The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Jakob’s gaze wanders to the recruits at his side, who stare down at the bloodbath in horror. This is war, and now they’re in the midst of it. They may still want to vomit at the sight of it now, but soon enough they, too, will be plundering villages and raping women with the rest. How can they be expected to know what’s right and what’s not? Who is supposed to show them?

  Jakob closes his eyes for a second, then gives the men at his side the sign to attack. They storm out of the forest, shouting; there’s a brief struggle, curses, swearing, and then the band of murderers is overwhelmed and disarmed. His eyes cold and scornful, Lettner looks at Jakob. Next to Lettner stand his two brothers, fat Friedrich and scrawny Karl—little Karl, who is still just a child, and a monster. How many of the new recruits at Jakob’s side will turn out like Karl?

  “What’s this all about, sergeant?” Lettner asks. “Just having a little fun, that’s all. Let us go.”

  “You were throwing dice for the women…”

  “Why not? They’re only peasants. Who cares?”

  “You threw dice for them, raped them, and then killed them…”

  “There’s still some left. Help yourself, Jakob.”

  Lettner grins, his white teeth shining like a wolf’s in the light of the fire. How often Jakob has seen this grin in the midst of battle, how often has he closed his eyes to it! Cowering in front of Lettner is a black-haired girl, her eyes glassy with fear beneath bushy eyebrows, a silent plea shining in them, her lips formed into a soft prayer.

  She would have been next.

  Jakob is overcome with fury like never before. From his pocket he fetches the dice carved from bone and presses them into Lettner’s hand.

  “You’re on.”

  “What do you mean?” Philipp Lettner looks at him in disbelief, his clear blue eyes flitting back and forth. He smells a trap.

  “You’re going to play for your lives. Every third man hangs.”

  “You goddamned bastard!”

  Fat Friedrich jumps up to plunge his dagger into Jakob’s stomach. But the young sergeant dodges and strikes the fat combatant in the face with the pommel of his sword. He hits him over and over. Friedrich staggers toward a burning house, flailing his arms, trying to find something to hold on to, until at last he stumbles over the threshold and falls screaming into the raging inferno. Timbers begin crashing to the ground, and then there’s only silence.

  Turning, Jakob approaches the campfire and points his sword first at Philipp Lettner, then at the dice.

  “I said play.”

  Suddenly he feels the black-haired girl looking at him. Her eyes are deep, murky whirlpools; they’re pulling him down, and he can’t tear his eyes from hers. A fire burns in the pit of his stomach, far hotter than the flames on the rooftops.

  Only later, when the last bits of life twitch in the dangling legs as they sway gently in the breeze, when the final horrid scream has been carried off on the breeze, when he’s ridden away with her, far away, homeward, where there’s no more war—it’s only then, when he’s decided he’ll never be a mercenary again, that he learns her name.

  Anna-Maria.

  She will be his partner for life.

  “Damn, Kuisl! What’s the matter with you? Wake up!”

  The pain in his left shoulder brought Jakob Kuisl back to the present. Teuber had grabbed him and was now shaking him roughly.

  “Wake up before that bastard rams his katzbalger straight through your stomach!”

  Kuisl shook himself until his vision cleared. He looked up to find Philipp Lettner just a few steps away, his sword upraised and a smile still on his lips.

  “Let him be, hangman,” Lettner purred almost tenderly. “It’s the memories taking hold of you, isn’t it, Jakob? All the dead who’ve paved your walk through life. Did you really think you could live happily ever after with your pretty farmer’s daughter in Schongau? No!” His voice suddenly turned sharp and cold, just as it had days ago in the torture chamber. “I swore revenge! I knew I would get a hold of you one day, and now that day has come!”

  The hangman wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sun was now directly above the little village, and its rays stung him like needles. His pain returned, bringing nausea with it.

  “Why did you kill my sister?” he whispered. “Lisl did nothing to harm you.”

