The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “No, thanks,” the medicus mumbled. “My head… is a bit thick today.”

  The raftmaster shrugged and took another slug.

  “This is contraband, too,” he muttered, licking his lips. “But tobacco is better—easier to stash away, and there’s more profit in it.”

  He cast a suspicious side glance at the medicus. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are? If I hadn’t recognized you right away, you’d be nailed up inside a barrel, floating down the Danube by now. What are you doing here, anyway? Didn’t I tell you you’d be better off back in your little Bavarian cow town with that little girl of yours?”

  Simon sighed deeply. “As it turns out, that girl of mine just happens to be the daughter of the Schongau hangman, who’s due to be hanged, broken on the wheel, or even drawn and quartered right here in Regensburg. Magdalena is hell-bent on doing everything to save him.”

  “And you, too, I suppose? This girl has you on a pretty tight leash.” Gessner grinned and poked Simon in the chest. “But you can forget about all of that—Kuisl is as good as dead.”

  “There may still be a way out,” Simon said. “Something’s not quite right with your assumption that the aldermen are behind all this.”

  “I don’t see the problem,” Gessner said. “It’s obvious. The patricians want their revenge on us, the freemen, so they had Hofmann stabbed to death and went looking for a scapegoat. And then Kuisl came along at just the right time.”

  “All this trouble to get the Schongau hangman to Regensburg—the letter, the forged will, the trial. Why would the patricians do all that, cook up something so elaborate?” Simon persisted. “Just for revenge?”

  “So what do you, in your infinite wisdom, think happened then?” Gessner asked peevishly.

  Simon shrugged. “I don’t know. Someone who’s obviously trying to get revenge on Kuisl must have set this all up. I have no idea who—perhaps it’s this Weidenfeld who keeps sending these cryptic letters… or perhaps some other complete lunatic. Who knows? But there are still a few things I don’t understand. Did you know, for example, that Andreas Hofmann had a secret alchemist’s workshop?”

  “An alchemist’s workshop?” Gessner frowned.

  The medicus nodded. “We found a secret room in his cellar where some kind of alchemical experiments were taking place. There were traces of a strange-smelling bluish powder that unfortunately, just like everything else down there, has by now been reduced to ash. Did you know about this room?”

  The raftmaster was silent for a long time; he took a long swig of brandy before finally replying. “Hofmann actually was dabbling in alchemy,” he said. “I wasn’t aware of the secret room, but I suspected something of the sort. For years Andreas had been in search of this…” He paused briefly. “Well, of this stone they’ve all been trying to produce.”

  “The philosopher’s stone,” Simon whispered.

  Gessner nodded. “Exactly. He thought he was getting close to being able to turn iron into gold. Naturally, none of us believed him, and truthfully we even made fun of him a bit. It was just such a crazy idea, though perhaps there really was something more to it. A few days before he died he was hinting that he would very soon be a very wealthy man—”

  “So maybe that’s what happened!” Simon leaped out of his chair and paced the little room excitedly. “Hofmann is on his way to creating something very valuable in his workshop—perhaps the philosopher’s stone even. Whatever it is, the Regensburg patricians are very eager to get their hands on it. They question him, but when he doesn’t give them what they want, they kill him and his wife—or have them killed. It’s a delicate matter—there may even be others we’re not aware of, all of whom are after the same thing. So the aldermen have to see to it that not even the slightest suspicion falls on them. That would explain why they lured Kuisl to Regensburg. They have to ensure everything looks like an ordinary robbery-murder. The whole thing really has nothing to do with the freemen at all!” Simon was worked up now. “Once the Hofmanns are dead, the patricians have the whole house ransacked. But they can’t find the philosopher’s stone, because Hofmann hid it down in his workshop!”

  “So?” Gessner asked curiously. “Where’s this stone now?”

  Simon settled back down on the crate and sighed. “We’ll probably never find out. Perhaps the stone is still down there; perhaps Hofmann hid it somewhere else. The bathhouse is no more than a heap of rubble and no one’s going to find anything there now. But I’m sure the strange powder has something to do with it.”

