he breaks you on the wheel.”

  “Yes, yes, very well. Now get moving,” Kuisl snarled.

  The guard swallowed his rage and turned to leave. Just as he was about to bolt the door, Kuisl looked up at him.

  “Ah, and if you intend not to deliver that letter,” the Schongau hangman said casually, “I’ll see that Teuber breaks your bones, slowly, one after the other. He doesn’t like it, you know, when people try to put one over on him, you understand?”

  The door slammed shut and the bailiff withdrew. Once again Kuisl’s thoughts turned back to the war, the murder, the pain. He stared at the initials on the wall and tried to remember.

  P.F.K. Weidenfeld, anno domini 1637…

  The letters gnawed at his subconscious—eliciting just an inkling, an image from long ago, from another life.

  Men’s laughter, the crackling of burning rooftops, a long, excruciating wail, then silence… Jakob Kuisl is holding the sword in his hand like a scythe.

  Kuisl knew that if he had just an ounce of tobacco, the pipe would bring the image into focus.

  In the corridor the guard squeezed the folded letter in his hands and cursed softly. Who the hell did this damn hangman think he was? The king of France? Never before had a prisoner spoken to him like that. Particularly not one about to face the gallows. Just what was this Bavarian thinking?

  The bailiff thought back on Kuisl’s threat. The Regensburg executioner had indeed sent him to the cell to pick up that damned letter. No doubt Philipp Teuber was to pass the paper along to some relative—a last farewell from a condemned man seeking consolation and perhaps even a few sweets to uplift him at the end. That wasn’t uncommon.

  But what the executioner didn’t know was that someone else had promised the bailiff a tidy sum for the privilege of having a look at the letter before handing it over to Teuber.

  Grimacing, the guard secured the paper in his jacket pocket and strode out into the city hall square, whistling. As arranged, the stranger was waiting for him in Waaggässchen Lane in front of the constabulary. The man was stooped and, despite the summer heat, had turned up his coat collar to obscure his face. No one would be able to say later who he was; even the guard who delivered the letter in exchange for a bag of coins would be unable to describe him afterward. The man’s movements were too fluid; his appearance, nondescript. Everything about the man was calm and collected, except for his eyes.

  As he hastily unfolded the letter, they seemed to glow with hatred.

  At once a cold smile spread across his face. He took out another piece of paper and wrote a few lines on it, then tucked the real letter inside his coat.

  “I’ll pose a riddle for the girl and this quack,” he whispered, more to himself than to the guard. “Sometimes you have to throw the dog a bone so it has something to chew on. Or else they’ll draw some very stupid conclusions. Here, give this to Teuber.” With these words, he handed the guard the paper.

  As the bailiff entered the bustling city hall square, he felt such relief that he dropped his first few coins right away on a strong glass of wine. Nevertheless, cold shivers ran up and down his spine.

  There were people you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, and then there were people you wouldn’t wish even on an alleged murderer.

  7

  REGENSBURG

  NOON, AUGUST 20, 1662 AD

  DO YOU HAVE any idea what might be detaining your amico?”

  Silvio Contarini gallantly offered Magdalena his arm. She hesitated briefly, then permitted the Venetian to guide her through the narrow Regensburg streets
, while she towered over him by at least a full head.

  “To be honest, no,” she said uncertainly. “Perhaps he just stepped out for a breath of fresh air. I only hope nothing has happened to him.”

  “Didn’t you say he likes coffee?”

  Magdalena nodded. “Coffee and books, yes, he’s addicted to both.”

  “Then I know a place where Simon could be.”

  Silvio guided her along a wide paved avenue with oxcarts and coaches rumbling by. He took care to walk on the outside to shield her from the occasional splashes of mud from passing vehicles. The hangman’s daughter couldn’t help but smile. This man was a real cavalier! She decided to allow herself to feel like a lady, at least for a short time—to give herself over to the care of her diminutive companion.

