The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Barbara had no idea what Hans was talking about. She wondered what she should do if Peter didn’t come back with help and Hans didn’t buy her lie. If she screamed loudly now, how long would it take for someone to come? Would Hans shut her up first? She thought about the new tombstone leaning against the dirt. If Hans dropped it on her, she’d be squashed like a louse. Better to buy time until Peter—hopefully—returned.

  “What treasures do you mean?” she asked nervously.

  Hans winked at her almost cordially with a red eye. “You’d love to know, wouldn’t you? And your father, too, the wiseacre. But this time, I’m the smarter one, and you’re all in for a surprise.” He laughed his soft, ringing chuckle, which Barbara had always found creepy. “You’ll see. I’m going to get far, farther yet than Widmann from Nuremberg.”

  Suddenly, Hans’s eyes became suspicious. “Has your father figured it out yet?” he hissed. “Tell me, has he? Speak up!” Now he shoveled dirt into the pit with both hands. Soon Barbara was up to her knees in soil. “Has he?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about!” she shouted. “You . . . you madman!” Her dress was torn and dirty, her face smeared with sweat and mud. She watched in horror as Hans picked up a large, frozen chunk of dirt and aimed straight for her, as if he were playing a game. Barbara ducked and the chunk missed her. But Hans had already picked up the next lump.

  He’s trying to stone me! she thought. Drowning, strangling, impaling, walling in alive . . . And now he chooses stoning.

  “How much does your father know?” Hans growled like a beast of prey. “Speak, before I squash your pretty little head like a rotten apple.”

  Barbara opened her mouth to scream.

  Hans reached for the grave slab.

  “By God, if it continues like this, they’ll hang every last one of us like common thieves. Damn it all, how much more do we hangmen have to put up with?”

  Kaspar Hörmann brought his half-empty mug down hard on the table, spattering Kuisl’s last clean shirt with beer. The Passau hangman burped loudly and slumped back into his chair, almost falling off. Clearly, he’d had one too many again, even though it was still morning.

  Jakob Kuisl turned away in disgust. The Council of Twelve had been in session for over an hour at the Radl Inn, the executioners, as always, at the long table in the center of the room with their own beer mugs, and the journeymen on chairs along the wall. Flickering black candles cast an eerie light into the room, especially since the shutters were closed to keep out the cold. The air was stuffy; the smoke from many pipes hung above the table like a dense fog. Georg had sat down next to Hörmann’s snoring son, listening attentively to the hangmen’s conversation, his eyes reddened from the smoke.

  In the beginning, they had talked about the usual topics, like better pay and the impending threat of a prohibition on executioners healing people, which the German electors were pushing for. But the rumors from the city had found their way into this round, too. Since the murder of Theresa Wilprecht, the young patrician wife, more and more people blamed the meeting of the executioners for the series of unhappy events.

  Next to Kuisl, Philipp Teuber—his friend from Regensburg—frowned and shook his head. “Shouting at each other isn’t going to help,” he said in Hörmann’s direction. “Let’s look for a solution together, before they set this place on fire.”

  The other council members nodded silently and stared into their mugs. Then Bartholomäus Kuisl, who was sitting at the other end of the table, shook his head angrily. “How do the people of Munich even get the idea that we’ve got something to do with the murders? I’ve been called many things in my life—bringer of bad luck, blood guzzler, robber of souls—but never a malicious murderer.”

  “It must be the manner of the murders,” Michael Deibler said. “Drowning in a sack, impaling, burying alive . . . They all look like executions, and executions are our business.”

  “What a load of bull,” complained Matthäus Fux, the red-haired Memmingen executioner. He was a proud man who didn’t like to be told anything. “Any stupid yokel can drown someone, and I haven’t impaled anyone in my life. That hasn’t been the practice for years.”

  His colleagues from Ingolstadt and Nördlingen muttered their agreement. Only Conrad Näher smiled a thin smile to himself.

  “I don’t see what there is to grin about,” Fux snarled at him.

