The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale (US Edition)

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “Didn’t the priest teach you any sense of decency?” Simon chided. “If you keep staring like that, God will strike you blind. So what are you up to here?”

  “My father sent me,” the boy mumbled. “He wants to see the Kuisl girl.”

  “Old Berchtholdt?” asked Magdalena, stepping out from behind the rock, now fully dressed. “What could he possibly want from me? Or is he sitting up there somewhere in the tree staring at me, too?”

  The Schongau master baker was known around town as a lecherous old philanderer. He’d made a pass at Magdalena some years back and been rebuffed. Since then he’d been spreading gossip that the hangman’s daughter was in league with the devil and had cast a spell on the young medicus. Three years ago the superstitious baker had almost succeeded in having the midwife, Martha Stechlin, burned at the stake for alleged witchcraft—something Magdalena’s father had just barely been able to prevent. Since then Berchtholdt had harbored a deep hatred for the Kuisls and, whenever he could, tried to make life miserable for them.

  “It’s on account of his maid, Resl,” the boy said as he continued to stare at Magdalena’s low neckline. “She has a fat stomach and is screaming like crazy.”

  “Does she have a child on the way?” Magdalena asked.

  Puzzled, the boy just stood there, picking his nose. “No idea. People think the devil has gotten into her. You should have a look, my father says.”

  “Aha, so now I’m good enough for him.” She looked at the boy suspiciously. “Doesn’t he want to go see Stechlin?”

  “Berchtholdt would rather cut his own guts out than send for the midwife,” interjected Simon, who’d dressed himself in the meantime. “You know, he still thinks Stechlin is a witch and would love to see her burn. Anyway, many people in town think you’re just as good a midwife as she is, maybe even better.”

  “Enough of your nonsense!” Magdalena tied her wet hair up into a bun as she continued talking. “I only hope there’s nothing seriously wrong with Berchtholdt’s maid. Now come along, let’s go!”

  The hangman’s daughter hurried down the narrow towpath to the Lech Gate, turning around to Simon once more as she ran. “Perhaps we’ll need a professional physician, even if it’s just to go and fetch water.”

  As soon as they arrived at the narrow Zänkgasse, Magdalena was sure this was no ordinary birth. Through the small bolted windows of the baker’s house the screams sounded more like a cow awaiting slaughter than a woman giving birth. Farmers and workers had come running to the door of the bakery and were whispering anxiously to one another. When Simon and Magdalena approached, the group stepped back reluctantly.

  “Here comes the hangman’s daughter to drive the devil out of the baker’s maid,” somebody said.

  “I say they’re both witches,” an old woman whispered. “Just wait, and we’ll see them fly out through the chimney.”

  Magdalena pushed her way past the gossiping women and tried not to take what they were saying too seriously. As the hangman’s daughter, she was accustomed to people thinking of her as the spawn of Satan, and ever since she started working for the midwife, her reputation had grown even worse. Mostly it was the men who were convinced the hangman’s daughter could prepare magic elixirs and love potions, and in fact, a few of the aldermen had already obtained such preparations from her father. Up to now, however, Magdalena had always refused to swindle people with such nonsense, primarily to avoid arousing even more suspicions about her being the devil’s consort. But to no avail, she had to admit to herself with a sigh.

  As the crowd continued whispering and gossiping, she entered the bakery with Simon, where they were received by Michael Berchtholdt, who looked as white as a sheet. As so often, the scrawny little man smelled of brandy, and his eyes were ringed in red circles as if he’d passed a sleepless night. He was rubbing a dry bouquet of mugwort between his fingers to ward off evil spirits. His wife, who was just as skinny, knelt before a crucifix in a corner of the room, murmuring prayers, which were, however, drowned out by the screams of the maid.

  Resl Kirchlechner lay by the fire on a bench covered with dirty straw. She writhed in pain as if a fire burned inside her. Her face, hands, and legs were covered with red pustules, and the tips of her fingers had turned a shiny black. Her belly was distended into a little round ball and almost looked like a foreign object on her otherwise spindly body. Magdalena presumed that, until now, the maid had wrapped her dress tightly around herself to conceal the pregnancy.