  The two soon reached the city hall square. Across from the magnificent building was a neat, freshly whitewashed gabled tavern, complete with glass windows, bright stucco work, and a newly thatched roof. Patricians in wide trousers and tight-fitting jackets paraded in and out alongside brightly made-up women with broad-brimmed hats and elaborate pinned-up hair. Silvio tugged at Magdalena’s sleeve impatiently, pulling her toward the entry.

  “You don’t believe they’ll let me in, looking the way I do!” she whispered, horrified. “I look like a despicable chambermaid!”

  The little Venetian examined her uncertainly. “That may in fact be a problem. Take this,” he said, handing Magdalena his cloak. Only then did she notice that a small dagger was tied to the inside of the Venetian’s belt, its handle inlaid with rubies.

  “Later we’ll find you some clothes more befitting your beauty,” Silvio said resolutely. “We can’t allow a bella signorina such as yourself to go running around looking like a washerwoman.”

  Magdalena pulled the wide, much too warm woolen cloak over her shoulders until only her face and her shaggy black hair were visible. She could only hope that no one noticed her shoes. She also realized that after the previous night’s events, she no doubt had a strong odor.

  “Oh, God, I can’t do it…”

  “Come now!” Silvio nudged her into a lavishly furnished taproom filled mostly with elderly gentlemen and flashy young ladies at their sides. The Venetian found two free seats and snapped his fingers. Shortly thereafter a smartly dressed maid appeared, curtsied several times, and set out a steaming pot of coffee and two cups.

  “As far as I know, this is the first coffeehouse in the whole German Empire,” the Venetian said, filling Magdalena’s cup to the brim. “At least I haven’t heard of any other. And believe me, I would hear of it.” He slurped his coffee with great relish. “If your friend likes coffee as much as I do, it’s quite possible we’ll find him here.”

  Magdalena gazed around at the guests, though she knew in advance it was wasted effort. “Nonsense!” she whispered. “How would Simon know about a place like this?”

  The Venetian shrugged. “So be it. At least the two of us will have the chance to get to know each other better now.”

  Chuckling, Magdalena took a sip of the hot, stimulating drink. “Admit it, you set this up. You wanted only to be alone with me.”

  “Would that be a crime?”

  The hangman’s daughter sighed. “You are incorrigible! Very well, then,” she said, leaning toward the Venetian, “tell me about yourself. Who are you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a frequent and welcome visitor in this establishment who is always scrupulous in paying his rather exorbitant bills,” Silvio said with a grin.

  Then all at once he turned serious. “This city is very important for la vecchia Venezia, you know,” he continued. “Especially now, when representatives from all over the world are here to discuss how to proceed against the Turks.” He raised his cup solemnly. “The Moslems gave us this marvelous drink, but unfortunately they now wish to do us the dubious honor of exporting their religious beliefs as well. Thus, my doge, in his infinite wisdom, decided I should take up residence as his permanent ambassador in the mightiest city of the German Empire.”

  “You are the representative of Venice in Regensburg?” Magdalena gasped. “But why then are you living at the Whale? I mean—”

  Silvio waved her off. “No, no, I don’t live there, but—come si dice—the boredom!” He rolled his eyes theatrically. “All these smartly dressed ambassadors, always the same old conversations… politics, ugh! This evening, again, I have to host another mindless ball.” He folded his hands as if in prayer. “D’una grazia vi supplico, signorina! Lend me the honor of your company at the ball. It will be my only light in these dreary hours! You’ll be my salvation!”

  Magdalena’s laugh stuck in her throat.

  Seated at a neighboring table, a man in a dark cloak had pulled his hood far down over his face, but the hangman’s daughter was nevertheless certain he was watching them. In contrast to the other guests, the stranger was neither smoking a pipe nor drinking coffee. He sat hunched over as if he had become part of his chair.

  “The man opposite us,” she whispered, assuming an icy, forced smile to avoid attracting suspicion. “Don’t look now, but I believe he’s watching us.”

  Silvio raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  “Believe me, I’ve had some experience with this sort of thing as of late. This stranger isn’t the first one in my life I’ve caught spying on me.”

