Sometimes Simon got so jealous he couldn’t see, let alone think straight. Doubtless once he cooled down, he’d see the error of his ways and catch up with her. Perhaps she ought to wait here in the dark for him and scare the dickens out of him when he came after her. The bastard deserved that, at least!
She was so lost in thought she didn’t notice the wooden wall until her head slammed into it. Her face contorted in pain, she placed her hand on her throbbing forehead. Blindly she reached out in front of her and discovered this wasn’t a wall at all, but a huge fermenting vat as tall as a man. To the right and left of it stood other enormous wooden containers. Desperately she tried to push the vat aside, and just seconds later her hands broke through the rotted barrel staves. Tumbling forward, she tried to catch herself on a rusty barrel ring but fell instead into a dusty storage cellar located behind it. Ahead she could make out a slim ray of moonlight through a crack in the wall. Junk of all sorts lay scattered across the hard-packed dirt floor—broken wagon wheels, millstones, old crates and barrels, which had probably been moldering away down here for years. Ages ago someone must have walled up the entrance to the bishop’s palace, and as the years progressed, the storage room behind it had been forgotten.
Magdalena looked around, blinking. By now her eyes had grown somewhat accustomed to the dark. Carefully, silently, she climbed over broken boards and bricks until she stood before a wooden shed. Some of the siding appeared to have been removed very recently, revealing a well-worn staircase that led up to a wide road.
Magdalena recognized three covered arches that spanned the street ahead: she’d surfaced in a part of town just north of the bishop’s palace. These “flying bridges” arched over the street and ended at the bishop’s warehouses along the river. Not a single guard was to be seen, even though Magdalena could only imagine how eagerly the city bailiffs were waiting and watching, ready to pounce the moment any one of their three faces peeked out of the bishop’s palace. Apparently, though, the guards had reckoned only with an escape through the main entrance or the cathedral.
Magdalena looked behind her into the darkness. Where was Simon? She was convinced he’d follow her, fuming and fussing, but at least halfway cooled down, having realized the sense of her plan. The medicus, who knew all about her occasional temper tantrums, was never angry with her for long, nor she with him. Should she turn back to look for him? Again she scanned the still-deserted lane. How long had her father been gone? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Perhaps he was hiding just a few yards away, in some yard. Magdalena could feel her breath quicken. The longer she waited here, the farther away her father would be.
Simon or her father?
She looked back again, but there was no sign of the medicus, and time was running out. She made up her mind at last: Simon knew where she planned to go, and he could just as well find her at the house of the Venetian ambassador. Her father, on the other hand, she now risked losing forever.
Cursing softly, Magdalena squeezed through the crack in the boards, tiptoed to the street, and disappeared into the night.
Without a single thought as to whether someone might hear him, the medicus hurled a sack of grain hard against the wall. The sack split open on impact and the grain burst out, falling to the ground like a sudden heavy rain shower.
Simon raged. What was that impertinent wench thinking, talking down to him like that? He knew his plan to flee the city with the help of the bishop’s brewmaster had failed. But was that his fault? Was he somehow responsible for the fact that Brother Hubertus had wound up bobbing up and down like an overgrown apple in a vat of beer? The very thought of asking the arrogant Venetian for help was absurd! Well, maybe not completely absurd… Silvio probably had influence and could offer them a place to stay, but for Simon it was out of the question. How did Magdalena imagine it would play out? Would Simon stand calmly by as this dwarf made advances to her? Even if Silvio did manage to smuggle them both out of the city, did she think Simon would play the willing cuckold?
As he got ready to toss the next sack of grain against the wall, Simon had to acknowledge he was in fact jealous.
Magdalena was probably right; Silvio was their last hope. With a sigh he lowered the sack to the ground and sat on a pile of stones next to the secret doorway. From the room behind he heard a splintering sound and assumed Magdalena had knocked something over. He considered calling to her but decided against it. He’d give the girl a chance to figure things out for herself, for once. If she needed help, she could always come back.
