“But where do you want to go?” Magdalena asked. “Don’t forget we’re still wanted for arson. There’s no place up there where we’d be as secure.”
Simon grinned. “I know a place where the guards can’t get to us.”
The hangman’s daughter raised her bushy eyebrows. “And where would that be?”
“The bishop’s palace,” Simon said, triumphant. “I even have an invitation.” The medicus reached into his pocket and fished out the beer-stained document Brother Hubertus had given him and waved it under Magdalena’s nose. Before she could say a word, he went on.
“I met the bishop’s brewmaster this morning—a wise, well-read monk. I left the powder in his care so he could examine it.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Magdalena had to get hold of herself to keep her voice from rising. “You gave the only possible piece of evidence we have to a complete stranger? Why didn’t you just scatter it to the winds from the balcony of city hall? No doubt you also told this bishop’s servant about the alchemist’s workshop!”
Simon raised his hands, trying to calm her down. “Don’t worry. He doesn’t know a thing. And, that said, I’m not going to ask about all the things you may have blabbed to that old Venetian goat. You trust your dwarf just as much as I trust my fat brewmaster. Understood?”
“Keep Silvio out of this, will you?”
“Silvio? Aha!” Simon sneered. “At least we have the first two letters of our names in common. But never mind that…” He turned serious again. “I think Brother Hubertus would have no objection to our lodging at his place. Nobody will think to look for us in the bishop’s palace.”
“And how do you think you’ll…”
Magdalena broke off when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Torchlight filled the doorway, but it took a while for them to recognize Nathan’s dimly backlit face. The beggar king wore such a broad grin that his golden incisors sparkled like crown jewels, even in the half light.
“Ah, there you are, my dears,” he said. For a brief moment Magdalena feared Nathan had been eavesdropping on their entire conversation and had come over only because he wanted to silence them. Instead, he just stood stock-still, his hand extended cordially.
“I’ve looked for you everywhere,” he said, sounding somewhat peeved. “I was worried when I didn’t see you leave the cathedral this morning.”
“Oh, but we left,” Magdalena replied curtly, trying to conceal her initial fear. “The one who never showed was you!”
Nathan cocked his head to the side. “Then we’ll have to blame the damned morning fog. Who knows?” As he turned to leave, he said, “Upstairs there’s a little boy with a very high fever and a cough. Could the Herr Medicus have a look?”
Simon nodded silently, and together they climbed the crumbling narrow stairway up to the rooms above. Nathan lit the way for them with his lantern, pausing at every low doorway to bow slightly and wave Magdalena ahead of him. Such gestures had just recently seemed witty, even comical, to her; but now she found them obsequious and insincere.
“Our brother Paulus rescued an abandoned barrel of brandy from the street,” Nathan told them with a grin as they hurried through the passageways. “It was just standing there in front of the Black Elephant Tavern. In his boundless mercy Paulus decided to take the barrel in. If you hurry, there may still be a drop or two left.”
When the beggar king rounded a corner and disappeared, Simon pulled Magdalena close.
“This is our chance!” he whispered. “Once they’re all drunk, we’ll pack our things and clear out.”
Nathan’s face suddenly reappeared from around the corner. A glint of suspicion shone in his eyes. “Why are you whispering?” he snapped. “We don’t have any secrets between us, do we?”
Magdalena put on her sweetest smile. “Simon was just telling me how nice it might be to be alone together tonight. I’m sure you don’t want to know the details.”
“Young lovers!” the beggar king exclaimed, rolling his eyes theatrically toward the ceiling. “They’re always thinking of just one thing. But first you’ll have to fill me in on what happened this morning in the cathedral.”
“Later, later,” Simon replied. “The little sick boy comes first.”
He squeezed Magdalena’s hand, and together they hurried through the narrow, crumbling corridors and archways toward the large subterranean hall. The beggars’ catacombs didn’t feel so much like home anymore.
