Barbara shook her head silently, and Matheo continued.
“It all started when the son of the burgomaster was found with a book about Doctor Faustus. The book was confiscated.”
“The same Doctor Faustus that Markus Salter played on the stage?” Barbara asked.
“Yes.” Matheo nodded. “The fourteen-year-old boy thought it was a genuine book of magic and started randomly accusing people of witchcraft. Soon a wave of arrests began, to which the boy himself fell victim. Evidently there were so many suspicious people then that the dungeons in Bamberg couldn’t house them all, so they had to build this accursed house here.” He pointed at the overgrown garden. “There were cells, torture chambers, stalls, a courtroom, even a chapel to hear confessions. But everything was hidden from view, so that no one knew about it. The Bambergers had no idea what was going on here. Shortly before the Swedish invasion, they released the last prisoner and very quickly tore down the building, probably because it reminded them of their own guilt.”
Matheo sat down on an old tree stump. “By then, hundreds had already died. In the neighboring town of Zeil they even built a huge oven in order to burn all the alleged witches. Isn’t that dreadful?”
Barbara looked around anxiously. A cloud had passed over the sun, casting a dark shadow on the garden. Between the violet heather and the apple trees she could make out the remains of the building’s foundation and a few individual rectangular rooms; here and there, she saw rusty nails and rotten beams eaten away by the ravages of time. Suddenly, the garden no longer seemed so beautiful.
“It’s good that those days are gone forever,” she finally said.
Matheo nodded grimly. “Let’s hope they don’t return. But if this hysteria about the werewolf keeps up, then perhaps we’ll soon need such an inquisition.” He shuddered as if trying to drive away the evil thought. Then he beckoned for Barbara to come over and take a seat next to him.
“I think we’re good partners,” Matheo began hesitantly, after she’d taken a seat on the tree stump. He laughed with embarrassment. “I . . . I mean in the theater, naturally. I think you really have talent. The people look wide-eyed when they see you, and you have a natural charisma.”
“A natural charisma?” Barbara moved a bit closer to Matheo. “What does that mean?”
“Well, it means—”
At that moment the angry voices of two or three men were heard coming from the well-kept garden behind them. Matheo stopped and frowned.
“I’ll eat my hat if that isn’t the voice of Sir Malcolm,” he mumbled. “What’s he doing here?” Quickly he stood up and ran back to the rear wall.
Barbara sighed and followed him. She didn’t know what would have happened if she’d sat with him a bit longer under the apple tree, but she really wanted to find out.
Meanwhile, Matheo had discovered a chink in the wall where he could look through and observe without being discovered. Excitedly he beckoned to Barbara.
“It really is Malcolm,” he whispered. “Along with a few other men. Unfortunately, one of them is this Guiscard that our innkeeper was telling us about. This garden belongs to an inn—probably the one where the accursed Frenchman is staying.”
Barbara had also found a crack in the wall to peer through. She saw a pretty little orchard with tables and chairs scattered around, though in late October none of them were occupied. Underneath the trees stood the English producer surrounded by three men Barbara didn’t know. Two of them, dressed in rather shabby-looking clothes, were pointing their swords threateningly at Sir Malcolm. The third man was wearing a wig, like Sir Malcolm, and a bright red jacket covered with gleaming copper buttons. Judging from his stiff lace collar and a hat jauntily pulled down over his face, he was a nobleman. When she looked again, Barbara noticed the many wine stains on his clothing and poorly mended rips in his shirt and stockings.
“Tout de suite! Take back those words at once!” he shouted at Sir Malcolm. He spoke with an artificial-sounding French accent that made him sound affected and feminine. Barbara could now see, too, that he was lightly made-up.
“Il y va de mon honneur,” the Frenchman continued loudly, pounding his chest dramatically. “Have you not understood me? If you lie like that again, I’ll order my men to punch you full of holes like an old wine pouch.”
