The hay…
Doubled over, he ran toward the wagon as arrows rained down around him like hailstones. With his good right arm he grabbed the wagon shaft and turned the vehicle so that the rear was now facing the soldiers. Kuisl knew his strength was about to give out; this was his only chance.
Taking a deep breath, he ran to the middle of the courtyard, grabbed the burning torch from the ground, and threw it at the cart. In a flash the dry hay was ablaze, and the wagon an enormous fireball. Disregarding the brutal heat, Kuisl picked up the shaft again with his good arm and pushed with all his might. The burning wagon rolled backward toward the guards—the only way out. The bailiffs screamed and leaped aside, but burning hay bales fell on them, setting their hats and jackets on fire.
The wagon now began to gain speed. At last Kuisl reached the archway and headed straight for the narrow exit.
I have to make it… Oh, stubborn, irascible God, please, for Magdalena’s sake…
The wagon squeezed through the exit and rolled out into the Pfaffengasse. Kuisl gave the cart a final shove so that it veered to the left, crashing into a doorway, where it exploded. Burning hay and glowing splinters rained down as the flames began to spread.
Wheezing from the smoke, the hangman ran down the Pfaffengasse, looking back one last time. By now the fire had spread to the building’s ground floor and the shop window on the floor above. Everywhere citizens were shouting and running to the public well with buckets to get water. In spite of his pain, Kuisl couldn’t suppress a grin. This would keep the guards occupied for a while at least.
The hangman ran on a few yards, finally turning into a little side street, where he found a pair of old splintered barrels. One of them lay on its side, and with the last of his strength Kuisl folded up his legs and squeezed himself in so that he was no longer visible from the outside. Numbed by his fever and the wine fumes inside, he felt half dead as the shouts of the crowd gradually moved away. He closed his eyes and resisted the urge to fall asleep. He had to get out of here, at once. Where was Teuber? Where was his house, the safe house of the executioner, his friend…?
When Kuisl heard singing, he thought he was dreaming at first. The song was definitely not of this world, but from a time long ago.
Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home…
He listened in astonishment. The singing wasn’t coming from just anywhere, but from the street to the immediate left of where he was hiding. And it was no figment of his imagination but reality, pure and simple.
Your house is on fire, your children will burn…
Now the voice was right beside him, both off-key and very familiar.
“Do you really think we’re going to find your father this way?” Simon complained. “So far we’ve only managed to avoid being hit by a chamber pot—twice. And frankly, your singing leaves something to be desired.”
“It’s not about how well I sing, just that I’m singing,” Magdalena snapped. “The main thing is it’s loud enough for Father to hear me.”
Simon laughed. “Well, loud you are, all right. You’re even drowning out the alarm bells.”
They were moving slowly south from Neupfarr Church Square, winding through little side streets. Three times already they’d encountered bands of armed city guards, who on any other ordinary night and without a second thought would have thrown Magdalena and Simon into the House of Fools for disturbing the peace. But the pale, anxious guards were otherwise occupied now and simply peered intently at the strange couple before setting off again. Simon and Magdalena could hear the shouts of guards from every direction and then a far-off but very loud explosion.
“Let me think,” Magdalena whispered, already going hoarse from singing Hans, Hans, has fancy pants… The night of winter’s over… “I’m running out of songs. Can you think of another one?”
As a child, the hangman’s daughter often sang with her father. Now she hoped he might recognize her voice and the songs she chose. In this way, at least, she looked a lot less suspicious than if she were running around calling out his name. For the watchmen, as well as the curious onlookers who stared out at them from behind shutters, she looked like just another drunken prostitute staggering through the streets with a client.
Magdalena was struggling to think of another song when her face brightened in a flash.
“I have one more,” she said. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner!”
She started singing a lullaby her father always hummed to her just before bed. And as she did so, memories of her father passed through her mind in fragments.
