The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Had his heart raced like this toward the end?

  Walburga was still watching him. Then she nodded, as if she’d reached a decision. “She didn’t tell any of you,” she muttered. “Perhaps not even her sister. Only that fool she’s now mixed up with. I must say, she’s a big disappointment to me. It’s hard to believe Sophia has such a loose woman for an aunt. Shame on her. But he that will not hear must feel. This time, the man is going to share her punishment.”

  Simon finally understood. His mouth was bone dry, his whole body trembled.

  “Ba-Barbara,” he panted. “You . . . have . . . Barbara . . .”

  His strength failed him and he fell off his chair. Lying on the ground, he stared up at Walburga, who stood above him like an angry giant. Somewhere cats meowed, but it sounded strangely far off. What was happening to him?

  “What . . . how . . . ,” he managed to say.

  “What poisoned you?” Walburga smiled. “Every man has his weakness. At first I thought about poisoning the mouthpiece of Jakob’s pipe, but then suspicion would have fallen on me too soon. That’s why I decided to break into the tavern and smear his mug with wolfsbane. Many men love beer, and so did Master Hans. Henbane and hemlock—mixed together, they’re easily poured into anyone’s mug in the blink of an eye.” She watched Simon as if he was an interesting experiment. “With you, it was the coffee. It’s so bitter that it isn’t hard to add poison. I didn’t think you’d even come back from that dirty masquerade, but apparently your digestive system works very slow. I think next time I’ll use more devil’s trumpet.”

  She disappeared from Simon’s field of vision with long, booming strides. The ground trembled like in an earthquake. The ceiling seemed ready to crush him at any moment. Somewhere above him, loud fanfares grew to an infernal noise.

  Then Simon felt like his head burst into a thousand pieces.

  “You send your pregnant girls to Walburga?”

  Magdalena stared at Mother Joseffa. She tried to figure out what this news meant. An awful suspicion crept up in her.

  “Of course. Where else?” Joseffa gave her an innocent look. She was still tied up on the ground next to Uffele in a storage room in the manufactory basement. The boys watched them with hostile expressions and kept checking their fetters, as though they feared their prisoners might yet get away.

  “Walburga is the wife of the Munich executioner,” the old woman continued. “Everyone knows that she’s an expert on poisons and medicines. Girls have been going to her for abortions for decades.”

  Magdalena winced. For decades . . .

  She thought of the mummy in the rock cellar. Michael Deibler had most likely already been the Munich hangman at the time. Anni had died of deadly nightshade. Perhaps Elfi, Eva, and the young patrician had been poisoned in a similar way?

  Could it be?

  “You . . . you took Eva to see Walburga, too?” Magdalena asked hesitantly.

  “Yes, we already told you,” Uffele snarled, pulling at the ropes. “This morning. In the end, she said herself that she didn’t want the child. It would only have brought trouble, both for us and her. So we took her to Walburga secretly, on a cart. It’s always the same deal. Walburga gets rid of the child, with ergot or mugwort or whatever. If the girls come too late, she uses a needle. No one’s as good as her. She rarely ever loses a girl.”

  Joseffa nodded. “Then she puts them on a raft and makes sure they leave Munich. She’s always made good money out of it. And we never hear from the girls again. A pleasant outcome for everyone.”

  Again Magdalena winced. Never hear from the girls again . . .

  “We can’t afford for any of the girls to talk,” Uffele added. “Our clients are too rich and powerful.”

  “And what happened with Eva this morning?” Magdalena asked again.

  “It was a little strange, actually. Walburga seemed somewhat”—Joseffa searched for the right word—“off. Eva was very late to come to her. We thought Walburga would have to use the needle. But she just gave her a potion and hurried out to the raft landing with the girl, even though it was still so early.”

  Magdalena shivered. Could Walburga really be behind all those murders?

  But why would she do such a thing? Magdalena had gotten to know the hangman’s wife as a warmhearted person who loved children. It didn’t make sense. And yet, Magdalena squirmed at the thought of her little Sophia still being home alone with the hangman’s wife. And what about Barbara? Magdalena needed to get back to the executioner’s house as soon as possible. But first she needed to help Paul.

