“I . . . I’m sorry, I meant no offense,” Barbara said haltingly. For a moment she’d been tempted to tell the violinist that she was an outcast just like the traveling folks, a dishonorable hangman’s daughter.
He waved dismissively. “Who cares? Music is music.” He held out his hand. “I’m Valentin.”
“And I’m Barbara,” she replied. Suddenly, she felt terribly nervous and happy at the same time, a strange combination she’d never felt in the presence of a man before.
“And I’m guessing that man just then was your father, right?” Valentin said and pointed toward the door. “It looked like you had a fight.”
Barbara laughed. “No, no fight, and he isn’t my father, either. He’s . . .” She broke off.
Probably soon my husband, she thought, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she stood up.
“It was nice meeting you,” she mumbled. “But I’ve got to head back to the city.”
“To Munich?” Valentin laughed; his white teeth gleamed. “So you’re from Munich, like me? How come I’ve never seen you before? I would have noticed someone like you.”
“No, I’m just visiting,” Barbara replied. “Um, I’m staying with my uncle. That man you saw was my uncle.”
She couldn’t think of a better lie, and she didn’t dare tell Valentin that she was the daughter of the Schongau hangman. It was probably safer not to be related to an executioner in Munich at the moment. And she didn’t want to admit that a man so much older than her was courting her.
“May I walk to Munich with you?” Valentin asked. “Hans and Ludwig live here in Sendling, and the walk is much less boring with company. I can even play a couple of songs, if you like.”
Barbara hesitated briefly, but then nodded. It was strange, she didn’t feel uncomfortable around the young violinist at all—unlike how she felt around other men lately. It hadn’t been too bad with Conrad Näher, but Valentin radiated an energy and vivacity she found contagious.
“All right,” she said with a smile. “I could use some company.”
Together they left the Sendling tavern. It wasn’t long before Valentin picked up his fiddle and played a merry tune, dancing and skipping ahead of her like a young colt. Without meaning to, Barbara soon clapped to the beat of the music.
And with every beat, her gloomy thoughts grew a little lighter.
9
GRAGGENAU QUARTER, EARLY AFTERNOON, FEBRUARY 6, AD 1672
FOLLOWED BY THE FOOTMAN’S WATCHFUL eyes, Magdalena carried the last silver platter of food up to the second floor of the patrician palace.
She could sense that the servant was just waiting for her to drop the platter. For the last few hours he had done nothing but bully, watch, and correct her. Right now Magdalena didn’t know which she disliked more: sitting at the loom from dawn till dusk or playing the maidservant in the house of the Munich treasurer. She had cooked with the crabby housekeeper downstairs, and she had cleaned, swept, waxed the floors, and polished the silverware—all for the mysterious visitor Pfundner eagerly awaited. Magdalena constantly expected Daniel Pfundner to pounce on his new wench—she still wasn’t sure how she’d react. But it hadn’t come to that, mainly thanks to Pfundner’s wife.
If the treasurer hadn’t been such a toad, Magdalena would have felt a little sorry for him. His wife called for him nonstop. She was in pain, and her moaning could be heard throughout the entire house. She needed her pillows to be fluffed, her windows opened and closed again, a pan with dried herbs lit, the chamber pot emptied . . . Mostly Pfundner sent the footman up, but sometimes he went himself.
At first Magdalena had been surprised he didn’t ask her to attend to his wife, but then she realized that he probably didn’t want to arouse suspicion. His wife might have a hunch that he amused himself with other women, and a pretty maidservant could raise all sorts of unpleasant questions.
Magdalena never even saw the doctor, whose brief visit had brought no relief. The promised poppy juice hadn’t been available for some reason. Pfundner’s wife kept moaning and groaning, and so Magdalena was spared any romantic advances for the time being.
When she placed the last platter on the table in the parlor, she heard footsteps on the stairs and the treasurer walked in the room. He looked pleased at the sight of all the food and the full jugs of wine.
