The buildings along the river were thinning out—just a few more sheds and an old mill. Then the beginning of the forest, the wilderness, the realm of the beasts—a realm where, more and more, he was beginning to feel at home.
Old Schwarzkontz had broken down faster than any of them, and he was the first to die. The first woman also confessed quickly—her heart stopped beating from the fright, and he disposed of the corpse in the usual way. But he learned quickly. The young woman who was his next victim had survived four questionings before she, too, finally died.
For the first time, he felt pity, a feeling that he immediately suppressed. Pity was weak, and he could never show weakness. Just the same, he kept putting off the torture of his next victim, the apothecary’s wife. Each time he looked into the woman’s eyes, a shudder came over him, and he felt disgusted with himself.
Fortunately, though, he had come across Thadäus Vasold the night before.
The old fool had fallen into his trap in just the right place. It warmed his heart to see that wrinkled face frozen in horror. The feeling of revenge had been so sweet, like thick, golden honey. Now the old man was all tied up in the house, awaiting his next interrogation.
Confess, witch, confess.
The old man had been the fifth.
But his greatest satisfaction was yet to come. For a long time he’d been waiting to carry out his boldest plan. It couldn’t be much longer.
Just three . . .
The man listened intently and could hear a long howling coming from the forest across the river. It was like a greeting of closeness, of intimacy—of home. Something he’d never experienced before.
The wolves were accepting the man as one of their own.
7
MAIN ROOM OF THE BAMBERG HANGMAN’S HOUSE, MORNING, OCTOBER 30, 1668 AD
THE NEXT MORNING, THE KUISLS sat around the table in the hangman’s house, spooning from a large communal bowl the warm barley porridge Magdalena had made for them earlier. The wedding was only four days off, and until then, everyone had their own daily chores to do to help in the preparations.
Bartholomäus and Georg had already been down to the city moat, where the Bamberg City Council had given the executioner the thankless task of shoveling out garbage that had been clogging the moat—a job responsibility that Bartholomäus hated even more than the occasional torturing of criminals. Jakob had promised to help him that day, but first there were a few loose shingles in the adjoining shed that had to be replaced. Magdalena planned to bake bread for the week with Barbara, while Katharina had to help her father with his paperwork at city hall.
The two boys were, for a change, playing tag peacefully with a few of the neighboring children outside in the alley, so the Schongau Kuisls could enjoy some quiet moments together for the first time in a long while—even though Georg was absent, and there seemed to be trouble brewing.
Magdalena blew onto her wooden spoon to cool the porridge a bit, though her mind was occupied with thoughts of the strange man her father had tried to catch the night before. Finally, Jakob had turned up, soaking wet and without his coat, by the furrier’s house, and Magdalena could tell from the way he looked that even the slightest query would make him explode like gunpowder—so she’d held her tongue.
“You still haven’t told us why you ran after that stranger,” she finally asked. “You were frozen when you got back here yesterday, and you’re lucky you didn’t come down with a cold.” She shook her head. “Falling into the river, at your age. Besides, your overcoat cost a lot of money. Do you know—”
“When I need a nurse, I’ll tell you,” Kuisl snorted angrily. “You’re worse than my beloved Anna used to be, God rest her soul.” For a moment he stared into space, then continued, speaking quickly. “But I will tell you what happened yesterday. The furrier described a man to me who’d bought five wolf skins from him last week, and this description seemed to match very closely the man who was watching you.”
Magdalena frowned. “Wolf skins? But why—”
“There are too many werewolf stories going around town now to suit my taste,” Kuisl interrupted. “When someone goes out and buys five wolf pelts, I get suspicious, especially when he tries to run away from me. I’d like to know what he’s doing with them. Perhaps he’s making himself a big coat, a coat he can hide under—”
“Just a minute,” said Simon, putting down his spoon. “Do you think this fellow bought the fur so he could dress up as a werewolf? But why would he do that?”
