How comforting! I look just like one of them, he thought as he glanced down at his wet, mud-stained jacket and sighed. When this is all over, I’ll be lucky if the beggars let me sleep at Neupfarr Church Square and maybe bring me a piece of stale bread now and then.
Soon they arrived on the other side of the city at Peter’s Gate, where guards were still searching farmers’ wagons. By now Nathan had told the other beggars all that had happened at the mill. Whistling cheerfully, he turned left toward a tumbledown shed that leaned against the city wall, looking as if it might collapse at any moment.
Carefully the beggar king opened its rotten wooden door and motioned to the others to follow. Inside, Simon was astonished to find a narrow door in the city wall just wide enough for one man to pass through. Nathan tapped on the door—two long knocks and three short—and soon a bearded, boozy-eyed guard appeared.
“So many of you?” the man asked, assessing the group with bloodshot eyes. “This will cost you extra.” Suspiciously he eyed Simon, who just stood there, soaking wet and trembling. “You look somehow familiar to me. Where—”
“This is Quivering August,” Nathan interjected, pressing a few dirty coins into the hand of the confused guard. “He just joined us, the poor old dog. He has the English sweating sickness and probably won’t last long.”
The guard stepped back a pace in horror. “Good Lord, Nathan! Couldn’t you have told me that sooner? Get out of town, and take your infected friends with you!”
The man crossed himself and spat. Giggling, the beggars stepped out into the turnip and wheat fields that bordered the city wall. The door slammed shut behind them.
“These one-man doors are a wonderful invention!” Nathan gushed, as they turned southward onto a broad highway. When they spotted Hans and two other beggars waiting for them in a radiant field of wheat, Simon assumed they’d made it out of the city through a similar door.
“Anyone can leave the city, any time of day or night, if he pays enough,” the beggar king told Simon as they continued on. “That is, if he’s not wanted for murders or intending to poison the Reichstag. But even then, if the price is right—I love this city!”
He spread his arms to heaven and, still whistling, set out at the head of the strange retinue—a dirty, ragged band of men, some hobbling, some babbling, but all determined to save the great city of Regensburg from destruction.
It seemed as if Philipp Lettner had pronounced a curse on Jakob Kuisl that made his arms and legs as heavy as lead.
The pain returned to the hangman’s left shoulder, compounded by the hornet stings on his back and face. He staggered backward, raising his right hand mechanically to ward off his opponent’s blows, but it was only a matter of time before Lettner would find an opening and deal him a coup de grâce.
Friedrich Lettner still lay on the floor in the middle of the church, gasping for air. The hornet stings seemed to affect the broad-shouldered giant much more than his slender brother. Friedrich’s hands had swollen to twice their normal size, and he was vomiting saliva and bile, his breath constricted, as if someone had clamped iron buckles across his chest and was pulling them tighter and tighter. The worst, however, was his bloated, scarred face, which glistened bright red from the stings, like the head of a freshly slaughtered pig. Out of the corner of his eye Kuisl noticed the man had started to twitch and seemed to be growing weaker. Once more Friedrich arched his back as if he’d been struck, then collapsed like a monstrous doll.
“For Friedrich, you scoundrel!”
With a shout, Philipp Lettner lunged, his katzbalger cutting through the air toward Kuisl’s head. The hangman ducked this blow only to be faced with yet another.
“For Karl!”
Again Kuisl stepped aside just in time, but his movements were slower now and he was tiring. The fever came and went in waves—the ground beneath his feet as soft as butter—and he sensed he might not be able to fend off the next blow. Then his legs gave out beneath him, and he fell to his knees. Raising his head with great effort, he found Lettner standing over him, gloating, his sword held high in both hands. Lettner drew his hands back and to the right to get a good angle on Jakob’s neck. Spellbound, the hangman stared back at his enemy; Lettner was about to do to Kuisl what Kuisl had been perfecting his whole life.
A clean decapitation.
“You don’t really deserve such a merciful death, Kuisl,” Philipp Lettner growled. “I’m doing this only for old times’ sake. Well, that and—” He bared his fanglike teeth. “How many people can say they’ve beheaded an honest-to-God executioner? I’m sure the devil himself would have a laugh at this. So off to hell with you!”