“Ha! I’d like to see you try,” Sir Malcolm snarled back. “You are a bad man and a thief, Guiscard. Unfortunately the theft of plays is not punishable by law, or you’d have long ago been sent to the gallows.” The English producer puffed himself up. “The Doge of Venice belongs to my troupe. It was written personally for us by the great playwright Markus Salter, and now you are peddling it on the road like a door-to-door salesman. You’ve barely even tried to disguise the title. The Dome of Venice.” He laughed maliciously. “What nonsense. As if the dome in this piece played any major role.”
Guiscard waved him off. “It sounds good—that’s the main thing. Besides, you know yourself that with a few chases, sword fights, and broken hearts, the story could take place anywhere.”
“Then you admit you stole the piece from us?”
The Frenchman smiled. “Didn’t you just say there’s no law against taking plays? As soon as they’re written down, anyone can use them. And now, excusez-moi.” He tried to push his way past Malcolm. “We will be having one more rehearsal, and I’m certain that The Dome of Venice,” he said, emphasizing every word and adding a smug pause, “well, this performance in the Grapevine Inn will be a great success, followed by many others. The bishop has invited us to spend the entire winter in Bamberg.”
“He signed a document giving us the exclusive right . . . you frog eaters.” The gaunt Sir Malcolm stood more than a head taller than Guiscard. Like a scarecrow that had just sprung to life, he pushed his archenemy to the ground.
“Murder! Murder!” Guiscard cried out theatrically, clutching his chest as if in the throes of great pain. “Men, save me from this cowardly assassin.”
Now the two huge men took up their swords and attacked the English producer, who fought back, darting from one table to the next.
“We must help Sir Malcolm,” Matheo whispered, “or they’ll skewer him alive.”
“But how—” Barbara started to say, but Matheo had already climbed over the wall, and his hat went flying off. On the other side he picked up a heavy branch and attacked the men. Approaching from behind, he struck one of the huge men, who screamed and fell to the ground. The other turned away from Sir Malcolm and looked at Matheo in astonishment.
“What in the world are you doing here, you wimp?” he growled. “You’ve gotten yourself into a lot of trouble, little fellow.”
“I know him,” cried Guiscard, who in the meantime had struggled to his feet and was leaning on one of the tables with an anguished expression. Breathing heavily, he dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief. “That’s the pretty boy in Malcolm’s troupe. Beat him black and blue. Then we’ll see if he can still play the part of the young hero.” He smirked. “Without the handsome hero there’s no play, and thus no permission from the bishop. Compris?”
Guiscard’s helper was now back on his feet. Along with the other guard, he rushed at Matheo, who looked in vain for a way to escape. He was still holding his weapon in his hand, but it was trembling noticeably.
“One more step, Guiscard, and I’ll send my whole troupe after you,” Sir Malcolm said in a threatening voice as he sought protection behind a tree. “Then you’ll be lucky if you can leave this town on all fours.”
Guiscard Brolet let out a shrill laugh, like that of a little girl. “And just where is your oh-so-brave troupe? I see here only a weakling, a mere youth with a big mouth.”
“We’re here,” a high voice replied. “And now get out before we have to spill any blood.”
Astonished, Guiscard looked toward the wall, where Barbara was still hiding, and his helpers stopped fighting, as well.
Barbara had spoken up instinctively, and now she was thinkin
g feverishly about how she could help her friend. She couldn’t fight herself, and calling the guards would take too much time—if they would even be interested in a fight between two actors. Finally, she did something she’d always had fun with, even as a child.
She disguised her voice.
“You heard the lady, get out, you dirty frogs,” she growled, trying to sound as rough and deep as a barroom brawler.
“Before we break your legs, you filthy Frenchmen,” she grumbled in an even lower pitch with a Swabian accent.
“Come on, let’s get them!” Barbara shouted then in a brighter, resonant tone, sounding like a real Bavarian. “There are only three of them. This will be a bloodbath.”
She threw a few stones over the wall, then quickly grabbed Matheo’s hat still lying in the flowers, pulled it far down over her face, clambered to the top of a rock pile near the wall, and started bombarding Guiscard and his men with stones. One of them shrieked loudly when a rock hit him right in the temple.
