“We’ll send them off to dreamland, as well,” Jakob replied. “And now stop talking so much and give me the pelt.”
Bartholomäus unrolled his bundle, which contained a number of animal hides along with some pots sealed with beeswax. Magdalena, though standing a way off, could smell the odor of decomposition. She, too, was carrying a bundle of pots and pelts. Her father had dragged the almost-one-hundred-pound wolf, wrapped in nothing but a thin cloth, up to the cathedral mount. Now he threw it down in front of them like a sack of stones.
If we mess this up, they’ll break us on the wheel right here in the middle of the cathedral square, Magdalena was thinking. But we won’t mess up. We mustn’t.
Carefully she opened one of the pots, which gave off a pungent odor, and with trembling fingers immersed two of the larger linen rags into it until they were completely soaked. They hadn’t been able to find real sponges at the market, as they were too rare and too expensive, but Magdalena hoped they could get by on what they had. Her father had worked for hours that day to get the proper mix, and finally they tried the potion on a stray dog, which immediately fainted, collapsed, and only regained consciousness more than an hour later. That was no guarantee, however, that it would have the same effect on the guards.
“Well, how do I look?” Jakob asked, interrupting her thoughts. His voice sounded strangely muffled, as if underneath a blanket. “Will I pass for a werewolf?”
Magdalena looked up, and it hit her like a bolt of lightning.
In front of her stood two horrible creatures that looked like a hellish mixture of man, wolf, bear, and fox. As in an ancient ritual, both brothers wore wolf’s skulls on their heads, making the huge men appear even taller than they already were, and the hides of stags and bears wrapped around their necks made them look much wider, as well.
In the flickering light of the lantern, Magdalena stared into the empty eye sockets of the wolf skulls. Though she knew they were just her father and her uncle, she had difficulty suppressing a scream.
“This stuff stinks like the plague,” panted the creature on the left. It was Uncle Bartholomäus, and he tugged angrily at the hides. “If I have to run around in this getup much longer, I’ll throw up on the guard’s shoes.”
“Pull yourself together,” the werewolf next to him said. “Your servant, Aloysius, doesn’t smell much better.”
“I don’t know how I ever let myself get roped into such a crazy thing,” Bartholomäus complained as he staggered back and forth like a drunk in his hides. “Besides, I can hardly see anything underneath this wolf’s head.” He tugged at the skull tied in place over his chin by a leather strap. “I’ll be lucky if I don’t run right into a wall.”
Bartholomäus tugged harder on the skull, but Jakob grabbed his arm and pulled it down.
“Just keep thinking of your dogs, my dear brother,” he whispered. “You don’t want to lose them, do you? So don’t back out now.”
“For God’s sake, you bastard. I’m—”
“Stop it right now, you two,” Magdalena interjected. Her voice was so loud she was afraid someone might have heard her. But all remained calm.
“We all want to see the end of this werewolf frenzy,” she continued in a softer voice and looked pleadingly at the two men. “We certainly don’t want anyone to suspect later that Uncle Bartholomäus gave us the key, and we can only achieve that if we present the Bambergers with a dead werewolf on a silver platter. Here it is,” she said, pointing at the carcass on the ground, “so let’s put an end to all this, and no more threats, Father, do you understand?”
The creature mumbled something unintelligible from under his fur pelt.
“I asked if you understand me,” Magdalena persisted.
“Yes, yes, all right. I won’t make another sound if that guy keeps his mouth shut, too.”
Magdalena took a deep breath, then handed each of the brothers a cloth soaked in sheep’s blood along with some sulfur from the little wooden boxes, the tinder, and the gunpowder.
“So let’s begin,” she said quietly. “From now on, there’s no going back.”
Down below in the Blue Lion, at the foot of the cathedral mount, Georg had learned one of the great maxims of drinking: the more beer you guzzle down, the better it tastes. That was especially true of Bamberg beer brewed with smoked mash, which always gave it a slight taste of cold ashes and ham. By now, Georg was on his fourth mug, and he felt great.
