Toward the front Kuisl discovered a stone altar that, absent its altar cloth, Eucharist monstrance, and gilded finery, looked like the sacrificial stage for some pagan rite. The hangman ran and crouched behind it to catch his breath, his back tucked against the side facing away from the pews.
Soon Kuisl heard footsteps, though he didn’t realize at first that they came not from the entrance but from the church spire. Pressed tight against the altar’s edge, he peered into the right aisle, toward the crumbling door of the steeple ruins, just as an enormous figure emerged from behind a pile of moss-covered rocks.
It was Friedrich Lettner.
The man aimed his loaded crossbow straight at the altar. Kuisl ducked as a bolt whizzed within millimeters of his nose, boring into the wall next to him and sending shards of stone flying in all directions.
“You know something, Kuisl? My brother shouldn’t get to have all the fun for himself, now should he?” Friedrich’s deep voice echoed through the ruined church. “I’ll nail you to the cross with these bolts, then burn the eyes out of your head. Too bad the Regensburg executioner won’t be able to watch. I’ll bet he’s never seen a torture technique like that.” Kuisl heard a soft creak—one he’d heard many times before—the sound of the crossbow crank as Friedrich Lettner loaded a new bolt.
“How long I’ve waited for this moment, Kuisl!” Friedrich said as he casually turned the crank. “Philipp didn’t think I should take the raft back to Regensburg with you; he thought you might recognize me. But someone had to deliver the letter, after all. And besides…” His laughter was harsh, almost a rattle, as if the flames from that farmhouse long ago had scarred his throat as well. “The way I look, my own mother wouldn’t even recognize me.”
“Shut your mouth, Friedrich! You talk too much!” It was the voice of Philipp Lettner, who had entered the church in the meanwhile. He held his hand to his hip, and his face was contorted with pain; he’d apparently injured himself falling over the wall outside. “Load your crossbow. The dog may be cornered, but he’s still dangerous.”
Grumbling something incomprehensible, Friedrich began to crank the crossbow again.
As another wave of fever washed over him, Kuisl considered his options here behind the altar. He’d run straight into their trap! Once Friedrich’s bow was readied—no more than a few moments from now—Philipp would flush him out from behind the altar like a rat. The hangman had no doubt the bolt would hit its mark this time. Friedrich made quite clear with his first shot that he hadn’t forgotten how to wield a crossbow. Kuisl bit his lip; the fever had made him very agitated. He had little time before his fate would be sealed, by either the crossbow or the katzbalger.
Is this the end? he thought. Here, where my new life began, will it also come to an end?
Again he risked a glance from behind the altar. Philipp Lettner waited at the church door with sword raised. Friedrich, still cranking his crossbow, would be ready in a matter of moments. Kuisl studied Friedrich’s face, ravaged by fire, a face he last saw on the trip to Regensburg. The skin had congealed into a hard mass like the burned, cracked bark of an oak, but the eyes behind it remained the same—cold, blue, evil. All around Friedrich wasps were buzzing, evidently disturbed by the commotion in the ruin. They were exceptionally large, black and yellow, and their wings shimmered in the midday sun.
Wasps?
Only now did Kuisl realize these weren’t wasps at all but mean-looking hornets, each grown to nearly the length of a man’s finger. They buzzed about Friedrich’s scabby nose, and again and again the mercenary had to interrupt his cranking to swat them away. Where were they all coming from?
Kuisl’s gaze wandered along the wall, over the ivy- and moss-covered stones, until he spotted the nest. It hung from the ceiling, hidden among charred beams and blackberry bushes.
Directly above Friedrich.
“Goddamn it, how long is that going to take?” Philipp Lettner said angrily. “Can’t you see we’ve got him holed up behind the altar like a wounded boar? We’ve got to drive him out of there together.”
“Just one second,” Friedrich replied. “The bowstring is so taut the bolt could pass straight through three men like a knife through butter. I just have to—”
He didn’t finish his sentence. Like an avenging angel, Kuisl rose up behind the altar and hurled a fist-size rock at the hornets’ nest. The stone made a direct hit, and the nest swayed and finally fell to the ground at Friedrich’s feet, where it burst open like a full wine pouch.
