The Werewolf of Bamberg (US Edition) (A Hangman's Daughter Tale Book 5)

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Sir Malcolm slammed the cover on the trunk and scrutinized his competitor angrily. “Don’t worry, Guiscard, we don’t need any longer than that. In contrast to your group, we’re neither amateurs nor thieves.”

  Guiscard sighed. “Always the same old story,” he sneered in his French accent. “Well, we shall see which piece the prince-bishop prefers. I happen to have learned from a reliable source that he’s especially fond of Gryphius’s Papinian.” He shrugged. “Your crude farce, on the other hand . . .”

  “Papinian!” Malcolm replied, putting his hand to his forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that myself?” He trembled with anger, and if Barbara hadn’t known better, she would have sworn that Sir Malcolm was just hearing about Guiscard’s choice for the first time, rather than it being a plot of Malcolm’s own making.

  He’s really a pretty good actor, she thought, on stage as well as in real life.

  Guiscard grinned. “As I said, I have my sources. And you can rest assured His Excellency will be horrified by your Peter Squenz. I have that from trusted sources, as well.”

  Sir Malcolm managed to turn white as a sheet. He ran his hand through his hair in feigned despair, and Barbara had to wonder if he wasn’t overdoing it a bit.

  “I didn’t think about that,” he muttered. “You’re a slippery character, Guiscard.”

  “But somehow you managed to be scheduled after us,” Guiscard replied darkly. “I have no idea how you managed to arrange that with the bishop’s court. But that won’t help you, either, Malcolm.” He let out a diabolical laugh. “Especially since clearly one of your key actors is missing. Or so I hear.”

  Sir Malcolm’s face became as red as a beet again, and Barbara could see at once that he was no longer playacting.

  “I swear, Guiscard,” he hissed, moving a few steps closer to his competitor. “If I find out you’re behind Matheo’s arrest, then God help you.”

  Guiscard waved him off. “Always this histrionic talk. Save that for the stage.” He pointed at the trunks that still hadn’t been unpacked. “Until then, it appears you have some things to do. But remember . . . two more hours. After that, I’ll personally make sure the guards throw you out.”

  Waving his lace handkerchief in the air, he left the ballroom humming a little French tune. Sir Malcolm waited a minute, then clapped his hands triumphantly.

  “Mon dieu, zees I know frem a reliable soorce,” he mimicked, running his hand through his hair in a feminine gesture. “Hah! He’ll be looking around for another job, the sucker. Isn’t that right, people?”

  Some of the actors grinned, but Barbara looked serious. “Did he really arrange Matheo’s arrest?” she asked. “Perhaps the wolf hides come from his people, and we’ll have another nasty surprise this evening. This Guiscard seems capable of anything.”

  “Do you think a real werewolf will interrupt our performance?” Malcolm shook his head and grinned. “I don’t think the old fellow has that much imagination. Believe me, the bishop will doze off during the first play and wake up the moment our play begins. It will be a great triumph for us.”

  He was spreading his arms in a dramatic gesture when suddenly the door to the hall burst open and Markus Salter entered. As usual, the young man looked tired and pale. He was carrying a tightly wrapped bundle.

  “I had to run all over town looking for a tinsmith to cobble a crown together for just a few kreuzers,” he complained, glowering at Malcolm. “You didn’t want me to spend any more than that. We put a little gold-colored paint on it and stuck on a glass stone with wax. We need to make sure it doesn’t get too warm or the stone will fall down on your nose, but otherwise everything looks good.”

  He unwrapped the bundle and picked up a sparkling object that looked like one of those magnificent crowns Barbara had seen before only in stained-glass church windows. The other actors clearly liked it, and even Malcolm, who was usually so critical, nodded his approval.

  “So it was worth the wait,” he said, patting Markus on the shoulder. Then he pointed at the bundle. “And the dress for our new princess?”

  Markus grinned, and suddenly his face brightened. “In this dress,” he said, winking at Barbara, “even an empress could attend a reception. Everyone will fall in love with you in this dress.”