  And many other people.

  She leaned down to Paul, who was still sound asleep. The wound had stopped bleeding. She breathed a sigh of relief—he seemed to be over the worst. She turned to Peter and the other boys, who had been listening in silence.

  “Listen, you take Paul to that Dr. Geiger on Sendlinger Street right now. The doctor knows his father, so hopefully he’ll help.”

  Peter looked surprised. “But why don’t we take him to the executioner’s house, to Father and Walburga?”

  “Trust me,” Magdalena replied. She didn’t know who was at the executioner’s house at the moment, but considering what she’d just found out, she felt it was safer to take Paul to Dr. Geiger.

  “And you?” Peter asked. “What about you?”

  “I’ll come as soon as I can.” Magdalena jutted out her chin with determination. “But first I must go and tell the girls upstairs what’s been going on here. They ought to decide for themselves what they want to do with those two pigs. It’s not my call.”

  She thought of Carlotta, fifteen years young, lying upstairs crying and bleeding, robbed of her virginity and dignity; of Agnes, beaten to a pulp by the Venetians; of all the other girls who worked hard for a pittance and whose hopes of a good life in the big city had melted away like snow in the sun.

  Magdalena prayed they’d conquer their fear and choose freedom.

  But she wasn’t sure.

  His cloak billowing behind him, the hangman rode through the forest near Munich, followed closely by his son. Once again they sat on their borrowed horses, but they’d left the donkey behind—along with Simon, whom Kuisl hadn’t been able to find in his hurry. Time was of the essence. Jakob Kuisl had a terrible suspicion.

  And if he was right, not only Eva and Magdalena, but his granddaughter, too, were in the gravest of dangers.

  Kuisl had heard Daniel Pfundner’s screams for a long time. They had still echoed faintly from the labyrinth in the palace gardens when he’d returned to the artificial grotto to find his son. In the meantime, Georg had subdued his adversary and tied him with ropes from one of the chests. They’d left the bald man lying in the grotto—Kuisl hadn’t had time for explanations; he’d merely asked Georg to follow him as fast as he could. On their ride back to town, Kuisl told his son what he’d learned from Pfundner.

  “So Anni had an abortion,” Georg panted, struggling to keep up on his skinny gray horse. “And the other girls, too, most likely. So what? That’s not a reason to race back into town like this. And we still don’t know where Magdalena is.”

  “I’m pretty certain we’d never find Magdalena at the masquerade, because our dear Walburga lied to us,” Kuisl replied grimly. “Your sister’s probably still at the silk works, and we worried for nothing.”

  Georg looked confused. “Why should Walburga lie to us?”

  “Because all those dead girls came to her for their abortions. She sent us on a fool’s errand.” Kuisl urged his horse into a faster pace, and Georg followed him through the dark forest, repeatedly getting struck in the face by low branches. Both men still wore their costumes, rather worse for wear by now. It was bitter cold.

  “I’m the biggest idiot in Bavaria,” Kuisl swore. “Why didn’t I figure it out sooner? All the time I was searching for a connection between the individual cases, and it was right under my nose. It wasn’t just the amulets.” He counted on his fingers. “Anni was pregnant. When
I cut her open, I saw that her uterus was slightly swollen. But I didn’t think much of it—we were investigating a poisoning, after all, not a pregnancy. The mummy had a small bag with herbs on her. They still smelled very faintly of mugwort—an herb commonly used for abortions. And Elfi, the impaled girl, also carried a bag of herbs. Deibler told me about it, but I didn’t read much into it, stupid me.” He slapped his forehead. “Every one of the dead girls either had an abortion or had bought herbs for one. I bet you anything that the young patrician woman was pregnant, too. And where do you go if you want to get rid of an unborn child? Well?”

  “To . . . to the midwife?” Georg guessed.

  “Not in Munich, where the midwives live in the city under strict municipal supervision.” Kuisl shook his head grimly. “No, you go to the hangman’s wife—in secret. All across the country, the wives of executioners know about poisons and healing medicines, just like my beloved Anna-Maria did. But Walburga is a true expert.”