  The raftmaster thought it over, nodding as he fumbled with his red bandanna. “You may be on to something, and I just may be able to find something in those ruins yet. I have my sources…” He fingered his jet-black beard. “If I learn anything, I’ll let you know. Are you still staying at the Whale?”

  Simon shook his head. “That was too dangerous… for various reasons. No, for now we’re living with the beggars guild.”

  “The beggars guild?”

  “I have an agreement with the beggar king,” Simon replied curtly. “I heal his sick, and in return he guarantees our safety.”

  “Hmm,” Gessner mused. “Not that it’s any business of mine, but does the beggar king know about the alchemist’s workshop?”

  “We told Nathan about it,” Simon replied. “Why do you ask?”

  The Regensburg raftmaster clicked his tongue. “If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t trust him further than I can spit. Nathan will do anything for money. How else do you think he and his people can tramp about here in Regensburg without anyone bothering them?”

  “Do you think…?”

  “I don’t think; I know. More than once I’ve seen Nathan turn someone over to the city officials or pass information to the guards. And you’d better believe some people would pay a pretty penny for such a stone.”

  “I never thought of that.” Simon frowned. “Perhaps you’re right and we should really consider a change in our accommodations.”

  “You could hide out here at my place, if you like.” The raftmaster pointed behind him. “It’s as safe in here. No one will ever find you.”

  “Thanks, but I think I have an even better solution,” Simon replied in a soft voice as he stood up.

  “As you wish.” Gessner opened the bookshelf door. Light streamed into the room, nearly blinding Simon, who could only stand still for a moment, blinking.

  “If you hear any news, by all means let me know,” the raftmaster said as he stood there bathed in the sunlight. “And as far as this room is concerned—” He pulled Simon close. “—you know nothing. Clear?”

  Simon felt Gessner’s hot, brandy-soaked breath on his face. “My lips are sealed. Promise.”

  “Good,” Gessner replied, patting the medicus on the shoulder. “Perhaps I’ll send you a crate of tobacco. Do you smoke?”

  Simon shook his head with a smile. “Not me, but I know someone who would be more than happy with such a gift. First, however, we’ve got to save his life.”

  11

  REGENSBURG

  NOON, AUGUST 24, 1662 AD

  THE STUFFY AIR in the brothel’s hidden room was keeping Kuisl from getting the sleep he very much needed. Teuber had left him only a few hours ago, but the Schongau hangman felt as if he’d been in this hole an eternity. It didn’t stink of urine or excrement like the cell in the city hall, but there was no light here and no air, just Jakob and his thoughts.

  He sighed and groped around him on the floor until he finally found a solid object. A carafe of wine! He almost knocked the vessel over but at the last moment was able to grab hold of it. Carefully he brought it to his lips, and as the cool, invigorating liquid wet his parched palate, fresh strength seemed to flow through his body. The wine was watery but nonetheless strong and numbing enough to make him drowsy.

  Just as he was drifting off to sleep, a scraping sound echoed outside the room. The wine barrel blocking the entrance was being pushed aside, and by the light of the lantern the Schongau h
angman saw Dorothea’s face, dripping with sweat. The fat procuress, who had evidently moved the makeshift barricade aside all by herself, was peering down at him now with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity.

  “Just wanted to make sure you were still here,” she whispered. “And since you are, it couldn’t have been you then after all.”

  “What?” Kuisl croaked, lifting himself to a seated position against the cool, damp wall of the tiny chamber. “What couldn’t have been me?”

  “The murder in the bathhouse this morning,” Dorothea replied. “Or did you have something to do with it?”

  Kuisl blinked in the harsh light of the lantern. “This morning? I don’t understand… Lisl and Hofmann… that was days ago…”

  “You ninny,” the procuress replied. “I don’t mean Hofmann’s bathhouse but the bathhouse on Hackengässchen Street. The master baker, Haberger, was strangled there, and the bathhouse mistress, Marie Deisch, was found in a wooden washtub with her throat slit. So it really wasn’t you?”

