The occasion was indeed serious. The night before, the Bamberg werewolf had apparently struck again, and his victim was none other than the venerable patrician Thadäus Vasold—at the age of nearly eighty, the oldest member of the council. Vasold’s servant had seen the monster with his own eyes, though there was not a trace left of the councilman himself. The growing fear of the citizenry, as well as that of the scholars in the council chamber, had soon led to a great commotion in the room.
“And I’m telling you,” insisted one of the councilmen, a gaunt, elderly man wearing an old-fashioned ruff collar, “it’s time for us to shut the town gates. This werewolf is prowling around just outside the walls. Two charcoal burners saw him in the forest just yesterday. And he can come and go in our city as he pleases.”
“And what good is that going to do?” snarled another patrician with fat, drooping cheeks. “Do you know what will happen to our businesses if we don’t allow anyone into town? Anyway, the gates were closed last night, and the beast still managed to get old Thadäus.”
“Let’s not forget, the monster has magical powers,” added one of the jurists in a solemn voice. He cleared his throat and started reading from a large book lying in front of him. “According to Formicarius, which is considered the authoritative work in the field, by the Dominican scholar Johannes Nider, werewolves can assume any shape, animal or human. Who knows?” He paused theatrically and looked around the table. “Perhaps the werewolf is sitting right here in the room with us.”
Loud shouting broke out again, and two patricians were about to pounce on the scholar.
“One last time, silence! For God’s sake, silence!”
The suffragan bishop pounded the table with his gavel again, to no effect. Harsee looked pale and unkempt, and Simon thought he could detect a nervous twitch around his mouth. Nevertheless, his eyes still glared out from beneath his monk’s tonsure with the same evil intensity as when Simon had met him the first time in the palace garden.
It was Master Samuel who finally managed to bring an end to the uproar—with a simple trick.
“Let us all pray for our friend Thadäus Vasold,” he intoned loudly while making the sign of the cross. “I believe he deserves our thoughts and prayers. Or does someone think differently?”
The members of the council paused in their squabbling and finally started praying quietly while still casting suspicious glances at one another.
“Amen,” the suffragan bishop finally said, relieved, and licked his dry lips before continuing in a piercing voice. “Dear members of our committee, we may hold different opinions as to the exact nature of this werewolf, but at least there is no doubt this beast actually exists, given what happened last night. Vasold’s servant saw this monster and unequivocally recognized it as a werewolf.”
“Just like the drunken watchman two nights before,” Samuel murmured, so softly that no one except Simon heard him. “And Vasold’s servant is just as dumb, as everyone in the city knows. He’d think a calf is a werewolf, if you just keep suggesting it enough. But no one here is considering that.”
“Is there something you wanted to tell us, Master Samuel?” asked the suffragan bishop sharply. “Or are you only talking to your learned friend?”
The physician shook his head. “I was just saying that the people we’ve heard from so far are not the most reliable eyewitnesses, but I must confess that it’s true, the honorable councilor Vasold is already the fifth resident to have vanished. In any case, we must find out why these people have disappeared.”
“Listen, he must confess.” With a sarcastic smile, the suffragan bishop looked around at the attendees. Once again, Simon noticed the dark circles under his eyes.
“In this regard, it might be interesting for members of the commission to know,” Harsee continued smugly, “that Herr Doktor released a suspect yesterday on his own authority, a shepherd from the Bamberg Forest who has been peddling magic potions here in the city. A few concerned citizens reported that to me shortly before our meeting.”
The crowd began to murmur and hiss, and many of those present glared at Samuel.
“The magic potions were arnica and crushed bark from oak trees,” the physician replied, “harmless ingredients. Both are used in the medical treatment of animals, as the learned Doctor Fronwieser here can confirm.”
Simon was stunned when Samuel turned toward him to confirm that statement, but finally the little medicus and bathhouse owner nodded, trying to sound as wise and professional as possible.