  Philipp Lettner laughed out loud. “You fool!” he cried out. “You still don’t see, do you? It was your sister who led me to you! When it became clear her husband would have to die, I had to figure out how best to manage it. Only then did I come upon her maiden name, Kuisl.” He spat the name out like a mouthful of dirt. “So, naturally, I got a little inquisitive. The little woman was really fond of you; she loved to talk about you—your darling daughter and your oh-so-beloved Anna-Maria. After a while I realized the Lord above had given me a gift, an honest-to-God gift from heaven—you!” Lettner broke into shrill, almost feminine laughter as little tears sparkled in the corners of his eyes. But in the next moment he regained his composure.

  “I am your destiny and your undoing,” he continued in a sharp voice. “I sent the letter to Schongau to lure you to Regensburg; I cut the throats of your sister and brother-in-law and devised this trap. I was the third inquisitor, and now I’m death staring you in the face.” He bowed like a tacky street magician and lunged with his katzbalger.

  “Murder always takes two,” growled Teuber, who’d listened in silence till that point. “You’ll no doubt have an easy time of it with a sick man like Kuisl, but you forget you also have me to deal with.”

  Lettner feigned astonishment. “Ah, so true, little hangman, I’d almost forgotten all about you.”

  The raftmaster raised his left hand as if in a tentative greeting. Kuisl noticed a shadow in the church-tower window, then heard something whir through the air. A bolt from a crossbow struck Teuber in the chest and sent him tumbling backward, flailing his arms like a drowning man, his mouth wide open in a mute scream. He fell at last, like a tree crashing to the ground, and lay still, his huge chest rising and falling, staring quizzically up at the sky.

  “Now it’s a fair fight, isn’t it, Jakob?” Lettner whispered. “Just you and me. Here in Weidenfeld. I hope you don’t mind if my brother Friedrich watches up there. He’s thought about you a lot these past years.”

  Kuisl looked up to see a figure standing in the burned-out window of the ruined tower. The man, tall and broad, held a crossbow in his hands like a toy. This was the stranger he’d seen almost two weeks ago on the raft heading for Regensburg, his face deeply pitted and scarred.

  It took Kuisl a while to realize that one of the scars was in fact his grinning mouth.

  Simon struggled to breathe. The dirty rag Silvio Contarini had stuffed in his mouth stank of mold and mouse droppings, and his nose was congested with flour, causing him to sneeze over and over. Only with great effort was he able to turn his head enough to see what was happening around him.

  Beside him lay Magdalena, also bound and gagged. A ways off, through clouds of chaff and flour, he saw the Venetian’s five helpers loading sacks onto a wagon parked in front of the mill. They’d spent the past few hours grinding the rest of the ergot to destroy all the evidence. Now, in the early afternoon, it was an oven inside the mill and the men’s shirts were soaked through with sweat. Clean and sharp in his red doublet, jacket, and hat, only Silvio seemed not to be sweating. He sat on a millstone biting his lip, looking increasingly nervous.

  “I’m starting to think you’re right, Fronwieser,” Silvio said as he chewed thoughtfully on a piece of straw. “Even a clever little quack such as yourself couldn’t possibly have divined my plans, certainly not in so much detail. Gessner must have blabbed. Why in the world did I ever get involved with such an idiot! I curse the day I met him on my way to Vienna!” He turned his head to make sure none of the raftsmen were listening, then he whispered, “These freemen are nothing but a pack of crazy jackasses! And Gessner is the craziest of them all.”


  All of a sudden the damp flour blocked Simon’s nostrils. Struggling for air, he drew frantic shallow breaths. He twitched and floundered until a sack of flour fell to the ground beside him. Surprised by the noise, Silvio glanced over at him but didn’t seem in any hurry to remove the gag. Instead, he sat still, observing Simon’s struggle with interest.

  “How long can a man get by without air? What do you think, hmm? I should just let you suffocate here like a fish on dry land. Ever since you and la bella signorina came to town, everything’s been going to pieces. But I won’t allow you to destroy my plan!” He pounded on one of the sacks, sending up a white cloud around him. “Not you, and not that crazy Gessner, either!”

  Simon couldn’t get any air at all now—the flour had completely plugged his nose. His eyes bulging, he started to turn blue while the Venetian stared off into the distance, seeming to have forgotten all about his prisoner for the moment.