“Damn, there are a bunch of them over there,” he whimpered, ducking down like a whipped dog as he ran over to the back door of the inn. The second thug was hit in the shoulder by a rock and looked around anxiously. He, too, ran off when he noticed the hat of his ostensible attacker on the other side of the wall.
“Monsieur Brolet, come quickly!” he called to the theater director. “We must get some reinforcements. There are too many for us.”
“Sacrement! You cowards.” With another French curse on his lips, Guiscard struggled to his feet and ran after his two bodyguards, who had already disappeared inside the building.
“You’ll come to regret this, Malcolm! You’ll regret it!” he shouted again in the direction of the English theater producer, who was still hiding behind the tree. “We’ll see you again, and then the bishop will allow only one troupe of actors here in Bamberg. And that’s us!”
He slammed the door to the tavern with a loud thud.
For a while there was not a sound in the garden, then Sir Malcolm stepped out from behind the tree and turned to his comrade-in-arms, who was gasping for air.
“Well, Matheo, how many warriors did you really bring along with you? And why don’t they come out from behind the wall?”
Matheo was still standing there, his mouth open in amazement. Suddenly he broke out in a loud laugh, shook his head in disbelief, and began clapping his hands.
“Mamma mia, that was the best performance I’ve heard in a long time,” he exulted, as tears of laughter ran down his cheeks. “This girl is a natural.”
Sir Malcolm looked at him in astonishment. “Girl? Which girl? I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Matheo clapped a few more times, then called out, “Barbara, you can come out now. The play is over.”
Hesitantly, Barbara peered over the wall, still wearing Matheo’s hat, but her pale face showed how terrified she really was.
“Have they . . . have they left?” she stammered.
Sir Malcolm seemed puzzled at first, but then his face broke out in a wide smile.
“She is our men?” he asked. “A whole troupe of actors played by one girl behind the wall?” He bowed deeply. “On my honor, young lady, if that was meant to be an audition to convince me of your abilities, you have come across better than any actor before you.”
Barbara had to catch her breath. “Audition?” she asked softly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Sir Malcolm grinned. “I can see in your eyes that you have the talent befitting an actor. Have you ever thought of appearing on the stage? Well? Now that Matheo is too old, we need someone new for the leading female role.” He sighed with satisfaction. “Matheo and you would be perfect for the roles of Romeo and Juliet. There’s never been a more perfect couple.”
Barbara became weak in the knees. She wanted to reply, but in contrast to before, she was now speechless.
“I . . .” was all she could say. “Matheo . . .”
With his arms open wide and his body quivering with emotion, Sir Malcolm approached her. “My lady, welcome to my troupe. So much talent positively cries out to be expressed on the stage. I can’t pay much, but I promise you, you’ll have the whole world at your feet.”
The apothecary’s wife, Adelheid Rinswieser, listened to the screams echoing down the corridor from the room at the other end. They sounded like the howling of a beast, but she could tell they were made by a man. They were occasionally interrupted by a soft murmur when the stranger asked his questions. And even though Adelheid couldn’t quite hear the voice, she knew what it was saying.
Who taught you the art of magic?
Who are your brothers and sisters?
Where do you meet? In the forest? In the cemetery? Up in the ruins of the old castle?
Where do you go on the witches’ Sabbath?
How do you make the drink that lets you fly?
Confess, witch, confess, confess . . .
Confess . . . Confess . . . Confess . . . Confess . . . Confess!
“Oh, God, I don’t know anything,” the victim shrieked. “Who are you? What do you want from me, you devil?”
Adelheid wished she could hear the answer to that, as she still had no idea why the stranger had locked her up here. Why her? And why the constant questioning and torture in the horrible chamber? The man had to be crazy, a deranged murderer, and they had all become his victims by sheer coincidence. There couldn’t be any other reason.
Could there?
