Gessner had come to the end of his speech. For a long moment there was silence, and then Simon cleared his throat.
“And what do your freemen intend to do about it?”
The raftmaster shrugged dismissively. “In England a while back they beheaded their king and founded a republic. The people won’t let themselves be bossed around so easily anymore.”
“So—revolution? Is that what you want?”
Sighing, the raftmaster sat down on the flour sacks beside the medicus and took another deep swig from his bottle. “We’ve tried peaceful means, believe me,” he said softly. “We pleaded with the council to negotiate, but derision and punishment are all we got. Three years ago the patricians hanged some of our best men for treason and displayed their impaled heads at the city gates. Since then we’ve been working in secret, but my men have grown very afraid of being found out. Most of them have families.”
“I’ve heard that the bathhouse owner Andreas Hofmann was also a freeman,” Simon replied. “Is that why he was killed?”
Gessner nodded. “Hofmann was my deputy. The patricians must have found out and cut his throat, and his wife’s, too, as a deterrent to the rest of us. But they needed a scapegoat, so—”
“And that was the Schongau hangman,” Simon interrupted.
The raftmaster laughed despondently. “He ran right into their trap! The alleged letter from his brother-in-law, the forged will—it was all a setup!”
Simon bit his lip. “Is there no way to save him?”
“I’m afraid there isn’t.” Lost in thought, the raftmaster fingered the red kerchief he wore knotted around his throat. “The patricians will have the Schongau executioner put to death as quickly as possible, if only to cover up the murders of Hofmann and his wife. The only hope we have now is to find some clear proof to present to the council.” Gessner looked at Simon questioningly. “Nathan told me you went to the scene of the crime. Did you notice anything suspicious?”
Simon cursed himself. He should have known the beggar king would talk. On the other hand, it didn’t seem to matter much now that the raftmaster knew about their break-in. He decided to let Gessner in on everything.
“Hofmann’s pharmacy was thoroughly ransacked,” he replied. “But that may just as well have been a couple of guards hoping to find some coins and jewelry. What is certain is that someone tried to kill us while we were inside. We were nearly burned to death in there.”
Gessner furrowed his brow. “Those were no doubt a few of the patricians’ henchmen trying to cover their tracks. They were probably afraid you’d find something.” The raftmaster sighed. “In any case, things look bad for your hangman.”
“But we can’t allow this to happen!” Simon exclaimed, standing up and pacing the floor. “Jakob Kuisl is innocent! We have to prove it!”
“And in so doing, prove the patricians’ guilt?” Gessner laughed aloud. “Forget it. Nobody takes on Mämminger and his henchmen and walks away unscathed, unless he has absolute and incontrovertible proof. Go back home if you don’t want to wind up like a drowned rat in the Danube. That would be the best thing for you and your girl.”
Simon clenched his fists. “Didn’t you just speak of resistance? Of struggle?” He had to rein in his rage now. “Didn’t you just say you wouldn’t tolerate the patricians’ rule any longer? And now you’re backing down! This isn’t the way truly freemen act!”
The raftmaster’s eyes became narrow slits. “Be careful how you speak to me, little doctor,” he said. “You’re talking about things you don’t understand. Leave the battle to those who know how to fight it, you runty little quack!”
A short, ominous silence followed. Then Gessner smiled again, and his temper seemed to abate. “The time is coming, trust me.” The raftmaster laid a powerful, tattooed arm around Simon’s shoulders. “It’s possible then that we’ll need the help of people like you.”
The raftmaster stood up and clapped his hands. Two hooded men emerged from behind the sacks where Gessner and Simon were just sitting; clearly they had been waiting there the entire time.
“If you and your girl insist on staying in Regensburg, concern yourselves with the poor and don’t meddle in things you can’t change,” Gessner said, turning toward the exit with his guards.
Without another word, he disappeared among the sacks of grain, and the clattering and grinding resumed as the mill lurched to life once more.