Simon picked up a handful of grain from the ground and sifted it through his fingers. The last half-hour had rattled him. Just when all three of them had managed to reunite after such a long struggle and to plan their escape at last, they were all running off on their own again. It was enough to drive a man out of his skin! The kernels passed through his fingers, one by one, slowly at first, then faster and faster.
Like sand through an hourglass, he thought, time goes by. If I don’t hurry, I may never catch up with Magdalena again.
But something held him back, a sudden premonition he couldn’t quite place. He contemplated the rye in his palm: yellow and firm, the little pearls popped open if you squeezed them long enough between your fingers, revealing a damp white flour inside.
But some of the grains were different—they had a bluish sheen—and when Simon rubbed them, they gave off a musty, sickly sweet odor.
He knew this odor.
The medicus held his breath. This was the odor he first detected in the bathhouse storage room and, later, in the underground alchemist’s workshop, where he and Magdalena had come upon the burned powder. Several hundred pounds of the stuff must have been stored down there.
The powder! My God…!
What had Brother Hubertus said shortly before his death?
This secret could drive us all out of our minds…
Simon slapped his forehead. For a moment he forgot the dead monk in the brewing vat; he forgot Kuisl; in fact, he even forgot Magdalena. Was it possible? Could this be the philosopher’s stone? He had to be sure, but how? Suddenly he recalled the little herbarium on the kitchen windowsill. His heart pounding, Simon ran through the brew house, opened the kitchen door, and reached for the tattered book. He lit a tallow candle with trembling hands and sat down at the table. In the flickering light he flipped through the pages until he came to one illustration in particular. Below it a few lines were written in cautionary red ink.
The medicus almost burst into hysterical laughter, but fear seized him first. The idea was so monstrous, so insane, that at first he couldn’t believe it, but bit by bit the scattered tiny tiles of the mosaic began coming together; an image was beginning to form. He tore the page out of the herbarium and stuck it in his jacket pocket.
Finally Simon thought he knew what this damned powder was and where he might find more.
Much more.
Magdalena took the scarf from her shoulders and wrapped it around her head. She walked stooped over so that from a distance she’d look to passersby like a harmless old woman. She knew full well this disguise wouldn’t help much. After all, it was the middle of the night, when even old women were forbidden to be out in the street. All the same, she felt safer this way.
She scurried westward under the arched bridges but decided to avoid the main entrance of the bishop’s palace, where guards were likely still on the lookout for her. She took a detour instead, approaching the cathedral square from the opposite side.
At last she came upon the Heuport House. The building, grim and menacing, rose up before her with nothing of the charm and nobility it emanated in the light of day. In the darkness it looked more like an impregnable fortress.
Magdalena rattled the handle of the towering double door, if only to make sure it was locked, as she expected. Hesitantly she reached for a bronze knocker molded in the shape of a lion’s head and pounded with all her might. Once—twice—three times, the knocks echoed in her ears like a blacksmith’s hammer. If s
he kept on, she’d wake all of Regensburg.
A window on the second floor finally opened on a maid’s pinched face. She wore a white nightcap and squinted wearily down at Magdalena. This was the same maid who’d looked at her so crossly on her last visit. When she recognized the hangman’s daughter on the street below, the maid’s eyes flashed.
“Go away!” she sneered. “There’s nothing for you here, my dear.”
She thinks I’m a whore, Magdalena thought in despair. This cut her to the quick. Do I really look like a whore?
“I must speak with the ambassador,” she replied, trying not to sound overbearing. If the maid didn’t let her in or alerted the guards, all would be lost. “It’s an emergency; please believe me!”
The servant girl eyed her skeptically. To Magdalena the woman’s gaze was nearly palpable; she could almost feel the woman’s eyes looking her up and down. “The master isn’t home,” she replied finally, but less condescendingly this time. “He’s over at the Whale playing cards, as usual. Don’t waste your time—he’s likely found someone else to sit in his lap.” She spoke the last sentence with a certain smugness.