“To spread fear in the city? So no one recognizes him when he goes out to murder people? I don’t know.” Kuisl shrugged, then started rummaging in the pocket of his trousers, looking for his tobacco pouch. “Perhaps there really is a werewolf causing trouble around here. I’ve heard that some of them clothe themselves in pelts in order to look like animals.”
“So you believe in werewolves?” Simon asked skeptically.
“I’ve seen so many evil and crazy things in my life—so why shouldn’t there be werewolves as well? Or at least men who seriously believe they’re werewolves.” Jakob opened his tobacco pouch and began filling his pipe with the dry leaves.
“Lots of poor creatures live in the forests,” he continued. “Crazy people rejected by society who are more animal than human. Long ago, I had to break a man on the wheel who’d lived in the forest since childhood. During the great famine of ’49, he began hunting people to kill and eat them, especially children who’d run away from home. Their flesh was the most tender, he confessed later on the rack. Was he a werewolf?” Jakob picked up a burning piece of kindling to light his pipe and began puffing with enjoyment. “I don’t know. But in any case, he was a danger to people, and for that reason had to be put down.
“Here in Bamberg, the case is not as clear,” he continued. “I’m afraid this werewolf commission under our unholy prince-bishop will simply pick up some random person and have him tortured, just to find someone to blame.” Simon had already told them about the first meeting of the commission the night before, and the commission’s intention of finding an alleged perpetrator and dispatching him without any further ado.
Jakob grinned. “Good for Bartholomäus. Maybe he’ll have his new hangman’s house earlier than he’d even dreamed of.”
“You are disgusting, Father. How can you even say something like that about your own brother?”
Astonished, Magdalena looked over at the bench in the corner where Barbara sat. Until then, she’d been sitting silently, as if daydreaming and paying no attention to the conversation. Since the night before, Magdalena thought she’d detected a faint smile now and then on the lips of her little sister. Barbara hadn’t told her much about the performance with Matheo and the other actors, but that wasn’t necessary. Afterward, she’d been gone for a long time, and Magdalena thought she knew with whom. Until then, she’d told only Simon about her suspicions, and he’d cast a knowing look in her direction.
Now the smile was gone from Barbara’s face. “Georg is right,” she continued angrily, glaring at her father. “Ever since we’ve been here in Bamberg, you’ve been saying mean things about your brother. What did he do to you? You . . . you’re just jealous because he’s more successful. And because, unlike you, he found another wife.”
Jakob slapped her hard on the cheek, and though she didn’t cry, Magdalena could tell she was having trouble holding back her tears.
“You don’t talk to your father like that, understand?” he growled. “Not you, and not your impudent brother, either. What do you know about Bartholomäus and me?”
“Yes, what do we know?” Magdalena said in a soft voice. “Actually, nothing, because you don’t tell us anything.”
“And that’s the way it’s going to be. Don’t poke your nose into things that are none of your business. And now, I’m going over to the moat to help your accursed uncle shovel shit. That’s better than sitting here and listening to you going on and on.”
Jakob was just about to get up from the ta
ble when the door flew open with a loud crash. Georg was standing in the doorway, completely out of breath.
“They . . . got him,” he panted.
“Who did they get?” Magdalena asked, puzzled.
“Well, who else? The werewolf,” Georg replied, his eyes flashing. “I saw with my own eyes how the guards led him away. They found his wolf pelt, and a few citizens recognized him, too. But they say he won’t confess. Uncle Bartholomäus and I are going to put the screws to him as soon as possible.”
Barbara put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God! Who is it?” she asked anxiously.
Georg grinned. “One of that group of actors, by the name of Matheo—a little Italian-looking guy. If you ask me, I knew right away that something was fishy about those actors.”
For a long time, no one said a thing, and Georg looked from one to the other, puzzled.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did I say something wrong?”
Magdalena looked at her sister, who was so shocked she couldn’t say a word. Simon, standing beside her, just stared at the floor. Jakob, the only one who didn’t know about their special friendship, just shrugged.