  Carefully he opened the bundle, taking out a red dress embroidered with lace and glittering metal buttons.

  It took Barbara’s breath away. “It’s beautiful!” she gasped. “May I try it on?”

  “Please do,” Malcolm replied, motioning toward the dress. “After all, we want to see how our princess Violandra looks in it.”

  Carefully, Barbara slipped into the dress, and it fit perfectly. She was happy to see how all the other actors looked at her in astonishment.

  “Ah, yes, fine feathers make fine birds,” Sir Malcolm murmured. “You really do look like a princess. It’s hard to believe you’re actually the dishonorable daughter of a hangman.” He stopped to think for a while, then clapped his hands. “But even princesses have to learn their lines,” he continued in a stern voice. “So please, everyone, take your places. Let’s begin the rehearsal, before Guiscard comes snooping around here again.”

  Georg was bored standing with his two nephews along the left branch of the Regnitz and watching as the children threw one stone after another into the water. Magdalena had handed the children over to him just an hour ago, but it already felt like an eternity. It was late afternoon, but night seemed endlessly far off.

  “Look, Uncle Georg, see how far I can throw,” Peter called as he skipped a stone out into the river. Georg nodded approvingly and grumbled something unintelligible as his thoughts drifted away like the water in the river.

  Watch the kids while the others are planning a daring escape from the dungeon. Damn, this is a woman’s job. Barbara should be doing this.

  Then he remembered they’d gotten dragged into this only because of his lovestruck twin sister, and his anger rose. Even as a small child, Barbara always had gotten her way with their father, maybe because she was smarter than her twin brother and could read and work with the healing herbs far better than he could—skills that almost always impressed Father more than a flawless execution or a quick confession. And no matter what Georg did, Father always found something to complain about and to criticize. Then he accidently beat old Berchtholdt’s boy so badly that he crippled him and was thrown out of town. He was depressed and angry when he first arrived in Bamberg to live with his uncle. He would lie in bed many a night, sleepless and cursing his fate, but then he realized how free he felt in this city, far away from Father. His uncle respected him as a hangman’s apprentice and asked him to do things his father never would have allowed. And so, Georg gradually became an adult. Then, a year ago, Uncle Bartholomäus told him how his father had fled Schongau as a young man and abandoned his family. Since then, the great monument had started to crumble.

  Bartholomäus had invited him to stay in Bamberg, and Georg felt truly comfortable here. Why should he return to little Schongau and a grumbling father who, even after he became an old man, would probably still be pushing him around? Why should he put up with that when he could have a far more appealing career here? Bartholomäus had assured him more than once that he could follow in his footsteps as the Bamberg executioner. But he had to put all these considerations aside now, because his sister once more was getting her way. And on top of it all, he had to play the part of a babysitter. It was enough to drive a person crazy.

  “I’m cold,” little Peter whined, rubbing his fingers as he stood alongside him. He no longer seemed interested in throwing stones. “Let’s go back to our great-uncle, can we?” he begged. “Or to Aunt Katharina. She has such yummy apple fritters. Please!”

  “We can’t go back to your great-uncle, because you’ll just pester him,” Georg grumbled. “And we can’t go back to Aunt Katharina, either. Your mother told me to walk around Bamberg with you for a while, so let’s do that.”

  “But I don’t
want to walk around the town,” little Paul wailed. “It’s so boring. I’d rather go back to old Jeremias. He has a sword just like Uncle Bartholomäus, only smaller. And a slingshot, too. I want to play at old Jeremias’s place.”

  “Oh, yes, let’s go to visit Jeremias,” Peter pleaded as well. “He’ll tell us more stories. And his little dog can even do tricks. Please, please, let’s go there.”

  Georg sighed. He’d picked up the children the night before at the Wild Man and had met the old crippled custodian. This Jeremias looked like a monster but was really a good-natured fellow. He’d told the boys stories and let them play with all sorts of stuff in an old trunk. The children hadn’t even wanted to go home.

  “Jeremias won’t be thrilled if you go and bother him again,” Georg said, shaking his head, but suddenly the idea no longer sounded so far-fetched. He, too, was cold and bored, and he had no desire anymore to keep watching the boys throw stones while listening to their complaints.