“Very good,” he said with a nod. “The wine is especially important. That’s going to put him in a friendly mood. And you, too, perhaps.” He winked at Magdalena. Then he signaled to the footman. “You can go now, Hermann. We’re finished.”
“As you wish, sir.” With one last poisonous glance at Magdalena, the servant left the parlor. Daniel Pfundner licked his meaty lips and scanned Magdalena up and down.
“Look at you,” he complained. “You look like a washerwoman. You can’t possibly serve our guest like this.” Magdalena glanced down at herself. Her apron was stained from cooking, and her skirt was smeared with ash and soot.
“We must find something better for you to wear,” Pfundner commanded. “Come with me.”
He opened one of the tall side doors, which led to a corridor hung with tapestries and paintings. Magdalena followed him to a room filled with chests and a Venetian mirror on the wall.
“This is where my wife keeps her dresses,” Pfundner said. “It’s all gathering dust since she can’t leave her bed anymore. You two should be around the same size, so pick something. Nothing too grand, God forbid. Something modest yet elegant. My wife is a plain woman, so I’m sure you’ll find something.”
Magdalena reluctantly opened one of the chests and pulled out a dress of the finest silk. She thought of all the poor, hungry girls who had probably woven this silk. Disgusted, she put the dress back and picked up a simpler one made of gray fustian.
Suddenly she felt Pfundner’s hand on her behind.
“Go on, take off your clothes, I can’t wait to see what you look like,” he whispered in her ear so she could smell his sour breath. “I like women best in Eve’s costume, anyhow.” Snickering, he let his fingers wander up to her neckline. “It’s time to show me you’re worth your money.”
Magdalena froze. The moment she’d feared had finally arrived. Pfundner had paid for a prostitute, and now he was claiming his goods. She knew that if she made a fuss now or refused outright, Pfundner would throw her out. And she’d never find out what happened to Anni and the other girls.
“Come on,” Pfundner urged. “Don’t act coy.” He pulled up her skirts. “We don’t have much time.”
“And . . . and what if your wife hears us?” Magdalena asked.
The treasurer narrowed his eyes. “Let her wail and moan, I’m sick of it. If I didn’t know that she tells her father everything, I’d take you right in front of her, damn it. But I need his money. Though not for much longer.”
“Not . . . not for much longer?” Magdalena squirmed in Pfundner’s hands. “How do you mean?”
Pfundner laughed. “As if that was any of your business, wench.” He fumbled with his belt, a bulge growing beneath it. “Your job is to spread your legs, nothing else.”
Magdalena trembled. She thought about what had happened to her sister two years ago. Barbara never spoke about it, but the wound in her soul had never fully healed. Would it be the same for her now? Would she ever be able to look Simon in the eye again?
Her fingers instinctively felt for the small knife underneath her skirt. The blade felt smooth and sharp.
“Daaaniel!” the mournful voice of his wife suddenly rang out. She sounded close, almost as if she were in the same room as them. Magdalena stiffened and looked up. The bedroom of the treasurer’s wife must have been directly above them.
“Daaaniel! I need you, it’s so stuffy in here. Daaaniel, where are you?”
“The devil take her.” Pfundner swore and stopped groping Magdalena. “I’m going to kill that woman, I swear by God. If the disease doesn’t take her soon, I’m going to kill her.”
“I’ll be right there, dar
ling,” he called upstairs. Then he shoved Magdalena against the wall and pushed up her apron and skirt.
“I don’t pay Uffele for you to clean my house,” he panted. “It’ll just have to be quick.”
Magdalena closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable. Her fingers clasped the knife again.
At that moment, someone knocked on the front door.
“I can’t believe it,” Pfundner groused. “First the wife, then the visitor arrives early. God damn it!”
As he turned away from Magdalena, his feet got caught in the dresses on the floor, and he crashed to the ground.
“Daaaniel, is everything all right?” his wife’s voice sounded from upstairs.
“We . . . we’re having visitors, Waltraud,” Pfundner stammered. “I told you.” He scrambled to his feet and did up his belt. “I’ll send Hermann up. I have to go welcome our guest.”