  “Forgive me, dear cousin, I meant no disrespect,” Näher replied in his typical soft, slightly unctuous tone. He brushed his graying hair from his forehead and sighed. “It’s just the same old story. Can’t you see that it doesn’t matter at all whether we have anything to do with the murders or not? Twelve executioners.” He laughed. “One alone brings ill luck. Twelve of them carry enough misfortune for an entire city. That’s what people are saying. I’m afraid they’ll only stop talking when we dissolve the council.”

  “Impossible!” Michael Deibler pounded the table, causing the candle flames to flicker wildly. “It could be years before we get another permit for a meeting. And we still have so much to discuss.”

  “It looks like the council is dissolving already,” Johann Widmann remarked pointedly. He looked around with mock astonishment. “I don’t see Master Hans anywhere, do you? This is the second time he’s been missing.”

  Bartholomäus Kuisl scratched his beard and turned to Deibler. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about him. Where is he?”

  Now everyone looked at Deibler, the chairman.

  “I don’t know,” Deibler replied slowly. “He didn’t tell me.”

  “Didn’t tell you? Well, this never would have happened at the meeting I chaired in Nuremberg,” Johann Widmann said smugly. “All cousins were present and I—”

  “Oh, shut up already, you braggart,” Jakob Kuisl said. He’d remained silent until then, but now he’d had enough. “For once, it isn’t just about you, but about every one of us. Näher is right. Even if none of us has anything to do with the murders, people are going to try and blame us. Just because we’re hangmen.” He lowered his voice. “But I agree with you on one point, Widmann. Hans is taking many liberties. He’s off on his own, doing something, and none of us has any idea what that is.”

  Jakob Kuisl had also been wondering why Hans wasn’t at the meeting. Was the Weilheim hangman after the girls at the silk works again? What was he up to? Kuisl felt deeply uncomfortable when he thought about his daughter sniffing around at the manufactory, looking for clues about a thus-far-unknown murderer. A murderer who was somehow connected to Hans, Kuisl felt certain about it.

  If he isn’t the murderer himself . . .

  “Who knows, maybe the people aren’t entirely wrong about blaming one of us,” he said with a threatening undertone. The other executioners muttered and exchanged annoyed looks.

  “Enough!” Michael Deibler pounded the table again. “Damn it, Jakob, we agreed not to cast unnecessary suspicions. Not before we have more evidence. It’s enough for people in the city to gossip about us.”

  “They say you’re so clever, Jakob,” Johann Widmann jeered, twisting his beard between his fingers. “So tell us, do you have any idea who the murderer is?” He gestured around the room. “If it’s one of us, who’s going to end up climbing the scaffold? Hans? Deibler? Your own brother, perhaps?”

  Bartholomäus Kuisl jumped to his feet. He looked like he was about to launch himself at Widmann. “You dog, how dare you insult—” he began, but Deibler intervened.

  “Stop it, dear cousins!” he called out. “There’s no point tearing each other apart. Let’s sit down and—”

  Just then, the door was flung open and Paul ran in. He struggled for breath, as though he’d been running a long way. His small body was shaking. “Grandpa, you . . . you have to come quickly!” he gasped.

  “Isn’t that great,” Widmann moaned. “Now the hangmen’s grandchildren get a say at the meeting.”

  Kuisl ignored him. “What is it, Paul?” he asked with concern.


  “It’s . . . it’s Master Hans,” Paul burst out breathlessly. “He’s up by the executioner’s house—I think he wants Barbara.”

  “Ha, finally someone’s going to teach that female some manners,” Widmann scoffed. “I hope he—hey!”

  He winced as Conrad Näher slapped him in the face. The next moment, a full-blown brawl had broken out among the executioners. Beer mugs flew through the air, chairs shattered against heads and backs. The journeymen joined in, while Michael Deibler desperately tried to restore order.

  Jakob Kuisl didn’t see any of it, however, because he and Georg had already run outside.

  A good mile away, Peter was running as hunched over as he could behind the tombstones toward the cemetery gate, desperately looking for someone who might be able to help.