Hundreds of furious hornets swarmed out and enveloped Friedrich Lettner in a dark, tremulous lethal cloud. With a shout he dropped the crossbow and raised his hands to cover his face, but the hornets were already busily exploring his scars.
The seething black-and-yellow mass stung the man’s face over and over.
Simon heard the fuse crackle as it burned inexorably toward the entrance to the mill. Through a crack in the door he thought he could see the gleam of gunpowder about to ignite. Having reached the door, the spark traveled now along the fuse toward the pile of flour, wood shavings, and small boards Silvio had positioned at the end of the cord.
In desperation the medicus thrashed about, but his bonds wouldn’t give a fraction of an inch. He tried to slither to the door, only to find the Venetian had also tethered him to a beam. The rope jerked him back, and he collapsed, exhausted. Flour drifted like a white fog among the remaining barrels, sacks, and crates, one of which—Simon was painfully aware—contained several pounds of gunpowder just waiting to explode.
“Help! Doesn’t anyone hear me?” he croaked hoarsely, though he knew it was pointless. The rumbling and pounding of the Wöhrd mill wheels would drown out even the loudest shout. Though the huge grain mill still ground away, in just a few moments it would burst with a single thunderous clap—likely the last sound the medicus would ever hear.
But maybe it won’t explode at all, Simon thought. Maybe it will just catch fire and I’ll burn to death, slowly. If I don’t suffocate first, that is… Good Lord, at least let the mill blow up and spare me the longer agony.
By now sparks had eaten their way along the fuse into the mill proper. The dust was so thick Simon could hear the crackling flame better than he could see it.
Now… The time is at hand.
With a loud crash the door swung open. The air was too thick to see exactly who was there, but Simon could make out an oddly familiar figure through the haze.
“Dzoo have any idea what cheeth like that cosht?” the voice lisped. “I should really let you roasht right here, but then who’d fix my cheeth?”
“Nathan!” Simon shouted. “Good God, Nathan, here I am! The fuse! Everything’s about to blow up!”
“Then we chuddn’t waysht any chime!”
With a little knife, the beggar king severed the rope that bound Simon to the beam. Then he grabbed the medicus, threw him over his shoulder, and made for the exit. Stooped and groaning, he cleared the door and staggered another dozen steps before tossing his heavy bundle roughly behind a pile of boards.
“Ouch,” Simon shouted. “Watch what you’re doing! You want to break all my—?”
At that very moment a loud explosion shook the entire island with such force the medicus was temporarily deafened. Entranced, he watched an enormous fireball rise into the sky. Splinters of wood and stone—even entire sections of walls—flew through the air above him. The blast was so strong that even behind the pile of boards where he crouched, Nathan was blown back like a frail sapling. Hot air smothered them like a dragon’s deadly breath as beams and boards rained down on them.
“Quick, letch’s get out of here,” Nathan cried into the deadly storm. His voice was muffled, as if he were shouting through a heavy woolen blanket.
“How?” Simon shouted back. “I’m still tied up!”
Cursing loudly, the beggar king lifted him onto his shoulder again and carried him away from the fire. Hidden behind a hazelnut bush at a safe distance, they watched the conflagr
ation. The mill was no more than a pile of rubble now, and flames rose high in the air like a bonfire on Saint John’s Eve. Even here, more than a hundred paces away, the heat was palpable.
“How—how did you find me?” Simon finally gasped after what seemed an eternity.
“I knew… damn!” Nathan poked around in his mouth for a while until he seemed half satisfied. “My people were watching you as you left for the Wöhrd and alerted me right away,” he said, more clearly now. “Actually I put a price on your head. No one who punches Nathan the Wise in the face goes unpunished!” He mockingly wagged his finger at Simon, but his eyes were cool, almost threatening. “And then I was rather curious about what you might be doing down here in secret all by yourself, so I sent the boys home and followed you myself. Even a blind man could read your tracks in the sawdust. And what do I find here? This Venetian ambassador fleeing with a loaded wagon and my trusted medicus nearly blown to pieces in Regensburg’s largest mill. An explanation is in order, at the very least.”