The scent of sweat and tobacco as he bends down to me. Piggybacking on the shoulders of a giant who protects me from an evil world—strong, invincible, the god of my childhood…
Tears ran down her cheeks, but still she kept on singing.
“Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home…”
Suddenly a ghost emerged from a rotten wine barrel in the gutter and staggered to its feet. The enormous figure wore tattered trousers and a bloodstained linen shirt, its arms and legs covered with bandages and its face dusted with cinders. Magdalena knew at once who stood before her.
“Father, my God, Father!” she screamed, nearly hysterical, not giving a single thought to whether guards might be nearby. Quickly she covered her mouth with her hand and whispered, “Holy Saint Anthony, we’ve really found you. You’re alive!”
“Not for much longer if you keep on singing like that,” Kuisl replied as he staggered toward his daughter. Only now did Magdalena realize how severely wounded he was.
“We have to… get away… from here,” he stammered. “They’re… on our… trail. The third inquisitor…”
Magdalena frowned. “The third inquisitor? What are you talking about, Father?”
“I thought he’d caught you,” he said in a low voice. “He knows you and the name of your mother. The devil is out for revenge.”
“It’s got to be a fever,” Simon said. “Hallucinations that—”
“Weidenfeld!” Kuisl shouted through his pain. “He’s out for revenge!”
“My God!” Magdalena put her hand over her mouth again. “There’s that name again. Who’s this damned Weidenfeld?”
The alarm bells were still ringing, and over them the guards’ voices sounded suddenly much closer than before, only a few streets away now. A window opened directly above the little group, and a toothless old man in a nightcap glared down at them suspiciously.
“Quiet, goddamn it! You good-for-nothing drunks! If you want to have a good time, take your woman somewhere else!”
Simon grabbed the nearly unconscious hangman by the shoulder and led him quickly behind the barrels.
“The bishop’s palace,” he whispered to Magdalena, who knelt down next to him. “We have to go there and ask the church for asylum. That’s our only chance! We certainly won’t make it out of town tonight.”
“And do you really think the bishop will grant asylum to a suspected murderer?” Magdalena asked skeptically.
Simon nodded enthusiastically. “Asylum in the church has been sacred since time immemorial! Only the bishop has the power to make and enforce laws on lands belonging to the church, so once your father makes it there, the city guards are powerless.”
“Isn’t that just wonderful!” Magdalena rolled her eyes. “The bishop himself, rather than the city, will have the personal privilege of breaking my father on the wheel. What a relief!”
“At least we’ll gain some time,” Simon replied. “I’m sure once we know what your uncle’s alchemical experiments were all about, we’ll get a better handle on what the big secret is. Then maybe we can start to prove your father’s innocence.”
“And if not, then all this will have been for naught!” Magdalena shook her head. “Out of the question! My father’s free now. Why would I put him right back in danger again?”
“Just look at him!” Simon pointed at Kuisl, who crouched behind a wine barrel, his head hanging down to his chest, breathing
heavily. “We’ll be lucky if we can even make it to the bishop’s palace. But if we do, at least your father will get the care he obviously needs.”
All of a sudden the voices of the guards sounded very close, their footsteps pounding on the hard-packed clay soil. Magdalena watched as two of them charged around the corner and into the narrow lane. She held her breath; she could feel her exhausted father leaning hard against the barrel, and the barrel itself was now threatening to topple under his weight. Mustering all her might, she hugged her father close, hoping to keep both him and the barrel upright. The bailiffs raced past and soon disappeared in the darkness.
“Very well,” Magdalena whispered. “We’ll do as you say. But if they harm so much as a single hair on my father’s head, you’ll be sleeping alone for many years to come!”
Simon smiled. “Believe me, that’s the last thing on my mind at this point. Come on, now; let’s wake the sleeping giant.”
They gave Jakob Kuisl a few brisk slaps in the face until he came at least partway to, then each took an arm and led him away.