  When Master Hans had dragged Barbara into the pit, Peter had fled in panic. But then love for his aunt had overcome his fear. Hadn’t he sworn to protect Barbara? To be her knight in shining armor? He had snuck back and watched from behind an oak tree as Hans had begun throwing dirt at her. Peter had soon realized that he’d have to find one or more grown-ups to stop this madman. He wouldn’t achieve anything on his own against the Weilheim hangman.

  Peter was about to rush to the exit when he came past the church’s western portal and noticed that it stood ajar. On the other side of the door, he could hear the loud noise of something hitting the ground and someone cursing quietly. Someone was inside the church. Peter leapt up the few steps to the door, opened it a crack, and, to his enormous relief, saw the sexton, who was redecorating the altar. The elderly man had obviously just dropped the chalice and was now picking it back up, accompanied by more swearing. When the sexton heard the creak of the door, he turned around.

  “What do you want?” he growled at Peter. “Mass won’t start for a few hours yet. Make yourself scarce.”

  “I . . . I need your help,” Peter gasped. “My aunt . . . somebody’s assaulting her outside, in the cemetery. A hangman! He’s thrown her into a hole, I’m sure he’s going to kill her!”

  “A hangman?” The sexton looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. He looked as though he’d already helped himself to the chalice that morning. “You’re talking nonsense, boy. Go home and play hide-and-seek with your friends.”

  “It’s the truth,” Peter protested. “You have to help us or . . . or Barbara is going to die. Please!”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” the sexton replied calmly while he continued his work on the altar. “How do I know you’re not playing a trick on me? You probably just want me to leave the church so you can clean out the offertory box. I know what you street children are like.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Peter’s hopes vanished. This man wouldn’t help him. He’d have to run out into the streets to find a grown-up after all, perhaps even a city guard. But by then it might be too late.

  Then his eyes fell on an alcove behind the altar, where steep, winding stairs led upward. An idea shot through Peter.

  The belfry.

  Without another word, Peter ran past the altar and toward the stairs.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” the sexton called after him. “Stop, you snot-nosed brat, in God’s name!”

  But Peter didn’t listen. He ran up the winding staircase so fast that he grew dizzy. His heart beat wildly, he gasped for breath, but he didn’t slow down. Below him, the sexton’s voice fell farther and farther away, fading until he finally couldn’t hear him at all. Up and up the stairs went. Every now and then Peter passed small rectangular windows letting in the cold wind. Crows screeched somewhere above him. How much farther was it?

  Finally, he reached a hatch above his head. He pulled himself through and found he’d arrived at his destination.

  The bells.

  Peter had heard them when he and Barbara first entered the cemetery. They had sounded shrill and loud, and he thought people could probably hear them from very far away. Peter knew people rang the church bells in case of a fire or another emergency, and this was most definitely an emergency.

  So he would ring them.

  The two bells, a larger and a smaller one, were hanging about seven feet above him in the pointed steeple of the tower. A thick rope hung from each bell. Peter decided on the smaller one. He pulled at the rope, but found to his horror that he couldn’t move the bell at all. He was too weak and too light. Now he could hear the hurried steps of the sexton from below. He didn’t have much time.

  Once again Peter wished he were as strong as his grandfather—or at least as wild and determined as his younger brother, Paul. But all he knew were drawing, reading, and writing, and none of those skills could help him here. Only pure strength counted now.

  The sexton was getting closer. “You just wait till I get my hands on you!” he shouted. “Your own mother won’t recognize you.”

  Tears of frustration welled up in Peter’s eyes. He wiped them away and was fighting back more tears when he spotted a small pile of bricks in the corner. He guessed they were left over from when the church was built. They were dusty red blocks, square and heavy.

  Very heavy.

  With desperate courage, Peter tore off his shirt, placed three bricks inside, and tied the sleeves around his neck. The weights pulled him down like millstones. Barbara’s words from earlier came to his mind.

  My knight in shining armor . . .

  Peter jumped up as best he could, grabbed the rope, and hung on, while the shirt pulled on his neck and started to tear. He tried to make himself heavier than he’d ever been in his life. Like a gallows bird he writhed on the rope as the sexton pulled himself through the hatch, cursing and swearing.