  “Are you saying Deibler’s wife has been murdering young girls for all these years because they asked her for an abortion?” Georg gave his father an incredulous look.

  “I can’t tell you with absolute certainty, and I don’t yet know her motive—although I’ve got a hunch,” Kuisl said thoughtfully. “But all those girls sought out Walburga and ended up dead. And think of the poisoned beer mug. Who apart from us hangmen knew that the mugs were kept at the inn? Only Walburga, the Munich executioner’s wife. I’m guessing she poisoned Master Hans, too, before quartering him. He must have known something.”

  “That time when Hans was sneaking around the executioner’s house . . .” Georg hesitated. “If you’re right, then he wasn’t after Barbara at all, but . . .”

  “After Walburga.” The hangman kicked his horse in the sides; it whinnied and trotted a little faster. “Hans probably wanted to search the house for evidence but couldn’t get in. I was so blinded by my hatred for him that I assumed he was after my Barbara. Hans, in turn, thought I might know something. He told Barbara as much in the cemetery. But I didn’t know a thing. Because I was too foolish—or too old,” he added sullenly.

  “Drowning, impaling, burying alive . . . ,” Georg listed. “They’re all punishments used for women. For murderesses . . .”

  “For child murderesses, in particular.” Kuisl nodded. “That’s how it’s written in the Constitutio Criminalis Carolina, which sets down the laws for the judgment of capital crimes. We thought a hangman was behind the murders, someone from the Council of Twelve. But a hangman’s wife often knows just as much about punishment. Impalement is an ancient form of punishment, usually used before drowning. As executioner, Deibler has the Carolina book of laws at home—I leafed through it yesterday. The pages on punishments for women have been underlined ever so faintly.” The forest thinned out, and soon the road led through frozen fields gleaming silver in the moonlight.

  “But . . . but if you’re right,” Georg thought out loud, “wouldn’t Walburga’s husband have noticed something? I mean, all those years . . .”

  “That’s what we must find out.”

  The city wall loomed like a huge black shadow behind the fortifications. Father and son rode toward the Sendlinger Gate, which was shut at this time of night.

  “Damn it, we should have thought of that,” Georg said. “We already paid a fortune to get out, I hardly think they’ll let us back in that easily.”

  Kuisl grinned. “I think they will. I saw who was on duty earlier.”

  Georg looked at his father with surprise, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he climbed off his panting horse and knocked on the small door beside the gate. The hatch opened and a familiar face appeared. It was Lainmiller, the same old guard from a few nights ago.

  “Are you stupid or drunk?” he barked. “No one gets in this late. Come back tomorrow.”

  “Sure, and then we tell Loibl that you earn good money opening the gate for a black carriage every week,” Kuisl replied drily. He raised one eyebrow. “By the way, if you’re waiting for it—it’s not coming back tonight. Its drivers had . . . an accident. I’m afraid they’re indisposed. For a while.”

  Lainmiller turned pale. “What . . . what . . . ,” he stammered.

  “Don’t ask, just open the damned door,” Kuisl ordered. “Then I might reconsider telling Loibl.”

  In a heartbeat, the bolt was pulled across. Kuisl pushed the door open and the guard aside. In passing, he handed him the reins of his horse.

  “The fat one belongs to Alois, the wagon driver.” He pointed to the back. “And the skinny one is the knacker’s. If you take them back for me, I’ll forget all about the business with the carriage. You have my word as a hangman.”

  “A . . . hangman?” Lainmiller breathed.

  But Kuisl had already hurried on.

  Followed closely by Georg, he ran along the city wall until they saw the executioner’s house in front of them.

  A figure stood outside. It held a sword in its hand and watched them expectantly. When Kuisl came closer, he realized the sword was a very particular one.

  An executioner’s sword.

  Michael Deibler was waiting for them.

  A steady jolting and creaking crept into Barbara’s dreams. They hadn’t been pleasant dreams—she vaguely remembered slimy black eels that wound themselves around her and smothered her. When she opened her eyes, she saw the night sky.

  Where in God’s name was she?