“We’ll get you to the cathedral square as fast as we can,” Simon whispered. “I hope the people will just figure we’re lugging a drunk friend home.”
“Get… your… hands… off me,” the hangman growled. “I can… walk by myself.”
“Don’t make such a fuss, Father,” Magdalena said. “It’ll do you some good if you let your daughter help you out a bit from time to time. You’re not a young fellow anymore.”
“Snotty little… bitch.” Kuisl gave up, collapsing into Simon’s and Magdalena’s arms. The hangman’s daughter doubted he had any idea what they planned to do with him.
“Let’s go now!” Simon urged. “Before the guards show up again.”
He and Magdalena stumbled through the dark city, shouldering the hangman’s dead weight between them. Kuisl collapsed again and again, forcing them to stop each time. Twice they encountered guards too busy to be bothered by a trio of revelers as they frantically poked their torches into every last nook and cranny in search of their convict. They had better things to do tonight than be distracted by a handful of drunks.
After an anxious quarter-hour Simon and Magdalena finally came to the deserted Krauterermarkt Square, where the entrance to the bishop’s palace was located. They were disappointed to find that the doors, nearly fifteen feet high, were locked.
“Damn!” Magdalena said. “We might have expected something like this.”
From a distance the heavy, iron-studded portal seemed about as inviting as the gates to hell. It rose above them darkly, ending at the top in a pointed arch and alcove displaying several coats of arms. In the left wing of the door they spotted a small porthole, also shut tight.
“How do you intend to get in?” Magdalena asked. “Just knock?”
“You forget I have an invitation from the bishop’s brewmaster.”
“Yes, for yourself. But does it include permission for a hangman’s daughter and a fugitive murderer?”
Simon rolled his eyes. “Must you always be so petulant? Before, we followed your plan; now, we’re going to follow mine. Is that all right?”
“So, then, what is it exactly you intend to do, smart aleck?”
“Let’s put your father down somewhere first. My arms feel like they’re about to fall off.”
They carefully led Kuisl to a little recessed area between two houses where he would be invisible to most passersby. The hangman’s face was ashen, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, but he was somehow able to keep more or less upright against the wall.
“Do you think you can walk a little ways by yourself?” Simon asked.
Kuisl nodded, teeth clenched, as the medicus quietly explained the plan. Then Simon approached the portal and gave a few loud knocks.
It was a while before they heard shuffling steps on the other side. With a creak, the porthole opened on the pinched, unshaven face of a bishop’s guard.
“There’d better be a good reason for knocking on my door at this godforsaken hour,” the guard growled, “or you just may be living out the rest of the summer in our modest little dungeon. Without water.”
Gravely Simon produced his invitation from the brewmaster. “His Excellency Brother Hubertus has summoned me here,” he said, without batting an eye. “He’s expecting me right away.”
“Now?” The soldier scratched his lice-ridden scalp. “After midnight?”
“I’m Simon Fronwieser from the Spital Brewery,” the medicus improvised. “Your brewmaster is having problems with the fermentation of the wheat beer, and if we don’t do something about it right away, the beer will taste like horse piss by tomorrow and your bishop will be high and dry.”
The guard frowned. The thought of being held in any way responsible for the irascible bishop’s thirst made him queasy.
“Hey, Rupert!” he shouted to someone behind him. “Wake that fat monk in the brewery. He has a visitor.”
Suddenly they heard hundreds of boots marching toward them from the direction of the cathedral square. A large contingent of guards was returning to their quarters. Simon could only imagine what might happen were they to discover him here.
“Ah, would you mind opening the door?” the medicus asked. “It’s drafty out here, and I could stand to get off my feet.”
“Hold it,” the soldier barked. “The monk will be here in a moment.”
They could now hear distinct voices approaching from the south. Simon turned his head to see at least a dozen bailiffs armed with pikes advancing toward them from the cathedral square.
