The Werewolf of Bamberg (US Edition) (A Hangman's Daughter Tale Book 5)

by Oliver Pötzsch

  A narrow, almost overgrown deer path ran along the fence behind the buildings and then deeper into the pine forest. The musty odor of wet needles mingled with the burning smell from the knacker’s fire behind him, while overhead the clouds hung so low they grazed the upper branches. Though it was only noontime, dusk seemed to already be settling over the forest.

  Jakob Kuisl had gone some distance when he suddenly heard a long, drawn-out growl. At first he thought it had come from the dog kennels, but then he realized the knacker’s house lay far behind him. He stopped and listened.

  Again he heard something growling, deep and threatening—but more importantly, very nearby.

  Instinctively, Jakob Kuisl reached for the long hunting knife hanging on his belt, pulled it out, and looked around carefully. Then he took a few steps forward, but immediately stopped again when he heard a crackling sound close by.

  Just a few steps in front of him, a ghostly figure scurried through the bushes. The thicket obscured his view, and all he saw was a vague apparition. But the figure was very large, and it growled deeply and angrily, like a veritable hound of hell.

  “What in the world . . .” he muttered, holding his hunting knife up and ready to strike.

  But as fast as the figure had appeared, it vanished again. There was one last rustling in the bushes, suggestive of some large, furry creature, and then the spirit had vanished. Jakob waited awhile before cautiously moving on.

  Who or what was that?

  His heart beat faster and his worries about Georg, Barbara, and his younger brother suddenly receded into the background. The hangman thought of the severed arms and legs, the dead whore in the watchman’s office, and the strange odor emanating from them.

  The odor of a wet beast of prey.

  For a moment, Jakob was no longer sure whether or not he believed in the existence of werewolves. But then his reason won out. Deep in thought, he pulled out his cold pipe, put it between his teeth, and plodded onward. This creature might have been a large wolf, perhaps a wild dog, but certainly it wasn’t what his imagination had been leading him to believe.

  Or maybe it was?

  Kuisl picked up his pace. Perhaps the creature would pay him another visit. But this time, he’d be ready.

  Wide-eyed, Magdalena sat in the sold-out hall of the tavern, staring at the stage, where Doctor Faustus screamed as he was taken off to hell.

  The figure of the scholar was shrouded in clouds of smoke, and thunder rumbled through the room as the man condemned by God slowly sank into the earth while the devil danced around him, laughing. An older woman seated next to Magdalena groaned and fainted, while the man seated on the other side of the woman, presumably her husband, did nothing to help her, spellbound by the events on the stage. Cries of horror could be heard in the hall, and many in the audience clenched their fists or gripped their beer mugs in fear. The same people who had been carousing gaily just a few hours ago now seemed to have turned to stone. When Magdalena looked back briefly, she saw her younger sister standing behind her, pale and wiping the tears from her eyes.

  “Oh, God,” Barbara gasped, chewing on her fingernails, “it’s . . . it’s so horrible!”

  While the men in the Kuisl family went about their usual business and the two boys spent the day with Katharina and her goodies in the kitchen, Magdalena and her younger sister were attending the matinee performance in the wedding house. Ever since yesterday, when the theater director, Sir Malcolm, had invited them, Barbara had been beside herself with excitement—and Magdalena, too, had been eagerly looking forward to the performance. For almost three hours they’d been immersed in a world the two young women had never imagined.

  Along with Doctor Faustus and the devil, they had traveled to Rome, where the devil played tricks on the pope, and they had witnessed the notorious sorcery at the court of the Habsburg emperor—how people were suddenly made to grow antlers on their heads and angels from heaven actually came swooping down to earth. When finally the beautiful Helen of Troy from Greek mythology appeared in person and Doctor Faustus promptly fell in love with her, Magdalena and Barbara were overwhelmed. The two women watched helplessly as the scholar, who had wandered off the straight and narrow path, could not be saved even by the love of the beautiful Helen, and was dragged mercilessly down to hell, condemned to eternal damnation.