Behind him, a hot fire was roaring in the tile stove, which made sweat run down his forehead. In one corner, three men were drinking and singing an old Frankish melody, and Georg noticed himself instinctively humming along. As a child he’d often had small beer to drink, as it was supposed to be healthier than the polluted water, which was used only for washing and cooking. The beer here, however, was dark and strong . . . very strong. Finally Georg understood why men always wanted to go to the taverns. Something as splendid as this beer couldn’t really be appreciated in silence and alone. You needed company. As he tapped the table with one hand to the beat of the melody, he chugged down his mug of beer and beckoned to the hefty woman behind the bar, who smiled and set down another freshly filled mug in front of him.
“You’re the executioner’s boy, aren’t you?” she said with a wink. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I recognized you right away when you came in. You’re a splendidly built lad.”
Georg grinned sheepishly. He wanted to reply but couldn’t think what to say. It was strange—just a while ago the woman at the bar had appeared very old and fat, but since the last beer she suddenly seemed to have gotten younger and more attractive. She probably wasn’t much older than Magdalena.
Magdalena . . . the children . . .
Georg was startled at the thought.
“What . . . what time is it?” he asked, dazed. “How long have I been here?”
The woman shrugged. “No idea. Two hours, maybe.” She winked at him. “Don’t worry, we don’t have any closing time, if that’s what you’re wondering. All the taverns are open later on account of the reception for the bishops. Why do you ask?”
Georg stared into the foam on his freshly served beer, trying to think. Something came to mind, fleetingly, and then it was gone. It had something to do with Jeremias and the children, but all he could remember was Jeremias saying he could stay away longer than two hours.
Just one more beer—it’s right here in front of me. It would be too bad to let it spoil.
Not until then did he notice that the woman was still standing next to him. He pushed a few coins across the table.
“Thanks very much,” he mumbled, “but after this beer, I’ve really got to go home.”
“Of course,” she replied with a smile. “That’s what they all say.”
With a laugh she turned away, and Georg put the mug to his mouth.
As the black brew dripped from his lips, he struggled to remember what had gone through his mind before. Once again, the thought flashed through his head.
Jeremias . . . the children . . . the sword . . .
But the beer washed the memory away, and soon his head sank down onto the table.
A short time later he was snoring peacefully to the beat of the music.
“That surely is a kindly wall that doesn’t hold me back . . . ,” Barbara was saying, up on the stage of the dance hall, but the rest of her lines were drowned out in a chorus of laughter and applause.
The applause was like a soothing, warm wave washing over her and, at the same time, filling her inside. Barbara rolled her eyes theatrically and stepped back a pace in order to make room for the other actors in the scene. Her initial trembling and the rumbling in her stomach that the actors called stage fright had disappeared as if by magic, making her feel like she was in seventh heaven now. She was not just acting the part, she was the princess Violandra! When she put on this splendid dress, she’d been able to leave her old life behind her. The theater gave her the chance to be anything she wanted. She was no lo
nger a dishonorable hangman’s daughter but a princess, a queen, or a beautiful young woman waiting for her lover. There were so many roles to play. And it was clear that the people here loved her. They laughed at her few lines, and when she gracefully skipped to the front of the stage, they whistled and cheered. It was just fabulous.
After some hesitation, Sir Malcolm had given her more lines than he’d planned at first, no doubt because he’d noticed in rehearsals the effect she had on the men in the audience. In addition to the part of the princess, Barbara now also played the prince and the queen. The drama Pyramus and Thisbe takes place at the king’s court, with the simpleminded workers first to appear. One of the actors represents a wall through which Pyramus and his beloved speak. Barbara played one of the male roles with an artificial, high-pitched voice and exaggerated fluttering of her eyelids. The audience applauded wildly.
“You loose, immoral wall!” the mythical Pyramus cried. “You roguish, thieving, frivolous thing!” Then the wall and the hero came to blows, causing a wave of loud laughter in the audience.
