The Beggar King hd-3

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “Yes, yes, very well. Now get moving,” Kuisl snarled.

  The guard swallowed his rage and turned to leave. Just as he was about to bolt the door, Kuisl looked up at him.

  “Ah, and if you intend not to deliver that letter,” the Schongau hangman said casually, “I’ll see that Teuber breaks your bones, slowly, one after the other. He doesn’t like it, you know, when people try to put one over on him, you understand?”

  The door slammed shut and the bailiff withdrew. Once again Kuisl’s thoughts turned back to the war, the murder, the pain. He stared at the initials on the wall and tried to remember.

  P.F.K. Weidenfeld, anno domini 1637…

  The letters gnawed at his subconscious-eliciting just an inkling, an image from long ago, from another life.

  Men’s laughter, the crackling of burning rooftops, a long, excruciating wail, then silence… Jakob Kuisl is holding the sword in his hand like a scythe.

  Kuisl knew that if he had just an ounce of tobacco, the pipe would bring the image into focus.

  In the corridor the guard squeezed the folded letter in his hands and cursed softly. Who the hell did this damn hangman think he was? The king of France? Never before had a prisoner spoken to him like that. Particularly not one about to face the gallows. Just what was this Bavarian thinking?

  The bailiff thought back on Kuisl’s threat. The Regensburg executioner had indeed sent him to the cell to pick up that damned letter. No doubt Philipp Teuber was to pass the paper along to some relative-a last farewell from a condemned man seeking consolation and perhaps even a few sweets to uplift him at the end. That wasn’t uncommon.

  But what the executioner didn’t know was that someone else had promised the bailiff a tidy sum for the privilege of having a look at the letter before handing it over to Teuber.

  Grimacing, the guard secured the paper in his jacket pocket and strode out into the city hall square, whistling. As arranged, the stranger was waiting for him in Waaggasschen Lane in front of the constabulary. The man was stooped and, despite the summer heat, had turned up his coat collar to obscure his face. No one would be able to say later who he was; even the guard who delivered the letter in exchange for a bag of coins would be unable to describe him afterward. The man’s movements were too fluid; his appearance, nondescript. Everything about the man was calm and collected, except for his eyes.

  As he hastily unfolded the letter, they seemed to glow with hatred.

  At once a cold smile spread across his face. He took out another piece of paper and wrote a few lines on it, then tucked the real letter inside his coat.

  “I’ll pose a riddle for the girl and this quack,” he whispered, more to himself than to the guard. “Sometimes you have to throw the dog a bone so it has something to chew on. Or else they’ll draw some very stupid conclusions. Here, give this to Teuber.” With these words, he handed the guard the paper.

  As the bailiff entered the bustling city hall square, he felt such relief that he dropped his first few coins right away on a strong glass of wine. Nevertheless, cold shivers ran up and down his spine.

  There were people you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, and then there were people you wouldn’t wish even on an alleged murderer.

  7

  REGENSBURG

  NOON, AUGUST 20, 1662 AD

  Do you have any idea what might be detaining your amico?”

  Silvio Contarini gallantly offered Magdalena his arm. She hesitated briefly, then permitted the Venetian to guide her through the narrow Regensburg streets, while she towered over him by at least a full head.

  “To be honest, no,” she said uncertainly. “Perhaps he just stepped out for a breath of fresh air. I only hope nothing has happened to him.”

  “Didn’t you say he likes coffee?”

  Magdalena nodded. “Coffee and books, yes, he’s addicted to both.”

  “Then I know a place where Simon could be.”

  Silvio guided her along a wide paved avenue with oxcarts and coaches rumbling by. He took care to walk on the outside to shield her from the occasional splashes of mud from passing vehicles. The hangman’s daughter couldn’t help but smile. This man was a real cavalier! She decided to allow herself to feel like a lady, at least for a short time-to give herself over to the care of her diminutive companion.

