Kuisl shook his head. “That was Bartholomäus, I know his handwriting.” The hangman knocked the dead ashes out of his pipe, stretched, and slowly rose to his feet like a giant who’d been sleeping for a long time in his cave.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask my brother and his servant Aloysius a few very unpleasant questions.”
“Morning is breaking, the sun will soon . . . uh . . . will soon . . . set.”
“Rise. The sun will soon rise! Damn it, is it so hard to read from a script?”
Sir Malcolm tore at his hair, staring at Barbara, who was standing along with four other actors on a sort of balcony above the stage. Barbara could feel a knot in her stomach, and blood rushed to her head. They’d been rehearsing all morning, and by now she’d begun to doubt she really had that wonderful talent that both she and Malcolm thought she had. Her role was actually not that large. At first, Barbara had felt disappointed to discover she had so few lines to speak.
By now, even those few lines seemed too much for her.
“Daylight is breaking, the sun will soon rise,” she declaimed loudly this time, looking up at the ceiling as if morning had indeed arrived.
Sir Malcolm nodded contentedly, then turned to Markus Salter, who was standing in a threadbare red cape next to Barbara.
“Ah, behold and be appalled. Speak of the wolf, and he will come. What will . . . what will . . .” Now Salter also stumbled in the text, and Sir Malcolm rolled his eyes angrily as if he were a wolf himself.
“Good Lord, Markus,” he fumed. “How many times have we performed this play? Five? Ten?”
“It seems like a hundred,” Salter groaned.
“Then I really don’t understand why you’re so distracted. As the king, you have fewer lines than any of us. Just what’s wrong with you lately? Always tired, apathetic, late for rehearsals . . .”
“I have to rush to get all the costumes and props,” Markus replied in a soft voice. “And then at night I have to retranslate Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus and this complicated Love’s Labour’s Lost. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find the right rhymes?”
“No, I don’t. But I do know something else. None of you have understood yet that this is the most important damned performance of the entire year.” Malcolm glared at each of the actors, one by one. “If we mess up this time we’ll be spending the winter in some barn with the oxen and asses. Is that clear to all of you?”
Apologetic murmurs came from the actors before they continued, with Sir Malcolm interrupting frequently to correct something or roll his eyes theatrically when someone forgot a line.
Barbara took a deep breath, concentrating fully on her next lines. They were performing Peter Squenz, a comedy by a certain Andreas Gryphius. She’d scarcely had time to sit down and read the play through. It was about a group of simpleminded workers who performed a play for the king and his court, and failed in a comical fashion. Barbara’s role was that of Princess Violandra, and she had little more to do than to flutter her eyelashes, look pretty, and occasionally say something funny. Sir Malcolm took the main role, that of the shoemaker Peter Squenz. Barbara observed with amazement how he could turn himself into a simpleminded clown using just a few gestures, making it look so natural and easy. It seemed he could assume the part of almost any character at will. Stuttering like a toothless old farmer, he had just bowed submissively to the king in the balcony.
“Herr . . . Herr King! There are lots of f-f-f-fools at your court.”
The more Barbara thought about their performance the next morning at Geyerswörth, the queasier her stomach felt. Malcolm had promised her a splendid costume that would be made especially for her that evening. The old one was in the actors’ wardrobe wagon, which had been in an accident just outside Bamberg and fallen into the river. For the rehearsal she wore her simple gray dress with a soiled bodice. Her legs were trembling, and she didn’t feel at all like a princess but more like a housemaid who didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing.
I never should have agreed to do this, she thought.
But then she thought of Matheo, languishing in a dungeon not far away. Sir Malcolm had vowed that Matheo would certainly have wanted her to play the part that night, if only because the actors needed warm, safe quarters for the winter.
“Peace! Peace! Pax vobis! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Back away, back away!” Sir Malcolm cried in his role as Peter Squenz, as another actor dressed in a tattered lion costume crawled across the stage on all fours. Barbara could only hope the bishop had a sense of humor.
“Master Lion, be gone,” Sir Malcolm intoned while covering his eyes in a dramatic gesture. “Be gone from—”
At that moment there was a loud clatter outside one of the windows. Barbara turned around just in time to see a falling shadow through the bull’s-eye glass.
“Damn it! Those are surely Guiscard’s spies,” Sir Malcolm shouted. “To hell with them!” With amazing agility he jumped down from the stage, ran on his long, gangling legs to the window, and opened it.
“Scoundrels!” he shouted, shaking his fist. “It won’t do you any good, Guiscard. We’re better than you!”
When Barbara ran to the window, she saw down below, in the courtyard of the wedding house, a ladder that had fallen over, and alongside it a man struggling to his feet while rubbing his arms and legs before hobbling away. She could see Guiscard hiding in one corner of the courtyard. The French theater director sneered.
“Aha! Peter Squenz. Mon dieu, what a trite, dull piece,” he crowed in his feminine-sounding French accent. “For that, the bishop will surely give you quarters—in the pigsty. That’s the best place for this farce.”
“We’ll see about that, Guiscard. Get ready for a very, very cold winter. Then you’ll have all the time in the world to make up your own plays, you ignorant, thieving fool.”