Magdalena wandered aimlessly through the narrow city streets. She didn’t want to return to the Venetian’s ball, and the hooded man was probably waiting for her at the Whale. He’d likely discovered by now where she was staying. Where could she possibly go?
Scared, she kept running along until the rows of houses on either side ended and the starry night sky opened above her. Without realizing it, Magdalena had ended up in the cathedral square. Like the fingers of an enormous, admonishing god, two steeples rose up into the night sky, towering over an architectural profusion of bays, turrets, balustrades, columns, and gargoyles. On the broad staircase leading up to an entrance some fifteen feet above, a number of dark figures loitered, evidently intending to camp out on the worn stone stairs overnight. Otherwise, the square was empty.
All at once the hangman’s daughter felt extremely weary. Her feet hurt from running, her dress hung around her in tatters, and she’d cast off the red velvet jacket as she ran. She looked like a cheap whore fleeing her last customer after a couple of hours of hard work.
Without giving it another thought, she headed toward the steps of the cathedral in search of a spot where she could spend the night. More than once she had to step over snoring people huddled close together to ward off the cool night air. Some who were still awake eyed her distrustfully—beggars clothed in rags, many with soiled bandages on their feet and arms. Others had poorly healed stumps for legs and hobbled around on crutches. As Magdalena passed by, they scuttled toward her like huge beetles.
“Hey, pretty one,” one of them simpered. His face was pitted with deep pockmarks, and he was missing his right leg. “How about doing an old soldier a favor and warming him up a bit? I’ll give you some of my wages for it.” He shook a little tin plate containing a few rusty coins.
“Leave her alone, Scarface,” a toothless woman next to him chimed in, grinning at Magdalena through several layers of grimy rags. “The lady’s much too fine for the likes of you. Aren’t you, darling? You’ll put out only for them fancy city guards.” She cackled like a hen and thrust her hips suggestively. “Haven’t you heard it’s dangerous here in town these days for pretty whores like yourself? The reaper’s makin’ his rounds, pluckin’ up your kind and draggin’ them off in his cart.”
Magdalena cursed herself for thinking she’d find a place to sleep around the cathedral, but now it was too late to run away. If she showed so much as a hint of fear, she didn’t doubt these creatures would descend on her like a murder of crows. So she moved on silently.
“Stay here with us where it’s safe!” the old soldier cawed hoarsely. “There’s no harm in it. If I throw in another kreuzer, maybe you could keep the two of us warm at the same time. What do you say, Karl?”
A young fellow with a dumb stare giggled like a child as spit drooled out of the corner of his mouth. “Cou–cou–could be, Pe–Pe–Peter,” he stuttered, sidling over to Magdalena on his knees.
“One more step, dummy,” the hangman’s daughter warned him, “and I’ll slash your face so good you’ll look like your pockmarked friend here. Now go away!”
“No way, darling,” the veteran said. “Here’s your chance to make some money.” He reached for her dress and tried to pull Magdalena toward him—a miscalculation, as he learned all too soon. The hangman’s daughter kicked the stump of his leg so hard he collapsed, whimpering and rolling around on the cathedral steps.
“She’s attacked Peter Pockmark!” the old woman cried. “She’s stuck a knife in his chest, the little slut!”
“Nonsense!” Magdalena shouted. “A
ll I did was—” A brass plate struck her in the face, sending her staggering backward. Out of the corner of her eye she could see three more beggars running down the steps toward her now, swinging their crutches like halberds and not looking the least bit hobbled or lame. Magdalena leaped over Peter Pockmark, who still lay groaning on the steps, and ran through the cathedral colonnade. Perhaps she’d come across a doorway and find refuge inside the church.
She ran past stone columns, saints, and gargoyles. At every turn someone seemed to lie in wait, and she could hear footsteps rapidly approaching from all directions. She found a narrow doorway, but just as she grasped the door handle, she felt the heavy weight of a hairy arm on her shoulder. She spun around, prepared to fight to the bitter end, but a voice whispered in her ear.