  The next thing Barbara noticed was the cold. She was shivering all over, her teeth chattered, and she felt her hair stand on end. What had happened? Her head was as heavy as lead, but she tried to remember.

  She had been atop Old Peter with Valentin. She had told him about the pregnancy, and Valentin had mentioned Walburga. He persuaded Barbara to seek out the hangman’s wife with him and explained to her that Walburga was a true expert when it came to removing unwanted children. Even if one had waited as long as Barbara. No one was as nimble with the needle as her. And she used poppy juice and other remedies so one barely felt a thing. Good old Walburga! Why hadn’t she thought about confiding in her sooner?

  Is that why she was feeling like this? Had Walburga given her a sleep potion? Had the hangman’s wife already gotten rid of the thing in her belly? But then why was she outside somewhere and not in a bed? Barbara was covered only with a thin, tattered blanket that stank of blood and urine.

  She tried to sit up, but couldn’t.

  What the hell?

  She was bound. As she grew more awake, she realized a gag was filling her mouth. She whimpered quietly and her heart started to race. Then she heard a muffled sound from beside her. She turned her head and saw Valentin, bound and gagged just like her. He stared at her with wide eyes and tried to tell her something, managing only a strangled gasp through the gag.

  But someone else spoke.

  “Sounds like you woke up,” a familiar voice said. “Bad girl! Just be glad your father will never find out. He’d fret for the rest of his days.”

  Barbara looked up. It was Walburga. What was going on here? The hangman’s wife was pulling her and Valentin on a handcart, staring straight ahead. Her back looked almost as broad as a man’s—but her voice was shrill and severe like that of an angry mother.

  A very angry mother.

  “You haven’t told your father, have you?” she asked bitingly, still with her back to Barbara. “I’m sure he would have led you back onto the right path. But now it’s too late. You have sinned and must be punished. Together with the man who brought you. You’re both guilty. Guilty of the attempted murder of an unborn child. You have been sentenced and will receive your just punishment.”

  Barbara couldn’t believe her ears. Was she still dreaming? That couldn’t possibly be Walburga speaking. Not the kindly hangman’s wife, who took care of Sophia so lovingly, putting cream on every little scratch. But it definitely was her voice.

  “I’m so disappointed in you, Barbara,” Walburga said, continuing her tirade. �
�I welcomed you into my house, gave you shelter, trusted you. And how do you thank me? Not only do you get pregnant by some fellow in Schongau, but you continue just the same in Munich, falling in with the first lad that comes your way. And then you ask me to kill your child. As if it was some kind of . . . bug you could simply squash. Don’t you understand? Doesn’t anyone understand? Life is a gift from God, and it’s a deadly sin to extinguish it. You may never kill what you receive. Ever!”

  Meanwhile, the cart bounced along a wider lane. Barbara tried to recognize the passing houses. Were there no night watchmen? Walburga probably knew exactly what route to take to avoid the guards. And if anyone happened to look out a window, they’d see only a knacker’s journeyman carting a dead cow through town.

  Barbara’s memory slowly returned. The three of them had sat at the table in the executioner’s house. Barbara had told Walburga about the pregnancy, and also that she couldn’t feel any tenderness toward the creature in her belly. Walburga had listened, remained silent for a long time, and eventually handed her and Valentin a steaming cup each. Hot, sweet mulled wine, the hangman’s wife had said with a smile, to warm her up and prepare her for what was to come.

  That was where her memories ended.

  Barbara still didn’t understand what exactly Walburga was planning to do. Apparently, she and Valentin were being punished. But hadn’t the hangman’s wife helped so many other girls like her before? So why this anger, this nightmare, now? Barbara winced in horror as realization sank in.

  Had the other girls been punished, too?

  Impaling, drowning, burying alive . . .

  Next to her, Valentin desperately tried to sit up, but the restraints were well tied. He panted and groaned and moved his head from side to side wildly, his face turning red.

  “Shh,” Walburga said. She turned around for the first time, and Barbara looked at her pale face. Her expression was blank; only her eyes glowed like coals. Her straggly hair fell down her forehead.

  Like someone possessed, Barbara thought. Walburga is possessed by the devil.