“You’re right,” she replied, embarrassed. “But I have no money to—”
“Money? What would you need money for?” Silvio interrupted. “We’ll find something nice for you at my house. After all, you can’t possibly come to my ball this evening dressed like that.”
Magdalena hesitated. “You… you really meant what you said before? You want me to come to this ball with you?”
“Mama mia! Why should I be joking? A beautiful woman such as yourself is an honor to any house!”
The hangman’s daughter had to laugh. Almost all the parties she’d ever been to were held in the market square or empty barns. There were sausages, sauerkraut, and beer, and maybe a few musicians to strike up a dance tune with a fiddle and castanets. The prospect of attending a ball was about as foreign to her as an invitation to paradise.
“I’m—I’m afraid I’ll make a terrible fool of myself,” she stammered. “I wouldn’t have the first clue what to say—or do…”
“Your smile says more than a thousand words. Now, say you’ll come!”
The chivalrous Venetian took Magdalena by the arm and led her through the streets of Regensburg as if she were the elegant wife of some wealthy patrician.
A few moments later the hangman’s daughter stood with Silvio before a massive building on the bustling cathedral square. Above an entrance as wide as a barn door two stories rose up, each with a row of shimmering glass windows. The bays, pointed arches, and dormer windows gave the building the appearance of a noble country estate, while its size almost reminded Magdalena of the Regensburg city hall.
“This mansion belongs to you?” Her jaw dropped.
“No, no!” Silvio demurred. “I only rent quarters here. A patrician was kind enough to make some rooms available to me. Come along. I’ll give you a tour. There’s a room in here I know is certain to be to your liking.”
The Venetian led Magdalena through the entryway into a shadowy courtyard. Fragrant flowers and plants sprouted from marble tubs and buckets along the gravel walkway, and wild ivy grew along the stone walls. Gaily colored birds chirped from a silver cage hanging from one of the rafters. Magdalena felt as if she had entered the Garden of Eden. She timidly fingered some kind of bright yellow fruit that dangled from the sun-dappled branches of a tiny tree in a corner.
“Those are lemons,” Silvio explained. “In my homeland they grow in every garden. I’m trying to grow them here, but the German winter will kill most of them.” He sighed. “When it’s cold, I grow especially homesick for my beloved Venice.”
“Do all the houses in Venice look like this?” Magdalena asked cautiously.
Silvio smiled. “I have friends there who decorate their villas in gold and travel in silver gondolas. I myself consider that pretentious, but if you live in the richest city in the world, it’s tempting to begin to think you’re better than others. Follow me, please.”
They ascended a broad staircase flanked by banisters and marble statues. In contrast with the stench of the city, the air here was redolent of fruit and mint and filled with the soothing sounds of a harp nearby. Curious, Magdalena stopped in front of a small sculpture of a handsome young man smiling down at a girl holding an apple out to him. Inside his marble back, rats, snakes, and toads scurried about.
“What is that?” she asked the Venetian.
Silvio shrugged. “A gruesome statue. I should have it removed—it doesn’t fit in very well among the beautiful figures here. But come now. I’ll take you to my dressing room. It would be preposterous if we couldn’t find something suitable there for la bella signorina.”
At that moment a maid approached them with a neat bundle of fresh laundry. She curtsied and lowered her gaze, and though Silvio seemed not to have even seen her, Magdalena could feel the maid assessing her out of the corner of her eye. Her mouth pinched, she turned up her nose in disgust. Apparently she considered Magdalena just another of the loose women whom the master of the house liked to bring up to his room—nothing more than a cheap streetwalker.
I can’t really blame her, Magdalena thought, hurrying past the girl as quickly as possible.
They passed through an ivy-covered gallery, coming at last to a chamber with high, almost church-like windows. At first Magdalena was blinded by the light streaming through them, but once her eyes adjusted to the brightness, a small miracle appeared before her eyes.
Am I dreaming? How is this possible?