Kuisl lowered his head, closed his eyes, and waited for the blow that would end it all.
It didn’t come.
Instead, an almost ethereal silence prevailed, one interrupted only by a loud metallic whir. When Kuisl looked up, he was astonished to find Philipp Lettner standing before him, wide-eyed and dazed. The katzbalger lay on the church floor. Lettner clutched desperately at a charred, splintered beam that protruded from his stomach, staring down in disbelief, as if he just couldn’t comprehend he might really be dying—as if, up until this moment, he’d never imagined his own death could be part of some divine plan.
He slowly toppled over and didn’t stir again. Once the light left his eyes, they stared blankly at the collapsed roof of the church, where two swallows chirped furiously at each other, then flew off.
Behind Lettner stood Philipp Teuber. Although the Regensburg executioner swayed, he was still standing. He wiped his hands on his bloodstained jacket with care, hands that had wielded the charred wooden cross only moments ago.
“Let’s hope that old thing was consecrated,” he said, tapping his foot against the raftmaster, who lay impaled on the floor in front of him. Teuber had gored Lettner using the tip of the crucifix like a spear. “Perhaps that will drive the evil out of him,” he said.
“For a bastard like that, you’d have to douse him in holy water, then dunk him in the baptismal font—and even that might not do any good,” Kuisl answered hoarsely.
Still swaying, the Regensburg executioner smiled. With a stony gaze he regarded the bolt in his chest.
“I… don’t… feel… very well,” he spluttered. “The bolt…”
Kuisl pointed at Friedrich Lettner’s corpse where a few hornets still circled about. “At least there won’t be another bolt,” he said. “Every villain has his weakness, and for this one it wasn’t the big arrow but countless little stings. I hope the poison doesn’t—”
He broke off as Teuber crashed to the ground like a tower collapsing. He didn’t move again.
“My God, Teuber!” Kuisl shouted as he ran over to kneel down alongside his friend. Kuisl tried to concentrate despite his fever. “Don’t do this to me! Not now, not after it’s all over! What will I tell your wife?” He shook the executioner, but there was no response. “She’s going to kill me if I carry you back home like this!”
Teuber opened his eyes once more, and a faint smile crossed his lips. “Not like you… deserve… anything better… you old dog…” he managed. Then his head sank, and his breath became a shallow rattle.
“Hey! Wake up, you slacker! Don’t go to sleep now, damn you!”
Kuisl leaped up and grabbed Teuber’s shirt. At once blood flowed in dark rivulets over his hands. The bolt was as firmly embedded in Teuber’s chest as a carpenter’s nail. For a moment Kuisl was almost paralyzed; then it seemed he’d decided what to do.
“Hold off a bit on the dying. I’m coming right back!”
Without another thought about his own wounds or the hornet stings, the hangman ran into the blazing midday heat. A gentle wind moaned through a window opening and echoed through the forest like the cry of a little child. But Kuisl paid no heed to anyone or anything. Frantically he searched the bushes, birches, and willows surrounding the ruined village.
Lady’s mantle, yarrow, bloodroot, shepherd’s purse… I ne
ed shepherd’s purse!
Teuber’s blood wasn’t foamy and bright, so the lungs had likely been spared. If Kuisl could find the right herbs, there might still be hope. The most important thing was to stanch the bleeding and prevent infection.
It took the hangman a while to find what he needed in the shadow of an oak, an unremarkable little plant, which he carefully plucked. Shepherd’s purse was held to be a true miracle worker, integral to every executioner’s pharmacy as far back as anyone knew. With little purse-shaped pods, the plant relieved fever and gout, helped induce labor, and was especially useful in treating open bleeding wounds. When Kuisl had collected enough, he began to tear moss and bark from surrounding trees. He shoved them all, along with a handful of other plants, into his open shirt and ran back to the church where Teuber still lay motionless. When he bent down, Kuisl was relieved to find Teuber still breathing.
“I’m going to pull the bolt out now,” he whispered into Teuber’s ear. “So clench your teeth and try not to yelp like a washerwoman. Are you ready?”