After countless hours in near total darkness, Jakob Kuisl had the feeling the roof was closing in on him. This room was slightly larger than his cell in the dungeon, but he still felt as if an iron vise were clamped around his chest, squeezing him tighter and tighter.
Kuisl was a man reared on sunlight and forests. Even as a child, he’d never been able to endure being cooped up. Sunlight and green moss, birdcalls and the rustle of pines and beeches—all these were as essential to him as the air he breathed. It was in the dark, then, that the shadows of the past lurked. In the dark the Great War reached long, shadowy arms out to seize him…
Blood trickling down onto the furrowed field like a light summer rain, the screams of the wounded, the muffled sound of cannon fire, the sharp odor of gunpowder… Germans, Croats, Hungarians, Italians, Frenchmen, Spaniards, all united in a shrill, monstrous chorus. In the vanguard, men with pikes over five paces long; behind them, musketeers and dragoons, sitting high atop their horses and thrashing away at the surging mob in front of them.
He is Jakob, the hangman’s son, the man with the two-handed sword. In his pack he has stowed a certificate validating his mastery of the longsword. As a “double mercenary,” he receives twice the pay of an ordinary soldier. A sergeant, their leader.
He is one of them.
When they are encamped before the gates of the city, the surrounding countryside is like a festering wound. The villages are scorched and deserted, the farmers are dead or have long since fled into the forests and swamps. His men now and then capture a ragged figure and hang the poor wretch by his feet over the fire. Where are your cattle? Out with it! Where have you stashed your silver? Where are the women? Speak! They force a tube down the farmer’s throat and fill it with urine and feces until he chokes. Spit it out! Talk! Die, you bastard! They take whatever they lay their hands on, then set the shabby cottages on fire.
How often has he watched this from afar? How often have his men ridden back into camp with bloodstained coats and a mad light in their eyes? He never asks. He keeps silent because that’s war. Because men have a gnawing hunger and a desire for women, and the long wait inflames them. Because he knows they respect him only for his strength and his courage. Because he fears punishment… Because…
Because he’s afraid?
Kuisl couldn’t take it anymore. He had to get out of here. Gasping, he struggled to his feet and leaned against the barrel blocking the low entrance. It was just yesterday that Teuber had wrenched Kuisl’s shoulder back into its socket. It throbbed now with pain, and the wounds on his arms and legs felt as if they were on fire. From outside the room he probably could have rolled the barrel aside, but from here all he could do was try to push with all his strength against the hundred-pound barrier. He braced his legs and bore down with his bandaged back against the wooden surface, biting his lip to avoid crying out in pain.
There was a soft scraping sound, and a crack of faint light appeared between the barrel and the wall.
Again the hangman pressed against the wooden barrier until the crack was at last wide enough to slip through. On the other side he collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily as the room around him began to spin. He closed his eyes and waited until his dizziness subsided.
The effort of moving the wine barrel had robbed him of much of the strength he’d gathered in the past few hours. But at least he was able to get to his feet and walk around unassisted now. He stood up straight and looked around the damp cellar. A smoking torch near the stairway cast a dim light over the room. Lined up along the walls
among wine casks were barrels of sauerkraut. Smoked sausages and legs of pork hung from the low ceiling, and dried cherries, onions, and withered apples from the previous year lay in straw-filled baskets. Kuisl took an apple and bit into it.
It tasted wonderful.
While the hangman ground the apple’s flesh in his teeth, he pondered his next move. Outside it was probably night now. He could walk straight up the stairs, out the front door, and disappear into the darkness. But how far would he get once he was out there? If Fat Thea was right, if Kuisl was actually being sought for two more murders, every bailiff in the city would be looking for him. The gates would be under strict surveillance. He could possibly flee across the Danube; Kuisl was a good swimmer and the summer current wasn’t as strong as in springtime. He might even be able to break out over the city wall. But something held him back; something kept him from fleeing at once.
Magdalena.