“Well, now the hunt is on, no doubt,” he grumbled. “But there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s always the same—they need someone to blame, the faster the better. And as I said, it’ll pay off for Bartholomäus, too, you’ll see.”
“Matheo is innocent!” Barbara suddenly shouted in despair. “There’s no way he’s a werewolf. And anyone who says that is . . . is . . .” She broke down sobbing and collapsed on the bench.
Magdalena took her gently in her arms and started talking to her softly, as if to a child.
Georg just stood there in the doorway, his mouth open wide in astonishment.
“You know this little punk?” he finally asked. “But why . . .”
“Well, Georg, I’m beginning to feel like the two of us are the village idiots,” Jakob said, folding his arms in front of his broad chest. “Perhaps someone in this esteemed family can explain this to me, hm?”
Simon cleared his throat. “Well . . . I don’t know the details, but it appears that Barbara and this Matheo . . . well, they have some sort of special friendship . . .”
“She’s in love with the guy. Is that so hard to understand, you dopes?” Magdalena looked up briefly as she continued to hug her crying sister. “We were at the theater performance two days ago,” she continued, a bit more calmly, “and then yesterday she was at the wedding house again, and she helped Matheo a bit during the performance. She told me they were standing together on the stage . . . and since then the two have no doubt become closer.”
“My daughter stood on a stage?” Jakob shook his head in disbelief. “With these wandering rogues and pickpockets?” He clenched his fists angrily. “Good God, can’t we leave you women alone for a minute without you going out and doing something to embarrass us?”
“These actors are almost as dishonorable as hangmen’s families,” Magdalena answered dryly. “In that sense, Barbara is staying true to her social standing.”
“And to make matters worse, you’re sticking up for her?” Jakob laughed grimly. “Do you think she should marry the boy?”
“Well, at the moment this Matheo won’t marry anyone, because he’s sitting in the dungeon and suspected of being a werewolf,” Simon interjected hesitantly. “And unless there’s a miracle, your brother and Georg will no doubt be interrogating him.”
“Monster! You monster!” Barbara jumped up suddenly and charged at her twin brother, hammering his chest with her little fists. “If you harm even a hair on his head, I’m no longer your sister. I’ll . . . I’ll scratch your eyes out, I’ll—”
“Barbara, Barbara! Just stop, please.” Georg tried to grab her arm, but each time she wriggled away. “What do you want me to do?” he wailed. “Even if you think this man is innocent, the new Inquisition Commission ordered me to question him and torture him. There’s nothing more I can do.”
“You . . . you beast! You ogre! To hell with all executioners!” Beside herself with anger, Barbara kept beating her brother’s chest. Finally, Jakob Kuisl stepped in between them. With one hand he seized Barbara’s wrist and held it in a viselike grip, and with the other hand he gave her another resounding smack in the face.
Barbara fell silent at once and glared at her father while trembling all over. The blow seemed at least to have quieted her down.
“Now you listen to me, Barbara,” Jakob began in a slow, firm voice. “You’re striking the wrong person. Georg has nothing to do with the fact that your Matheo has been put in the dungeon. And there’s nothing he or Bartholomäus can do but torture the fellow. After all, he’s the executioner in this city, and you know what that means.”
He let go of her and walked over to the executioner’s sword hanging in the devotional corner. Barbara stood in the middle of the room as if turned to stone, her lips pressed together in two thin lines. “It’s our living, it’s what we do,” Jakob continued, pointing to the sword. “We didn’t go looking for it, God put us here in this place.” He tried to sound comforting. “But I can talk with Bartholomäus. If Matheo is cooperative, there are means of expediting him as painlessly as possible into the hereafter.”
“Is that what you’re suggesting?” Barbara asked in a toneless voice. “That you kill Matheo like . . . like a sick mongrel, even if you yourself don’t believe he is this werewolf?”