Teuber nodded almost imperceptibly. “Just my luck that I wind up in the hands of a quack like you…”
Kuisl grinned. “This is my revenge for your rancid ointment.” Then his face turned serious again. “I can’t stop the bleeding completely. For the rest we’ll have to go back to Regensburg.”
“But… they’ll lock you up again… the torture chamber…” Teuber stammered, apparently suffering fever dreams already.
“Don’t worry about me. The most important thing now is that you get better.”
As Kuisl tore out the bolt and pressed moss and yarrow to the open wound, his lips formed a silent prayer.
“There are four of them,” Simon whispered, pointing to the raftsmen crouched lazily among waist-high stalks of rye, listlessly carving willow branches. “Do you think we can take them on?”
Nathan cast a disparaging glance at the thickset, already intoxicated men. “Those fellows? As you know, we fight dirty and mean. They’ll think the sky is falling down around them.”
“Very well.” Simon nodded. “Magdalena is probably down below with Silvio and the fifth raftsman. When I give the command, I suggest you attack the men up here while Hans, Brother Paulus, and I storm the well chamber and take care of the rest. Is that all right?”
Nathan grinned, showing off his crooked gold tooth. “A brilliant plan—one I might have thought up myself. No tricks, no finesse, just bust right in shouting and start thrashing away.”
“You idiot!” Simon snapped. “Then tell me what you can come up with offhand.”
“Calm down. Everything will work out.” The beggar king tapped the medicus reassuringly on the shoulder, then whispered to his men to spread out over the area.
In the course of their long march down the broad highway and then along the small path across the field, the beggars had armed themselves with sticks and branches. To their arsenal they now added pebbles and heavy rocks from the surrounding fields. Then, concealed behind stalks of wheat, broom, and poppies, they approached the raftsmen who were passing the time drinking, chatting, and whittling.
Upon a signal from Nathan, Lame Hannes reached under his tattered shirt for a leather strap with a broad, spoonlike depression in its middle. He laid a flat stone in it, swung the strap in circles overhead, and finally sent the stone soaring toward the raftsmen.
The stone flew through the air like an arrow, striking the forehead of one of the men, who collapsed without a sound. Moments later more stones rained down on the raftsmen. The beggars shouted and ran out from hiding, slashing away at their astonished opponents as Lame Hannes fired more stones with his leather slingshot.
“Now!” Simon ran toward the stairs, followed closely by Hans and Brother Paulus. The medicus stumbled down the steps, coming at last to a heavy arched iron door. Struggling for air, he threw himself against it, only to realize it was already ajar. As the door swung open, he tumbled into a dark torch-lit room that ended in a large basin filled with rushing water. Behind it he saw dim light emerge from a small archway and heard panting and the muffled, high-pitched cries of a woman who sounded as if she’d already gone mad.
It was Magdalena’s voice.
As the cup of dissolved ergot approached her lips, the hangman’s daughter was at first transfixed with, and paralyzed by, fear. But her will to live reasserted itself: she would not resign herself to this fate without a fight. She was still standing with Silvio in the long, flooded passageway, the raftsman Jeremias gripping her head tightly. Magdalena went limp, as if she’d given up.
“Well, then,” said Silvio. “Now, it seems like—”
All of a sudden she brought the full force of her right knee to Silvio’s groin. With a gasp, the Venetian collapsed like a pocket-knife, and the tin cup fell to the floor, where it sank in the turbulent water. The burly raftsman saw his leader collapse, was distracted for a moment, and loosened his grip. Magdalena took advantage of the moment to slip eel-like from his grasp. Without a glance backward, she ran for the exit, but the nearly knee-deep water slowed her so that she lost her balance and fell headlong into the basin.
“Stop her, you fool!” Silvio shouted at the confused Jeremias. “The damned bitch! I’m going to stuff her mouth so full of ergot that it comes gushing out of every last pore in her body.”
The Venetian sat doubled over on the ledge along the wall, his legs dangling in the water. Magdalena’s blow still seemed to cause him a lot of pain. His makeup ran in black and milky-white rivulets down his otherwise well-groomed face, and his sopping wig looked like rotten seaweed in the dim torchlight. Magdalena couldn’t help but be reminded of the statue at Heuport House of the handsome young man from whose back rats, snakes, and toads came crawling out.