“Ah, indeed. I have written a paper about that myself,” he said, “‘On the Nature and Growth of Medicinal Plants, with Special Emphasis on Coltsfoot, and Its Effects, as Well as on Arnica, and—’”
“Very well, very well.” Harsee waved him off peevishly. “We don’t need a complicated monologue, just a brief opinion. It’s quite possible they were just harmless herbs, but a thorough questioning of the suspect would have been appropriate.”
“Your Excellency, what do you know about this troupe of actors that has been visiting here for the last few days?” asked the provost of the cathedral, a gaunt, anxious-looking man with a pinched face. “The people who come to me for confession have told me some dreadful stories. They tell of Satanic incantations on the stage, and even today, on our sacred day of rest, they portrayed a devil dancing. Could it be possible the werewolf has been attracted here by this witchcraft?”
Sebastian Harsee nodded. “That’s an important consideration, Your Excellency. These magical doings performed under the pretense of edification are a thorn in my side, as well,” he said with a sigh. “But unfortunately the prince-bishop doesn’t look at it that way. Along with his many beloved animals, the theater is his great passion, and I’ve even heard that a second troupe of actors recently arrived in Bamberg. His Excellency is considering granting them permission to spend the winter in Bamberg, as well. We’ll have to keep a close eye on these immoral persons.”
“Keep an eye on them? Is that all we’re going to do?” Trembling with anger, a middle-aged councilor rose to his feet. He was wearing a gray coat on which a mortar and pestle were depicted—the emblem of the apothecaries’ guild. “This is the monster that presumably ripped my Adelheid apart like a deer, and you are going to do nothing more than keep an eye on things?”
“Why was the woman roaming about in the forest at night?” a younger councilor hissed under his breath. “She was probably gathering magic herbs there. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she was somehow working with the werewolf and up to no good.”
The apothecary wheeled around. “What did you just say?”
“What did I just say, Master Rinswieser?” the other man replied, looking around for support from the others. He was wearing the fancy clothing of a nouveau-riche dandy and seemed quite sure of himself. “Well, your Adelheid watered down those tinctures. Word gets around.”
“How dare you, Master Steinhofer?” He stormed across the room to the younger man. “If only Adelheid’s father could hear that. He and your own father were once members of the council, they were friends, and now you denounce his daughter as a witch, you . . . you . . .”
“Don’t forget that my beloved Johanna has also disappeared,” his opponent interrupted, stroking his goatee. “And that was just after she’d bought some strange tincture from your wife.”
“And I heard she ran pell-mell away from you after an argument in which even chairs went flying through the air,” the apothecary shot back. “No doubt she couldn’t stand being around you anymore. By the way, you don’t seem too concerned that your young fiancée has simply vanished into thin air. Did you marry her only for the dowry?”
“That’s slander!”
The two men were about to come to blows when the bishop’s chancellor suddenly stood up and spread his arms, trying to calm them down. With his enormous rolls of fat, he looked more like a tavern keeper than one of the highest dignitaries in Bamberg.
“My dear colleagues,” he began jovially, �
�we must not quarrel. I think I have a solution. Even if His Excellency, the venerable Prince-Bishop Philipp Rieneck, is not among us, I believe we can speak on his behalf. We, uh . . . should think about setting up an inquisition.”
“An inquisition?” Master Samuel frowned. “Why do we need that? Don’t we already have this Werewolf Commission?”
“I believe the honorable chancellor is completely right.” Sebastian Harsee smiled, and it seemed to Simon that the suffragan bishop was quite happy with the direction the meeting had taken. A quick glance at the chancellor even made him suspect that this move had been prearranged.
“Forty years ago, at the time of the Bamberg witch trials,” Harsee continued, “quick action was called for in order to get control of the many suspects, so an inquisition composed of only a few members was set up, with the task of deciding who had to be tortured. Their conclusions were presented to the prince-bishop, who signed the death sentences.”