“Well, I’d not want to be the wall in this play,” Barbara continued in her role, and the people groaned happily.
Since it was dark in the hall, she couldn’t see beyond the first few rows where the nobles were sitting. The Bamberg bishop was wiping tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes, and the man beside him, evidently the bishop of Würzburg, appeared greatly amused as well.
It’s a hit, Barbara thought. Sir Malcolm will surely win the competition, and Matheo—
The thought of Matheo made her stop short, reminding her of how she’d run away from the executioner’s house, and Magdalena’s promise that her father would certainly do something to help them. Did he already have a plan? Or would her family abandon her and Matheo?
“God forbid, what . . . what . . . ,” she stuttered, forgetting her lines and shifting from one leg to the other. Malcolm cast a disapproving glance at her and suddenly seemed not at all happy.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he whispered so softly that no one else could hear.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she finally exclaimed. But no one else noticed her momentary lapse, since at that moment another workman appeared on the stage holding a painted shield bearing a carelessly scribbled image of the moon.
“Noble queen, this is the moon,” said Sir Malcolm, quickly falling back into his role of Peter Squenz, then turning to the cheering crowd to acknowledge their applause.
The play continued, and after the moon came another workman wearing a threadbare woolen blanket over his head, meowing like a cat, and representing a lion. The audience was abuzz now, and the room seemed to seethe and tremble like a pot of boiling water. Barbara looked down and saw an older cleric in the second row wearing a monk’s cowl. He appeared ill, swaying back and forth in his chair with his face buried in his hands and his mouth opened in a scream, though Barbara could hear nothing in the general tumult. Was the man ill, or were the noise and heat just too much for him?
There was no time for her to ponder that question, as the action on the stage required her full concentration. Assuming that his beloved Thisbe had been attacked and eaten by the lion, the foolish Pyramus had taken his own life. Just the same, he continued chatting merrily with the laughing public. Barbara shook her head in feigned annoyance.
“You can’t just have the corpses get up like that and give speeches,” she scolded.
Sir Malcolm, playing the part of both a worker and a clumsy director, shook his finger. “Pyramus, you’re dead, you should be ashamed of yourself,” he chided him with a wink of his eye. “You can’t say anything. You just have to lie there like a dead pig.”
At that moment there was a loud crash and banging sound in the audience. Barbara looked down from the stage and saw the sick cleric fall off his chair. Most in the audience hadn’t noticed and continued laughing and cheering, but the two bishops turned around to look. With concern, Archbishop Schönborn stood up and beckoned for a servant to come over, while his colleague Philipp Rieneck just shook his head in annoyance, evidently angry at the interruption.
Many in the audience were still unaware of the incident, and they stepped aside reluctantly as two men approached from the rear of the room. One wore the typical hat of the doctors’ guild; the other, who was noticeably shorter, a wide-brimmed hat with a red feather.
“Simon,” Barbara whispered. “But why . . .”
“Damn it, what’s going on?” whispered Sir Malcolm, standing alongside her. “Come, come. It doesn’t matter what’s happening down there, the show must go on.”
With a loud, somewhat forced laugh, Malcolm turned to the public and regained their attention.
“Before I was a prologus, so now I am an epilogus,” he declaimed, bowing deeply.
That was as far as he got, for at that moment there was a piercing scream in the hall. It came from one of the servants who had just bent down to the sick man, who lay writhing and quivering on the floor. His monk’s cowl lay alongside him, and a thin stream of blood trickled across his bald head. Suddenly the sick man jumped up from the floor and began waving his arms and dancing around wildly. The wheezing sounds that came from his mouth sounded brutish and inhuman.
For a moment, he turned to face the stage, and in the flickering light of the candles Barbara could see his face. It was pale like that of a corpse, and his eyes bulged out of his head. The worst thing, however, was his mouth. His lips were so thin as to be almost invisible, and between them was a row of sharp, yellow teeth much larger than those of an ordinary human. Foaming spittle dripped from his teeth onto his cassock while the creature, clearly possessed by the devil, let out a long, brutish cry and rushed at Simon, who was paralyzed with fear.