  Magdalena knew, of course, that Doctor Faustus was in fact the playwright Markus Salter, and that the devil with the horns on his head and the black-and-golden robe was none other than Sir Malcolm. Still, she broke out in goose bumps and her heart beat faster as demons dressed in scarlet robes and wooden masks tugged at the doctor’s clothes until all they held in their hands were bloody shreds.

  It’s magic, Magdalena thought, and yet it isn’t. Is it a miracle . . . ?

  Finally, Faustus had disappeared completely into the ground, and while the devil laughed and danced through the mist, the curtain squeaked as it was pulled closed.

  For a moment the crowd just stood quietly in the great hall, then scattered cheers went up and soon turned into thunderous applause. Beer mugs and hats flew into the air, while toward the back of the room, windows had been opened and women leaned out, fanning themselves. The curtain rose again, and the performers came forward to take a bow. Some drinking cups flew in the direction of Sir Malcolm, whom many in the audience evidently still regarded as the devil; the producer dodged the mugs with a smile, apparently proud of the confusion between him and the character he had played.

  Not until the curtain had fallen for the third time did the people slowly make their way down the steps and out of the building, where it was already late afternoon. Magdalena realized she had completely lost track of time. She looked up at the stage, which now, without the costumed actors, music, and loudly declaimed verses, looked cold and lifeless. The magic had vanished. In one corner of the room, an old man was sweeping up broken beer mugs while a dog lapped up the sweet-smelling puddles.

  “Let’s go backstage to visit the actors, shall we?” Magdalena suggested.

  By now Barbara had recovered, but her nose was still a bit red, and she hadn’t quite regained her voice yet. “That . . . that sounds wonderful.”

  Magdalena smiled. “You said before you thought it was horrible, so which is it, horrible or wonderful?”

  “Both at the same time.”

  The two sisters had long forgotten their little quarrel of the day before. With a nod, Barbara headed for the front of the room, where a wooden staircase on the left led up to the stage and behind a curtain. Magdalena followed and was startled when Sir Malcolm suddenly appeared between the folds of the curtain. Sweat had rolled down over his white makeup, smearing it and giving him an almost diabolical appearance, combined with his black-and-gold costume and the plaster horns on his forehead.

  “I hope you enjoyed the performance,” he said with a slight bow.

  “You were splendid,” Barbara replied. “The people were practically bewitched.”

  “Oh, just don’t let your bishop hear that.” It was the voice of Markus Salter, who had changed his clothes and was approaching the two young women. “According to the rumors going around, quite a few people believe a werewolf is afoot in the city. It would be a shame if His Excellency thought it was connected with our group of actors.”

  “Oh, they’ll figure that all out, just wait and see.” Sir Malcolm smiled and waved his hand dismissively. “We can easily explain our little tricks.” He pointed at a hole in the stage floor with white dust around the edges. “Doctor Faustus disappears in this heap of flour, our angels fly on ordinary ropes, and our thunder, too, is homemade.” He laughed as he pounded on a thin metal plate leaning against a wardrobe closet. Barbara was startled and put her hands to her ears.

  “Anyway, it isn’t the worst thing in the world for us if people come here to be entertained because of all the dreadful things going on out there,” Sir Malcolm continued as the thunder gradually died away. “Tomorrow we’re performing a come
dy called Vincentius Ladislaus, and then people will have something to laugh about. I will be playing the part of the brave Vincentius, Markus will be the duke, and Matheo the beautiful Rosina. Believe me, Matheo is the most beautiful girl from here to the Far East. Isn’t that so, lad?”

  As if on cue, the suntanned Matheo jumped out from behind the curtains. He had taken off the dress of the beautiful Helen but still had some makeup on his face, making him even more attractive, Magdalena thought.

  At least to a fifteen-year-old girl, for whom men are still nothing more than crude, beer-guzzling ogres, she thought as she glanced secretively at her younger sister. Barbara let out a soft sigh and gripped the curtain tightly.

  “I stepped on the hem of the dress a few times,” Matheo said with a laugh. “One more step and the beautiful Helen suddenly would have been standing there naked.”

  “Oh, I know a few people who wouldn’t have minded seeing that,” Magdalena replied with a slight smirk. She suppressed a cry of pain as Barbara stepped on her foot. Matheo grinned and returned the compliment with an affected curtsy, then turned to Barbara.

