“Oh, I do,” his acquaintance assured him. “It’s just that . . .”
He was struggling for the right words when suddenly there was the sound of a trumpet on the bridge. A wave of applause followed, and the journeyman was clearly relieved that instead of replying to his friend, he could acknowledge the bishop’s arrival. “Look, the noble visitor has finally arrived. What gorgeous horses. We haven’t seen anything like this for a long time.”
At that moment they indeed heard the clatter of hooves and, shortly thereafter, saw the team of six horses crossing the bridge. The two lead horses were wearing plumes, and their silver harnesses glittered in the noonday autumn sun.
“Mama, Mama!” Peter shouted. “Look, here comes the kaiser!”
Magdalena smiled. “Not exactly the kaiser, Peter, but someone who’s almost as rich and powerful. He’s the bishop of Würzburg—a real, living elector, who takes part in naming the king of the Reich.”
“I want to see the elector, too,” Paul said, sitting on the branch below so that the crowd blocked his view. He climbed a bit higher as Magdalena watched with trepidation, but then she turned back to the sight before them.
They’re growing up, she thought. I’ll have to get used to it.
Royal guards with gleaming breastplates rode before and behind the coach, and one was holding up the flag of the Würzburg bishop. Behind them came a line of smaller coaches, no doubt conveying lesser clerics and courtiers. When the coach, with its six-horse team, passed Magdalena, she briefly caught sight of an older, bearded man inside with long, gray hair, smiling benignly and waving out the window.
The applause and cheers grew louder as the soldiers took out leather pouches containing small coins and threw them into the crowd. The journeymen in front of Magdalena caught a few of them.
“Three cheers for the Würzburg elector!” the raftsman shouted. “Three cheers for the elector!” But after the coach had passed, he turned crossly to his neighbor. “He’s getting stingier and stingier. The last time there were a few guilders among the coins, and now look at this. Only a few piddling kreuzers.”
“The guilders and ducats are for our Bamberg bishop,” his friend responded with a grin. “So he can finally finish building his residence up on the cathedral mount. The word is that Johann Philipp von Schönborn isn’t here just for fun. He’ll no doubt have to lend his colleague a big sum of money again.”
The other raftsman bit his kreuzer to check it. “But they’ll also have time for amusement. Have you heard? Two troupes of actors will be performing tonight. It will be a long night.”
“If the werewolf doesn’t come first and run off with two fat bishops.”
The two sauntered off, laughing, and Magdalena suddenly felt her good mood dissipating. The conversation had reminded her again of their scheme for that night, and she felt a lump in her throat. Would the sleep sponge work? And how far along was her father in preparing the gunpowder? Simon had gone off to visit his friend Samuel that morning to get the rest of the ingredients. No doubt he was still in the executioner’s house with the two Kuisls stirring the highly explosive mixture, and the three men would certainly have no need for a couple of rowdy boys.
On the spur of the moment, Magdalena decided to visit Katharina and offer her some consolation. Simon had said she had gone to her father’s house to grieve the cancellation of the wedding reception.
“Shall we go and visit Aunt Katharina?” she suggested to the two boys with a wink. “Who knows, maybe she’ll make you porridge again with lots of honey.”
She didn’t have to ask twice. Peter and Paul were wild about the motherly Katharina, and especially her cooking. As quick as two little squirrels, they scurried down from the willow and pushed their way with their mother through the crowd, which was starting to break up now that the Würzburg bishop had passed on his way to the cathedral mount—though the cheering could still be heard in the distance.
After a while, they crossed the City Hall Bridge and soon were standing in front of the Hausers’. It was Katharina herself who answered the door after a few knocks. Her eyes were red from crying, but the sight of the children brought a smile to her face.
“Peter! Paul! How glad I am to see you. Come in, I’ve just taken some buttered apple fritters out of the oven. I think you’ll like them.”
