The Beggar King hd-3

by Oliver Pötzsch

  He is one of them.

  When they are encamped before the gates of the city, the surrounding countryside is like a festering wound. The villages are scorched and deserted, the farmers are dead or have long since fled into the forests and swamps. His men now and then capture a ragged figure and hang the poor wretch by his feet over the fire. Where are your cattle? Out with it! Where have you stashed your silver? Where are the women? Speak! They force a tube down the farmer’s throat and fill it with urine and feces until he chokes. Spit it out! Talk! Die, you bastard! They take whatever they lay their hands on, then set the shabby cottages on fire.

  How often has he watched this from afar? How often have his men ridden back into camp with bloodstained coats and a mad light in their eyes? He never asks. He keeps silent because that’s war. Because men have a gnawing hunger and a desire for women, and the long wait inflames them. Because he knows they respect him only for his strength and his courage. Because he fears punishment… Because…

  Because he’s afraid?

  Kuisl couldn’t take it anymore. He had to get out of here. Gasping, he struggled to his feet and leaned against the barrel blocking the low entrance. It was just yesterday that Teuber had wrenched Kuisl’s shoulder back into its socket. It throbbed now with pain, and the wounds on his arms and legs felt as if they were on fire. From outside the room he probably could have rolled the barrel aside, but from here all he could do was try to push with all his strength against the hundred-pound barrier. He braced his legs and bore down with his bandaged back against the wooden surface, biting his lip to avoid crying out in pain.

  There was a soft scraping sound, and a crack of faint light appeared between the barrel and the wall.

  Again the hangman pressed against the wooden barrier until the crack was at last wide enough to slip through. On the other side he collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily as the room around him began to spin. He closed his eyes and waited until his dizziness subsided.

  The effort of moving the wine barrel had robbed him of much of the strength he’d gathered in the past few hours. But at least he was able to get to his feet and walk around unassisted now. He stood up straight and looked around the damp cellar. A smoking torch near the stairway cast a dim light over the room. Lined up along the walls among wine casks were barrels of sauerkraut. Smoked sausages and legs of pork hung from the low ceiling, and dried cherries, onions, and withered apples from the previous year lay in straw-filled baskets. Kuisl took an apple and bit into it.

  It tasted wonderful.

  While the hangman ground the apple’s flesh in his teeth, he pondered his next move. Outside it was probably night now. He could walk straight up the stairs, out the front door, and disappear into the darkness. But how far would he get once he was out there? If Fat Thea was right, if Kuisl was actually being sought for two more murders, every bailiff in the city would be looking for him. The gates would be under strict surveillance. He could possibly flee across the Danube; Kuisl was a good swimmer and the summer current wasn’t as strong as in springtime. He might even be able to break out over the city wall. But something held him back; something kept him from fleeing at once.

  Magdalena.

  Where was she hiding? Could she already be in the clutches of this madman? Was he torturing her now that his adversary had escaped? Kuisl couldn’t leave this city until he knew Magdalena was safe.

  He felt warm juice running down his pant leg. Unwittingly he’d crushed the apple to a pulp in his palm.

  He heard a sudden commotion from the ground floor above. Someone was pounding on the front door. The voice of Fat Thea answered.

  “Yes, yes, gentlemen! Please be patient! My girls are absolutely wild to get their hands on you. No one’s going anywhere, believe me!”

  Kuisl cringed. The aldermen! He’d completely forgotten about them. He heard the door creak softly and shortly thereafter, laughter and a loud chorus of voices. The procuress hadn’t lied. It did seem in fact as if half the town council had joined the party.

  “Come right on in, gentlemen!” Fat Thea’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs. “There’s something here for everyone. Hey there, girl, let’s take it upstairs, please; there’s nothing of interest downstairs anyway.”

  The hangman instinctively withdrew as he heard footsteps on the cellar stairs, but the sound receded soon and was lost in the upper reaches of the house. Evidently someone had just taken a wrong turn.

  After a while he heard giggling and shouting upstairs, indicating the girls were receiving their guests now. There was a sound of breaking glass and of doors opening and closing, a sign that the men were withdrawing to the rooms with their playmates. Kuisl was just about to hide behind the wine barrel again when he heard someone knocking on the front door-no doubt a late arrival.