  “Are you coming tomorrow, as well?” he inquired with genuine interest. “At the next performance I will need someone to throw balls to me to juggle. Would you perhaps like to do that?”

  “You mean . . . me?” Barbara squeaked. “Oh, certainly, if—”

  “If time permits,” Magdalena interrupted. “We have to help get ready for a wedding this week.”

  Matheo put on a disappointed face and turned back to Barbara. “Oh, your own, perhaps? Best wishes.”

  “Oh, no!” Magdalena replied with a laugh for Barbara, who was at a loss for words. “Our uncle is getting married. Incidentally, right here in the wedding house . . . but oh, God,” she continued, slapping her forehead, “with everything going on here, I almost forgot. My aunt had some things she wanted me to ask the innkeeper. I suppose he’s over in the tavern.”

  “You can spare yourself the trip.” Sir Malcolm pointed at a huge man who had just entered and was walking toward them. “He’s right here.”

  The man approaching them with wide-opened arms was extremely fat. It looked almost as if a mountain of flesh was making its way through the room. He had a huge mane of red hair and snorted and wiped the sweat from his brow with a large cloth.

  “Damn, Malcolm,” the fat man panted. “These steps will be the death of me yet. I should have set you up over in the tavern. Don’t forget, I’m no longer as slim and trim as I used to be.”

  “Well, you couldn’t have accommodated anywhere near as many people over there,” the director replied with a smile, “nor sold as much beer, either.”

  The fat man roared with laughter. “Right you are. After a few more performances like this, my cellars will be empty. But I must congratulate you, Malcolm. People say the devil was really here in person at the wedding house.”

  “Speaking of weddings . . .” Malcolm pointed at Magdalena and Barbara, who were standing off to one side. “These two young ladies want to talk to you about their uncle’s wedding. He’s, uh—”

  “Bartholomäus Kuisl,” Magdalena interrupted, trying to sound casual. “The Bamberg executioner.”

  Markus Salter gasped, and for a moment both Sir Malcolm and Matheo were speechless. Until then, Magdalena hadn’t mentioned her uncle’s vocation, but now she saw no reason not to. They could just go ahead and gossip—she was accustomed to it.

  The innkeeper’s resounding laugh finally broke the awkward silence.

  “Ha, ha! You see, young lady,” he said, extending his huge hand and vigorously shaking Magdalena’s, “some people are more afraid of an executioner than of the devil. My name is Berthold Lamprecht. I’m the innkeeper of the Wild Man, right next door to the wedding house. I’ve known your uncle for a long time. It’s an honor for me to host his wedding to the beautiful Katharina.”

  “An honor?” Magdalena looked at him, puzzled. “Excuse me, but that word sounds unusual to someone in a hangman’s family.”

  “I don’t care what other people say,” replied Lamprecht, waving his hand dismissively. “Your uncle has a hard job, and it’s said he does it very well. Why, then, shouldn’t he marry just like other people?”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Magdalena smiled. Perhaps her brother was right, after all, and this city was the promised land for families of executioners.

  “I’m here to make some requests for my aunt,” she said finally. “She’d like wine, beer, sausages, sauerkraut and bread, and some pastries, as well.”

  Lamprecht nodded. “Of course. But first I have a message for the actors—an unsettling bit of news.” His face darkened. “I’ve been told that another group of actors arrived in town this morning and have taken lodging in the Grapevine Inn.”

  “A second group of actors?” Sir Malcolm’s jaw dropped. “But the bishop assured me . . .”

  Lamprecht shrugged. “The bishop changes his mind as often as he uses the chamber pot. It seems to be a French troupe directed by a certain Guiscard Brolet. Do you know him, by chance?”

  “Guiscard!” Malcolm’s face suddenly turned as white as chalk. “That old snake in the grass. He steals and copies whatever material he can get his hands on. A charlatan! He probably thinks he can settle down here for the winter and spy on us. But he’s mistaken.”

  “I can’t imagine that the bishop in this city wants to put up two troupes of actors,” Markus Salter said. “He has enough trouble already with his suffragan bishop, who considers our work blasphemous.” He turned to Sir Malcolm. “Remember our performance for His Excellency a few months ago, when he suggested a possible permission for us to spend the winter here? The suffragan bishop shot us a look that could kill.”

