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

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “Hey, what’s the rush?” the Schongau hangman asked. “You haven’t been up to some mischief, have you?”

  Gasping for breath, the man struggled to his feet and grabbed Jakob’s shirt. “Oh, God no, help me!” he panted. “They’re . . . they’re going to kill me. They . . .”

  Now he noticed Bartholomäus and Georg, and he winced. “Oh, no, the Bamberg executioner and his apprentice. Did they call for you? Now I’m as good as dead.”

  “Take it easy, now . . . ,” Bartholomäus started to say, but at that moment an angry mob burst out of the lane. There were nearly two dozen of them, some armed with pitchforks and scythes and others with clubs. When they saw the old man standing beside the three hangmen, they stopped with triumphant looks on their faces.

  “Aha! The hangman has already caught the beast,” shouted an old farmer at the front of the group. “Let’s go, let’s take him away right now to be burned. There are plenty of bales of straw over at the Hay Market.”

  “What’s going on here, folks?” Bartholomäus asked in a threatening tone. “Speak up, and be quick about it. Exactly what did this fellow do?”

  “This is the werewolf!” cried a skinny man standing farther back in the crowd, in a shrill voice. “We’ll make short work of him before he attacks any more of us!”

  “What makes you think he’s a werewolf?” the Bamberg executioner asked.

  “Can’t you see?” a third man spoke up, a young wagon driver with broad shoulders and a broken nose. “This is Josef Hartl, the shepherd in the Bamberg Forest. Day after day he’s out there with his animals. Karoline Furtwängler swears to God that he makes an ointment that he can rub onto himself to turn into a werewolf.”

  “But that’s just a salve I rub onto their inflamed udders,” Hartl retorted, wringing his hands. “Haven’t I told you that a thousand times?”

  “Hah! And how about the strange herbs you used to sell at the Green Market?” the older farmer hissed. “Admit it, we’ve seen you slinking into the city to peddle your magic tinctures and turn everyone into werewolves.”

  “That was arnica and ground oak bark, for the sick horse belonging to the tavern keeper at the Grapevine. The horse has scabies, that’s all.” Josef turned to the Bamberg executioner. “Master Bartholomäus,” he pleaded. “You know me. You yourself have bought ointments and herbs from me for your dogs.”

  Bartholomäus nodded. “Indeed I have, and I don’t think—”

  “Just look at his eyebrows,” the skinny man shouted again, pointing at the trembling shepherd. “They have grown together in the middle—a sure sign that he’s a werewolf.”

  “If that’s the case, then all three of us are werewolves,” Jakob Kuisl growled. “We have bushy eyebrows, we sell ointments and herbs, and by God, when I see dumb-ass farmers like you, I might howl like a wolf and devour you, too.” He took a threatening step forward. “Now get out of here, every last one of you, before things really do get violent.”

  “Who are you to boss us around, stranger?” the burly wagon driver asked.

  “He’s my brother,” Bartholomäus replied and stepped between the two men. “And, just incidentally, a lot tougher than any of you. If you want Josef Hartl, you’ll first have to deal with us Kuisls. All right, now, who’s first?” He cracked the knuckles of his right fist, and the people stepped back.

  Finally the powerfully built wagon driver stepped forward, swinging a club as he ran toward Jakob. “You son of a—” he started to say, but at that moment the Schongau hangman punched the large man in the stomach, sending him sprawling onto the ground, gasping for air. When he tried to get up again, Georg kicked him for good measure.

  “Just stay right there on the ground, big fellow,” Georg said, shaking a finger at him. “That’s the safest place for you right now.”

  In the meantime, a few other men had drawn closer with their pitchforks, flails, and scythes and started threatening the three Kuisls with clubs and swords, but from a safe distance. Josef Hartl had taken refuge behind his protectors, where he cowered against the wall of a house, crying.

  “Oh, God, they’ll kill me, they’ll kill me . . . ,” he kept repeating.

  Jakob, Bartholomäus, and Georg stood shoulder to shoulder, warding off the attacks as best they could. Shouts, gasps, and heavy breathing combined to make a noise reminding Jakob of the war. He had not yet reached for his large hunting knife, knowing that once blood was shed, he might wind up on the gallows himself.