“You heard your father,” Georg replied. “We’re just the tools, and—”
“Then let me tell you this, you . . . you tool,” Barbara interrupted, slowly backing toward the door. Her voice was now sharp and cold, not at all like that of a fifteen-year-old. “I’m going now, and I won’t come back until you get Matheo out of prison.” She looked at her father. “I know you can do that. You’ve helped other people before. If he doesn’t get out, Sir Malcolm’s troupe will soon need someone new who can play the role of the girl, and that will be me, for God knows I have talent.”
The door slammed shut, and the rest of the family just sat there, motionless.
“It looks like we have real problems now,” said Simon, breaking the silence. He sighed. “There’s one thing I know for certain—Barbara is serious. After all, she’s just like the rest of you—an accursed, stubborn Kuisl.”
Down in the crypt of the Bamberg Cathedral, Suffragan Bishop Harsee knelt before a simple stone altar and struggled to commune with God. That was not so easy, as the large, whitewashed church was crowded with worshippers even on weekdays. Smaller masses were being held in the side aisles and individual chapels, pious sinners waited to speak with their confessor, and some beggars used the church pews for a short nap before the sexton came and roughly poked them to wake them up.
Sebastian Harsee closed his eyes, trying to ignore the loud sounds around him as best he could. In the last few days, his headaches had been getting worse from all the noise. How he hated this constant racket. Hadn’t the Savior himself ejected the merchants and loud salesmen from the temple? If it were up to Harsee, this cathedral would be a place of silent reflection. Anyone wanting to hear God had to be silent and obey.
But silence and obedience had always been hard for the people of Bamberg.
The suffragan bishop crossed himself, then lay down on his belly on the cold stone floor and spread his arms out—a gesture of obedience he had loved even as a young man. Most people were lacking in humility, especially these ambitious patricians who increasingly took a stand against God and were followers of the vile demon Mammon. Simple folk were for the most part devout, but even some of them rebelled from time to time against the holy Catholic Church and the divine order. Recently, Harsee had heard that the Bamberg executioner would be celebrating his marriage in the wedding house, just like an honorable man. The council had approved, apparently because his father-in-law was employed there as a lowly clerk. These were exactly the subtle, insidious changes that Harsee detested so much. After all, God had assig
ned a place to everyone in life: kaiser, bishop, tradesman, farmer—and hangman. To call that into question was heresy. Well, if things were heading in that direction, Harsee would know how to prevent this wedding celebration.
And indeed—things were heading in that direction.
Harsee couldn’t help thinking of events forty years before, when there had been a short period of sincere faith in Bamberg, and the church had regained its former strength in the struggle against witchcraft. Almost a thousand people had been put to the stake in Bamberg, and though even Harsee hadn’t believed they were all witches and magicians, the strict regiment had led the citizens back into the flock of the prince-bishop, and for that, no sacrifice was too great. Harsee smiled and pressed his cheek against the cool stone floor.
The Lord will know His own . . .
Back then, at the time of the trials, he himself had still been a young theology student, but with the help of his father—the venerable councilor and zealous Catholic Georg Harsee—and a few loyal supporters, it had been possible to liquidate the enemies and turn Bamberg into a New Jerusalem. The power of the ambitious patricians had seemed broken, and the prince-bishop had regained the upper hand. With the House of the Inquisition and the special Witches Council they had created a perfect purgatorium, a court that was able to separate the true from the false, purify souls, and condemn useless bodies to the flames.
But then came the war, and with it the heretical Swedes who put an end to the promising experiment. The prince-bishop had fled into exile in Austria, and gradually the patricians regained the upper hand in Bamberg. The present bishop, Prince Philipp von Rieneck, was weak and interested more in palaces, formal gardens, and his exotic animals than in preserving the faith.
But now God had presented him, Suffragan Bishop Sebastian Harsee, one of His most loyal servants, a new instrument that would drive His wayward flock back onto the true path.
The Werewolf of Bamberg (US Edition) (A Hangman's Daughter Tale Book 5) Page 19