  The hangman shook his head silently.

  “From the looks of you it’s actually pretty hard for me to imagine it,” Fat Thea said. “I don’t think you could even cut your own throat right now.” She placed the lantern on the floor and entered the dark chamber. “Lots of people sure would be happy if they could find someone to blame for all the murders happening around here of late. My girls don’t even dare set foot in the streets since this stranger’s been out on the prowl.”

  “What stranger?” Kuisl asked hesitantly.

  Fat Thea gave him a suspicious look. “Are you truly that dumb, or is this an act? For the last few weeks prostitutes have been disappearing all over the city. You must have heard about that!”

  Kuisl shook his head, and the procuress sighed deeply.

  “No matter,” she continued. “All hell has broken loose over in the garrison. Every bailiff in Regensburg is out looking for you now, and the city gates are so well guarded you’d think the devil himself were on the loose! They want to pin all the murders of the last few weeks on you. It’s like they’re hunting a wild animal!”

  “How do you know all this?” Kuisl whispered.

  “One of the soldiers at Peter’s Gate let me in on it,” Dorothea replied. “They tried to keep your escape under wraps because they were so embarrassed, but now, after Haberger’s murder, all the bailiffs are on full alert. The public still doesn’t know anything; the bailiffs are probably trying to avoid a general panic. But word is sure to spread fast. They’ll be inspecting every last mouse hole, and I have the council coming here tonight, damn it all to hell!” She kicked the wall so hard that some of the plaster came fluttering down, then took a deep breath and glared at Kuisl with her one eye.

  “I promised Philipp that you could stay here, but I didn’t say for how long. It’s bad enough I’ll have a house full of aldermen and soldiers tonight, but now I have a monster living in my wine cellar, too.” She hesitated a moment. “It’s too risky. You can stay tonight, but you’ll have to leave in the morning. I’ll pack up a few things for you—clothing, bread, everything you’ll need. Can you walk?”

  Kuisl nodded. “I can manage.”

  Dorothea sighed. “Don’t be angry with me, but I have a daughter—you understand—and…”

  “I have a daughter, too.” The hangman sighed. “I understand. Tomorrow I’ll be gone.”

  “Good. Then we’ve said all there is to say.”

  The procuress went out into the cellar and returned with a cold piece of roast and a full jug of wine.

  “Here,” she said. “It’ll help you get your strength back. You can put these new clothes on now. They may be a bit snug, but they’ll do.” She tossed him a little bundle. “Linen shirt, trousers, and simple leather shoes; you’ll look just like any other ordinary stable hand. Leave your old rags here, and I’ll bury them.”

  “God bless you.” Kuisl bit into the roast greedily.

  Fat Thea sat and watched him eat. “What’s your daughter’s name?” she finally asked.

  The hangman hastily swallowed a mouthful of food. “Magdalena. A real devil of a girl. If I ever see her again, I’m going to give her one hell of a whipping.”

  Dorothea smiled. “Just as long as you don’t slit her throat.”

  Lost in her own thoughts, the procuress took a sip from the jug of wine she had brought the hangman. “Don’t be too strict with your daughter,” she said, with some concern. “Growing children are like foals. If they’re not given room to run, they’ll lash out in every direction.”

  “That’s no excuse for her to go gadding all about this godforsaken city with her good-for-nothing sweetheart and leave her mother and our children all alone at home, the ungrateful little brat.” Kuisl wiped his hand across his mouth. “The little ones are likely crying their eyes out while the fine mademoiselle is making a show of herself around town.”

  But his real fear went unspoken: that Magdalena might at this very moment be in the hands of some lunatic, a lunatic bent on torturing her to get revenge on him.

  Dorothea whistled softly through her teeth. “Magdalena seems like a real little minx. What sort of mischief has she gotten herself into?”

  “Well, at the moment she’s trying to save me from the gallows,” Kuisl said. “I only hope nothing’s happened to her—her and that daft charlatan.”

  Curled up in the subbasement of the catacombs, Magdalena stared morosely at the flickering oil lamp in front of her.