  The two soon reached the city hall square. Across from the magnificent building was a neat, freshly whitewashed gabled tavern, complete with glass windows, bright stucco work, and a newly thatched roof. Patricians in wide trousers and tight-fitting jackets paraded in and out alongside brightly made-up women with broad-brimmed hats and elaborate pinned-up hair. Silvio tugged at Magdalena’s sleeve impatiently, pulling her toward the entry.

  “You don’t believe they’ll let me in, looking the way I do!” she whispered, horrified. “I look like a despicable chambermaid!”

  The little Venetian examined her uncertainly. “That may in fact be a problem. Take this,” he said, handing Magdalena his cloak. Only then did she notice that a small dagger was tied to the inside of the Venetian’s belt, its handle inlaid with rubies.

  “Later we’ll find you some clothes more befitting your beauty,” Silvio said resolutely. “We can’t allow a bella signorina such as yourself to go running around looking like a washerwoman.”

  Magdalena pulled the wide, much too warm woolen cloak over her shoulders until only her face and her shaggy black hair were visible. She could only hope that no one noticed her shoes. She also realized that after the previous night’s events, she no doubt had a strong odor.

  “Oh, God, I can’t do it…”

  “Come now!” Silvio nudged her into a lavishly furnished taproom filled mostly with elderly gentlemen and flashy young ladies at their sides. The Venetian found two free seats and snapped his fingers. Shortly thereafter a smartly dressed maid appeared, curtsied several times, and set out a steaming pot of coffee and two cups.

  “As far as I know, this is the first coffeehouse in the whole German Empire,” the Venetian said, filling Magdalena’s cup to the brim. “At least I haven’t heard of any other. And believe me, I would hear of it.” He slurped his coffee with great relish. “If your friend likes coffee as much as I do, it’s quite possible we’ll find him here.”

  Magdalena gazed around at the guests, though she knew in advance it was wasted effort. “Nonsense!” she whispered. “How would Simon know about a place like this?”

  The Venetian shrugged. “So be it. At least the two of us will have the chance to get to know each other better now.”

  Chuckling, Magdalena took a sip of the hot, stimulating drink. “Admit it, you set this up. You wanted only to be alone with me.”

  “Would that be a crime?”

  The hangman’s daughter sighed. “You are incorrigible! Very well, then,” she said, leaning toward the Venetian, “tell me about yourself. Who are you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a frequent and welcome visitor in this establishment who is always scrupulous in paying his rather exorbitant bills,” Silvio said with a grin.

  Then all at once he turned serious. “This city is very important for la vecchia Venezia, you know,” he continued. “Especially now, when representatives from all over the world are here to discuss how to proceed against the Turks.” He raised his cup solemnly. “The Moslems gave us this marvelous drink, but unfortunately they now wish to do us the dubious honor of exporting their religious beliefs as well. Thus, my doge, in his infinite wisdom, decided I should take up residence as his permanent ambassador in the mightiest city of the German Empire.”

  “You are the representative of Venice in Regensburg?” Magdalena gasped. “But why then are you living at the Whale? I mean-”

  Silvio waved her off. “No, no, I don’t live there, but-come si dice-the boredom!” He rolled his eyes theatrically. “All these smartly dressed ambassadors, always the same old conversations… politics, ugh! This evening, again, I have to host another mindless ball.” He folded his hands as if i
n prayer. “D’una grazia vi supplico, signorina! Lend me the honor of your company at the ball. It will be my only light in these dreary hours! You’ll be my salvation!”

  Magdalena’s laugh stuck in her throat.

  Seated at a neighboring table, a man in a dark cloak had pulled his hood far down over his face, but the hangman’s daughter was nevertheless certain he was watching them. In contrast to the other guests, the stranger was neither smoking a pipe nor drinking coffee. He sat hunched over as if he had become part of his chair.

  “The man opposite us,” she whispered, assuming an icy, forced smile to avoid attracting suspicion. “Don’t look now, but I believe he’s watching us.”

  Silvio raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  “Believe me, I’ve had some experience with this sort of thing as of late. This stranger isn’t the first one in my life I’ve caught spying on me.”