In fact, there was a heavenly aroma of warm apples and hot butter throughout the house, and the children stormed, hooting and cheering, into the kitchen, where Katharina served them a whole tower of the sweet pastry. While the boys sat at the table eating happily, Magdalena had the chance to have a quiet conversation with Katharina.
“When I’m unhappy, I often stay in the kitchen,” Katharina said with a faint smile. “Cooking is still the best way for me to forget my cares. You should feel free to come and visit me more often.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the wedding,” Magdalena replied, holding Katharina’s hand. “In any case, we’ll stay a while longer in Bamberg, and if necessary, we’ll just have a smaller party.”
Katharina nodded. “I’m so grateful for that. Thank you.” She stared off into space, and there was a pause during which the only sound was the children’s chewing and smacking their lips.
“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this wedding?” Katharina finally continued in a soft voice. “People in Bamberg thought of me as a dried-up old maid who’d never find a man. Too old, too fat . . . ,” she sighed. “There were a few men earlier, but when the time came, they always ran off.”
“And then?” Magdalena asked.
“Then Bartholomäus came along.” She smiled and her eyes began to sparkle. “I met him down at the fish market when he offered to carry my heavy basket. Most people steer clear of him. He’s the Bamberg executioner, after all, and people don’t want anything to do with him. But I’ve seen what kind of a person he really is—he can be very warmhearted, you know.”
Magdalena laughed. “Up to now, he’s kept that well hidden from me, but of course, you know him better.”
“Well, that’s the way he is.” Katharina rubbed her chubby fingers, which were sticky from baking, and looked down. “At first, everyone opposed this marriage—my father, my friends. Being married to an executioner—what can be worse than that? It would be better to die an old maid. But I got my way, even with my father.” She laughed sadly. “I was even able to talk him into a big, expensive reception, though Bartl was so reluctant at first. He said he didn’t want any more to do with his family than was absolutely necessary. But do you know what?” She winked at Magdalena. “I think in the end he was proud to show his big brother what he’d made of himself here—the big house, the marriage to a clerk’s daughter, a good dowry, a beautiful wedding reception . . .” She sighed deeply. “But the last of those, at least, is not to be.”
They both fell silent for a while, then finally Magdalena asked, “Was your father able to make any progress with the city council? He was going to put another word in for the wedding reception.”
Katharina shook her head. “He hasn’t gotten to it yet. In the last few weeks he’s seemed lost in his thoughts, almost constantly up in his study because he has to copy some old lists for the city. I was getting used to it, but since yesterday I’ve not even been able to talk to him. He keeps leaving the house without telling me where he’s going. I really wish I knew what’s wrong with him.” She shook her head. “Just this morning I was up in his room to clean up, and I’m telling you, it looks like lightning has struck the place! He didn’t even look at me, just shouted at me to get out.”
Magdalena remembered what Simon had told her about Hieronymus Hauser. Was it possible that his preoccupation had something to do with yesterday’s conversation?
“Simon was here yesterday to visit your father,” she said carefully, “and he learned that Hieronymus attended the witch trials back then as a young scribe. Do you think all this werewolf business has upset him?”
Katharina seemed to be
thinking it over. “Hmm, it’s possible. That was before I was born, but I know it upset him very much. He sometimes dreams of the torturing that he had to witness, as the scribe, in order to document the statements. Then he screams in his sleep. But he doesn’t want to talk about it.” She shrugged. “Just like everyone else in Bamberg, as if they wanted to forget and bury what happened.”
“Simon thinks he saw your father in the bishop’s archive after their meeting,” Magdalena added. “Is it possible he was looking for something there? Something having to do with the events back then?”
Her aunt was silent for a while, then she picked up one of the crisp apple pastries and took a bite. “Unfortunately, I just don’t know,” she said, chewing on the cake. She gestured apologetically. “Excuse me, but I think the constant crying has made me hungry.” After she’d finished, she continued. “It would be best for you to ask my father yourself. He probably won’t be back from his office until late afternoon, but you can stop by and see us again then.”