  And who is going to hang me? he thought. My own brother?

  In a rage, another large man came running toward him. Jakob tripped him, then he punched another attacker in the nose, so hard that the man sank to the ground, moaning. Nevertheless, one blow hit Jakob in the face, and warm blood ran down his cheeks. The fight was dirty and mean, and Jakob knew that in the end they would lose. There were simply too many attackers, and they had heavier weapons. What should they do? Flee and abandon the old shepherd to his fate?

  Just as Jakob dodged another blow from a scythe, a commanding voice rang out nearby.

  “You will stop at once, or I’ll have you all thrown into the city dungeon on orders of the prince-bishop.”

  Jakob looked up in astonishment and saw some figures emerging from another small side road. There were a half dozen city guards armed with pikes and halberds. The man who had just spoken stood next to the guards, wearing the official robe and hat of a doctor. Behind him, Jakob spotted a smaller, somewhat foppishly clothed young man who appeared to be trying to hide behind the guards.

  The Schongau hangman, relieved, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “Damn, I would never have thought I’d be so happy to see my son-in-law!” he called out. Then he turned to his astonished attackers. “Didn’t you hear? Drop your weapons before these two learned gentlemen stab you to death with their letter openers.”

  Simon stepped out from behind the guards and gave a smirk. “In return for our having saved your life, dear Father-in-Law, you will keep your mouth shut.”

  “Saved my life? Since when have I had to ask you for help in a fight?”

  “Perhaps you can put aside your family squabbles until later,” said the man standing next to Simon. “We have more important matters to attend to now.” Then he turned again and, in a firm voice, addressed the milling crowd.

  “Haven’t I made myself clear? Hurry up and leave. You know me: I am the prince-bishop’s personal physician. Shall I report that you are being insubordinate? You know very well that rioting in the city is forbidden.” He pointed at the shepherd still standing beside the wall of the house, frozen in fear. “Whether this man has broken some law is up to the court to decide, not you. So move on, and let the law take care of this.”

  Grumbling, the crowd dispersed, one person after another. They picked up the injured and carried them off—but not without turning around a few times with threatening glances. When the last steps had died away, the physician took a deep breath.

  “That was close,” he said softly, and turned to Jakob. “You really should thank your son-in-law for this. He’s the one who called the guards. Otherwise, we would probably no longer have an executioner here in Bamberg, but only a murderous, pillaging mob. Take the poor fellow down to the Langgasser Gate. It would be best for him to stay away from Bamberg for the next few weeks.”

  “But if he really is a werewolf—” one of the soldiers demurred.

  “For God’s sake. How stupid are you, anyway?” the doctor interrupted. “It takes more than grease and herbs to make a werewolf. I give you my word, as the personal physician of the bishop, that this man is no monster. And now, off with you.”

  The guards left with the shepherd, who was still trembling all over. Jakob Kuisl wiped the dried blood out of his eyes. “You have a pretty influential friend on your side,” he said appreciatively to Simon. “I’m guessing this Doctor Samuel is your old school friend”—he grinned at the two former classmates—“and your years at the university we
re not a total waste.”

  “Well, I hope I haven’t exceeded my authority,” Samuel murmured. “While I do have some influence here in the city, when His Excellency the bishop learns I ordered the release of a man suspected of a crime, I can expect a reprimand—if the suffragan bishop does not skin me alive first.”

  “But you saved a person’s life,” said Georg, who, except for a bloodied lip, appeared uninjured. “I think it was worth it,” he continued, casting an admiring look at his father. “You beat the crap out of them. It’s hard to believe you’re already over fifty.”

  “It was enough to beat up a couple of wiseass farmers,” Kuisl growled. “I’ll turn on my rude son, too, if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut.” But even as he complained, a warm feeling of affection pulsed through him. The ice between him and his son seemed finally to have thawed.

  “You know what, Jakob?” Bartholomäus chortled. “This fight reminds me of when we were kids, and how the sons of old Berchtholdt would sometimes beat us up down by the Lech River. That was always a real blast. I think we should do this more often. It’s what bonds us together.”