“What difference does it make if I wait out here or wait inside?” He offered a strained smile. “Besides, I have a stomachache. The mashed peas I had for lunch must have been a bit rotten, so just open the door and—”
“Silence, I said!” the guard interrupted. “First we’ll see if the brewmaster in fact knows you. Many others have made their way here before you, hoping for asylum.”
Now the city guards were no more than thirty paces from Simon.
Maybe they won’t recognize me, he thought frantically. But they’ll ask questions nonetheless. A man, all alone in the middle of the night, before the door to the bishop’s palace—that’s suspicious in and of itself…
“I’d really like to know what in hell is going on out there,” the guard said, poking his head out the porthole for a better look. “All that shouting and the bells clanging—as if the Turks were at the city gates. Well, we’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.”
Now some bailiffs were in fact approaching the bishop’s palace. One soldier pointed his long pike at Simon and shouted something to the others. The men seemed to be moving more quickly now in his direction. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Should he run? If he did, he’d have squandered his last chance.
“Hey, you there!” cried one soldier, hurrying toward him. “What are you doing there by that door?”
Just then a familiar voice boomed out from inside the palace. “Simon Fronwieser! Have you come to make confession or are you just dying for another sip of my heavenly wheat beer?”
The medicus took a deep breath. Brother Hubertus had finally gotten out of bed.
“I have good news!” his voice thundered from behind the porthole. “I now know what the powder of yours is! But let’s discuss that in peace over a mug of beer or two. Good Lord, won’t you damned numbskulls let my friend in?”
His last words were directed at the bishop’s guards, who finally slid back the heavy bolt and opened the gigantic portal.
“Now!” Simon cried suddenly. “Run!”
At this instant several things happened all at once.
Two figures emerged from the shadows on the other side of the square. Magdalena had explained to her father that as soon as Simon called for them, Kuisl would have to run for his life. He managed to pull himself together enough to run in great strides with his daughter toward the open portal. Simon, meanwhile, leaped over the threshold
and pushed aside the guard, who struggled desperately to shut the door again as horrified city bailiffs approached from the right, crossbows loaded and pistols drawn as it dawned on them that the hangman was here.
“The monster!” one shouted. “The monster is trying to escape into the bishop’s palace!”
Bullets and arrows crashed into the masonry, and armed men ran shouting toward the portal with pikes and halberds raised. The bishop’s guard had by now freed himself from Simon’s grip and with his colleagues was trying to push the door closed. Magdalena watched the opening narrow as she ran toward it. The door was closing inch by inch, slowly yet inexorably. At the last moment she and Kuisl slipped through into the courtyard and fell gasping to the ground.
The heavy door crashed closed, and from without came angry shouts and insistent pounding.
Brother Hubertus stood gaping over the tangle of people at his feet, which slowly began to unravel itself.
“What in God’s name is this all about, Fronwieser?” he asked, pointing to Magdalena and her father, who lay panting at the doorsill.
“Grant… us… asylum,” Simon whispered with his last bit of strength. “Jakob Kuisl… is innocent.”
Then a bishop’s guard delivered a blow that knocked him out.
12
REGENSBURG
MORNING OF AUGUST 25, 1662 AD
DO YOU REALIZE the trouble you’ve caused me?” Brother Hubertus shook his head. His face, flushed with outrage, glowed like an oversize radish. Not even a third tankard of beer seemed to calm him down much. Trembling with fury, he pointed a finger at Simon and Magdalena, who sat at a table in the muggy brew house, staring at the ground like two defendants on trial.
“I trusted you, Simon Fronwieser,” the Franciscan continued to berate him. “And what do you do? You bring the most wanted man in all of Regensburg into my house—the man they’re calling a monster, a man who’s being sought for multiple murders! The bishop has been screaming at me all morning—my ears are still ringing. We’re giving asylum to a monster! And all this at a time when His Excellency has enough trouble with the city already over the construction of the walkways above the road in town. I could rip you to shreds, Fronwieser!”
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