  Shadows darted across the ancient foundation stones that still bore a few faintly legible Latin inscriptions. Simon once told her that long ago the Romans had built a settlement on this spot. Over the course of many centuries the city had grown up around these ruins: the Jewish quarter was established on this spot, and after the Jews were driven out, Neupfarrplatz, or Neupfarr Church Square, with its Protestant church, had been built. Here, deep underground, buried in its history, Magdalena felt as if she could hear the heart of Regensburg beating, and beating so loudly it drowned out the anxious pounding of her own heart. In this place she felt as safe as if she were in her mother’s womb.

  Mother…

  Magdalena closed her eyes. How could she have left her mother and the twins all alone, all for the sake of a tawdry dream of a new life in this strange city? Magdalena had been thinking only of herself, and of Simon, and now she’d failed everyone. Her father was still wasting away in a death cell, the victim of some conspiracy. Soon the Regensburg executioner would haul him up onto the scaffold, and she and Simon would be forced to watch the hangman break his bones. What would Mother say when Magdalena finally returned home?

  Could she ever go back?

  Magdalena’s thoughts also lingered on Simon. Where in the world could he be, and was he still angry at her on account of the Venetian ambassador? What had caused her to snap at him like that? Once again she’d bolted from him like a wild mare. Why couldn’t she control her temper?

  After her second visit to Silvio’s house, Magdalena knew she would never fit into his glittering, gaudy world. There was an insurmountable wall between Silvio’s life and her own, and she had now experienced firsthand the city’s cruelty, how mercilessly it dealt with anyone who didn’t belong. There were the citizens and then there was everyone else—the human dross, the beggars, whores, and street performers, the knackers and the hangmen…

  She would always belong to the dregs of society.

  Someone came running down the crumbling staircase now, startling Magdalena out of her reverie. She was just about to extinguish the light to hide in the darkness when she recognized the figure standing before her. Simon! She leaped up and ran toward him.

  “Simon! I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

  Not until that moment did she notice the grave expression in his eyes. She stopped in her tracks. “What’s happened?”

  With his finger to his lips, Simon led her to the farthest corner of the old Roman vault.

  “Forget everything that’s ha
ppened up till now,” he whispered. “There’s something much more important we’ve got to deal with. We have to get out of here, tonight if possible.”

  “What are you saying?” Magdalena’s voice echoed through the room.

  Simon cringed, clapping his hand over her mouth. “For God’s sake, be quiet!” he gasped. “I have the feeling that all of Regensburg is conspiring against us now.”

  In a whisper he told Magdalena of his meeting with Gessner and of his suspicion that Nathan was in league with the city. He also told her about the philosopher’s stone.

  She listened with a furrowed brow. “So you think my uncle really did discover this stone?” she asked at last, a bit skeptical. “But isn’t it just some fantasy the alchemists peddled to their princes and sponsors to ingratiate themselves with them?”

  Simon shrugged. “Who knows? The stone is more a symbol than a real object. Paracelsus wrote about it; I attended a medical lecture on it at the university in Ingolstadt. Some people really believe some substance exists that can transform base metals into gold or silver, while there are others who speak of a powder that, when mixed with wine, will bestow health and eternal life. Aurum potabile, liquid gold, is what they call it.”

  “So it’s a medicine…” Magdalena nodded thoughtfully. “That’s something a bathhouse owner like Hofmann could really have used.”

  “Do you remember the mountains of burned flour down in the alchemist’s workshop?” Simon asked. “I’ve been thinking it over; I’m pretty sure it wasn’t flour. It may have been the very powder Mämminger was looking for. I pinched a sample as we were leaving.” He pulled Magdalena close to him. “We have to get away from here. I get the feeling Nathan’s been sounding us out for a while now. Do you remember how he insisted on coming with us into the cathedral? After that he disappeared, just like Mämminger and the murderer. And he was eavesdropping on us down in the catacombs as well. Gessner’s right! We can’t risk having Nathan follow us everywhere, only to have him call the bailiffs when he thinks we’re getting too close.”