The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Magdalena was about to say something to her husband when he also started to speak.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry for what I said about you and Sophia this afternoon. It was stupid of me, and I know it’s not true. I think I’ve just taken on too much lately.”

  Magdalena squeezed his hand. “It’s all right. You are working too much, it’s true. The neighbors said a carriage was here until after dark.”

  “They were travelers on their way back to Verona,” he replied quietly. “The woman was very ill. I don’t think I was able to help her.”

  Haltingly, Simon told his wife of the young mother and her father-in-law, whose haste and greed were probably the death of her.

  “It’s that accursed fever that befalls women after birthing,” he finished, shaking his head. “I just wish there were a cure.”

  “Maybe there can’t be a cure for every ailment in the world,” Magdalena replied. “Have you ever thought about it? Perhaps we simply have to put up with some diseases.”

  “Like Sophia’s foot? Is that what you’re trying to say?” Simon tossed restlessly in bed. “I will never stop looking for reasons. I haven’t become a medicus only to cut open boils on fat patricians’ backsides. If only my treatise were published . . .”

  Magdalena groaned. “That again. I think we really have more important things to worry about. Barbara needs to marry. And I’m praying to God there’s going to be at least one half-decent fellow among those hangmen in Munich.” She shuddered. “I only hope they’re not like the Schongau gravedigger. Or the knacker—you can smell him ten paces against the wind.”

  “At least you’ve convinced your sister to come to Munich,” Simon replied. “I’m surprised she even agreed to that much. I would have thought Barbara would refuse no matter what.”

  “I . . . I just sweet-talked her.” Magdalena hoped her husband wouldn’t notice her shaking voice. “I think my descriptions of the new theater and the many palaces and gardens helped. Munich is supposed to be one of the most beautiful cities of the German Empire, since Elector Ferdinand Maria employs so many foreigners at court. Apparently, they’ve built a stunning new cathedral, new fortifications, and a magnificent residence. And . . . hey, what is it?”

  Simon was laughing. “Well, I’m just trying to imagine a dozen executioners of your father’s caliber sitting at one table. That’s probably the exact opposite of Munich court life.” His hand wandered over to Magdalena. “I’ve never understood how a clump of a man like that could make such a beautiful daughter.”

  “Why not?” Magdalena teased. “When a weed like you can do it.”

  When they were lying in each other’s arms a while later, a smile crossed Sophia’s face. She gurgled and laughed in her sleep.

  It seemed she was having a lovely dream.

  2

  THE LOISACH RIVER, FEBRUARY 2, AD 1672

  BARBARA STOOD AT THE FRONT of the raft with her eyes closed, taking in the noises and smells around her. The steady rushing of the river, the groaning and cracking of the ice on the water, the calls of the helmsmen from neighboring rafts . . . The faintest hint of spring lay in the air, barely detectable, but Barbara sensed it wasn’t far away—a few more weeks, perhaps. A slight thaw had set in recently, and even though there were still frosts at night and snow on the fields, the longer days promised warmer and merrier days ahead.

  When Barbara opened her eyes again, the feeling of safety and comfort vanished. In front of her was the raging river, carrying the raft at a scary speed past villages and narrow towpaths, where a handful of peasants trudged through snow still knee-deep in places. But most of all, Barbara saw the many raftsmen with their felt hats, blue jackets, and pike poles, which they used to push off other rafts or navigate around a dangerous rapid. All of them were strong young men, and all of them were gaping at her. One whispered something to his colleague and laughed, then they winked at her suggestively and touched their hats in greeting. Barbara turned away.

  Will it never end? she thought. Are we nothing but fair game to men?

  They had left Schongau early the previous morning. Until the last moment Barbara hadn’t been sure whether she should go. But did she really have a choice? Her older sister was right, after all: if she bore a child out of wedlock in Schongau, her life would be over. And her disgrace would affect the whole family. Her father would likely be expelled from the Council of Twelve.

  What if she kept her pregnancy secret and left the baby outside someone’s house when it was born? At a monastery, perhaps?