  “Just a moment, I’m coming!”

  Fat Thea opened the door to greet the new arrival.

  “Oh, what an honor!” she purred. “I haven’t seen you here for a long time.”

  “I’ve been rather busy of late,” the man replied. “I hope you haven’t forgotten the whip.”

  “Of course I haven’t, silly boy. But this time don’t hit so hard, you hear? Or it will cost you a guilder extra. The girls have complained.”

  The man chuckled softly to the sound of coins dropping into a purse.

  “Then here are two more guilders right off,” he whispered. “Because believe me, this time it’s going to hurt. There’s a rage in my belly, and it’ll take more than one girl to fix that. Let’s go.”

  As he crouched on the cellar floor, the Schongau hangman’s blood froze. Only after the stranger’s footsteps began to fade away did Kuisl’s mind spring back to life again.

  He knew this voice. He knew it better than his own by now. He’d heard it all too often these past days and nights, even in his nightmares.

  It was the voice of the third inquisitor.

  Just after dusk Simon and Magdalena tiptoed through the subterranean hall, around the beggars, who had drunk the barrel of brandy down to the last drop and were now sprawled all over the cellar floor, sleeping it off. Every now and then one would moan and roll over in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent. Simon threaded his way through a litter of gnawed bones, smashed cups, and pools of vomit, careful not to stumble over any of the beggars. Nathan was slumped in a corner, his chin to his chest, cradling a clay mug. For a moment Simon thought the beggar king might still be awake, but then, with a long rattling snore, he toppled over and lay motionless on the ground.

  “Quick,” Magdalena whispered. “Let’s get out of here. Who knows when one of them will wake up?”

  Simon squeezed her hand. “Just a moment.”

  He hurried over to the curtained niche that had served as a sick bay the past few days and began to pack his medical utensils. Meanwhile Magdalena kept a nervous eye on Nathan, who was twitching in his sleep, licking his lips now and then. At some point he reached across the floor as if in search of the clay mug that had slipped out of his hand.

  “Hurry!” she whispered. “I think he’s coming to!”

  “I’ll be right there.” Simon was frantically gathering his books and stuffing them into the bag when a heavy volume of Dioscorides slipped from his sweaty fingers and fell to the floor with a crash.

  “Damn!”

  Bending down to retrieve it, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that one of Nathan’s eyes had opened a crack. He seemed to be dreaming, but Simon had the feeling the eye was staring at them disapprovingly. The next moment Magdalena was by Nathan’s side, placing the mug back gently into his hand. Murmuring, Nathan clutched it to his chest like a doll, rolled onto his side, and was soon snoring away calmly and evenly.

  “Your damned books!” Magdalena whispered. “One of these days I’m going to make a bonfire of them. Now move!”

  Simon hefted the heavy sack onto his shoulder and groped his way toward Magdalena, who was waiting for him impatiently by the exit. They ran along the
narrow corridor until they came to the stairway leading up to the rear courtyard. As they hurried up its slick, moss-covered steps, they heard a sudden cry behind them-Nathan! Evidently he’d pulled himself together and had followed them.

  “Hey, wait, where are you off to?”

  Simon and Magdalena didn’t reply but continued on up the steep staircase. When the beggar king realized they intended to flee, he sprinted after them.

  “What in God’s name is this all about?” he shouted. “Is this any way to say goodbye to your friends?”

  Despite his drunken state, Nathan was astonishingly fast. He raced up the stairs, taking several steps at a time, and just managed to catch Magdalena by the hem of her skirt. Instinctively the hangman’s daughter kicked Nathan square in the face with her left foot. An awful crunching sound was followed by a shriek of pain. Magdalena had apparently knocked the two golden teeth right out of her pursuer’s mouth.

  “Damned hangman’s bitch,” Nathan shouted, his voice sounding strangely garbled. “You’ll pay for this! My teesh, my bschootiful teesh!”