Magdalena sighed. She should have figured as much. Naturally Silvio was camped out at his favorite tavern.
“Thanks,” she said, turning to leave. Suddenly she turned back around. “Uh, if I don’t run into Silvio, could you please—”
The shutters banged closed.
“Silly old goose,” the hangman’s daughter grumbled. “No doubt your master’s thrown you out of his bed more than once, you flat-chested, bitter old broomstick!”
But the cursing didn’t help. The window remained closed, and with a sigh, Magdalena set out for the Whale.
The tavern lay east of the little bridges, not far from the bishop’s palace, so again she decided on a detour through one of the unguarded back alleys. At last the warm, inviting lights of the tavern appeared in front of her. With candlelight emanating into the street through its bull’s-eye windows, the Whale was like a guiding light in the dark—the only place in Regensburg with any life at this hour. Magdalena surmised the innkeeper had to pay the city a pretty penny for that privilege—an investment that paid for itself, if the loud singing and laughter inside were any indication. The door swung open and three raftsmen lurched out, evidently having spent their last hellers on drink. Babbling noisily, they staggered off in the direction of the raft landing.
Magdalena bit her lip. Did she dare set foot in the lion’s den? There probably wasn’t another woman in the place, with the exception of the innkeeper. Were she to go prancing in, she’d surely attract everyone’s attention, not least that of the guards, who might in fact already be waiting for her inside. All the same, it was a risk she had to take.
She tightened the black scarf around her head once more, took a deep breath, and opened the door. A warm wave of all kinds of odors assailed her: sweat, brandy, tobacco, smoke, and the stale residue of some kind of stew. Every last seat in the sooty low-ceilinged taproom was occupied. Raftsmen, workers, and young bull-necked journeymen sat, foaming mugs before them, singing, playing cards, and throwing dice. In back, in his usual stove-side seat, the Venetian ambassador was busily rolling dice with three rather coarse men. Compared to his simply clad companions in their linen shirts and leather vests, the Venetian was nothing less than a colorful bird of paradise. He wore a red shirt decorated with white ribbons and a very high collar; wide, flared trousers; and, on his head, a dashing musketeer’s hat complete with a plume of feathers. Silvio was either winning at the moment or so deeply engaged in his game he didn’t seem to see the young woman in the doorway.
The other men, however, hadn’t failed to notice Magdalena. Some of the workers stared at her lustfully, while others whistled or ran their tongues over the dark stumps of their teeth.
“Hey, sweetheart!” a potbellied, curly-haired raftsman bellowed. “Not satisfied with the day’s earnings? Then come have a seat here with me and give my beard a stroke or two.”
“Let her have a stroke of something else, Hans!” his companion shouted, wiping his fat lips with his shirtsleeve. “Come over here, girl. Take that ugly scarf off and show us what you’ve got!”
“Off with the scarf, off with the scarf!” some men at a neighboring table began to shout. “We want a better look at the lady, ha-ha!”
A loud crash and the sound of breaking glass interrupted the jeers. The crowd grew silent and turned toward Silvio, who stood now on the stove-side bench and looked almost meditatively at the broken bottle in his hand. He raised the bottleneck to the dim overhead light so the rough, razor-sharp edges sparkled menacingly.
“Con calma, signori!” he said softly. “The gentlemen will not lay hands on a signorina. Especially not when la bella signorina in question stands under my personal protection.” He smiled at Magdalena and pointed to the chair next to him. “I implore you, have a seat and make yourself—come si dice—at home.”
“Hey, dwarf!” growled a fat raftsman struggling to his feet. “Who the hell do you think you are…?” Two other men restrained him, whispering something in his ear. The fat man turned white and sat back down quietly. Evidently his comrades had explained just who the hell indeed the ambassador was.