Daniel Pfundner gave Magdalena one last look of desire. “We’ll just have to do it later,” he said. “And this is what I stayed home for today. Blast it all!” He gestured at the rumpled clothes on the floor. “Put something on and wait on our guest.”
He rushed out of the room. Magdalena closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She still didn’t know what she would have done if Pfundner had raped her. At least now she’d gained a short reprieve.
Magdalena could hear male voices downstairs and the servant’s footsteps above her. A window was opened. She reached for the dress of fustian and got changed. She and Pfundner’s wife were indeed roughly the same size. The dress was a loose cut and plain gray. It was a tidy garment without unnecessary frills and embellishments, as would have been appropriate for a higher maid or nurse.
Magdalena looked in the mirror. It had been a long time since she’d last seen her own reflection, and that had been in a polished copper plate at home, not in a mirror of expensive Venetian glass. She was looking at a mature woman. A woman who had learned to fight in recent years, who had overcome countless dangers and wouldn’t be taken by any lewd fop.
Not unless it was absolutely necessary.
She turned away and walked out into the corridor, and from there to the closed parlor door. She could hear quiet voices inside; the men must have already sat down. She was about to enter when she caught snippets of conversation behind the door.
“. . . must do it tonight . . .”
She held her ear against the door. Now she could hear better.
“. . . can’t waste any time,” a slightly nasal voice said. The voice—apparently the guest—sounded concerned, even anxious. “We have to bring this to an end tonight. We must take them away before we’re found out. Everything must go.”
Magdalena froze.
We must take them away . . .
Was he talking about the girls at the silk manufactory, girls like Eva?
“And how do you propose we do that?” Daniel Pfundner asked angrily. “It’s not that simple. I was fully planning on tomorrow night.”
“But I’m telling you: tomorrow night’s too late,” the other man pleaded. “I heard it from the horse’s mouth. That accursed ball spoils everything. It’s now or never.”
“Then . . . why don’t you do it by yourself,” Pfundner suggested. “I can give you everything you need. I can even—”
“Out of the question. I’ve done your dirty work for long enough. We’re doing it together or not at all, and that’s my final word.”
No one said anything for a while. Magdalena heard someone get up and pace the room.
“Very well,” Pfundner said eventually, his voice sounding awfully close to the door. “If we must. Even though I had other . . . uh . . . plans for tonight. I need some time to prepare everything.”
“We’ll meet behind your house when the bells chime ten, as always. We must be fast. And then I never want to hear about this damned business again, understood? We ought to be glad we haven’t climbed the scaffold yet. The hangman would boil us in oil for this.”
“It’s a bit late for such qualms.” Daniel Pfundner laughed sardonically. “You have done very well out of our little business. And now please excuse me.”
The door handle was pushed down. Magdalena took a step back and tried to look inconspicuous. Then the door opened and Daniel Pfundner came out. The treasurer seemed confused for a moment, but appeared too preoccupied to suspect anything.
“Oh, there you are,” he said absentmindedly. “I won’t require your services today. Come back tomorrow.” His eyes went down Magdalena’s chastely covered chest, and he sighed. “Truly a shame, but business comes first.”
“Who is that?” the man behind him asked suspiciously. “I’ve never seen her here before.”
For the first time, Magdalena could see the strange visitor. He was short and squat, with a bald head, a bull neck, and large, hairy hands. If he hadn’t been wearing such a fine black coat, Magdalena would have thought he was a simple tradesman—a blacksmith, perhaps, or a wagon driver. Fear was in his small eyes as he studied Magdalena.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Pfundner said. “She’s a dumb girl from the country, nothing more. No one who could pose any danger to you. And she’s going to keep her mouth shut, won’t she?” He placed his hand on Magdalena’s shoulder, and his fingers pressed hard on her collarbone. “If anyone asks, I had no visitors today,” he whispered in her ear. “Understood? Or I’ll personally make sure that Uffele takes care of you, if you know what I mean.”
