The children’s shyness instantly vanished, and they nodded enthusiastically.
Michael Deibler laughed. “Cats and children! We have too many of one and not enough of the other.”
Walburga stepped aside, and Magdalena and the others followed Deibler into a warm, tidy living room that smelled of burned honey and exotic spices. On the table stood a bowl with steaming spiced cakes and a jug of mulled wine. Like at home in Schongau, the execution sword hung in the devotional corner next to the crucifix and a bunch of dried roses.
While the boys went looking for the kittens, Walburga turned to her guests with a smile. “Michl told me about your awful lodgings.” She shook her head. “How could anyone think Au was an appropriate place for children and young women? But that’s men for you.”
“It’s not that much safer here in the Anger Quarter, Burgi,” Deibler grumbled. “Just now we were almost run over by a carriage on Sendlinger Bridge.”
“My goodness!” Walburga exclaimed. “Aren’t we even safe at night from those speeding rascals? Well, at least I can promise you there are no carriages driving through our house.”
“Don’t be so sure. You haven’t seen my Paul on his hobbyhorse yet.” Magdalena grinned. Walburga’s soft, pleasant voice truly seemed to be at odds with her tall body. Magdalena immediately liked the hangman’s wife, who exuded a cozy warmth just like her house. “Thank you very much for having us.”
“It’s nothing.” Walburga waved dismissively. “This house is much too big for us, anyway. And I miss the sound of children here. I only have my cats.” She gestured at Sophia, who had woken up and was crying. “May I?”
Magdalena hesitated. She never let anyone else soothe Sophia, not even Simon—but then she nodded and handed the whimpering bundle to Walburga. “You can try. If it gets too much, just give her back to me.”
“I think she’s just hot in here.” Walburga took Sophia out of her furs, and the child immediately stopped crying. The hangman’s wife sat Sophia on her lap and bounced and sang until the little girl squealed with pleasure and tried to grab at Walburga’s hair.
“I don’t think she wants to go to bed yet.” Walburga laughed while bouncing Sophia on her knees.
Magdalena smiled. “She’s not usually like this with strangers. You would make a great nurse.”
“All children love my wife,” Michael Deibler explained with a shrug. “They run away screaming from me, but Walburga only has to wink at them and they cling to her apron strings.”
“That’s because you stink like a leaking barrel of beer,” Walburga replied. Suddenly she paused and studied Sophia’s kicking legs.
“Oh, I see the poor thing has a clubfoot,” she said. “Have you tried to straighten it?”
“I try every day with bandages,” Simon replied. He sighed. “But it just won’t get better.”
“You should try bear fat and arnica,” Walburga suggested, still rocking Sophia on her lap. “It softens the tendons. I just made a new batch yesterday. I can rub some on her foot now, if you like.”
Magdalena gave her a grateful nod, and Walburga took the happily giggling Sophia to the next room. Peter and Paul followed the hangman’s wife, along with the kittens and several of the older cats.
Magdalena saw through the open door that the room was filled with cupboards and chests. A table at the wall was laden with small bottles, jars, a mortar, and scales. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and Magdalena realized where the exotic smell she had noticed when entering the house stemmed from.
“It’s my little kingdom!” Walburga called out to her from the chamber. “Michl does the killing, and I do the healing and look after my cats. I think that’s a fair share of the workload.”
Michael Deibler rolled his eyes with feigned annoyance. “She adopts every single stray cat she finds. I only wish she’d pet me like her darlings.”
Magdalena laughed, then motioned toward Walburga’s room. “We also have an apothecary chamber in Father’s house in Schongau, but it’s not nearly as big.”
“Burgi truly is the best healer I know,” Deibler said lovingly as he watched his wife rub the salve on Sophia’s foot. “I always tell her she should write a book about all her medicines and treatments. Even our famous Jakob Kuisl could still learn a thing or two from her.” He turned to his colleague. “Although we could probably use your skills in another field at the moment.”
“What do you mean?” Kuisl asked. He was just about to light his pipe.