  At just that moment, the young woman sat up as if someone had rammed a broomstick up her back. Her eyes were vacant and her dry lips opened as she let out a long, drawn-out scream.

  “He’s in me!” she gasped. “My God, he’s eating through my body and tearing out my soul!” A loud moan followed. “Oh… I can feel his teeth. I can hear his lips smacking as he gnaws through my belly! I want to spit him out like a rotten piece of fruit!” She made a retching sound as if preparing to regurgitate something large and undigested.

  “My God, what is that?” Simon asked in horror from the doorway.

  “Can’t you see? The devil is in her!” Maria Berchtholdt moaned from the corner of the room, rocking back and forth on her knees and tearing at her hair. “He’s eating her alive from the inside out. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…”

  Her prayers turned into a wailing monotone as Michael Berchtholdt stared silently at his maid thrashing around in spasms.

  “It looks like Resl took something to abort the child,” Magdalena whispered to Simon so the others couldn’t hear. “Perhaps castoreum, or rue.” All of a sudden she frowned. “Wait—she didn’t…”

  Magdalena cautiously approached Resl Kirchlechner and felt the pustules on her arm. When the maid started thrashing around again, the hangman’s daughter jumped back. “I think I know what it is now,” she whispered. “It must be Saint Anthony’s Fire. Resl probably took ergot to abort the child.”

  Simon nodded. “I don’t know much about it, but I think you’re right. The pustules… the black fingertips… and then the feverish dreams. Everything points to that. My God, the poor girl…”

  Magdalena squeezed his hand and then cursed under her breath. As a midwife, she knew about ergot, a fungus that grew on rye and other kinds of grain and was used now and then to abort a pregnancy. But ergot could be taken only in small doses or it would cause cramps and horrible visions of witches, devils, and demons. The victims’ fingers and toes turned black and finally fell off, and because they felt like they were being burned by fire inside, the sickness was called Saint Anthony’s Fire.

  Simon turned to Michael Berchtholdt. “This girl isn’t possessed by the devil,” he replied, pointing to the girl’s swollen belly. “Resl took ergot, and I wonder who might have given it to her.”

  “I—I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the master baker stuttered. “It may be that Resl has been fooling around with some young fellow and—”

  “No, with Satan!” his wife interrupted. “She’s been carrying on with Satan!”

  “Nonsense!” Magdalena whispered softly enough so Berchtholdt couldn’t hear it. She dabbed the face of the screaming maid with a damp cloth and tried to comfort her. But all of a sudden Magdalena couldn’t stand it any longer. Her eyes flashed as she turned around and glared furiously at the baker.

  “Nonsense! It’s not Satan,” she growled. “Everybody in town knows that you’ve been running after Resl! Everybody!”

  “What are you trying to say?” Michael Berchtholdt asked softly. His facial features looked even sharper than usual. “Are you saying that maybe I—”

  “You impregnated your own maid!” Magdalena blurted out. “And so that nobody would find out, you gave her the ergot. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

  Berchtholdt’s face turned beet red. “How dare you talk about me like that, you fresh little hangman’s girl!” he gasped finally. “You’re forgetting that I sit on the city council and all I have to do is to gi
ve the word and you Kuisls can pack your things and leave. All it takes is one word from me!”

  “Ha! And who will give your wife her little sleeping potion then?” Magdalena jumped up and pointed at the praying Maria Berchtholdt. “How often has she come to my father for a little potion to calm down her husband at home so he will nod off after drinking his wine?”

  The baker glared in disbelief at his wife, who looked down at the ground, embarrassed, her hands folded. “Maria, is that right?”

  “Quiet!” Simon said. “It’s disgraceful to quarrel like this while the poor girl is probably dying. If we are to help, we at least have to know how much ergot she took and who gave it to her.” He looked at Michael Berchtholdt in desperation. “For God’s sake, say something! Did you give the medication to the girl?”