Magdalena nodded silently, and the pain eased. Daniel Pfundner gave her a companionable pat on the back. “I’ll see you tomorrow. You can keep the dress—at least until I tell you to take it off,” he added with a grin. He gave her one last slap on the backside, then Magdalena turned around and walked down the stairs. She thought she could still feel the eyes of the bullnecked guest on her back, but she walked slowly and confidently, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
But once outside on the street, she ran as if the devil were behind her.
“And you really think that nursemaid stole the dog?”
Paul looked at his brother with wide eyes while chewing excitedly on a piece of licorice. They were sitting in the attic of the executioner’s house, the wind blowing through the roof tiles. From time to time, they heard Walburga’s footsteps from downstairs and the meowing of one of the many house cats. All the other grown-ups were out. But even if they had been home, they would have struggled to find the boys. This house was huge and old, with cellars and secret passages. The siblings still hadn’t explored every room.
Even though it was bitter cold, the boys loved this magical place they had discovered only the day before. A retractable ladder led from the upper story to underneath the roof. Between cobwebs, broken bricks, and all kinds of trash, the children felt as safe as if they were in a fortress up here. Safe and undisturbed.
Especially if one had secrets to discuss.
Peter nodded and continued his report. “I took a good look at the collar. It was cut. But the nursemaid said the dog had run away. So she’s lying. I don’t know why, but it’s a fact.”
“And you want me to watch her?” Paul asked. “Me and the Anger Wolves?” He couldn’t contain his excitement. He jumped up, climbed onto one of the rafters, and started to balance on it. Suddenly he stopped and turned to Peter. “And what do we get for it, hmm?”
Peter sighed. His younger brother was very keen on money, for his eight years. Paul was quick at adding—a gift that left him abruptly the minute he walked into school. Peter never understood that.
The two brothers were different in many ways. Paul thought learning to read and draw was a waste of time, but he could build tiny millwheels from willow branches and whittle beautiful dolls, and usually emerged victorious from street fights, even against older kids. But what Peter couldn’t appreciate was Paul’s passion for executions and torture, which he sometimes enacted on animals. Paul already felt certain that he would be a renowned executioner one day. Peter’s dream, on the other hand, w
as to become a successful physician, or a painter, like those who decorated the walls and ceilings of churches.
Peter was all the happier that Paul and he finally shared an interest.
“I can’t promise you anything,” he said to his brother, who was still up on the rafter. “But the dog belongs to the electoral prince. I’m sure Max will reward us generously when we return his favorite pet to him.”
“Max, Max, Max!” Paul parroted his brother. “Soon you’ll be wearing one of those ridiculous wigs and wide pants that look like girls’ skirts.”
“Stop it,” Peter said. “It’s not Max’s fault that he’s a prince. And he’s actually quite nice.”
“Oooh, Max is nice.” Paul giggled. “Do you know what the boys on the street say? They say his mother is a foreign harlot who can’t even speak German.”
“Leave his mother out of it. Father met her, and he said she’s an intelligent woman.”
“I thought it was Father’s job to find that mutt?” Paul said. “Didn’t he promise the electress that he would? What’s he going to say if you’re doing it instead of him?”
“I . . . I think Father is going to be glad if we help him,” Peter replied hesitantly. “He’s got a lot on his mind. Grandpa needs him because of those murders. He doesn’t have time to search for a lapdog.”
“Yes, yes, you and Father. You always stick together. You even read together.” Paul spat the word read as if it were something indecent. “Father loves you more, anyway,” he said, sulking. “Just because I don’t know Latin.” He sat down on the rafter dejectedly.
“That’s not true.” Peter climbed up to Paul, and the two boys dangled their legs and looked out a small hatch in the roof. They could see the two towers of Frauenkirche church. The Jesuit college wasn’t far from there, Peter now knew, the school that was still unreachable for him. But perhaps, if he managed to return Arthur, that door might open.
“Father loves you just as much as me and Sophia,” Peter said after a while. But deep down he knew it wasn’t true. Their father had always felt closer to him, the elder son, just because they were more similar. Paul, on the other hand, spent much more time with their grandfather.
The Council of Twelve Page 29