Deibler lowered his voice. “You heard the people down by the raft landing. Ghosts and the living dead. Once again, common sense just goes down the drain.” He snorted. “But it gets worse. Our guild meeting is a thorn in Munich’s side. It was hard enough for me to get permission to hold it in Au, but now the superstitious citizens think that this many hangmen in one spot bring ill luck. They’re starting to believe we dishonorable hangmen had something to do with those murders.”
“What a load of bull,” Georg said and reached for the jug of mulled wine. “We’re executioners, not murderers.”
“Well, three dead girls have been found in the last few days. Most likely, the cases are not connected at all, but I must admit they all look a little like executions.” Deibler raised his hand and counted on his fingers: “Impaling, drowning, and walling in alive. And who’s responsible for executions? We hangmen.”
“The mummy is decades old, and the girl in the creek wasn’t drowned but poisoned with deadly nightshade,” Kuisl objected. “I don’t see what that has to do with the Council of Twelve.”
“Logic won’t stop gossip,” Deibler replied. He shrugged. “I have no idea who or what is behind all this. But that gruesome mummy was the final straw, especially since girls have been disappearing or turning up dead for years.”
“More dead girls?” Magdalena stared at Deibler. A chill went down her spine despite the warmth of the tiled stove. “And you’re only telling us now?”
Deibler thought. “Well, it’s not entirely uncommon for young girls to find a tragic end in Munich. An unhappy love affair, an unwanted pregnancy, and they jump into the river. Others fall victim to drunks or other scoundrels. Most of the time they’re maidservants from the country looking for employment. People come here from all over Bavaria, especially to Au, Giesing, or Haidhausen, hoping to gain citizenship one day. Of course, that also attracts all sorts of riffraff.”
“But now people have had enough of such riffraff,” Simon remarked. “They want a scapegoat. And if it’s not a person, it must be a ghost. Or a dishonorable hangman, right?”
Deibler nodded glumly. They could hear the children’s laughter from the next room, like from a different world. With a serious expression, the Munich executioner turned to Jakob Kuisl.
“All I’m asking is that you keep your ears open, like you’ve done elsewhere before. Perhaps you’ll hear something that might exonerate us hangmen. Before they dissolve our council—or worse.”
“That’s precisely what I did down at the raft landing earlier,” Kuisl said. “And you didn’t like it.”
“That was before I knew which way the wind was blowing.” Deibler sighed. “Maybe you’re actually right, and all these murders are somehow connected.”
“Do you really think so?” Magdalena asked her father, her curiosity aroused.
Kuisl didn’t reply.
“Well, your father found a certain amulet in the mummy’s mouth,” Deibler replied in his stead. “Very similar to one the dead girl in Au was clutching. A Virgin Mary with an aureole.”
“And what about the third girl?” Simon asked. “The impaled one? Did she have one, too?”
“It’s too late to tell, unfortunately. She’s already been buried.” Deibler scratched his ragged beard. “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. Perhaps the girls tried to ward off evil with the amulets. But that doesn’t change the fact that people suspect us executioners.”
“And what if it really was an executioner, at least for the last two murde
rs?” Kuisl took a noisy drag on his pipe.
“How do you mean?” Deibler asked with surprise.
“Well, if Master Hans really did lie, as Georg says, we should probably look into it. Everyone knows how much he enjoys torturing people. Perhaps he happened to be in Munich at the time of the last murder, the impaled girl. Weilheim isn’t very far away. And hangman Fux says Master Hans met with a red-haired girl in Au the day we found the body in the creek—that’s enough to be suspicious.”
“Damn it, Jakob!” Deibler cursed. “I just praised your common sense, and now this. You only want to pin something on Hans because he nearly put your Barbara on the—” He broke off and glanced at Barbara, who sat in silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said ruefully. “That was stupid of me.”
“Already forgotten,” Barbara replied softly. Her fists clenched. “I must admit, I almost wish Hans had something to do with the murders, just so Father could break his bones one by one.”