It seemed there were at least a dozen other women standing beside her, all around the room, all with the same dirty linen dress and the same disheveled black hair. Dumbstruck, Magdalena realized she was in fact staring at herself. The walls were covered by six-foot mirrors, which reflected her image over and over. Between the mirrors enormous, ceiling-high wardrobes were flung open, full of frilled garments, velvet gowns, and other splendid clothing. Some clothes had been carelessly tossed off and draped across a round table in the center of the room and over the chairs and gleaming inlaid wooden floor. Each piece must have been worth more than Magdalena’s father earned in an entire year.
“I beg your pardon,” Silvio said. “I wasn’t sure yesterday what they—that is, what I should wear, so I made a bit of a mess. My servants were supposed to have cleaned this up.”
Magdalena didn’t even seem to hear him. She stepped into the middle of the room and began to spin around, faster and faster. Around her, dozens of Magdalenas danced, an entire dancehall full of her, which seemed to go on and on, a dancehall where she alone was the centerpiece.
The only mirror the hangman’s daughter had ever seen was the small, cloudy pocket mirror her father had given her mother when they were first married. The old thing was cracked, and it distorted Magdalena’s face so much that she’d put it aside in disgust more than once. Until today all she’d ever seen of her own face and body was what she’d been able to make out in her quivering image in the waters of the Lech. Now she could see for the first time what others saw when they looked at her. Awestruck, she passed her fingers through her black hair, tracing the lines of her eyebrows, nose, and lips.
Am I beautiful?
The hall of mirrors in the Venetian’s house was the most impressive thing she’d ever seen.
“I ordered these mirrors specially from Venice,” Silvio explained, dreamily passing his hand over a smooth silvery surface near the door. “Nowhere else on earth can you find such quality. I’m happy you like it,” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “But now we must find something for la bella donna to wear.”
The Venetian strode confidently toward one of the wardrobes. As he opened it, Magdalena, who was having difficulty tearing her eyes away from her reflection, saw countless women’s dresses hanging in neat rows, as if they’d never been worn before—broadly tailored skirts, narrow bodices with puffy sleeves, dainty pointed bonnets, cloaks lined in ermine, and velvet jackets with fur collars.
“I have lady visitors on occasion,” Silvio admitted. “And I’ve ordered some clothing so that the signorine can feel at home here with me. Take your time to look around, and perhaps you’ll find something that suits you.”
It was clear to Magdalena who the ladies were who visited this house, and she was tempted to turn back right then and there and return to the Whale. Simon would certainly be waiting for her, and this farce would finally come to an end.
On the other hand…
Magdalena’s gaze wandered back to the mirrors and to the magnificent colorful clothing. Never in her life had she seen such skirts, much less worn anything so splendid. Perhaps she and Silvio could just send a message to Simon, telling him that all was in order and she would be back at the Whale that evening—or first thing in the morning at the latest. Why shouldn’t she browse around here a while and enjoy herself?
But then her conscience intruded on the fantasy. What about her father then? He was languishing in his prison cell while, like a cheap streetwalker, she let herself be tempted by the prospect of a night of dancing in the arms of Regensbu
rg’s rich and powerful men. How could she possibly…?
Powerful men?
Magdalena turned to the Venetian ambassador.
“Tell me, Silvio. At the ball tonight,” she asked casually, “just who will be in attendance?”
The Venetian grimaced. “Ah, the usual. Some ambassadors; some merchants with their overweight, garishly made-up wives; some important patricians from the city council. If the city treasurer shows up, I’ll probably have to waste some time discussing Regensburg’s ridiculous mountain of debt. Madonna, it’s going to be an awful bore!” He fell dramatically to his knees in front of Magdalena. “Please! Grant me the favor of your company, I beg you!”
Magdalena tilted back her head in cool deliberation. “Who knows? That may not be such a bad idea after all,” she said. “Surely these gentlemen have some interesting things to say.”