  “Fine, we can ask if he has time,” he said begrudgingly.

  The children broke out in cheers and tugged at his hand. Georg grumbled a bit, but he’d made up his mind. They walked down the muddy towpath along the river and finally reached the harbor and the wedding house. The boys laughed as they ran through the door and the inner court until they were finally standing before Jeremias’s room. Out of breath, Georg knocked, and a moment later the astonished custodian was standing in the doorway.

  “Oh, you again?” Jeremias laughed. “Rascally bunch! Tell me, would you like to hear more stories?”

  “Oh, yes, please, Jeremias,” Peter said. “Can we come in? Uncle Georg said we could, please, please.”

  Georg shrugged. “Well, I only said we could ask,” he said, embarrassed. “Their parents are really busy right now and I thought—”

  “You thought, ‘Why should I put up with these rascals when that crippled Jeremias has nothing to do,’” he interrupted with a grin. “But you’re right about that. The sound of children laughing is a medicine for me, something I can never get enough of. So come on in.”

  With loud shouts, the boys stormed into the room with the birdcage hanging from the ceiling and the shelves full of books. They ran to a trunk in the corner and immediately began pulling things out of it. Georg caught sight of a musty old blanket, a few wooden dolls, a battered helmet, and a sword with a handle that had broken off, which Paul immediately picked up to use as a weapon. They laughed as they tussled with the crippled dog that Georg had seen on his last visit. Meanwhile, old Jeremias sat down on the straw mattress.

  “Would you like a venison pie?” he asked, handing Georg a steaming plate that had been lying on a shelf. “I just brought them from the kitchen. They taste wonderful.”

  “Thanks, I’ve already eaten.” He declined with a wave and a slight smile while furtively examining Jeremias’s scarred face. The sight made him sick to his stomach. He remembered men from the Schongau leprosarium whose faces had been disfigured in the same way. Unlike the custodian of the Wild Man, those poor devils had to live outside the city because people were afraid of catching the disease. But Jeremias, too, lived a very secluded life.

  The old man seemed to sense Georg looking at him. He winked, and his face contorted into a grimace.

  “You’d better watch out if you ever work with unslaked lime,” he said. “One careless moment and you’ll never find a woman who wants to marry you.” He laughed mischievously. “I made advances to your two sisters, but I fear it was in vain.”

  Georg stopped short. “Do you know Barbara, too?”

  Jeremias hesitated, then he nodded. “Oh, yes, she was here once with her big sister. She was very interested in my library.” He pointed to a shelf in the back of the room, where Georg could see a row of large books. He struggled to read some of the titles, among them books of medicine he’d seen in his father’s collection, but also some he didn’t recognize. Then he shrugged and turned away.

  “Books aren’t my thing,” he replied. “I prefer to work with my hands.”

  Jeremias smiled. “I know your family, Georg, and believe me, I respect your profession.”

  Georg looked at his two nephews, wondering. As usual, it was Paul who had cornered the older boy with the broken sword handle while the dog barked excitedly at both of them.

  Someday they’ll be executioners, too, he thought. Soon I’ll be taking Peter along to his first execution.

  But then it occurred to him he’d probably be staying in Bamberg.

  Or maybe not? What do I want, anyway?

  To get his mind off things, he stood up and wandered along the shelves, on which some full vials and crucibles stood alongside the books. Little boxes were labeled in Latin, and Georg read the names Hyoscyamus niger, Papaver somniferum, and Conium maculatum. His blood ran cold as he remembered how his father had tried to drill some Latin into him—without much success. That, too, was better with Uncle Bartholomäus. His uncle was only interested in Latin terms when dealing with herbs for curing diseases in animals.

  “This is quite a pharmaceutical library,” Georg finally said, turning to Jeremias. “There’s almost as much here as in my father’s library in Schongau.”