  The master baker remained defiantly silent, but then his wife spoke up in a soft voice. “It’s true,” she whispered. “It would be a lie to say anything else. God help you, Michael! You, and all of us!”

  The baker struggled for words but gave in at last. He slumped over, sighing, and ran his hand through his hair, which was thinning and matted with flour. “Well, yes, then, I—I gave it to her,” he stammered. “I—I told her to take it all at once just to make sure it worked.”

  “All at once?” Magdalena looked at him in horror. “And how much was that?”

  Berchtholdt shrugged. “A little bag, perhaps as large as my fist.”

  Simon gripped his forehead and groaned. “Then there’s no way we can save her. All we can do is try to relieve her pain.” With clenched fists he advanced toward Michael Berchtholdt. “Who in God’s name gave you so much ergot?” he shouted. “Who, damn it! What quack?”

  The baker retreated toward the doorway and finally mumbled something so softly that Simon couldn’t understand him at first. “It was your father.”

  The young medicus stood there dumbfounded. “My father?”

  Berchtholdt nodded. “The stuff cost me two guilders, but your father said it was the surest way.”

  Simon had trouble speaking. “Did my father at least tell you how much to give her?”

  “Actually he didn’t.” The baker shrugged. “He just said it would be better to take too much than too little, just to make sure it worked. So I just gave her all of it.”

  Simon was tempted to seize the baker by the throat, but at that moment the maid began to scream again—this time longer and higher pitched than before. Resl reared up so far it seemed her spine would break. Her pale thighs were spread far apart, and the white sheets between them were stained with blood. The next moment the maid slumped down, and a bloody little body the size of a cat fell from the bench onto the floor.

  A stillbirth.

  Simon rushed over to the maid and felt her neck for a pulse. Her face was now relaxed and peaceful, and her dead eyes appeared to stare down at the bloody straw spread out on the floor. The medicus closed her eyes and laid her out gently on the bench.

  “She’s in a better place now,” he mused, making the sign of the cross. “With no more pain, or demons, or people who would do her harm.”

  For a moment all was silent, except for the whimpering of the baker’s wife. Finally Michael Berchtholdt came to his senses. He walked over to the fetus still lying on the floor next to the stove, picked it up gingerly, and walked out through the back door into the garden. When he returned a while later, he wiped his muddy hands on his trousers and attempted a slight smile that froze midway in a grimace.

  “Resl is dead, and that’s a shame,” he said in a soft voice. “I’ll see to it that she gets a decent burial in Saint Sebastian’s Cemetery with a priest, funeral meal, and all the trappings. I’ll also see that her parents are taken care of financially. As for everything else—” He gave an embarrassed smile. “—we don’t want word to get around that the devil possessed our maid. That could end badly. And as the young physician here can certainly attest, Resl had a high fever—that can lead to bad dreams, can’t it?” The baker looked at Simon expectantly.

  “You don’t seriously believe that—” the medicus began, but Berchtholdt raised his hand, interrupting him.

  “I know your house calls are expensive. How much? Tell me—five guilders? Ten? How much do you ask?” He pulled a trunk out from behind the table and began to rummage through it.

  “Just keep your money and choke on it!” Magdalena shouted, slamming the lid closed on Berchtholdt’s fingers. He pulled them out, whining and clenching his teeth. His wife looked back and forth from one to the other as if they were ghosts. Simon assumed the shock was too much for her. Maria Berchtholdt had decided to withdraw into her own world.

  “I’m going to tell everyone—everyone!—that you jumped on your maid like a randy old goat and let her die of ergot poisoning,” the hangman’s daughter whispered. “It’s always we women who are expected to pay for men’s lechery. Well, not this time!”

  The baker’s little weasel eyes took on a glassy sheen. “Aha, and who is going to believe you?” he asked. “A hangman’s daughter and the horny son of an army doctor. What a pair! Go on, go and tell the people, and I promise I’ll make your life hell!”

  “My life is hell already.” Magdalena turned to go and beckoned Simon to follow.