  The thought made Barbara feel sick. It didn’t matter who the father was—the child was her flesh and blood. For years—decades—to come she would be haunted by the question of whether her child was still alive, whether it was well or dying of starvation at that very moment, freezing somewhere in the streets, wondering to the last who its mother had been. No, she couldn’t do it. She should have gotten rid of it when it was just a tiny speck, but now it was too late.

  So Barbara had decided to follow her sister’s advice and travel to Munich with her family. What did she have to lose? As soon as Schongau had disappeared behind a bend in the road, she had breathed easier.

  Anywhere is better than that narrow-minded hole . . .

  Her father had heard that the first rafts of the year were operating on the Loisach River, and so they had decided to travel via Rottenbuch and Oberammergau to the Loisach Valley. A wagon driver had taken them as far as Bayersoien. After a night at a flea-infested, drafty inn, a master raftsman had agreed to take them to Munich for a few hellers.

  Barbara looked to the back, where, between several marketers from Partenkirchen, a haggard old scissor-sharpener with his huge pack, and two journeymen dyers perched on their bales of cloth, the Kuisl family sat on a number of barrels. Peter and Paul visibly enjoyed the ride on the raft, unlike their father, who continually tried to stop his sons from playing catch among the many crates, bales, and barrels. Magdalena was feeding little Sophia, while Jakob sat smoking his pipe, staring into space. Barbara knew her father hated to death having water beneath his feet, but he would never dream of showing fear in front of his family.

  “Watch out! Ice!”

  The helmsman next to Barbara yanked the front rudder around hard, and she lost her balance. She managed to hold on to the man’s broad back at the last moment and saw the large floes of ice drifting past the raft. She could hear some of the other passengers screaming in the back; an old farmer’s wife prayed to Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of raftsmen. The raft turned dangerously to the right, and the helmsmen at the front and rear fought hard against the current, cursing viciously. The big man next to Barbara toiled and groaned, the huge muscles on his arms flexing as he pulled the oar through the water again and again. Finally, they were back on course.

  The helmsman wiped the sweat from his face with a grim laugh. Only now did Barbara realize the man was Alois Seethaler, the master raftsman from Garmisch who had agreed to take them aboard that morning. He was a bearded, sinister-looking fellow who carried a heavy purse full of jingling coins around his belly. He had charged considerably for the courage to attempt the trip to Munich this early in the year.

  “That was a close call!” he boasted and winked at Barbara. “But you were a big help, lass. Feel free to hang on to me anytime. Pretty little thing, you are.” With a loud laugh, he slapped her on the bottom, and Barbara winced.

  “Leave me alone,” she said between clenched teeth.

  “Don’t be like that,” the raftsman grumbled. “I gave your family a good price—the least you can do is show a little gratitude.”

  “I don’t remember being part of the deal,” Barbara replied.

  Alois Seethaler grinned. “Who knows? Soon we’ll be at Wolfratshausen, and more travelers are going to want to come aboard. Perhaps the price will go up then, and you won’t be so squeamish anymore. How would you like that?”

  Seethaler’s hand suddenly went down her backside and right between
her legs. She froze. In the past, she would have slapped the man for doing what he did, no matter how big and strong he was, but now she simply felt sick—like so often in the last few weeks. The raftsman took her silence for consent, and his fingers made their way under her coat, under her skirt, and in between her thighs, when he suddenly stopped and yelped.

  “Is there a problem here?” a booming voice asked from behind Barbara.

  She turned around and saw her father. He was more than a head taller than the big master raftsman, and his bulky boot stood on Seethaler’s foot, pinning him to the spot.

  “I said, is there a problem here?” Kuisl repeated menacingly. His arm came down on the raftsman’s shoulder like a felled tree trunk.