“Only a handful of people are to make the life-or-death decisions?” Master Samuel shook his head in dismay. “But what, then, is the purpose of this commission—”
“I suggest a vote,” the suffragan bishop interrupted. He looked slowly around the table, his gaze resting on one attendee after another. “All those present are naturally above all suspicion. None of the accusations made here will be considered—we are concerned only with the strangers in the city. The actors, for example—but also gypsies and other itinerant people. I will personally appoint the members of this commission if necessary—naturally only with the blessing of His Excellency, the prince-bishop. Are all in agreement?”
For a while, silence prevailed. The bishop’s chancellor was the first to raise his hand, followed by the young dandy with the goatee, and finally all the others. Only Samuel and Simon sat there motionless.
“I see there are only two objections,” the suffragan bishop finally concluded, taking out a silk handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his bald head. “Well, that’s more than enough, especially since one of the two objectors is not even from this town,” he added smugly. He turned to the chancellor. “I ask you to please inform His Excellency the Prince-Bishop of our decision. I’m certain he will approve.”
The chancellor nodded. “I believe you are right, Your Excellency.” He reached for his glass of wine and offered a toast to the others. “Here’s to our city!”
“To our city!” the others replied, raising their glasses as well.
While the councilors and scholars drank deeply from their wineglasses, Simon felt as if a rope was slowly tightening around his neck.
Though she was trudging ankle-deep through the garbage in the streets, Barbara felt like she was walking on a cloud. Together with Matheo she strolled through a narrow, muddy lane that ran from the Green Market to the Lange Gasse. There was an odor of hops and smoked meat in the air, freshly washed clothing hung from the windows, and in a doorway, children were playing with a top.
Since it was Sunday, Sir Malcolm had given his actors time off after the performance, and for an hour the two young people had been walking through Bamberg like a husband and wife on a Sunday-afternoon stroll. Matheo had stopped now and then at one of the many market stalls, bought a few little things, and, like a gallant gentleman from a good family, had given the delighted Barbara some tasty tidbits to eat.
As casually as possible, Barbara reached out for Matheo’s hand and let him help her jump over a large puddle in the street. The day was certainly the finest she’d ever had. Beside her walked the first boy she really loved—not one of those uncouth Schongau farm boys who thought it was a sign of affection to run after her reciting one of their obscene poems, nor the feebleminded knacker’s son from the neighboring town of Peiting, who had only three teeth left in his mouth, stank like a barrel of tannic acid, and actually hoped to marry soon. No, this boy was like something out of one of those wonderful storybooks that Magdalena had always read to her at bedtime. Matheo was muscular and tanned like a Turkish prince, with mysterious, sparkling eyes and a healthy set of white teeth that gleamed when he laughed. And he was smart and funny. Just then he took another playful bow, mimicking a dandy at the royal court.
“My dear lady, allow me to guide you safely through this dubious part of town,” he said in an artificially pompous tone, pointing to the left where the lane opened into a broader avenue.
“Dear lady?” Barbara grinned. “No doubt you have forgotten the family I come from. Or are we still playacting?”
“Isn’t all the world a stage?” he replied with a wink.
Their act that morning in the wedding house had been a great success. Actually, it was Matheo’s act—Barbara had only tossed some balls and hoops to him from time to time. But the performance was well received, the audience laughed, and at least for a short while they’d forgotten their fears. In her excitement, Barbara had hardly given a thought to the werewolf that was once again wandering the streets of Bamberg during the night. While the crowd was applauding at the end of the piece, Matheo had called her up onto the stage, and she’d bowed to the audience, whose applause washed over her like a pleasant summer rain.
Now Barbara started dreaming of becoming an artist someday, too. Even as a very small girl she’d enjoyed clowning around and getting dressed up. Was this perhaps the chance she’d yearned for to escape the dreary, predestined life of a hangman’s daughter? She would rumble through the country in a wagon and make people laugh or cry. Weren’t actors just as dishonorable as knackers and hangmen? So, in fact, she’d remain true to her class. But what she didn’t know was how to break this news to her family. She suspected that her father would not be excited about these plans.