“Grazie for understanding, everyone.” Silvio bowed slightly. “And now, innkeeper, a barrel of brandy for the entire house! To the signorina’s health!”
Guarded cheers came from the tables, and the threatening mood dissipated quickly like an unpleasant odor. The brandy made the rounds, and over and over the men toasted Magdalena, whom they had to thank for this welcome gift. Silvio’s three roughneck companions carried on their card game without him, drinking freely of the brandy, apparently having quickly lost interest in the beautiful new arrival.
“Nice to see you again,” Silvio whispered, still smiling at the crowd, very much like a little king graciously accepting the homage of his subjects. “I thought you might forever be angry with me on account of that kiss. I shouldn’t have done that, but where I come from—”
“Forget it,” Magdalena interrupted gruffly. “To be brief, Simon and I need your help. May we stay a while at your house?”
The Venetian grinned from ear to ear. “I would be delighted! I never understood anyway why a bella donna such as yourself elected to sleep in the gutter with beggars and thieves. Is your proud little companion in agreement with this, then?”
Magdalena didn’t hesitate. “He has no choice.”
Silvio smiled. “Ho capito. You are wearing the pants, it seems—that’s the expression, isn’t it?” Then his face turned serious. “But I can see in your face that something’s the matter. Tell me, what’s happened?”
“The baldheaded murderer,” she whispered. “He’s on our heels, all on account of a powder!”
“Powder?” Silvio squinted at her, perplexed.
“We found some powder in the bathhouse owner’s secret alchemist’s workshop,” she whispered. “Half of Regensburg is apparently trying to get their hands on it. And the baldheaded man wants to silence us because he thinks we know too much! We need a place to hide—you’re our only hope!”
“And your father?”
“He’s already…” Magdalena stopped short. A premonition told her they were being watched. She raised her head to look around. Most of the men seemed to have forgotten Magdalena and were back to playing cards and drinking. In a far corner of the room, however, a cloaked figure stood out from the rest of the men.
The man, who had pulled his cowl down over his face, sat sipping from a little tin cup. As he wiped his thick lips with his sleeve, his cloak slipped back a bit to reveal a bald head. On the back of his head he wore a white bandage.
Magdalena flinched. It was the same man she’d hit over the head with the statue of Saint Sebastian in the cathedral!
“Look!” she whispered to Silvio. Throwing caution to the wind, she pointed at the stranger. “I’ll be damned; the bastard’s followed me!”
Now t
he Venetian recognized the man as well. Their eyes met; the stranger rose and slowly moved toward their table. His movements reminded Magdalena of a deadly poisonous snake.
“Let’s get out of here!” Silvio whispered, standing up abruptly from the table. He pulled Magdalena along, and together they made their way through the boisterous crowd. The stranger followed, jostling men to his right and left to catch up with them. Several drunk patrons shoved him in return, and an uproar broke out. For a moment the stranger fell to the ground, out of view, but he appeared again like a ship’s sail on a rough and stormy sea.
By now Magdalena and Silvio had reached the exit. Turning around for one last look, the hangman’s daughter saw the bald stranger drawing his rapier. With loud shouts the men scattered, opening a path through which the man came running toward them.
“Quick, let’s go!” Silvio shouted, pulling her out into the alley. “We have no time to lose!”
The stranger followed just a few steps behind and seemed to be calling something out to them, but Magdalena couldn’t hear anything over all the noise.
Breathlessly she staggered into the street.
Despite the almost impenetrable darkness, Silvio found his way through the city as if he were a native. He led Magdalena into a narrow side street, which they ran down together while, behind them, they could hear the stranger’s pounding footfalls on the hard-packed ground. At some point Magdalena thought she heard at least two more sets of feet, and it sounded as if they were gaining on them. Had their pursuer called for reinforcements? In their last two encounters with this man she and Silvio had escaped by the skin of their teeth. If he had help this time, they didn’t stand a chance.
The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale Page 35