With only the briefest hesitation, the hangman’s daughter reached for a small red velvet jacket with lace sleeves trimmed in fur, and a wide hoop skirt. Why not marry pleasure and practicality? If anyone could help her father, it would be the men attending the ball tonight. She might even discover a few things that would otherwise remain strictly the province of the innermost circles of power.
Magdalena’s gaze wandered back to the mirrors. Before her stood a proud woman, a woman determined to fight.
Tooth and nail, if that’s what it came to.
Shortly after nightfall Nathan finally had news from the free-men.
All day Simon had been cooped up in the catacombs, caring for his destitute wards. He’d scraped scabies from the heads of three children, splinted a trembling old man’s broken leg, treated countless festering wounds with arnica, prepared packets of dried blueberries for patients with dysentery, and pulled five rotten teeth. After all that work he was more than a little happy when the beggar king finally informed him the freemen were willing to meet him down at the raft landing that evening. Nathan agreed to act as his guide, with the qualification, however, that Simon would continue treating Nathan’s crew of beggars, at least for the next few days.
The two set out, passing again through winding subterranean corridors before finally emerging into the cellar of a tavern. The tavern keeper didn’t seem surprised in the least when Nathan and his companion appeared out of thin air from behind a stack of firewood. Simon had to assume the man was aware of the beggars’ secret passageways, but when he asked Nathan about it, the beggar king replied in a disparaging tone.
“When there isn’t enough room in the hospitals or among us down below, some of my brothers have to stay in lousy inns like this one,” he said as they stepped out the back door. “That bastard demands two hellers a night, and if they don’t pay, he reports them to the city.” Then he winked. “But if the bailiffs throw us out at Jakob’s Gate, we come right back in by Peter’s Gate. Just like fleas—there’s no getting rid of us.”
From this point on, the moon illuminated their way through back alleys. No shadows leaped at them from dark corners, nor were any suspicious sounds to be heard behind them. The medicus felt certain that with Nathan by his side he was as safe as if he were home in bed in Schongau. Only a lunatic would dream of attacking the beggar king.
As they walked along, Simon thought constantly of Magdalena. When the beggars brought his medical instruments to him that morning from the Whale, they also brought news that Magdalena had disappeared. Simon was still not seriously concerned, though; it was quite possible she’d just gone out for a stroll around town or was making inquiries into the murders. Just to be sure, a beggar was waiting to intercept her at the Whale and bring her to the catacombs. But what if the guards had already seized her for arson? And then, of course, there was another possibility that tormented Simon…
Perhaps she was simply out enjoying herself with that puny Venetian!
This wasn’t the right moment to indulge in jealous fantasies. Before them the wharves of the raft landing appeared. He was surprised to note that the place was deserted at this hour except for some rats scurrying across wet planks. From the Danube the stench of fish, algae, and decay rose up, and alongside the wharves, rafts bobbed lazily up and down in the water, their boards creaking as the languid current knocked them against the posts. Music and laughter echoed from nearby taverns—evidently the sounds of raftsmen tying one last one on before early-morning departures.
Just then they heard footsteps behind them, and Nathan pulled Simon out of sight behind some wine vats stored on the dock waiting to be loaded onto another vessel. A few moments later two guards came into sight, halberds slung over their shoulders, unshaven faces exhausted and red from alcohol. They looked bored as they sauntered from one end of the landing to the other.
“Damn it! What are they doing here?” the beggar king cursed. “I don’t pay the outlandish bribes so these village idiots can come around here looking for a lady friend for the night!”
Simon looked at him with consternation. “You paid a bribe—”
“Why else do you think it’s so quiet around here?” Nathan interrupted. “Two silver pennies for the pier warden to put his men down for a nap. But just for half an hour, so please be quick!”
No sooner had the two guards rounded the next corner than Nathan took hold of the astonished medicus and, crouching, ran with him toward another group of barrels next to the warehouse. The containers were positioned so that a small passage ran between them, one not directly visible from the raft landing. At the end of the passage they came upon a crate as tall as a man, old and smeared with tar; a tangle of nets spilled out of it. It smelled so strongly of rotten fish that Simon instinctively put his hand over his nose and started to gag. Paying the stench no heed, Nathan raised the lid with a creak.