“Don’t move an inch, girl. I’ll take care of this.”
In front of her stood an older man with a bandage over his right eye, whom Magdalena instantly recognized as the blind beggar Simon had cured in the city square.
“I’ve been looking for you all night,” he whispered, eyeing her reproachfully from head to toe. “The way you look, it’s high time I found you. Your friend is worried sick.”
He’ll be even more worried when I tell him all I’ve been through these last few hours, she thought.
Meanwhile, Reiser turned to face the motley band that had gathered at the side door ready to attack the hangman’s daughter with crutches, stones, and rusty plates.
“Listen up! This girl is one of us!” Reiser shouted. “She belongs to the young medicus who’s already done so much to heal many of our brothers and sisters. And she stands under the personal protection of the beggar king—so leave her alone!”
“She—she nearly killed Peter Pockmark,” the old woman retorted in a faltering voice. “And she offended us, the fresh whore!”
A murmur went up in the crowd, accompanied by a handful of stones that flew through the air.
“The little slut ought to be glad we’re looking out for her!” replied a hunchbacked man on crutches. “Especially these days with a monster on the loose snatching up whores and ripping their bodies to shreds. She can at least lie down with us a while in thanks. It’s only just!”
“You want to explain that to Nathan?” Reiser snarled, glaring at him menacingly. “Do you want to tell him what’s just and what’s not?” He turned then to the others. “Shall I tell Nathan you’ve no more interest in obeying his orders? Shall I do that?”
The hunchback cringed and crossed himself. “We didn’t mean it that way. We just thought—”
“Now then—seems there’s no problem after all.” Reiser took the astonished Magdalena by the arm and led her slowly down the stairs. “I’m taking this girl to Nathan now,” he informed them in a booming voice, “and I do hope no one attempts to interfere.”
The beggars muttered and grumbled but stood aside, forming a passage just wide enough for Magdalena and her rescuer. Disgusted, the hangman’s daughter noticed some of these wretched creatures licking their lips and gesturing obscenely, but no one moved an inch from his place as they passed.
“All right now, back to bed with you all,” Reiser said to the crowd once the two of them had made their way down to the cathedral square. “And be quick about it before the guards come and drive you out of here with their pikes. Whoever’s feeling sick or in pain can come to the guild house tomorrow, and the doctor will take care of you all, provided you keep your hands off his girl.”
The old beggar pulled Magdalena into a narrow lane. For a time she could still hear the mumbling crowd behind her, and then the nightmare was over.
At that same moment, just a few blocks away, Satan was forcing Katharina’s thighs apart, digging into her back with his claws. For more than a week now she’d been awaiting her fate in a daze. She’d long since lost the ability to distinguish between dream and reality.
Katharina felt sharp needles pierce her flesh; she could smell her own blood. She punched and she clawed, but the hairy, foul body bore down on her, pinning her to the ground until a searing pain spread between her legs. She could almost taste the oily, musky sweat of a rutting goat trickling down her body. For a single moment she opened her eyes to see three black-robed priests in her cell, pointing at her.
Unchaste woman…lustful woman…woman cursed by God…
Their eyes flashing like embers, the men metamorphosed into a trio of nude virgins before her eyes as they approached her, smiling. When one of them pulled back her lips, Katharina discerned the sharp fangs of a she-wolf.
“No! Go away, get away from me! You’re nothing but an evil dream!”
The virgins, the priests, and the devil vanished, and all that remained was an empty room with a sweat-soaked Katharina lying on the cold floor. An itching sensation began to spread over her body, growing ever more intense until she had to rub her body against the wall like a wild boar. She couldn’t suppress a giggle.
Like a wild sow in the woods… I’m turning into a wild sow. Soon I’ll grow a snout and…
Her laughter became uncontrollable, convulsive; she struggled for air until she finally collapsed, the laughter turning to sobs that became softer and softer until they finally died away. For a single moment Katharina could think clearly again, and she struggled desperately to hold on to her reason, which she could feel gradually slipping away.