  “Gessner’s greatest achievement was talking that bathhouse owner, Hofmann, into joining in our cause,” he muttered. “A brilliant alchemist! He’d been studying poisonous plants for years, and without him we never could have produced such pure ergot!” The ambassador was almost gushing now. “Somehow that modest little bathhouse owner managed to get the fungus to coat almost the entire head of each plant. It was fantastic! But Hofmann’s conscience suddenly got the better of him, and he was about to spill the whole story to the city council.” Silvio took the straw from his mouth and ripped it into pieces. “We should have just slaughtered him like a dog in an alley! Quick and painless. A robbery that turned into a murder—no one would ever have suspected anything! But no, it had to be something elaborate…”

  The medicus felt himself slowly losing consciousness as iridescent vapors swirled through his head. He could comprehend only fragments of the Venetian’s speech now.

  “Gessner only learned by chance that Hofmann’s wife was the sister of his archenemy,” Silvio continued. “After that it was like he became a different person. He insisted that we write a letter to lure Kuisl to Regensburg, that we forge a will and pin the murder on him. God knows what the Schongau hangman did to Gessner during the war, but it was certainly enough to have turned him into a raging angel of vengeance all these years later. He talked me into it, spoke of his ingenious plan, but then the two of you showed up and—oh, is something wrong?”

  “Mmmmmmmhhhhhh…”

  As his consciousness faded, Simon tipped over onto a pile of flour alongside him, enveloping himself and Magdalena in plumes of dust that rose toward the ceiling. Silvio, irritated at first, stood up, sighing, and walked over to his captives.

  “What do you think?” he said, turning to the hangman’s daughter, who stared up at him, her eyes wide with fear. “Shall we rid the world of this green-eyed little smart aleck? Or shall we allow him to pester us a bit longer?”

  Magdalena writhed wildly. Gagged as she was, she seemed to be cursing fiercely.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Silvio said, gingerly removing the cloth from Simon’s mouth. Immediately the medicus gasped like a man saved from drowning, inhaling huge quantities of air. As the color slowly returned to his face, he lay on the floor, wheezing and unable to speak a word.

  “Don’t think for a minute that you’ve thwarted my plans, Fronwieser!” the Venetian snarled. “A man like Silvio Contarini always has another card up his sleeve. Now I’ll just have to go back to my original plan. I didn’t care for it so much at first because it seemed it would call for many more lives to be lost, but now, unfortunately, I see no other choice.” He pointed to the five raftsmen, who had now loaded almost all the sacks onto the wagon. “At least Gessner left his men for me. We’ll take the ergot to a safe place until we can find a way to use it. And we’ll take la bella signorina along with us and destroy the remaining evidence.” Silvio smiled. “I’m sorry to say, you’re a piece of evidence. Arrivederci!”

  He clapped his hands and turned to his helpers. “Hurry, before the guards show up! Aren’t you finished yet?”

  The men nodded respectfully. Evidently the ignorant raftsmen were still convinced by Silvio’s plan. Simon assumed the Venetian had promised each a seat on the city council and at least his weight in gold.

  “Now let’s bring this show to a close, il grande finale!”

  Gesturing dramatically, Silvio approached a large wooden box attached to the wall at eye level and filled with flour. He slid open the bottom panel, emptying flour onto the floor and sending up an enormous cloud of dust that soon engulfed the entire mill. Simon could see only the Venetian’s shadowy outline next to the box, like a ghost enshrouded in fog. Two raftsmen grabbed Magdalena’s flailing form and carried her outside.

  “Flour is wonderful stuff,” Silvio gushed. “You can bake bread with it, poison people, and even turn it into a bomb. The tiniest spark will cause this dust to explode. What you see here should be enough to blow up half the island. But, little bookworm that you are, you surely already knew that, didn’t you?”

  Through the cloud of dust Simon watched the Venetian fetch a small trunk from behind a millstone. After opening it, he pulled out what at first glance looked like a long rope, but only after Silvio unrolled it did Simon realize what it really was.

  A fuse.