  “Well, I know a bit about medicine—the sorts of things you learn in the course of a long life,” the old man responded. “Sick people visit me, especially those so poor they can’t afford a doctor or a barber surgeon, and I can earn a heller or two that way, too.” He winked conspiratorially. “Just don’t tell the city council, or the honorable Magnus Rinswieser and the other members of the Bamberg apothecaries’ guild will see to it that I spend the rest of my days in a dungeon.”

  Georg laughed. “I think the council has bigger things to worry about right now.”

  “Indeed.” Jeremias nodded sadly. “This matter of the werewolf is serious. People never learn. Homo homini lupus, as the playwright Plautus used to say. Man is a wolf to man. In those cruel witch trials back then, they attacked one another like animals. Yes, I remember them as if they were just yesterday.” But then he brushed the thought aside. “But why am I telling a young fellow these old stories? I’m sure you want to go off and have a good time. So go ahead, leave.”

  Georg looked at him, amazed. “What? Go?”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted to do?” He grinned. “Drop the boys off here so you can knock about town a bit. So, be off with you.”

  “Well, actually . . .” Georg was about to say something, but then he burst out laughing. “I’ll admit, you’ve seen through me. And it looks like the children would rather stay with you than with me.” He pointed at Paul, who was happily hacking away at one of the dolls with the broken sword, and Peter, who was looking at illustrations in one of the old books, leafing through it attentively. “I’ll be back in two hours,” Georg said. “All right?”

  Jeremias cut him off. “It doesn’t matter if it’s three hours. Most of the guards are down at the castle for the bishop’s reception, so you can go home after curfew without being thrown into the stocks. And now, off with you, at once.”

  Georg thanked him with a smile, then bid good-bye to his nephews, who hardly paid any attention.

  Moments later he was standing out in front of the wedding house. Night was falling, and for a moment he considered returning to the executioner’s house. He suspected, however, that his big sister wouldn’t be happy with how he’d shirked his responsibilities, so he started drifting aimlessly through the alleyways.

  He crossed the City Hall Bridge, which was still open at this hour, and turned off into the section of town near the Sand Gate, where he could hear noise and laughter. Here along the river below the cathedral mount, there were almost as many taverns as houses. The Bambergers liked to drink and carouse, especially on a holiday like this when an important visitor was in town. Georg had once heard there were more breweries here than in any other city in Franconia. Everywhere he turned, he could hear music and the clinking of beer mugs.

  The party was especia
lly raucous in the Blue Lion tavern, famous for its smoked beer—which took a little getting used to. Georg had often been here to fetch a jug of beer for his uncle. As the Bamberg executioner, Bartholomäus Kuisl was not especially welcome in the taverns, so he preferred to drink alone at home. Georg, on the other hand, had always enjoyed the atmosphere in the Blue Lion, even if he hadn’t frequented it much lately. He stopped to think.

  Well, why not?

  He was just fifteen, but with the dark fuzz on his face and his imposing size, he looked considerably older. And as a hangman’s journeyman, he was nowhere near as well known as the Bamberg executioner himself. He’d always wanted to stop here and have a beer. He thought some more as he fingered the few coins in his pants pocket, his pay for the week.

  I think I’ve earned it.

  Pulling himself together, he opened the door latch and entered the noisy tavern. The odor of fermented mash, smoke, and hot sauerkraut drifted toward him. Someone was plucking the fiddle, and people were shouting and laughing. The noise enveloped him like a soft cocoon, and in the back he noticed an empty seat. He pushed his way through the crowd with his broad chest, took a seat at the scratched wooden table, and ordered his first beer.

  It would not be his last.

  In the meantime, the first guests had arrived in Geyerswörth Castle.

  Simon stood off to one side with Samuel, watching the activity in the inner courtyard. Yesterday, his friend had lent him a new pair of petticoat breeches, a clean shirt with a lace collar, and a strikingly handsome dark-green jacket that was a bit too large but looked much better on him than the dirty street clothes he’d taken for the trip. He was also wearing a flashy hat with a red feather, an expensive accessory that he’d bought from the Bamberg hatmaker with the last of his money. After all, the reception and the theater performance that day were given in honor of a German elector, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself by looking out of place.