  With a facetious bow the medicus took leave of the alderman and master baker Michael Berchtholdt. “If the hemorrhoids in your ass itch or your bowels get plugged up,” Simon said in a cloying tone, “you know where you can find me.”

  They walked out together and were met by a group of curious onlookers. Behind them they could still hear Michael Berchtholdt’s muffled cries and shrill curses. Magdalena stopped for a moment and looked into the faces of the bystanders, who were staring back at them with expressions of disapproval and disgust.

  A hangman’s daughter and the horny son of an army doctor. What a pair…

  Magdalena was no longer certain anyone would believe them. The farmers and workers moved aside to make way for them, as if they had some infectious disease.

  As Magdalena and Simon headed down toward the Lech Gate, they could feel the looks directed at their backs for a long time.

  3

  SCHONGAU

  AUGUST 13–14, 1662 AD

  LATE IN THE night Simon was awakened by noises outside the Fronwieser home. He reached for a stiletto he always kept in the trunk next to his bed. But judging from the pounding on the door and the crude cursing that followed, it could only be his father, who, no doubt, was staggering home from some tavern out behind the Ballenhaus.

  Simon rubbed his eyes and stretched. Ever since that afternoon he had wanted to speak with his father about the ergot, but Bonifaz Fronwieser had disappeared without a trace. That was no cause for concern, as in recent months the old man had often vanished for days, boozing his way through the taverns of Schongau, Altenstadt, and Peiting. Once he finally ran out of money, he’d find a barn, sleep it off, and return home the next day, disheveled and hung-over. After a few weeks’ respite, he would start up all over again. Simon guessed that at the local taverns his father had already freely distributed the two guilders he’d fetched for the ergot.

  The young medicus sighed and reached for a cold cup of coffee on the trunk next to his bed. The bitter brew helped him to bear his father’s increasingly erratic moods. In recent years their quarreling had escalated. Bonifaz Fronwieser had been an army surgeon before he found a position as doctor in Schongau. Simon’s mother had died long ago, and his father wanted nothing more than to see his son better off in this life than he’d been. So, he’d sent Simon to the university in Ingolstadt, where the latter spent less energy on his studies than he did money on clothes, card games, and pretty women. Around the time Simon returned from Ingolstadt without a diploma, his father started drinking.

  His father’s loud singing interrupted Simon’s thoughts. The young medicus listened as his father threw his boots in the corner, then promptly collapsed. With a loud crash, a few dishes fell to the floor and shatt
ered. Blinking, Simon noticed the first light of day filtering through the shutters. He got up and started to dress. It was probably pointless to speak with his father now, but anger was rising in Simon, and he couldn’t go back to sleep.

  As he started down the steep staircase, he could see his father sitting on a bench downstairs. With a vacant look, old Fronwieser pushed a few rusty coins across the table, apparently all that remained from his drinking spree. Alongside him was a cup half full of brandy. Without saying a word, Simon picked it up and poured the contents onto the floor. It was only then that his father seemed to notice him.

  “Stop that!” the father said angrily. “I’m still your father.”

  “You sold ergot to Berchtholdt,” Simon said in a flat voice.

  His father stared at him with small, tired eyes. For a moment it seemed he was going to deny it, but finally he shrugged. “And if I did… what business is it of yours?”

  “The baker gave the ergot to his maid, Resl, and she died yesterday from taking it.”

  There was a long pause, and Bonifaz appeared unwilling to reply.

  Finally, Simon continued, “She screamed so loud that all of Schongau could hear it—like a pig being slaughtered. But you were out carousing and didn’t hear a thing, I’m sure.”

  Old Fronwieser folded his arms over his chest and threw his head back defiantly. “I gave the stuff to Berchtholdt because he positively begged for it. What he did with it is his business and doesn’t concern me. If his maid—”

  “You told him it would be better to take too much than too little!” Simon interrupted, his voice quivering. “You gave him the ergot as if it were herbal tea or arnica, but it’s poison! Deadly poison! You’re nothing but a charlatan, a quack!”

  The last words, which slipped out by accident, sent his father over the edge.