“My God, it’s the werewolf!” the terrified servant shouted, stepping back a few paces and knocking down some of the others as he fell to the floor. “Our suffragan bishop is a real werewolf! Oh, God, be with us, the devil is in our midst!”
Then the entire hall erupted in chaos.
12
BAMBERG, NINE O’CLOCK AT NIGHT, NOVEMBER 1, 1668 AD
UP ON THE CATHEDRAL MOUNT, the fog had been getting thicker and thicker. The damp air made Magdalena’s clothes cling to her, as if trying to prevent her from getting any closer to her father and uncle.
Matheo was imprisoned in St. Thomas’s in the Old Residence, a huge enclave on the cathedral square surrounded by high walls on all sides. Years ago, kaisers, kings, and bishops had resided there, and meetings of the parliament had been held there as well. Now the Old Residence was not much more than a large horse barn and arsenal, but the meeting room for the city council, and the former main room of the castle, gave evidence of the great power centered there in the past.
The three of them passed by a chapel recessed into the wall, then snuck quietly by the council chamber until they reached the so-called Schöne Pforte, which served as the entrance to the old enclave. During the day, there was much hustle and bustle as people entered and left—workers, coachmen, and soldiers on patrol on the opposite side, where construction was proceeding on the bishop’s new residence. But at night, and in the heavy fog, practically no one was around—just two lonely guards stood watch at the gate, tightly clutching their halberds as if struggling not to keel over with boredom and exhaustion. The only light was a single lantern hanging on a hook on the wall, swaying back and forth in the wind. The cathedral bells struck the ninth hour.
“We have to get by the two of them, we can’t avoid that,” whispered Bartholomäus, sweating profusely under his werewolf costume. “And then there are probably some more guards inside—I have no idea how many tonight. I hear that the captain has a unit he can call up for special occasions. If they’re busy down in the city now, perhaps we’ll have an easier job of it.”
“One thing at a time,” Jakob grumbled, turning to Magdalena. “It’s important to get to them before they can sound the alarm, or our beautiful plan is going to fall ap
art at the very beginning. Is there anything you can do to distract the fellows for a while?”
Magdalena smiled and batted her eyelids. “That shouldn’t be too hard for me.” She swayed her hips suggestively from side to side. “What do you think?”
“For God’s sake, don’t overdo it,” her father scolded. “What would Simon think? A little flirting should be enough.”
“Believe me, a little flirting won’t get very far with these men. I’ll have to pour on the charm.”
Without any explanation, Magdalena pulled a yellow scarf out from under her jacket and tied it around her head. Adeptly, she pulled her bodice down so far that her breasts almost popped out.
“Damn it, girl, you’re not going to—” he started to say.
But Magdalena had already stepped away from the wall and started sashaying toward the entrance. Soon she stepped into the light of the lantern, and the guards looked at her suspiciously.
“Hey, you,” they called to her. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know it’s way past curfew?”
“Some people don’t even start work until after curfew,” she cooed, smiling and swaying her hips as she drew closer. Only then did they see the yellow scarf over her head that identified Magdalena as a whore. The fatter of the two guards grinned lewdly.
“Aha, Hans, just look, we have an important visitor,” he said, bowing slightly. “It looks as if the beautiful lady has lost her way. The Rosengasse is, as far as I know, down below near St. Martin’s.”
“That can happen easily with fog like this,” said his colleague, a pimply youth who surely had not yet touched many women in his young life. Lewdly he stared at Magdalena’s low neckline. “But since she’s already here . . .”
“You know, we could arrest you and throw you in the dungeon,” the fat man said to Magdalena, shaking a finger at her in jest. “Fortunately, there’s already someone there whom you surely don’t want to meet, unless you like to have sex with animals.” He let out a dirty laugh.
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