  “Naturally there can be only one acting troupe in Bamberg, and we are the ones.” Malcolm stiffened like a soldier at attention. “I will ask today for another audience, and then the prince-bishop will have this swindler whipped and chased out of town.” He turned to Magdalena and declared in a theatrical voice: “Tell your uncle, the executioner, that he’ll soon have some work to do.”

  “I’d be happy if we were just allowed to stay in the city,” Matheo murmured. “Just imagine what it would be like to have to wander through the countryside in the winter.” He shuddered. “It’s all the more important, then, that the performance tomorrow goes well and that the people like us.”

  The innkeeper nodded. “I agree.” With a smile, he turned to Magdalena and Barbara. “But now let’s give our attention instead to the beautiful ladies. After all, a wedding ceremony is something very special, isn’t it? Particularly when it’s the hangman who is getting married.” He turned around, looking for someone.

  “Jeremias!” he bellowed. “There’s work for you. Come here, you lazy fellow. Did you fall asleep while you were scrubbing the floor?”

  A stooped figure came shuffling out of a corner of the room, with a little dog jumping at his feet. It was the old man Magdalena had observed cleaning up earlier. As he approached, Magdalena shuddered instinctively. The man was completely bald, and his head and face were heavily scarred and covered with scabs. All that was left of his two ears were tiny stumps, giving the poor fellow the appearance of a smooth egg—but in the midst of all these horrible wounds were two sparkling, friendly eyes.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Berthold Lamprecht said. “Jeremias comes from a family of charcoal burners. When he was a child he fell into a pit of burning lime, which explains his appearance. Many people are superstitious and don’t want anything to do with him—they think he’s a monster. But with me he has a job.”

  “You can go ahead and call me a monster, if you like,” Jeremias told Magdalena and Barbara with a smile. His voice sounded soft and pleasant. “I’m used to it. Just please don’t call me meat loaf, even if Biff here thinks that’s what I am.” The little dog jumped up and licked the man’s hands. Not until then did Magdalena notice that the dog had a misshapen paw. He was a cripple, just like h
is master.

  “Jeremias is the good soul of this house,” Lamprecht continued. “Cleans, picks up after us, and above all, takes care of our books.” The innkeeper grinned. “For that alone, he’s earned his pay. You can go over to the tavern with him, and he’ll carefully note down what you need.”

  Jeremias nodded enthusiastically, and Magdalena and Barbara followed him hesitantly down the stairs into the Wild Man tavern. The dog limped along, barking happily. A small but solid door next to the main entrance led into a large room where several notebooks lay on a table. A large birdcage hung from the ceiling, and inside it, a few sparrows were chirping merrily, while on a narrow bed an old cat dozed, apparently not disturbed by either the birds or the barking dog.

  “My kingdom,” Jeremias said proudly, spreading his arms. “It’s small, but at least no one disturbs me here.” He shrugged. “The children in the streets outside can be very annoying with their mean words. I’m happy to have found peace and quiet here.” The old man groaned as he bent down over a notebook and dipped his quill pen into an inkwell. “So, what exactly do you wish to order?”

  Magdalena listed the individual items just as Katharina had asked, while Barbara bent over to pet the little dog, which whined and panted happily. When she looked up again, she noticed a few books in a rickety bookcase alongside some bottles and jars.

  “William Shakes . . . Shakespeare,” she said, looking puzzled as she deciphered the writing. Then her face brightened. “Ah, Shakespeare! Is that the fellow Malcolm’s playwright Markus thought so highly of? Do you read plays?”

  The old man smiled. “I actually bought a few of them just last year from a traveling book salesman. They are especially popular translations into German, published here for the first time under the name William Shakespeare. This Shakespeare is a celebrity in England, though all that anyone knows about him here are his plays. But I’m afraid they don’t appeal to me—there’s too much blood and heartache, and no numbers or balance sheets at all. You’re welcome to visit me and have a look . . .” He hesitated and regarded Barbara, puzzled. “But can you read—I mean more than just a few letters?”