Where was she hiding? Could she already be in the clutches of this madman? Was he torturing her now that his adversary had escaped? Kuisl couldn’t leave this city until he knew Magdalena was safe.
He felt warm juice running down his pant leg. Unwittingly he’d crushed the apple to a pulp in his palm.
He heard a sudden commotion from the ground floor above. Someone was pounding on the front door. The voice of Fat Thea answered.
“Yes, yes, gentlemen! Please be patient! My girls are absolutely wild to get their hands on you. No one’s going anywhere, believe me!”
Kuisl cringed. The aldermen! He’d completely forgotten about them. He heard the door creak softly and shortly thereafter, laughter and a loud chorus of voices. The procuress hadn’t lied. It did seem in fact as if half the town council had joined the party.
“Come right on in, gentlemen!” Fat Thea’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs. “There’s something here for everyone. Hey there, girl, let’s take it upstairs, please; there’s nothing of interest downstairs anyway.”
The hangman instinctively withdrew as he heard footsteps on the cellar stairs, but the sound receded soon and was lost in the upper reaches of the house. Evidently someone had just taken a wrong turn.
After a while he heard giggling and shouting upstairs, indicating the girls were receiving their guests now. There was a sound of breaking glass and of doors opening and closing, a sign that the men were withdrawing to the rooms with their playmates. Kuisl was just about to hide behind the wine barrel again when he heard someone knocking on the front door—no doubt a late arrival.
“Just a moment, I’m coming!”
Fat Thea opened the door to greet the new arrival.
“Oh, what an honor!” she purred. “I haven’t seen you here for a long time.”
“I’ve been rather busy of late,” the man replied. “I hope you haven’t forgotten the whip.”
“Of course I haven’t, silly boy. But this time don’t hit so hard, you hear? Or it will cost you a guilder extra. The girls have complained.”
The man chuckled softly to the sound of coins dropping into a purse.
“Then here are two more guilders right off,” he whispered. “Because believe me, this time it’s going to hurt. There’s a rage in my belly, and it’ll take more than one girl to fix that. Let’s go.”
As he crouched on the cellar floor, the Schongau hangman’s blood froze. Only after the stranger’s footsteps began to fade away did Kuisl’s mind spring back to life again.
He knew this voice. He knew it better than his own by now. He’d heard it all too often these past days and nights, even in his nightmares.
It was the voice of the third inquisitor.
Just after dusk Simon and Magdalena tiptoed through the subterranean hall, around the beggars, who had drunk the barrel of brandy down to the last drop and were now sprawled all over the cellar floor, sleeping it off. Every now and then one would moan and roll over in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent. Simon threaded his way through a litter of gnawed bones, smashed cups, and pools of vomit, careful not to stumble over any of the beggars. Nathan was slumped in a corner, his chin to his chest, cradling a clay mug. For a moment Simon thought the beggar king might still be awake, but then, with a long rattling snore, he toppled over and lay motionless on the ground.
“Quick,” Magdalena whispered. “Let’s get out of here. Who knows when one of them will wake up?”
Simon squeezed her hand. “Just a moment.”
He hurried over to the curtained niche that had served as a sick bay the past few days and began to pack his medical utensils. Meanwhile Magdalena kept a nervous eye on Nathan, who was twitching in his sleep, licking his lips now and then. At some point he reached across the floor as if in search of the clay mug that had slipped out of his hand.
“Hurry!” she whispered. “I think he’s coming to!”
“I’ll be right there.” Simon was frantically gathering his books and stuffing them into the bag when a heavy volume of Dioscorides slipped from his sweaty fingers and fell to the floor with a crash.
“Damn!”
Bending down to retrieve it, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that one of Nathan’s eyes had opened a crack. He seemed to be dreaming, but Simon had the feeling the eye was staring at them disapprovingly. The next moment Magdalena was by Nathan’s side, placing the mug back gently into his hand. Murmuring, Nathan clutched it to his chest like a doll, rolled onto his side, and was soon snoring away calmly and evenly.