  Alois Seethaler winced and then slowly shook his head, and Jakob Kuisl lifted his boot off Seethaler’s foot. But his arm remained firmly planted on the raftsman’s shoulder. It was moments like these that reminded Barbara that her father was still as strong as an ox, despite his ripe age. His height alone intimidated most people—especially if they knew that the giant was the notorious Schongau hangman. Clearly, Alois Seethaler had no idea that he’d just flirted with the daughter of an executioner.

  “No . . . problem . . . ,” he wheezed.

  “Then I thank you kindly for the pleasant journey, Herr Master Rafter,” Kuisl said. He patted the man’s shoulder, then carefully picked off some bits of fluff off his coat. “When do you think we’ll reach Munich, hmm?”

  “Seven . . . maybe eight hours,” the other man stammered. “Once we reach the Isar River, we can go faster.”

  “That’s great, because I’d really like to taste some Munich beer tonight, one of those smooth, dark ones brewed by the monks who renounce all flesh. Can you be one of those monks until tonight?” Kuisl gave the raftsman a glowering look. The latter nodded but didn’t say another word.

  “I’m so pleased we have an understanding. Are you coming, Barbara?”

  The hangman turned around and made his way to the back of the raft. Barbara followed him unwillingly. Kuisl stopped abruptly.

  “Do you understand now why I want you to have a husband?” he asked angrily. “I can’t always keep an eye on you. Men are like beasts. They smell fresh blood like stalking wolves.”

  “I know that,” Barbara replied quietly.

  Better than you think, she added in her thoughts.

  Jakob Kuisl sighed. The anger vanished from his face, and he gave his youngest daughter a loving look. “By the way, I’m glad you decided to come without a fight in the end. And . . . and . . .” He wrestled with himself. “I’m sorry about the way I sprang the news on you the other day. God knows I’m a rough bugger—your mother always said so.”

  “You really are.” Barbara smiled. It didn’t happen often that her father apologized to her.

  Jakob Kuisl took a deep breath. “Then do me a favor, and just take a look at the three lads I chose for you. Then you can still decide on someone else.”

  “Three lads?” The smile was wiped from Barbara’s face. She stared at her father with astonishment. “What in God’s name . . . ?”

  “Well, I wrote a few letters, just to see who’s coming. And I may have mentioned my beautiful daughter.” Kuisl shrugged. “In my opinion, there are three possible candidates for you. Of course, I don’t know if they’re ugly, but at least all three are a good match.”

  Barbara gaped in amazement. That was so much more brazen than she had feared. “And what exactly did you tell them about me?” she asked eventually. “Big breasts, black hair, even teeth? What assets do I have that I don’t even know about? Wide hips, good paces, like a horse?”

  Kuisl’s eyes darkened again, and he clenched his fists. “You’re going to take a look at those men, whether you want to or not. Damn it! I’ve turned a blind eye for far too long. If your dear mother knew . . .”

  Barbara left her father midsentence and disappeared between a few crates, her face red with anger. She needed to be alone—a tall order on a raft twenty paces long and seven paces wide. Everywhere she turned, passengers who had witnessed her argument with her father were staring at her with interest. Magdalena was also looking at her with concern, but she had her hands full with Sophia. And what could her sister do, anyhow? Magdalena had assured her they would get through this together, but those were just hollow words.

  No one could help her, not even Magdalena.

  Crying softly, Barbara slid down between the crates and closed her eyes.

  The steady rushing of the water helped calm her a little. After a while, she wiped her tears away and stared defiantly at the icy green waves. Life would go on. She had already endured much in her life; she would get through this, too, and find a way.

  She was a Kuisl, damn it!

  They finally neared Munich in the late afternoon. The woods had become sparser in the last few hours, and they had seen more and more onion-shaped domes on small village churches jutting into the blue sky. After they passed an old castle near the Isar River, the first walls of the city fortifications came into sight.

  Simon was standing at the front of the raft with his two boys, gazing at the impressive skyline. Trenches, walls, and massive fortifications separated the snow-covered fields outside the city from the magnificent houses, churches, and towers on the other side. The previous elector, Maximilian, had commissioned the imposing fortifications during the Great War, but they hadn’t been completed when the Swedes attacked. Nevertheless, these walls told each passing traveler that they were looking at one of the most advanced and magnificent capital cities of the German Empire.