“And if I don’t feel like explaining?” Simon replied.
Nathan shrugged. “Then I’ll toss you back into the fire, trussed up as you are. You’re not in a very good position to negotiate, are you?”
“Very well, then.” Simon sighed. “I know now what’s so special about this powder and why everyone’s been trying to get their hands on it. You probably already know the secret, too.”
He then told the beggar king all he’d learned. Nathan listened attentively, but his face betrayed nothing. When Simon finished, the leader of the Regensburg beggars just stood there for a long time, picking his nose. “As God is my witness, that’s the most insane plan I ever heard,” he muttered finally, counting off on his fingers the puzzling series of events. “So, this madman wants to poison the entire Reichstag—”
“Oh, don’t pretend you’re so surprised to hear all this!” Simon interrupted angrily. “I’m sure you knew even before I did what this powder was! I know you’re in league with the various factions at large in the city. Tell me, who ordered you to spy on us?”
Nathan raised his eyebrows, amused. “Ah, so that’s why you left so hastily! I should have guessed.” He raised his hand in a solemn oath. “I swear by Saint Martin, patron saint of beggars, I had no idea about any of this. Anyway, this is hardly the time for sermons.” He pointed at the burning remains of the mill. Guards who had begun to arrive from the Stone Bridge were immobilized at the sight of the catastrophe. It was far too late to save the mill; all that could be done now was to prevent the fire from spreading to the surrounding buildings.
“It’s only a matter of time before that pack of morons over there discovers us,” the beggar king said. “As far as they’re concerned, you’ve already set fire to half the city, and if they find you here now, you’ll most certainly be eviscerated, drawn, quartered, and burned as the infamous Regensburg arsonist. At least this way you’d go down in the city’s history, and in a few hundred years people will probably still be reading about you. That’s something to consider.”
Simon, lost in thought, mumbled something unintelligible.
“What are you muttering about?” Nathan asked. “Didn’t you hear me? We’ve got to get away from here as fast as we can!”
“I’m wondering where Silvio may have taken Magdalena and the ergot,” Simon said softly. “He was talking about some alternative plan, one that would claim far more victims. What the devil could that be?”
“Maybe he wants to make some other use of the ergot,” Nathan replied with a shrug. “He could slip it into wine or beer, or God knows what else.”
Simon shook his head. “With wine or beer, he’d have to find a willing brewer or vintner to play along, and that’s much too risky. Things didn’t work out too well with Master Baker Haberger, as you know. It has to be something much simpler. But what?”
He paused, trying to recall Silvio’s last words as he left Simon to die in the mill. What was it again the Venetian had said exactly?
Man does not live by bread alone…
What do humans need to survive? Something to eat, a roof over their heads, a fire for warmth, water…
Water.
Simon slapped his forehead. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “Everyone in Regensburg needs water! For washing, drinking, brewing… Silvio intends to dump the ergot into the city wells—it’s the only way he can really be sure everyone in the Reichstag will come into contact with it!”
Nathan shook his head, thinking. “How can he do that?” he wondered. “There are wells all over Regensburg. Will he go to each one individually and pour his poison in? Somebody would surely notice that.”
“Of course not! He’ll have to introduce the ergot into the water before it gets to the wells…” Simon stopped for a moment, then asked excitedly, “Is there a spring somewhere around here that could be the city water supply? A reservoir? An aquifer perhaps?”
“I don’t know about an aquifer,” Nathan replied. “But—”
“What is it? Speak up!”
The beggar king’s mouth stretched into a broad grin, and his one remaining crooked gold tooth sparkled in the midday sun. “Of course, it’s a real possibility. This Venetian is a sly old fox indeed.”