No one said anything for a while, and the smoke from Kuisl’s pipe floated to the ceiling in little clouds. Magdalena could tell her father was thinking. It was the same as always. If he was given a riddle, he didn’t rest until he solved it.
“You’re right,” Kuisl eventually said to Deibler. “I can’t stand Hans, and not only because he almost tortured my daughter. Things happened between us that . . . well, that shouldn’t have. But revenge isn’t a good counselor when you’re trying to solve a murder. Hmm . . .” He chewed on his pipe. “Something else connects these murders, not just the fact that they look like executions and that two of the victims carried the same medallion. There’s something else. I’ll figure it out, but I need to learn more about the girls. At least about the two last ones.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Deibler replied and reached for the jug. “And now let’s talk about pleasanter things.” He smiled at Georg. “About your strapping son, for example, who is going to make a great executioner for Bamberg one day, so I hear.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me.” Georg rose abruptly. “I promised Uncle Bartholomäus I wouldn’t be too late. And, as you know, a journeyman must obey his master in all things.” He looked glum, as if the thought of his uncle had reminded him of something unpleasant.
“Then I better go, too.” Jakob Kuisl got to his feet. Magdalena had a feeling that walking home with his son meant a lot to her father. Kuisl loved Georg deeply, even if he never showed it.
“I think we’ll cut through town this time. Quicker and safer.” The Schongau hangman grinned. “Though I don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to attempt cutting the throats of a hangman and his boy.”
The two of them said their goodbyes and went out into the darkness.
Too late, Magdalena remembered that she still hadn’t asked Georg about his future in Bamberg.
5
OUTSIDE THE ELECTORAL RESIDENZ, FEBRUARY 4, AD 1672
IS IT THE HOUSE OF A real king, Father?”
Wide-eyed, Peter stared at the Munich Residenz, which stretched along the road to Schwabing, a small village north of the city. The palace of the Bavarian monarchs wasn’t a castle as such, but more like a huge complex with its own church, numerous courtyards, stables, and a magnificent park at the north side. On the other side of the road stood the shell of an incomplete cathedral. Simon wondered how many people lived at the Residenz. More than just the electoral family, he guessed; probably even more than in all of Schongau.
“Um, not a king, Peter, but the Bavarian elector, Ferdinand Maria,” Simon replied to his son. “But that’s very similar.”
“And his wife invited you?” There was pride in Peter’s voice, and Simon, too, felt a tingle of excitement running down his back. He had brushed out his red coat for the meeting and pinned a new feather to his hat. Peter was wearing his best shirt, and Magdalena had combed and parted his hair and scrubbed his face with bone soap until it gleamed red.
“Well, you know, your father had a few interesting thoughts about illnesses that appear to be worth listening to,” Simon replied with a little smile. “I’ve heard the electress is an intelligent, open-minded woman.”
Father and son were standing outside a gate that was guarded by half a dozen soldiers with cuirasses, helmets, and halberds. The men stared grimly straight ahead, stepping aside only to let electoral deliverymen pass through. For fear of being late, Simon had come half an hour early. In that time, he had watched a merchant with a cart of wine barrels, two bakers with fresh bread, and the electoral pastry chef go through the gate. Was all that food for the audience?
Simon listened to the bells of Old Peter announce the hour of noon. He ran his fingers through his hair one last time and adjusted his hat. “It’s time for my audience.”
He pulled out the permit the envoy had given him yesterday, took Peter by the hand, and strutted confidently toward the guards.
“Dr. Simon Fronwieser. I have an audience with Her Majesty, the highly esteemed electress,” he introduced himself pompously.
The guard took a bored look at the letter and pointed at a wide set of stairs behind the gate. “Go upstairs and get in line,” he muttered.