It’s all a mask, and behind it there’s nothing but filth, she thought. And dumb little slut that I am, I almost fell for it!
She’d just stood up again and was about to slip through the narrow corridor into the anteroom when Jeremias’s hand seized her from behind, dragging her inexorably back into the dark vaulted chamber. Silvio had gotten up from the ledge now, and after wiping his nose with his wet shirtsleeve, he reached into a sack of flour.
“No one can say I didn’t treat you courteously,” he gasped. “But you leave me no other choice, you stubborn wench. Can’t you see you’re serving a great cause? Your insignificant little life will change the history of this empire forever! No more backward little nation-states governed by their tariffs and narrow minds! At the end of our journey lies a vision of a single state extending from the Black Sea to the Rhine! Once the Grand Vizier has seized Vienna, there will be no stopping him. Those who prepare the path for his victory will receive princely rewards. Don’t be so damned stubborn. Submit yourself to a glorious vision!”
“If it’s so important to you, why don’t you eat this poison yourself!” Magdalena screamed as Jeremias gripped her shoulder tightly and pushed her toward the sacks of flour. Her hands were still tied, but she felt the rope loosening a bit in the water.
Silvio smiled. With smudged makeup and wet, stringy hair, he looked like some kind of evil, bewitched toad. “A nice thought,” he said. “Unfortunately the Grand Vizier has plans for me that require I keep a very clear head. And who knows? Perhaps on the far side of madness lies eternal happiness. Just wait and see; you’ll thank me for allowing you to sample this divine substance. And now, open your mouth, damn it!”
Silvio shouted these final words like a madman, every syllable echoing off the walls many times over. The ambassador had run out of patience. Dripping with sweat, he beckoned Jeremias to throw Magdalena onto the narrow ledge. As Jeremias held her down tightly with both hands, Silvio bent over her to force the flour into her throat like a goose being fattened for slaughter.
Magdalena clenched her teeth, but the Venetian held her nose until she had to open her mouth and gasp desperately for air. At once she gagged on the bitter, damp powder and could feel stomach acid rising in her throat,
but she struggled not to swallow. Flour spilled out of her mouth, and she spat and screamed for help.
“Magdalena!”
At first the hangman’s daughter thought she was hearing a ghost. It was quite clearly the voice of her dear deceased Simon calling down from heaven. How was this possible? Could the ergot be affecting her already?
Is this what crazy is?
Then in the doorway she spotted a short figure in a soiled shirt, wearing an unkempt Vandyke and disheveled shoulder-length black hair. Clever black eyes sparkled back at her. If the man before her was an illusion, this ergot was some damn good stuff.
Simon! Is it really you?
Magdalena felt her heart leap. This was no hallucination! Simon was alive and had come to free her! Just a few more steps and…
Suddenly she realized Silvio had released her and was sprinting along the slippery ledge toward the entryway. As Simon entered the vault, Silvio picked up a rock and heaved it, striking the medicus hard on the forehead, then charged his surprised opponent with a shout. Both men collapsed in a foaming whirlpool, arms and legs flailing wildly. Magdalena could only watch helplessly as the Venetian held Simon underwater with both hands. The medicus spluttered and thrashed about, but Silvio didn’t let go.
“You fool!” the Venetian shouted, his words echoing again through the vault. “You were supposed to have gone up in smoke with the mill. That would have been less painful. Now I’m going to have to drown you like a rat.”
Simon surfaced briefly, but Silvio grabbed him and pushed him underwater again. The Venetian’s wig had come off completely, revealing thinning hair and a receding hairline. His eyes flashed like those of an evil hobgoblin.
“Pigheaded lowlife!” Silvio yelled. “You just won’t accept it’s all over. Die now, you stubborn old dog!”
Desperately the hangman’s daughter tried to escape Jeremias’s clutches, but this time he held her as tightly as if she were bound to the rack. He grinned and bent his pockmarked face close enough that she could smell the wine on his breath.
The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale Page 43