  “If that’s the case…” The Venetian ambassador placed a few silver coins on the table and slowly stood up. “We’ll leave by the back door. If he follows us, we’ll know you’re right.”

  Nodding and greeting people amiably as they passed, the pair crossed the crowded room to an inconspicuous door. They hurried up a staircase to the floor above, ran along a dark corridor, and finally arrived at an opening so tiny it seemed more like a window than a door. Silvio pressed the door handle and nudged Magdalena onto a ramshackle balcony. A ladder led down into a back courtyard stacked with old boxes and barrels. The Venetian put his finger to his lips and pointed down. Magdalena sensed Silvio was well acquainted with this escape route. Her heart pounding, she began to descend the rungs behind him.

  Just as they reached the courtyard below, the man in the black cloak appeared on the balcony above them.

  Their pursuer’s hood was still pulled over his face as he leaned over the railing and stared down at them like a hawk eyeing its prey. Magdalena had no time to get a closer look, though, for in the next instant he was clattering down the ladder. The last several yards he took in a single leap, spreading his cloak around him like wings. When he landed, he turned and started toward them quick as a shadow in the dark, a long, narrow rapier glinting in his hand.

  Screaming, the hangman’s daughter jumped behind a stack of crates. From her hiding spot she watched in horror as Silvio drew his dagger and attacked the man. The stranger was poised for attack, his rapier in front of him, ready to lunge at any moment. Without the slightest sound, Silvio rushed forward, his dagger circling in the air, but the man skillfully sidestepped him, then thrust upward with his rapier, slicing the silk sleeve of Silvio’s coat clean off.

  Magdalena was shocked to see blood dripping from the tear in Silvio’s jacket and noticed he was limping slightly. It couldn’t be long before the stranger attacked straight on and plunged his rapier into Silvio’s chest.

  And I’ll be next…

  Frantically, Magdalena looked all around until her gaze fell on a huge wine barrel, almost as big as a man. She ran toward it and shoved as hard as she could. It seemed empty. Groaning, she pushed against its damp staves with all her strength until it teetered a moment, then tipped over with an earsplitting crash. It rolled toward the stranger, gaining momentum, as he cursed and struggled to jump aside. But it was too late-the barrel bowled him over and burst against the opposite wall, sending splinters flying through the air.

  The stranger remained motionless on the ground for a moment, then struggled to get up, groping for his rapier, which had landed nearby. Before he could pull himself together, however, Silvio had seized Magdalena by the arm, drawn her to the door of an adjacent house, pushed her inside, and slammed the bolt closed. When the stranger arrived at the door, he started banging furiously on the other side.

  “Grazie!” the Venetian panted. “That was close. You were right; we really were being followed.”

  They ran through the house and out the front door into the street, where the usual traffic-wagons, coaches, and pedestrians, all chattering and complaining-streamed by slowly. It was as if the pair had entered a wholly different world oblivious to the danger lurking just a few steps away. Most people didn’t even turn to glance at them.

  At the next street corner Silvio stopped, leaning against the wall of a house to examine the rip in his jacket and the blood on his finger, which he eventually licked off.

  “Santa Madonna!” he panted. “What in the world have you gotten yourselves into?”

  The hangman’s daughter shrugged. “Unfortunately I don’t know that myself. I don’t know who this man is or why he’s following us. He may be the very same man who last night…” She hesitated.

  “What do you mean, last night?”

  Magdalena shook her head. She decided for the time being not to tell the Venetian anything about their break-in at the bathhouse. “Nothing. I’m probably just seeing ghosts.”

  Silvio touched the bloody tear in his jacket again.

  “Well, it certainly looks like I need a new jacket.” He grinned and pointed at Magdalena. “And so do you.”

  The hangman’s daughter looked down at herself. She’d lost Silvio’s cloak in the scuffle. The coarse linen dress she wore underneath was tattered, and her bodice was splattered with red wine. She looked as if she’d just barely escaped a barroom brawl with a gang of prostitutes.

  “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 dec
orate 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.