“Your damned books!” Magdalena whispered. “One of these days I’m going to make a bonfire of them. Now move!”
Simon hefted the heavy sack onto his shoulder and groped his way toward Magdalena, who was waiting for him impatiently by the exit. They ran along the narrow corridor until they came to the stairway leading up to the rear courtyard. As they hurried up its slick, moss-covered steps, they heard a sudden cry behind them—Nathan! Evidently he’d pulled himself together and had followed them.
“Hey, wait, where are you off to?”
Simon and Magdalena didn’t reply but continued on up the steep staircase. When the beggar king realized they intended to flee, he sprinted after them.
“What in God’s name is this all about?” he shouted. “Is this any way to say goodbye to your friends?”
Despite his drunken state, Nathan was astonishingly fast. He raced up the stairs, taking several steps at a time, and just managed to catch Magdalena by the hem of her skirt. Instinctively the hangman’s daughter kicked Nathan square in the face with her left foot. An awful crunching sound was followed by a shriek of pain. Magdalena had apparently knocked the two golden teeth right out of her pursuer’s mouth.
“Damned hangman’s bitch,” Nathan shouted, his voice sounding strangely garbled. “You’ll pay for this! My teesh, my bschootiful teesh!”
His curses turned to a wail as he stopped to gather the broken pieces of his precious teeth from the floor. Simon and Magdalena took advantage of the extra time to push a moldering cart in front of the opening.
“Sorry!” the hangman’s daughter called meekly. “They were crooked anyway. Simon will make you a new set, I promise!”
Outside, night had already fallen but clouds concealed the stars. The pair climbed over piles of foul-smelling garbage, then ran through the back courtyard toward a narrow passageway.
Soon they’d disappeared in the dark little streets of the city.
Jakob Kuisl stood motionless in the middle of the brothel cellar.
He was certain that his nemesis was directly above him! The third inquisitor had disappeared into one of the rooms upstairs and was amusing himself there with the prostitutes.
There’s a rage in my belly, and it’ll take more than one girl to fix that.
Kuisl would never forget that voice.
What now? His enemy wasn’t alone up there. No, half the city council kept him company, along with some soldiers from Peter’s Gate and a number of noisy prostitutes. If Kuisl went upstairs now, he’d almost certainly be caught.
; He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what would happen after that. The bailiffs would drag him back to his cell in chains, and this time darkness, torture, and ultimately the scaffold would be inevitable. On the rack he’d probably be forced to confess who had helped him escape, and every turn of the crank would bring the Regensburg executioner closer to his own demise.
And my daughter will be helpless, at the mercy of this madman…
Kuisl knew he didn’t want to risk all that, but he also couldn’t stay here, not with the devil incarnate having his way with the girls just two floors above him. The sound of those voices alone would drive him mad.
And so he had to leave, at once. But where could he go? The only refuge that came to mind was the house of the Regensburg executioner. Aside from Teuber, there was no one in Regensburg he trusted. Perhaps he could stay in the hangman’s house long enough to assure himself of Magdalena’s safety.
Kuisl tried rotating his newly adjusted shoulder and stretched his back. He still felt as if he’d fallen from the roof of a house, but thanks to Teuber’s bandages and the ointment, the pain wasn’t so bad. If he didn’t run too quickly, if he paced himself along the way and hid in doorways and niches to rest, he’d make it to Teuber’s house all right. Fortunately the executioner had mentioned the name of his street in the course of one of their conversations. He’d even boasted about his pretty house, his wife, and his five darling children. Now Kuisl would have a chance to meet them.
Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, the hangman groped his way up the stairs until he was standing at the heavy front door. Softly he pushed back the bolt and looked out into the cloudy night. Despite the pleasant cool temperature, the air still reeked of garbage and sewage, but the scents of wheat, meadows, marshland, and forests were here as well. Soon he’d be out in them again.
He was just about to step out into the street when he heard a door slam upstairs.
The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale Page 30