“This isn’t a good day for it,” Magdalena replied hesitantly, “as I have other things to do.” She pointed at her two children. “I just wanted to ask you if you could look after the boys for a while. Simon is visiting the bishop today, and Father and I have some things to discuss with Georg. It’s been such a long time since we’ve seen each other . . .”
Magdalena cleared her throat, embarrassed. She’d made Uncle Bartholomäus promise not to tell Katharina about their plans for that night, and she searched desperately for some explanation. The idea of leaving the children in Katharina’s care had just occurred to her. She had already asked Georg to do that, but he hadn’t been especially fond of the idea. And after asking him again several times that morning, his reply was still gruff and noncommittal. Evidently he could not get over the fact that Magdalena was being allowed to take part in freeing Matheo that evening, and he wasn’t.
Katharina appeared to accept her vague excuse, but then she gestured apologetically. “You know I love your boys, Magdalena, but on this particular evening I can’t do it. Believe it or not, my father is also invited to the bishop’s reception, and he even managed to get an invitation for me.” She smiled slightly. “He thought that would cheer me up a bit. Such a celebration will only make me think of my own wedding reception, of course, but I can’t turn him down. It’s a great honor for our family. Only the better classes of citizens are invited.” She hesitated. “Many members of the city council will be there, and of course Father still hopes he can do something about the wedding reception.”
“I understand.” Magdalena nodded. “Then you’ve got to go.”
She looked over at the two boys, who had by now wolfed down their apple fritters and turned their attention to the pot of butter, which they were taking out and smearing in each other’s hair.
“I think it’s time to take the kids back to their strict grandfather, so he can tweak their ears a bit,” Magdalena said with a grin, then she stood up and embraced Katharina. “Good luck to you. You’ll see—everything will work out.”
As she left the house with her two boys, she wasn’t sure that her last wish hadn’t been directed primarily at herself.
At about the same time, a man was sitting somewhere along the banks of the Regnitz, daydreaming and staring out over the water. Branches and leaves floated past him, and occasionally dirty rags or the carcass of a small animal. Further upriver there had been an autumn storm, and brown whirlpools formed in the water, making the leaves dance around until they finally sank and popped up again downstream.
Nothing disappeared forever, it all eventually returned to the surface.
He flung a branch out into the river as far as he could and watched it drift along like a ship pitching and rolling in the waves. Briefly, he felt the urge to jump in after it and end his own life. He felt empty, so empty, but he still had to complete his plan—he was almost finished.
Just two more to go.
It was only a day ago that the clever woman had ripped his hood from his head. She’d seen his face and thus sealed her fate. Now she was tied up again in the cell, and he wouldn’t let that happen to him again. He had briefly lost control of himself, of the entire situation, but now his decision was firm.
He would not waver again.
He had, in fact, even before the previous day’s event, considered letting the woman live. It had gotten harder and harder for him to torture and kill the women—while with the two old men he’d felt nothing but elation with every blow, every squeeze of the tongs, every turn of the wheel.
When old widow Gotzendörfer died of fear, he’d even felt a sense of relief. He’d walked up to the window to terrify the old woman, but also in the hope that she’d open the window for him. When he’d seen the solid iron gate in front of the window, he had almost been ready to give up, but then the mere sight of him (and the woman’s own weak heart) had been enough to kill her. It had been a clean death, and he hadn’t had to hear that screaming again.
The screaming . . .
The man shook, as if trying to cast off the memories. But it was in vain—they’d eaten their way too far inside him. Just the same, since the young woman had seen his face, she would have to die, too. She’d almost gotten away, and what he’d been planning for so long would have been doomed.
Now he’d gotten control again.
Even if things didn’t work out just the way he intended, he’d been waiting too long not to carry out his clever plan. At first, he thought it was ingenious. He would conquer his foes with their own weapons, create a monster in their midst and at the same time crush his worst enemy. But still the long-awaited change had not occurred. It seemed like God still had the power to control life and death.