  “If that’s the case…” The Venetian ambassador placed a few silver coins on the table and slowly stood up. “We’ll leave by the back door. If he follows us, we’ll know you’re right.”

  Nodding and greeting people amiably as they passed, the pair crossed the crowded room to an inconspicuous door. They hurried up a staircase to the floor above, ran along a dark corridor, and finally arrived at an opening so tiny it seemed more like a window than a door. Silvio pressed the door handle and nudged Magdalena onto a ramshackle balcony. A ladder led down into a back courtyard stacked with old boxes and barrels. The Venetian put his finger to his lips and pointed down. Magdalena sensed Silvio was well acquainted with this escape route. Her heart pounding, she began to descend the rungs behind him.

  Just as they reached the courtyard below, the man in the black cloak appeared on the balcony above them.

  Their pursuer’s hood was still pulled over his face as he leaned over the railing and stared down at them like a hawk eyeing its prey. Magdalena had no time to get a closer look, though, for in the next instant he was clattering down the ladder. The last several yards he took in a single leap, spreading his cloak around him like wings. When he landed, he turned and started toward them quick as a shadow in the dark, a long, narrow rapier glinting in his hand.

  Screaming, the hangman’s daughter jumped behind a stack of crates. From her hiding spot she watched in horror as Silvio drew his dagger and attacked the man. The stranger was poised for attack, his rapier in front of him, ready to lunge at any moment. Without the slightest sound, Silvio rushed forward, his dagger circling in the air, but the man skillfully sidestepped him, then thrust upward with his rapier, slicing the silk sleeve of Silvio’s coat clean off.

  Magdalena was shocked to see blood dripping from the tear in Silvio’s jacket and noticed he was limping slightly. It couldn’t be long before the stranger attacked straight on and plunged his rapier into Silvio’s chest.

  And I’ll be next…

  Frantically, Magdalena looked all around until her gaze fell on a huge wine barrel, almost as big as a man. She ran toward it and shoved as hard as she could. It seemed empty. Groaning, she pushed against its damp staves with all her strength until it teetered a moment, then tipped over with an earsplitting crash. It rolled toward the stranger, gaining momentum, as he cursed and struggled to jump aside. But it was too late—the barrel bowled him over and burst against the opposite wall, sending splinters flying through the air.

  The stranger remained motionless on the ground for a moment, then struggled to get up, groping for his rapier, which had landed nearby. Before he could pull himself
together, however, Silvio had seized Magdalena by the arm, drawn her to the door of an adjacent house, pushed her inside, and slammed the bolt closed. When the stranger arrived at the door, he started banging furiously on the other side.

  “Grazie!” the Venetian panted. “That was close. You were right; we really were being followed.”

  They ran through the house and out the front door into the street, where the usual traffic—wagons, coaches, and pedestrians, all chattering and complaining—streamed by slowly. It was as if the pair had entered a wholly different world oblivious to the danger lurking just a few steps away. Most people didn’t even turn to glance at them.

  At the next street corner Silvio stopped, leaning against the wall of a house to examine the rip in his jacket and the blood on his finger, which he eventually licked off.

  “Santa Madonna!” he panted. “What in the world have you gotten yourselves into?”

  The hangman’s daughter shrugged. “Unfortunately I don’t know that myself. I don’t know who this man is or why he’s following us. He may be the very same man who last night…” She hesitated.

  “What do you mean, last night?”

  Magdalena shook her head. She decided for the time being not to tell the Venetian anything about their break-in at the bathhouse. “Nothing. I’m probably just seeing ghosts.”

  Silvio touched the bloody tear in his jacket again.

  “Well, it certainly looks like I need a new jacket.” He grinned and pointed at Magdalena. “And so do you.”

  The hangman’s daughter looked down at herself. She’d lost Silvio’s cloak in the scuffle. The coarse linen dress she wore underneath was tattered, and her bodice was splattered with red wine. She looked as if she’d just barely escaped a barroom brawl with a gang of prostitutes.