“Follow me, keep a low profile, and pull the lid shut after you.”
Horrified, Simon watched the beggar king pull himself up to the edge of the crate and climb inside. There was a clattering sound, and then only silence. Simon peered inside in disbelief to discover that Nathan was nowhere to be seen.
What the devil…?
“Damn it all to hell, where are you?” The voice of the beggar king echoed strangely from very far away, farther in any case than the crate was deep.
Simon heaved himself over the edge, climbed inside, and closed the lid as instructed. Everything went pitch black at once; the foul odor of fish and guts rose around him as if he’d landed inside the belly of a whale. The medicus felt some matted nets under his feet and, as he groped around, discovered that one hung down farther than the rest. Carefully he crawled forward on his knees, patting the ground beneath him as he went, until he came upon a hole no wider than a man’s hips through which the end of the long net dropped. The net served as a sort of rope ladder leading down into bottomless darkness.
Hand over hand, Simon made his way down the slimy rope ladder until he felt solid ground beneath his feet.
In front of him Nathan held a burning lantern in his hand and grinned. “I almost thought you’d gotten yourself tangled in the net like a fat carp,” he whispered. “Now come along.”
They hurried down a narrow corridor hollowed out of the damp earth that was so low in places Simon had to duck to avoid hitting his head. Here, too, the stench of fish and algae reigned, but a fresh breeze blew in from somewhere in front of them, and water dripped from the ceiling onto Simon’s collar.
“An old escape tunnel crossing under the Danube,” Nathan explained. “It runs all the way over to the Upper Wöhrd, the island in the middle of the river, and then past that to the north riverbank, where the Electorate of Bavaria begins.” He giggled. “The bailiffs are flabbergasted about how we manage to smuggle so many goods across the river when customs are so strict on the bridges. If we wanted, we could clean out the whole city.”
The beggar stopped so abruptly that Simon almost ran into him. His eyes glinted coldly, out of place on his otherwise friendly face, and his golden teeth flashed in the lantern light as he whispered.
�
�If you should ever betray our tunnel, you’d best know that we’ll find you. Wherever you are. We treat traitors to our cause to slow deaths. Think of human leather…”
“I—wouldn’t even dream…” Simon stuttered.
“So much the better,” Nathan said, and continued walking. “I don’t distrust you, but I have to make sure you understand.”
Again he giggled, and the medicus followed him with a sigh. Simon couldn’t quite figure Nathan out: one minute he treated him like a friend, and in the next his manner was cold and calculating.
Who’s to say he’s not just leading me into some trap? Simon thought.
When they arrived at the end of the corridor, another rope ladder led up through a narrow shaft. Again Nathan went first and, after arriving at the top, pushed a large black object to the side. Surfacing behind him, Simon recognized it as a rotting wooden fishing boat that lay hidden in underbrush not far from the shore.
The medicus took a deep breath of the fresh night air and looked around. By the light of the full moon he spotted a lowlying grassy island that stretched up and down the Danube. To one side he could make out the Stone Bridge in the moonlight where it connected to the island by a dam. Nearby were several large warehouses and other buildings attached to crumbling jetties that led down to the dark, rushing current. Mill wheels revolved, clattering and squeaking, causing something to pound inside the various buildings like the snore of a mighty giant.
“The mills on the Wöhrd,” the beggar king whispered reverentially. “Do you hear that? The sound of the future! It will never cease to astonish me what man is capable of.” He pointed at the rattling and whirring wheels that, like enormous machines, cut furrows through the river along the shore. “Sawmills, paper mills, textile mills, and naturally the large grain mill. Do you see the house over there with the gabled roof? The largest mill in all of Regensburg! The freemen are expecting you there. I’ll stay here and wait for you.”
The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale Page 17