“Another prune?”
Matheo handed her the small, shriveled fruit, interrupting her thoughts. They were just passing the barred windows of the city prison on the Hellergasse, and Barbara couldn’t help noting that her uncle occasionally whipped convicts here before dragging them off to the gallows or wherever they were to be beheaded. Matheo seemed to have noticed her worried look.
“Does your father ever have nightmares from all the executions?” he asked, lifting his crumpled hat back over his neck. He had a southern accent but spoke German extremely well. “I can imagine he also has to torture or hang people sometimes. He must feel sorry for some of them, doesn’t he?”
Barbara shrugged as she put the prune in her mouth and slowly chewed on it. For a while they were both silent.
Finally, she swallowed the fruit and said, “He doesn’t talk to us about his work, ever. Actually, none of us knows how he really feels. Maybe Mother did, but unfortunately she’s dead.” Her face turned grim. “My brother, Georg, will probably become the Schongau executioner after my father is gone, and he, too, is stubborn and doesn’t talk much. It’s in our blood, I guess, at least for the men. Uncle Bartl is the same way.” She sighed and wiped her mouth. “But let’s talk about nicer things. For example, how you became an actor.” She cast him a sideways glance as they turned onto a wide, paved street.
Matheo grinned. “There’s not much to tell. I was an urchin on the streets of Sicily, without a father and with a mother who was a drunk; she was happy I ran away. I joined a group of jugglers, and it seems I had talent. Sir Malcolm discovered me at a fair in Siena, and since then I travel the country with him.” He laughed. “Until now I’ve usually been the beautiful girl in his troupe, but recently my voice has become too deep and I’m starting to grow fuzz on my face. Here, feel it.”
He took Barbara’s hand and ran it across his scratchy chin. She got goose bumps on her arms.
“Yes . . . yes, you are,” she said haltingly. “Then another fellow will soon have to play the girl.”
Matheo waved her off. “Recently women have been allowed to play the female parts, though the church doesn’t actually condone it. But what does it matter? I prefer playing the role of the lovesick young man, anyway.”
“That’s something I can well imagine.”
The last f
ew minutes Barbara had been walking along as if in a trance, and when she looked up, she saw that they were close to the Lange Gasse, alongside a wild garden in the middle of the city. Beyond the garden was a larger building whose walls were in ruins and overgrown with blackberry vines. Between the piles of stone, Barbara saw some wild apple trees with a few shrunken apples still on their branches.
“Let’s go and get ourselves a few apples.” Matheo winked at her. “Perhaps we can rest a bit in the shade of the trees. The guards aren’t especially happy if people wander around back there, but don’t worry, they won’t catch us.”
Barbara couldn’t help thinking of her last encounter with the guards, when she’d been looking into the abandoned house, but the look in Matheo’s big brown eyes convinced her.
“Rest awhile?” she laughed. “Why not? I do feel a bit hot.” In the next instant it occurred to her that it was the end of October and, because of the cold, she was wearing a thin woolen coat over her blouse. “Ah, I mean I’m a bit tired after the performance. Perhaps we should really lie down for a minute.”
Matheo had already pulled himself up on some protruding stones and offered his arm to help her. She climbed over the wall, and after just a few steps it seemed they were far from the street. A few sparrows chirped in the branches, a light wind was blowing, but otherwise all was quiet. Matheo was still holding her hand.
“A beautiful spot,” she said hesitantly, looking over at the larger building, the back of which was only a stone’s throw away. A second wall separated the wild area from a well-tended garden that evidently belonged to the stately property. “So peaceful, yet in the middle of the city.”
“It was probably not always this beautiful here,” Matheo answered softly. “Our playwright Markus Salter told me about it during our last visit to Bamberg. The people who live here call this place the druid’s garden. Even just forty years ago, there was a building, right where we are now standing, in which alleged witches were examined and tortured. The so-called House of the Inquisition. Did you ever hear about it?”
The Werewolf of Bamberg Page 16