  In the city center, Simon could make out two particularly high onion domes, which he guessed belonged to the well-known Munich Frauenkirche church. The wide, sullen Isar River ran through fallow hop fields, meadows, and patches of forest not far from the city. The raft passed by gravelly, sparsely vegetated islands and eventually glided under a long bridge. Simon had heard that this bridge had been the beginning of Munich. Apparently, a powerful duke had it built so he could demand a bridge toll from the salt merchants from Reichenhall. In time, a monastery and a few shacks had turned into a mighty city, known far beyond the boundaries of the German Empire.

  Pleased, Simon stroked his red coat and the fashionable breeches he’d put on especially for this journey. He knew one had to dress better in Munich than in Schongau, the stinking provincial backwater whose narrow-mindedness Simon increasingly resented. He had always felt more at home in larger cities than in his hometown. He hoped the meeting of the executioners would take place somewhere central, so he could stroll through the streets of the city and visit the churches, the theater, and the electoral residence, called simply the Residenz.

  Once they had passed the bridge, the river became very busy. Wooden landings and piers protruded from the left bank for several hundred feet. Countless rafts and barges were tied to posts and bollards; poorly dressed laborers carried bales, barrels, and crates up the bank, which probably earned them a kreuzer or two. Simon could barely hear a word with all the shouting that went on in this place.

  “The raft landing,” Kuisl murmured happily. “We’re almost there.”

  “So where is this meeting taking place?” Simon asked. “At a tavern in town, or near the market square? Perhaps we could visit Frauenkirche church on the way. I heard it was . . . hey, wait!”

  Ignoring Simon’s questions, Jakob Kuisl had jumped off the raft and climbed up narrow steps to a wide, busy lane. The hangman made his way past tired-looking peasants with packs and crates on their backs, caterwauling market women, and drunken raftsmen who came staggering out of a tavern near the raft landing. Even though Candlemas was supposed to be a time of peace and rest, the streets of Munich were buzzing.

  “They’re already drinking away their annual pay,” Magdalena guessed while she struggled to catch up with her father. “For Christ’s sake, can’t you slow down?”

  “Where is he headed to, anyway?” Barbara asked. She hadn’t spoken in
hours, and Simon was pleased she wasn’t looking quite so surly anymore. “To the next tavern for a beer, while we twiddle our thumbs in the cold? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Hmm, I thought he was headed for the house where the hangmen are meeting,” Simon replied. “But I wonder why he isn’t going toward the city gate.”

  Simon was right: instead of turning toward the massive city gate, Kuisl walked onto the busy Isar Bridge with its high bridge tower. Carriages and oxcarts drove through the tower’s gatehouse toward the city. It reeked of sweating animals, beer mash, and fresh horse dung.

  “For crying out loud, Father, you owe us an explanation,” Magdalena demanded when she finally caught up with Kuisl. “Where are you leading us? I’m not taking another step until you tell us.”

  The hangman stopped and pointed to the far bank, where Magdalena could make out a number of poor-looking huts. They seemed crooked and scattered randomly, as if a drunken giant had accidentally dropped them. Several mills stood out among the shacks, their ice-crusted wheels driven by a creek. A dark cloud of soot and smoke hung over the entire settlement along the swampy bank.

  “That’s where we’re going,” Kuisl said. “To Au.”

  “Oh my God, it looks awful,” Magdalena breathed. “What is it? A village for beggars and cutthroats?”

  “That’s pretty much it.” Kuisl grinned. “Did you really think a dozen dishonorable executioners would meet at the Munich Residenz over wine and some pheasant? Au is a good place for hangmen. There’s always something to do.”

  “Great,” Simon sighed and abandoned his plans of evening strolls through the city. He cast a depressed glance down at his brand-new coat and breeches. “I might as well hang a sign around my neck that reads ‘Please rob me.’”