  And the bell began to toll.

  Jakob Kuisl, Georg, and Paul heard the bell as they hurried along the city wall toward the executioner’s house. Paul had filled in his grandfather and uncle on the way.

  Kuisl couldn’t believe Master Hans was after his Barbara. He knew the Weilheim hangman had always been fascinated by Barbara’s fierceness and beauty. Several years ago, Hans had asked him bluntly if Barbara was still available. Kuisl had told the creepy fellow no, and Hans had accepted the rejection seemingly without complaint. But apparently, the sight of Barbara at the meeting two days ago had rekindled the hangman’s feelings. Kuisl wouldn’t have thought Hans brazen enough to simply help himself to her, though.

  The people in the Anger Quarter were quick to jump aside when the huge, angry man stormed past them. It was not just his size that looked menacing but, most of all, his grim expression. The Schongau hangman was fuming with anger. When he got his hands on Hans, he’d break every bone in his body. After a while, Kuisl noticed that the bell was still ringing. Something must have happened somewhere in town, but he didn’t have time to worry about that. All that mattered right now was his younger daughter.

  In the meantime, the three of them had reached the executioner’s house. Kuisl ran across the garden and threw himself against the front door, which flew open. He was about to run inside when he noticed Walburga at the stove. She was holding Sophia with one arm and feeding her porridge with the other. She dropped the spoon with fright when she saw the panting, furious hangman.

  “My God, Jakob!” she called out, blanching. “Why do you come crashing in here like an assassin? Can’t you knock?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry, Burgi,” Kuisl replied breathlessly. “But we’re looking for Barbara. Apparently, Master Hans was here looking for her. I wouldn’t put anything past that dog.”

  “Master Hans?” Walburga frowned. She rocked Sophia, who had started to cry and wanted more porridge. Some of the cats began meowing, too, waiting hungrily by the stove. It was a while before the hangman’s wife continued. “Well, there’s no one here, anyhow. Not Master Hans nor Barbara. Nor the two boys. I’ve only just come back myself and thought—” She broke off when she saw Georg and Paul behind Jakob. “At least Paul’s back.” She wagged a finger at him. “Is this perhaps another mischievous trick of your
s?”

  “No, it’s true,” Paul said. “Hans was here. He was sneaking around the house.”

  “Damn it, what if he took Barbara and Peter?” Georg said, still out of breath from the long walk. “If he hurts my sister, I . . . I . . .”

  “Threats and curses won’t help us now,” Kuisl said. “We must figure out where Hans might have taken them.”

  “Where he might have taken them?” Georg gave a desperate laugh. “This is Munich, not Schongau, Father. This city is huge. He could be anywhere.”

  “Grandpa . . .” Paul tugged at Kuisl’s hand, but he yanked it back angrily.

  “Paul, can’t you see that the grown-ups are talking? So be quiet and—”

  “But I know someone who might be able to help,” Paul insisted. “Honest!”

  “All right.” The hangman groaned impatiently. “And who’s that supposed to be? Saint Nicholas, perhaps?”

  “No, my new friends.”

  When Georg, Walburga, and Kuisl merely stared at him with surprise, Paul squared his shoulders and continued in a determined voice: “I’ve met a few boys here in the Anger Quarter. Seppi, Moser, and Schorsch, the knacker’s son. They have a gang and know everyone.” He looked very important. “They call themselves the Anger Wolves. They might have seen Barbara and Peter somewhere.”

  Kuisl snorted. “I can do without the help of a bunch of ragamuffins.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Georg said. “I know street kids from Bamberg. They’re like pushy little mutts. When they’re not working for their parents or at school, they roam the streets in gangs. It’s at least possible they saw Barbara and Peter, and you can’t miss Master Hans, with his white hair and red eyes.”

  “Could it all be a terrible misunderstanding?” Walburga interjected. “Perhaps Hans was simply looking for my husband, and Peter and Barbara left the house for an entirely different reason.”