Somewhat taken aback, Simon climbed the stairs with Peter. They came into a large hall decorated with halberds and other weapons. There were guards here, too, and seated on benches on the left and right were about twenty men and women who also appeared to be waiting for an audience with the electress. Simon could tell at once that the supplicants weren’t nobles, but regular citizens of the lower classes. Like him, they had spruced up for the meeting with threadbare coats and polished shoes. Simon swallowed. He got the growing impression that his audience wasn’t as unique as he had first thought.
Well, the main thing is that the electress listens when I tell her about my treatise. And who knows, maybe we’ll even find a school for Peter.
Time passed awfully slowly, and it was so cold that Simon soon regretted not having put on a simple warm coat instead of his fashionable red one. At regular intervals, the door at the other end of the hall opened, an order was shouted, and the next person was ushered into the adjacent room. Simon guessed it would be at least two hours until his audience. And the envoy had asked him to be punctual! At first, Peter sat quietly beside him, but after a while the boy grew restless.
“Can I take a look around, Father?” he asked after another quarter of an hour.
“Are you crazy?” Simon whispered. “This is the electoral Residenz, not the Schongau fair.” But then he looked down the corridor to the left, which was decorated with grand paintings and stuccowork. Several supplicants were standing down the hallway, talking quietly. “You can go and look at those paintings,” he suggested. “But not too far. I want you to be here when we’re called in.”
Peter nodded happily and disappeared down the corridor. Relieved, Simon took his treatise from his satchel, where he also carried the interesting book about microscoping he’d accidentally stolen the day before. By now he dared to hope that his theft would go unpunished, and he was no longer particularly worried about the counterfeit coins, either.
Simon started reading through his treatise for the hundredth time. He kept finding parts that could still be improved. When he spoke to the electress in a few moments, he wanted to present his theses in a well-formulated manner. He still wasn’t entirely happy with one or two Latin sentences.
Sanitas bonum inaestimabile nec contemnendum . . .
Absorbed in his work, Simon completely forgot the time. He started with fright when his name was called out.
“Dr. Fronwieser!” one of the guards shouted. “Dr. Fronwieser to the electoral audience!”
Simon packed up his papers and was about to rush over to the guards when he realized that Peter still hadn’t returned. Nervously, he looked around for his son but didn’t see him anywhere. Where could Peter have gone? Usually the boy could be relied upon. Had he wandered outside to play?
“Dr. Simon Fronwieser!” the guard repe
ated urgently. “To the audience, now!”
Simon looked around the room one last time, then gave up. Damn it, Peter would get an earful.
And I will, too . . .
Simon could only hope he’d get the chance to discuss his son’s schooling with the electress anyway. Magdalena would never forgive him if he didn’t make use of this unique opportunity.
He walked over to the now rather annoyed-looking guard, who checked his permit again. Then the tall double doors opened, and Simon entered another hall, just as heavily decorated with paintings and Gobelin tapestries as the first. Finally, Simon walked into the most magnificent room he’d ever seen.
The carvings covering walls and ceiling were entirely gilded, and a row of paintings showed ancient rulers listening to their subjects in palatial throne rooms. There was no spot that wasn’t decorated with a painting or a Gobelin. On a pedestal opposite Simon stood a gilded throne.
On the throne sat the electress.
Henriette Adelaide was in her midthirties. She had a thin face and brown hair, curled at the sides and decorated with diamonds at the part. Her beautifully tailored red dress was embroidered with gold thread. Her eyes were intelligent and friendly, albeit a little cool. Simon remembered what he had heard about Henriette: the electress came from Piedmont and had never felt fully at home in cold Bavaria, especially since she had once been intended for the future French king. She had brought to Munich a corps of Italian and French master builders, who had since been busy trying to turn the city into a second Rome.
Simon knelt down and lowered his head all the way to the floor. “Your Electoral Highness . . . I . . . It’s such an honor . . . ,” he croaked before his voice failed him.
If only my father could see this, he thought. A barber’s son at the electoral court.
Henriette Adelaide raised an eyebrow at her graying court marshal, whereupon the man rapped his ceremonial staff on the floor and introduced Simon with a nasal voice. A smile darted across her face.
The Council of Twelve Page 13