  His curses turned to a wail as he stopped to gather the broken pieces of his precious teeth from the floor. Simon and Magdalena took advantage of the extra time to push a moldering cart in front of the opening.

  “Sorry!” the hangman’s daughter called meekly. “They were crooked anyway. Simon will make you a new set, I promise!”

  Outside, night had already fallen but clouds concealed the stars. The pair climbed over piles of foul-smelling garbage, then ran through the back courtyard toward a narrow passageway.

  Soon they’d disappeared in the dark little streets of the city.

  Jakob Kuisl stood motionless in the middle of the brothel cellar.

  He was certain that his nemesis was directly above him! The third inquisitor had disappeared into one of the rooms upstairs and was amusing himself there with the prostitutes.

  There’s a rage in my belly, and it’ll take more than one girl to fix that.

  Kuisl would never forget that voice.

  What now? His enemy wasn’t alone up there. No, half the city council kept him company, along with some soldiers from Peter’s Gate and a number of noisy prostitutes. If Kuisl went upstairs now, he’d almost certainly be caught.

  He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what would happen after that. The bailiffs would drag him back to his cell in chains, and this time darkness, torture, and ultimately the scaffold would be inevitable. On the rack he’d probably be forced to confess who had helped him escape, and every turn of the crank would bring the Regensburg executioner closer to his own demise.

  And my daughter will be helpless, at the mercy of this madman…

  Kuisl knew he didn’t want to risk all that, but he also couldn’t stay here, not with the devil incarnate having his way with the girls just two floors above him. The sound of those voices alone would drive him mad.

  And so he had to leave, at once. But where could he go? The only refuge that came to mind was the house of the Regensburg executioner. Aside from Teuber, there was no one in Regensburg he trusted. Perhaps he could stay in the hangman’s house long enough to assure himself of Magdalena’s safety.

  Kuisl tried rotating his newly adjusted shoulder and stretched his back. He still felt as if he’d fallen from the roof of a house, but thanks to Teuber’s bandages and the ointment, the pain wasn’t so bad. If he didn’t run too quickly, if he paced himself along the way and hid in doorways and niches to rest, he’d make it to Teuber’s house all right. Fortunately the executioner had mentioned the name of his street in the course of one of their conversations. He’d even boasted about his pretty house, his wife, and his five darling children. Now Kuisl would have a chance to meet them.

  Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, the hangman groped his way up the stairs until he was standing at the heavy front door. Softly he pushed back the bolt and looked out into the cloudy night. Despite the pleasant cool temperature, the air still reeked of garbage and sewage, but the scents of wheat, meadows, marshland, and forests were here as well. Soon he’d be out in them again.

  He was just about to step out into the street when he heard a door slam upstairs.

  “Hey, Thea, more wine! This cheeky tart here drank it all up herself. I’ll wring her neck for that.”

  The door upstairs slammed shut again, and Kuisl held still with his right foot on the doorsill.

  It was that voice again, the voice from his nightmares.

  As if compelled by a mysterious force, he closed the door and tiptoed up the stairs. He had to see him; he had to look this man in the eye, if only for a moment, or the ghosts of the past would never release him.

  After two dozen steps the spiral stone staircase ended in a white plastered foyer illuminated by a single torch. Four doors opened onto the foyer, and behind each one giggles, shouts, and soft moans could be heard. Another stairway led up to the third floor, where some raucous celebration was taking place.

  Kuisl hesitated. The voice had definitely come from the second floor. The man he was looking for was behind one of these four doors.

  Evidently Fat Thea hadn’t heard the stranger’s call, as neither she nor any of her girls had brought a fresh pitcher of wine. Carefully Kuisl put his ear to the first door. He could hear labored breathing and short, shrill cries, but no one was speaking.

  He turned to the next room and put his ear again to the thin wooden door. He couldn’t quite make out what was being said-a lovers’ oath, perhaps? This couldn’t be the man he was after, could it?

  As Kuisl tried to catch a glimpse through the keyhole, the door swung open and smacked him right in the nose. Reeling, the hangman fell backward.

  “Who the hell…?” The young man stood over him with his pants around his ankles and his shirt open so that his pale, hairless potbelly jiggled above Kuisl’s head. The man’s thinning ashblond hair tumbled down over his face, and he gasped for air like a big fat fish out of water.