Is this purgatory? Am I dead?
There was a creak as the hatch opened and gloved hands delivered another round of delicacies—wine, white bread, veal still pink inside and drenched in a steaming cream sauce, with a side of dumplings and sweets dripping with honey.
Or is this paradise?
The eye stared at Katharina until she sopped up the last of the thick sauce with the warm bread. Then its owner turned and ascended the stairs, whistling.
The experiment was progressing nicely.
8
REGENSBURG
EARLY MORNING, AUGUST 21, 1662 AD
THE HOUR HAS come, Bavarian. We must begin.”
In the dungeon the Regensburg executioner bent down to Jakob Kuisl, who had fallen asleep on the grimy hard wooden floor, and gently shook him by the shoulder. When the Schongau hangman didn’t stir, Teuber nudged him with his foot.
“Come on, now, pull yourself together. The authorities have decided to have you tortured,” the executioner announced. “If you keep lolling around like this, we’ll have to summon the guards and light a fire under your ass.”
“It’ll never burn, as wet and moldy as it is down here.” Kuisl rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Even back home in little Schongau, the condemned are better off than here in your fine Imperial City.”
Teuber chuckled. “Just you wait. After the sentencing you’ll go to death row, just like all the others condemned to die. There’s at least a bit of sunlight there, and you’re allowed visitors.”
“I’m thrilled to hear it.” Kuisl struggled to his feet and turned toward the door. “Let’s go. Before I actually wake up.”
Outside, four bailiffs waited for the Schongau hangman, a mixture of fear and revulsion in their faces. To them he was the bathhouse monster who had sunk his fangs into the throats of two of their citizens—at least that was the word on the street. Because such a monster could even be expected to attack four guards armed to the teeth, the bailiffs lowered their halberds, ready to strike at any moment.
“Calm down,” Kuisl said. “I’m not going to attack you.”
Without paying further attention to the guards, he accompanied Teuber down the narrow corridor until they came to stairs leading down into a large room. Along the way they passed a brazier filled with glowing coals and a few pokers. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and fear.
The Schongau hangman surveyed the torture chamber, impressed with both the equipment and the size of the room. On Kuisl’s left stood a rack topped with a bloodstained roller spiked with iron balls. Behind it was the so-called Naughty Liesl, a wooden triangle attached to a cord, which the hangman
used to hoist the offender into the air. Scattered around the room lay stones of various sizes, which were attached as weights to the victim’s arms and legs as he swung from the device.
On the opposite wall were other torture instruments that Kuisl knew only by word of mouth, because the Schongau city council considered them too expensive. Among them were the Maiden’s Lap, a chair with iron spikes covering the seat; the Spanish Donkey; and the Slide, an upright rack with four polished rotating wood triangles. Two white tallow candles gave off flickering light, and between them hung a crucifix: a solemn reminder that everything happening here was God’s will.
“Well done, cousin. Nothing’s missing here.” Kuisl’s gaze wandered to one side where a portion of the basement was closed off by a thick wooden lattice. From behind it came quiet murmurs.
“The three inquisitors are already here,” Teuber whispered, pointing to the lattice. “We’re just waiting now for the surgeon. Until recently the bathhouse owner Hofmann played that part, but they had to replace him rather abruptly, of course. As far as I know, with the surgeon Dominik Elsperger.” Teuber shrugged. “If you ask me, he’s a real quack. But in here it doesn’t really matter, now does it?”
“So, who are my three inquisitors?” asked Kuisl. He tried to make out anything behind the mesh but could see only moving shadows. “They’re probably afraid I’m going to bite their heads off.”
“All three are aldermen,” Teuber said. “According to custom, it includes the oldest and the youngest members of the council. The third member is always someone different at each trial. Ah, here comes the doctor now.”
The Beggar King: A Hangman's Daughter Tale (US Edition) Page 19