The man closed his eyes and murmured an old Bible verse, something that had been with him all his life.
Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord . . .
He decided to wait a few more days. By then he would have his next-to-last victim. And besides, he had to think about what to do with the woman. He didn’t want her to suffer more than necessary, but nonetheless he’d have to get rid of her somehow.
The man gazed into the river, where the carcass of a fox was drifting by.
The river consumed everything. It had swallowed the others, and it would also take the woman. A quick blow, the silence after that, the lonely trek through the forest, and everything would again be as it had been.
He stood up and walked away.
Soon it would be over.
“No, damn it! The trunk goes on the right, the stairs are on the left. Shall I break a leg when I try to climb the stairs to the stage for my first scene? Is that what you want?”
His face as red as a beet, Sir Malcolm was running back and forth between his actors, unpacking some of the props and costumes. They were in the so-called festival hall of Geyerswörth Castle, where the two performances were scheduled for that evening. To get there, Barbara and the actors had to first make it past a well-guarded gate, and then through another door to the interior court that was just as well guarded. The guards had been watching them with a mixture of disgust and tense anticipation, as if they were exotic animals—a look that was all too familiar to the young hangman’s daughter from Schongau. Like the vocation of executioner, that of actor was regarded as dishonorable, and anyone engaged in that line of work was reviled by the good citizens of the town. Just the same, everyone expected a technically perfect and above all entertaining performance from both troupes.
It was still more than five hours before the performance, but Sir Malcolm already seemed at the end of his rope. Barbara couldn’t help wondering how he would be just before the curtain rose.
Will he explode? Go through the roof? Murder us all?
As Malcolm continued his rant, she looked up dreamily at the vaulted ceiling of the festival hall, with its paintings of flowers and strange beasts that, along with the stone columns, gave her the feeling of being in an enchanted forest. The tingling sensat
ion in her stomach grew stronger. When she’d first noticed it the day before, she thought it was the sign of indigestion, but some of the actors assured her it was quite normal. Stage fright, they called it, a sickness that could only be cured by a successful performance.
Looking around at her colleagues, Barbara noticed that some of them were reciting their lines in a low voice as they moved the trunks around without paying any heed to Malcolm’s temper tantrums. Evidently they were accustomed to their director’s outbursts.
“And go and get Salter,” he shouted. “The dress rehearsal will begin in an hour and we can’t wait for everyone to get here.”
“Uh, you yourself sent him to the Bamberg tailor this morning to pick up the princess’s costume,” said fat Matthäus, who would be playing the part of the joiner, Klipperling, in the play. Barbara had come to know the older actor as a good-natured fellow who had almost as many problems memorizing his lines as she did.
“And then you wanted him to look around for some metal for the king’s crown,” the fat man reminded his director. “The last crown started to rust long ago.”
“Ah, that’s right.” Sir Malcolm nodded absentmindedly. “Well, let’s hope the lad will get back in time.”
“I hope so, too,” a snide voice suddenly said from behind one of the columns in the back. It was Guiscard Brolet, who stepped forward and looked into one of the open trunks full of colorful costumes. “You have exactly two hours for your last rehearsal, Malcolm,” he continued while fanning himself with a threadbare, dirty lace handkerchief. “Not a minute longer. Then it’s our turn. That’s what we agreed on.”
Sir Malcolm slammed the cover on the trunk and scrutinized his competitor angrily. “Don’t worry, Guiscard, we don’t need any longer than that. In contrast to your group, we’re neither amateurs nor thieves.”
Guiscard sighed. “Always the same old story,” he sneered in his French accent. “Well, we shall see which piece the prince-bishop prefers. I happen to have learned from a reliable source that he’s especially fond of Gryphius’s Papinian.” He shrugged. “Your crude farce, on the other hand . . .”
The Werewolf of Bamberg Page 33