“What do you mean?” Simon asked. “Magdalena’s life is at stake! Speak up before I throttle you!”
Nathan gave the medicus a look of pity. “How will you do that, seeing as you’re tied up?”
He bent down to Simon. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll untie you and tell you where Silvio took your sweetheart. But in return, when this is all over, you’ll have a look at my teeth and make them look exactly as before. Promise?”
“I’ll personally make you a brand-new set of teeth, if necessary,” Simon promised. “Now cut these damned ropes!”
Magdalena heard the explosion as the wagon was rumbling over the Stone Bridge. Bound and gagged, she lay among sacks in the middle of the wagon and winced when she heard the first earsplitting sound. Something in her snapped.
God! Simon! she thought. It can’t be! Not Simon, not after everything we’ve been through together!
To the last second she’d been hoping for a miracle; she’d prayed to each of the Fourteen Holy Helpers to intercede, to keep the mill from exploding, but her miracle hadn’t happened. The building had erupted around her beloved Simon, with whom she had fled to Regensburg to live and grow old.
Why in God’s name did we ever leave home?
Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with sweat, flour, and soil, while all around her shouts went up. Even under the sacks she could hear the muffled babble of many voices and the pounding of men’s feet as they ran to the bridge railing to gape at the crackling, fiery drama.
“It’s the big grain mill on the Wöhrd!” Magdalena could hear someone shout. “I bet the flour exploded. My grandfather once told me about something like that happening…”
“No doubt the miller was drunk again…”
“He was smoking! That new, hellish tobacco they’re importing! Lit his pipe and blew himself straight up to heaven, along with home and grain.”
“Step aside, folks! A shipment for city hall, make way!”
The last voice belonged to Silvio, who shouted and cracked his whip as he tried to get through the gathering crowd. Magdalena had heard him bribe the watchman at the ramp with a handful of clinking coins. The people up here were so busy watching and gossiping about the catastrophe that the large wagon barely attracted any attention.
They weren’t stopped at the gate leading from the bridge into the city, either. As the wagon rumbled on through the streets and alleys, Magdalena heard the occasional sound of marching feet—presumably guards rushing to the Wöhrd from all parts of the city—and bells ringing somewhere. No one seemed interested in the overloaded wagon carrying Silvio and the five raftsmen. Once in a while a hand pressed to Magdalena’s mouth—apparently to check that she was still breathing—then took the opportunity to grope her breasts or her leg
s or tighten her bonds.
Finally the wagon came to a halt. Magdalena tried to guess where they were, based on the sounds around them, but except for distant voices and bells she heard nothing. Her whole body itched; bugs crawled through her hair. She couldn’t move a muscle. She lay there like a living sack of grain, breathing in dust, flour, and ground ergot.
“Haaaalt! In the name of the city, come down from the wagon!”
It was the commanding voice of a gate guard, clearly used to giving orders and having them heeded, too. Magdalena held her breath. Could he be her salvation? Perhaps one of the raftsmen had told them, and now the entire city was looking for the poison!
“What is this all about?” Silvio asked indignantly. “Don’t you see we’re in a hurry? Open the gate!”
“I’m sorry, but we have to search every wagon leaving the city,” the watchman replied. “The Regensburg monster has escaped, the one responsible for the double murder in the Weißgerbergraben. We’ve got to be sure he doesn’t flee the city.”
Magdalena clenched her fists. At least they hadn’t caught her father yet! But why was Silvio trying to leave the city with the wagon? She’d assumed they were on their way to city hall or perhaps the Heuport House. What could the Venetian do with the poisoned flour outside of town?
“A worthy task, constable,” Silvio replied, now distinctly more polite. “But with me that’s really not necessary. My men loaded the sacks themselves. Do you think the Venetian ambassador would provide cover for a murderer?” He laughed softly, and again Magdalena heard coins clinking.
“I—I—didn’t recognize you,” the guard gasped. “Excuse me, Your Eminence. But this is just a modest little wagon, and I would have expected you—”
The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale Page 41