  Simon shook his head in disbelief. “I always knew I’d married into a strange family,” he mumbled, beating the dust from his badly rumpled petticoat breeches. “Anyway, it’s time for us Kuisls to go back home. My youngster, I believe, has caught us some fish for supper, and if we wait any longer, he’ll be angry. That’s worse, by God, than any fight in the streets.”

  A few hours later, after night had fallen like a black shroud over Bamberg, two stooped figures snuck over the City Hall Bridge toward the new section of town.

  One of them was as tall and broad as a bear and wore swords, hunting knives, and a loaded wheel-lock pistol on his belt. Cautiously, the huge man stopped at every crossing and looked around before waving to the other man to follow. The hesitant man bringing up the rear was short and crippled, stooped with age, and visibly in pain as he moved forward, clutching his cane. Nevertheless, the elderly city councilman Thadäus Vasold insisted on paying a visit to his old friend at this unnatural hour.

  The old man trembled all over, but that had little to do with the cool autumn night. Shivering, he closed the top button of his expensive woolen coat and followed his husky guide warily through the labyrinth of alleys that spread out below the cathedral. The friendly giant was Hans, Vasold’s most loyal servant, who had also served as a coachman to Vasold’s father, scion of an old patrician family. It had become clear, early on, that Hans, though blessed with enormous size and strength, had the intelligence of a doorstop. Still, Vasold had often taken him along on his trips as a bodyguard; the giant might not have been the brightest, but he was discreet—and robbers, thieves, and highwaymen always ran off when they saw him coming.

  Vasold hoped his servant would have the same effect on werewolves.

  Naturally, the patrician could have paid this visit officially during the day, but Thadäus Vasold wanted to prevent others from hearing about their conversation. Even after so many years, some people might have drawn the right conclusion, and Vasold wanted to attract as little attention as possible. Thus he had decided to make a far more dangerous trip in the dead of night.

  In his calloused hands, big Hans carried a tiny lantern to help them find their way through the night. The lantern was just bright enough to form a flickering circle of light for the two men, beyond which lay nothing but the fog and darkness.

  Vasold cursed softly to himself. How often had he urged the council to put up lanterns in at least the larger squares in town, as various big German cities had already done? But the council had repeatedly put him off because of the cost, and possibly for fear of starting a fire, and thus he, Thadäus Vasold, one of the most esteemed and oldest patricians in Bamberg, had to find his way like a thief in the night, stumbling over garbage, rotten barrels, and pieces of wood lying around, and nearly shitting in his pants with fear.

  When Klaus Schwarzkontz, his old friend and colleague on the city council, had not returned from a trip to Nuremberg a few weeks ago, at first Vasold had not been at all worried. On the contrary: Schwarzkontz had been one of his major competitors in the wool trade, so that just meant more business for Vasold. But since then, more and more people had disappeared, and gradually Thadäus Vasold was beginning to suspect something horrible. Perhaps he was mistaken, but if the various pieces of the puzzle fell together, there was something there—something reaching far back into the past and touching upon an especially dark part of his life.

  Was it possible? After all these years?

  After the apothecary’s wife, Adelheid Rinswieser, had disappeared without a trace, Vasold had struggled for a long time before deciding to pay this nocturnal visit. Secretly, the patrician hoped his friend would try to calm him down, laugh at his fears, and together they would raise a toast to old times. Vasold feared nothing more than the idea that his friend might have come to the same conclusion.

  But he suspected he had.

  And what will we do then? Lock the doors and hope that the shadow passes? Pray? Go on a pilgrimage? Plead with God for forgiveness?

  “What’s the matter, Hans?”

  Vasold’s loyal servant had suddenly stopped in his tracks so that the patrician, lost in his thoughts, almost bumped into him. The huge man was standing there like a monument of stone, his hand on the loaded pistol still hanging from his belt.

  “I don’t know, master. I thought I heard something,” he murmured.

  “And what did you hear?”

  “A . . . well, a growling and scraping sound. It came from the entrance to the house here.”

  Trembling, Hans pointed to a shadowy niche on their left, and Vasold felt as if a fist were slowly squeezing his heart.