  “I must have the wrong door,” the hangman mumbled, straightening up. “No offense intended.”

  Kuisl realized he didn’t exactly look like a drunken alderman-drunk perhaps, but by no means a smug, well-fed patrician about to have an orgasm. But perhaps this client was tipsy enough himself not to notice that.

  The man closed his mouth and stared back in fear at the man in front of him. His pale face was an expression of pure terror.

  “You-you-are Kuisl, aren’t you?” he whispered.

  Blood dripping from his nose, the hangman grew silent. This much was certain: this character before him wasn’t the third inquisitor; his voice was different. In fact, he might have been a rather decent fellow, unlike the man Kuisl was seeking. Still, there was something familiar about him. It was finally his Bavarian accent that gave him away.

  It was Joachim Kerscher, one of the two other inquisitors.

  “Oh, for the love of the Virgin Mother, please don’t hurt me,” Kerscher stuttered, awkwardly trying to hide behind the thin wooden door. “I’m just an ordinary councilman. I didn’t approve of the torture, believe me. Why did you flee…? We were going to-”

  “Who was the third man?” the hangman snarled menacingly.

  “The third?” Kerscher had retreated almost completely behind the door now, and only his pallid face peered out through the crack. “I don’t understand-”

  “The third inquisitor, jackass!” Kuisl whispered through clenched teeth, holding his bloody nose. “Who was it?”

  The hangman took a deep breath. The pain in his shoulder, the burning in his arms and legs, the shooting pains in his back-this all came back now like a hammer blow. He felt suddenly sick to his stomach.

  Kerscher nodded obsequiously. “The third inquisitor, of course. Such a bastard. I can understand why you’d want to get back at him. It was-”

  At that moment a piercing scream came from the floor above.

  Kuisl turned to find Fat Thea coming down the stairs with a pitcher of wine, which
slipped from her grasp and shattered on the floor.

  Suddenly it felt to Kuisl as if the entire house were beginning to sway beneath him. Everything seemed to happen at once-the pitcher breaking, the commotion on the floor above, the doors opening all around him like portals to hell. Men stared at him, but their faces were strangely blurred, and they all seemed to be shouting at him at once. Was he shouting, too? Kuisl couldn’t say. Everything around him had become a muffled roar.

  He shook his head to clear his mind a bit. Someone approached and tried to grab him, but Kuisl flung the figure aside like a rag doll and stumbled toward the stairs. Out! He had to get out, he had to get away from here before he collapsed once and for all. Again he felt someone grab him by his injured shoulder. The hangman crouched, rolling the man over his back and sending him tumbling down the stairs, screaming.

  Kuisl could hear himself scream, too; he raged like a wounded bear backed into a corner by a pack of hunting dogs. Again he reached out with his good right arm and pulled one of the men close, smashing the man’s nose against his forehead. Kuisl felt the man’s warm blood on his face and heard him howl as he tossed him aside like a straw puppet. His pain and fear lent him one last burst of energy before unconsciousness threatened to overcome him.

  Half crazed, he staggered down the steps, kicked the front door open, and dashed out into the fresh air. He inhaled deeply, and immediately his mind began to clear. Holding his throbbing shoulder, he hobbled toward a low wall and climbed over. On the other side he collapsed in a garden overgrown with thorny blackberries and wild rosebushes.

  Kuisl was finished. Leaning against the crumbling wall, pricked on all sides by thorns, and raging with pain, he waited for his pursuers to find him and drag him back to his cell.

  He closed his eyes and listened as the sound of excited voices approached.

  Among them he heard the voice of his most hated enemy.

  Simon and Magdalena heard the shouts just as they were sneaking across the cathedral square.

  Catching their breath, they pressed their backs against the front of a patrician house and watched as a dozen city guards rushed past, heading south toward Neupfarr Church Square. Only a few minutes had passed since they fled the catacombs. Could Nathan already have betrayed them to Mamminger? Was the city treasurer’s power so great he could summon the entire city guard in an instant, just to pursue them?