The screaming of the young woman had stopped the day before. Was she already dead? Wounded? Unconscious? Adelheid didn’t know, but evidently the stranger had found another victim, and the chalice had not yet been passed on to her.
Again there was a loud scream, and Adelheid froze with fear. She couldn’t help thinking of the beast that had attacked her—the tapping in the bushes, the odor of wet fur. Was this perhaps nothing but a ghost, a figment of her imagination? Were the stranger and the beast one and the same? Or was there not only a madman prowling around out there, but a beast obeying his commands?
“On my honor, yes. I’m a witch! Yes, I have kissed the devil’s anus. Yes! Yes! Yes! Anything you want, just please stop. Stop. Stop. Stop!”
The victim’s voice sounded a bit higher now, and Adelheid felt she was about to vomit. Her fear felt like a little rodent gnawing its way through her bowels.
When is it my turn?
Curiously, the stranger had spared her until now. He’d come into her cell twice more, but he hadn’t taken her back to the horrible torture chamber, just brought her a new candle and stared at her silently through his hangman’s mask. Adelheid thought she could see his body trembling softly. Then he’d dashed out again, almost like a man possessed, and had bolted the door behind him.
A few hours ago, the stranger had turned his attention to the male prisoner, and Adelheid was shocked to realize it had brought her relief. Relief, and at the same time guilt.
I’m happy that it’s someone else. Oh, God, forgive my sin!
She tugged at the chain that tethered her to the wall of the cell. Recently, the stranger hadn’t bothered to attach the leather straps, so now she could at least sit up and even walk around a bit. The pain in her arms and legs had eased off some, so she could shake her limbs and massage them to get the blood flowing again. How long had she been in this cell? Day and night merged into one thick clump, but despite everything, she’d not given up. In the endless hours between the stranger’s visits, she constantly thought of how she might escape. She’d turned over all the possibilities in her mind and finally come to a conclusion.
Perhaps there was a way, but to do it, she’d have to wait until the man came back again and took off the chains to lead her to the torture chamber.
It would, no doubt, be her last chance.
Adelheid Rinswieser took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried to retreat into herself, to a place where she could escape the screams and the fear.
“The tanners are invited to
the wedding, and so are a few of the Bamberg fishermen, and a whole family of weavers distantly related to Katharina, and—you’ll hardly believe this—even Aloysius, that stubborn hangman’s servant in the Bamberg Forest. Hah! That would never happen in Schongau. But the tavern keeper at the Wild Man, a fellow by the name of Berthold Lamprecht, doesn’t give a damn about what people say and is going to let Uncle Bartholomäus have the party—though not in the main hall, but in the little room off to one side. The city councilors have more to worry about this year than making a fuss about that.”
Jakob Kuisl was silent while his daughter Magdalena babbled on. Late in the day, the hangman, his daughter, and his grandchildren took a Sunday-afternoon stroll. They were walking behind a wagon slowly making its way toward the city across the wide, wooden Sees Bridge, whirling up clouds of dust as it went. They’d spent the last few hours in Theuerstadt, a part of town northeast of the city where many farmers grew onions and licorice. The area was well known for both products—not only in Bamberg, but in the areas around the city as well, earning the locals the sobriquet of “onion heads.” Out there in the country, around the monastery of St. Gangolf, the streets became wider, the houses smaller, and the people friendlier and, above all, cleaner. There were vegetable farms and many fruit trees and different kinds of flowers, though most of them had already withered at the end of autumn.
Katharina had asked Magdalena to find flowers to decorate the tables at the wedding, but it seemed to Jakob that the conversation with the old, toothless flower woman would go on forever. After that, the hangman had let Magdalena wheedle him into looking around in Theuerstadt for asters, stonecrop, and autumn crocuses, and ordering the flowers from the gardener for the coming Sunday—a decision Jakob now regretted. He took consolation in the fact that here in Bamberg no one knew him. In Schongau, an executioner who showed more interest in the fragrances of violets and pansies than the security of the noose on the gallows would surely have been laughed out of town.
The Werewolf of Bamberg Page 17