  The house was one of the many dilapidated buildings that had been standing vacant for decades. Ivy had wound its way up the unplastered walls, the windows were boarded up, and rotten beams of wood and clumps of rock lay in front of the wide door. Only now did the old patrician notice that the once-splendid portal, with its inlaid wood and carvings, was open a crack. Inside, a form, even darker than the darkness, was undulating back and forth. Somewhere a stone fell, crashing to the ground, and now Vasold heard it, too—a long, sustained growl, deep and evil.

  “There it is again, master,” Hans whispered.

  Thadäus Vasold had never before seen the big man scared, not even when he’d confronted two marauding mercenaries in the Bamberg Forest—but now he was shaking all over.

  “This werewolf . . . ,” he groaned. “People say they love fresh blood, and they slowly tear their victims apart, first the arms, then the legs, then—”

  “Damn it, Hans, I didn’t bring you along to tell me all these foolish horror stories,” Vasold replied hesitantly. “Go take a look and see who or what it is.”

  “As you say, master.” The large man pulled himself together, drew the loaded wheel-lock pistol, and carefully approached the doorway. He spoke a silent prayer.

  At that moment, the door opened with a loud grating sound and a figure appeared, so horrible that Hans uttered a cry, dropped his weapon, and fell to his knees.

  The creature looked like a wolf as it slunk toward them on its hind legs. In the darkness of night, it appeared taller than a man, and it had black fur and long fangs that flashed in the light of the lantern that Hans had dropped on the ground.

  “God in heaven, help us!”

  The voice of the huge man was suddenly high-pitched and whining, like that of a girl. With a final horrified scream, he scrambled to his feet and raced away down the street, disappearing into the darkness.

  Thadäus Vasold wanted to call after his servant, but his voice failed him. Terrified, he stared at the creature that was approaching him with its long claws. The lantern on the ground flickered slightly, casting dancing shadows on the wall, making the creature look larger and larger the closer it came.

  “Please . . . ,” Vasold croaked, paralyzed with fear, clutching his walking
stick and watching wide-eyed as death incarnate approached. “Please, spare me. By God, I’ll give you anything you want. I’ll . . .”

  Only then did the old patrician realize what he’d completely overlooked in his anxiety.

  He knew this house, and he knew also who had once lived there.

  I was right. But why—

  Vasold’s thoughts scattered like snowflakes in a storm as the creature pounced on him with a contented snarl.

  In the distance, the servant’s shrill cries for help rang out, but the councilor couldn’t hear them anymore.

  6

  THE BAMBERG CITY COUNCIL CHAMBER, MORNING, OCTOBER 28, 1668 AD

  GENTLEMEN! SILENCE, PLEASE! SILENCE!”

  Simon sat on a hard wooden chair at one corner of the huge council table, listening and watching attentively as some of the most venerable citizens of the city fought with one another like street urchins. The meeting had started just a little over half an hour ago, but tempers were already at the boiling point. Men in lavish patrician garb shouted at one another, some were about to come to blows, and yet others were just sitting quietly at the table shaking their heads, as if they couldn’t understand the atrocious spectacle. Even Suffragan Bishop Sebastian Harsee, the chairman of the hastily convoked council, could think of nothing better to do than pound his little gavel on the table again and again while casting furious glances around at the group.

  “Quiet!” he kept shouting. “Quiet! Is this the way distinguished citizens of our city behave? Once more, quiet, or I’ll have the room cleared!”

  Simon and Samuel glanced at one another peevishly. At an ungodly hour of the morning, a messenger with a look of annoyance on his face had pounded on the door of the Bamberg hangman’s house to take Simon first to the castle complex and then, with Samuel, to the city councilors’ offices. They’d walked past the cathedral and then toward city hall and into the council room, where the suffragan bishop had unexpectedly scheduled the first meeting of the so-called Werewolf Commission immediately after Sunday-morning mass. In addition to Simon and Samuel, a half dozen city councilmen were present, as well as a scholar from the Jesuit seminary in the nearby church, two doctors of law, the bishop’s chancellor, and even the dean of the cathedral himself, who was attracting attention with his loud prayers and laments.