  “I found this thing right here, a while back,” Silvio said as he slowly laid the cord out along the floor and backed toward the door. “Along with a whole trunk of gunpowder and a dozen muskets. I assume soldiers must have left them here during the Great War. How nice that I’ve finally found a good use for them.”

  From the doorway the Venetian looked back at his prisoner a last time.

  Simon, meanwhile, had regained his speech. “Where—where are you taking Magdalena?” he gasped. “Where are you… taking all those sacks?”

  Silvio smiled. “Well, man lives not by bread alone, isn’t that so? But I’m afraid you have other more pressing concerns at the moment.”

  He fetched a box of matches from his pocket and shook it gently.

  “At least you won’t suffer,” he said. “I can promise you that. The instant the spark touches this dust, the whole place will go up with a bang. And with all the gunpowder, it should put on a fireworks show for all of Regensburg.” He bowed slightly. “Enjoy your flight.”

  Stepping outside, he gave the raftsmen the order to depart. The wagon groaned under its weight as it began to move forward. And as the sound of the wagon faded away, a softer sound reached Simon’s ears.

  The hiss of the burning fuse.

  14

  REGENSBURG

  NOON, AUGUST 26, 1662 AD

  THE RAFTMASTER’S ATTACK was so sudden that Kuisl didn’t turn aside until the last moment. The sun was shining straight into his eyes, forcing him to squint and rely on instinct alone. As Kuisl dodged to the left, he felt the katzbalger whiz by just inches from his face. At his feet lay Teuber, the bolt through his chest, his shirt soaked in blood, staring glassy-eyed at the two combatants.

  Kuisl reached for the old, beat-up rapier on his belt. From the corner of his eye he could see Lettner preparing for another attack. The hangman unsheathed his weapon just as the raftmaster came at him from the left, where Kuisl was exposed. The rapier and the katzbalger met with a loud clatter in the air, and the battle raged back and forth.

  Kuisl could feel sweat streaming down his back, fever pulsing through his body, and his left arm hanging down like a dead tree branch. Had he been in better condition, he might have been a match for Philipp Lettner. Kuisl had always been the stronger of the two, but his former second in command was known to compensate for this deficiency with excessive cruelty. Now, weakened from torture, however, the hangman was hopelessly outmatched. The last twenty-five years hadn’t softened or fattened Philipp but had made him as sinewy and hard as a polished walnut. To make matters worse, his brother was still lingering up in the steeple, his eyes flashing down on the two opponents. His crossbow lay in arm’s reach on the windowsill, and Kuisl assumed the
enormous man could load it again in no time.

  “Does my brother frighten you?” Philipp Lettner bared his white teeth. Relentlessly he forced Kuisl toward the church with his katzbalger. “Don’t forget, Friedrich is a monster of your own creation. You thought he’d burned to death back then in that farmhouse, didn’t you? But my brother is strong—strong and tough, just like all Lettners. He fought his way out of the smoking ruins and pulled me down from the tree, after your hasty departure, that is. But for Karl, our youngest, help came too late. This is for Karl.”

  Kuisl didn’t notice Lettner draw a dagger from his belt and prepare to strike the hangman’s stomach. Only at the last moment did Kuisl knock the blade aside with his left arm, causing severe pain to return to his shoulder. When Kuisl’s vision went black, he had to kick blindly at his opponent, striking him in the stomach. Moaning, Lettner staggered backward, stumbling over the crumbling ruin of a farmhouse wall.

  Without pausing, the hangman took advantage of the unexpected reprieve and ran toward the ruined church. If he was to stand any chance at all against the mercenary, it would be with a surprise attack. Perhaps there was a hiding place in the church ruins, somewhere he could seek cover.

  The ruins were enveloped in a muted light that filtered through partially collapsed roof beams, where swallows and pigeons had come to nest. Ivy wound like a venomous snake around what remained of the nave’s left aisle. The right wing was in better shape; a charred, life-size wooden cross still hung on the wall there. But there, too, the church windows were like lifeless black eyes, overgrown with blackberry bushes that allowed only a glimmer of light to penetrate. Moldy leaves fluttered down from the ceiling, and Kuisl could hear bees buzzing about somewhere.