Malcolm closed the window and took a deep breath as if trying to pull himself together again.
“Do you think, then, that he’ll also perform Peter Squenz?” Markus Salter asked, sounding worried. “If Guiscard puts on his play for the bishop ahead of us, we’ve got a problem.”
Malcolm waved him off and suddenly didn’t look angry or excited anymore. “Oh, he’s rehearsing Papinian. That tearjerker is so boring it wouldn’t even lure a sleeping dog out from behind the stove, so don’t worry.”
“Papinian?” Markus Salter asked him in surprise. “How do you know that?”
Malcolm grinned like an old crocodile. “Well, if Guiscard can spy, so can I—the difference being that I haven’t gotten caught.” He shrugged innocently. “It was my idea, by the way, for Guiscard to put on Papinian.”
Now Barbara looked surprised as well. “Your idea? But how . . .”
Malcolm put his finger to his lips and gave a conspiratorial wink. “Shhh, we don’t know if he’s listening in,” he whispered. He walked to the window and peered out cautiously, and only then continued, with a smile. “Well, I gave a guilder to a talented young man in the bishop’s guard to tell Guiscard confidentially that Papinian was the favorite piece of His Excellency.”
“And that’s not the case?” Barbara asked.
“Not exactly. The bishop hates Papinian. It’s a deadly boring piece about an intrigue at the Roman emperor’s court. Unlike Guiscard’s group, we’ve been in Bamberg before and inquired, of course, about what His Excellency likes.” Malcolm’s smile broadened. “Prince-Bishop Philipp Rieneck likes silly love stories, especially when there are animals in them. I’m sure he’ll find our Peter Squenz extremely amusing. And now,” he said, clapping his hands, “let’s get back to our rehearsal, my darlings, so that the comedy doesn’t turn into a tragedy. We haven’t won yet.”
Deep in thought, Simon was sitting in the Bamberg executioner’s bedroom studying the drawing in Lonitzer’s herb almanac. It showed the dirty-yellowish flowers of the henbane plant as well as some of the black seeds that always reminded the bathhouse owner of mouse droppings. A note was s
crawled alongside.
Anesthetic sponge? Additional ingredients: poppy, mandrake, hemlock
Goose bumps prickled on Simon’s neck. Jakob Kuisl had left a while ago to find his brother and ask him some questions. Was it possible that Bartholomäus or his journeyman, Aloysius, had anything to do with the terrible murders? Where had they been the last few nights? In the house of a self-made werewolf? Simon didn’t know Bartholomäus well enough to judge. The Bamberg executioner was as grim and reserved as his brother, albeit a bit more tactful. Was he hiding something? What made him seem so gloomy? Was it just that strange animosity he felt toward his brother?
Simon frowned as he moved his finger back and forth across the page, lost in thought. Up to now he’d always trusted his father-in-law’s judgment, but this time he wasn’t so sure that Jakob was right. Perhaps there were other reasons Jakob had been so distrustful of his brother. The strange odor of the dead prostitute and the scribbled notes in the herb almanac weren’t enough to explain it.
Simon poured himself another glass of diluted wine and leafed through the little book, pondering the illustrations of the mandrake, the highly poisonous hemlock, and the poppy seeds. He loved these illustrations—they gave him the feeling that nature, despite all the hardships it put in your way, was understandable and could be explained.
He awoke suddenly a while later. The wine had made him sleepy, and he had forgotten the time. It was nearly noon, and Magdalena and the children had still not returned. Where were they, anyway? This city was worse than a busy, humming beehive. But then it occurred to him that Magdalena had probably gone to see Katharina, to console her on account of the botched wedding plans. Perhaps there was some news, and the council had allowed at least a little party in the small room of the Wild Man.
Hastily, Simon smoothed his jacket and splashed a little water on his face from the washbowl in the corridor before setting out for the cathedral mount, at the foot of which the Hausers had a little house near the river. Simon had accompanied Katharina home once before and exchanged a few polite words with her father about books, so he quickly found the tiny house, which sat directly beside a noisy tavern. Behind it stood the Michelsberg, a hill with small paths leading up from the valley through the vineyards to the monastery. It was clear that houses in this part of town belonged to well-off citizens, and Simon wondered how the Hausers could afford living there.
She’s really a good catch for Bartholomäus, he thought, if the wedding actually takes place.
He knocked, and Hieronymus Hauser opened the door. The fat scribe was pale and unshaven, wearing a long, worn coat with billowing sleeves, and looking haggard and strained. He looked like he was about to shout angrily at his visitor when he recognized Simon, and a smile spread across his face.
“Ah, the bathhouse owner from Schongau,” he said. “This is certainly a surprise. Did you perhaps come to talk with me about books?” He hesitated briefly when he saw Simon’s troubled gaze. “I hope you’re not going to tell me you’ll be heading back home early because of this unfortunate wedding matter.”
“Uh, no,” Simon replied. “That’s not . . .”
Damn, this is probably not the best time to bring that up, it occurred to him at the same moment. Why is Magdalena never here when I need her?
“I’m looking for my wife,” he said instead. “Is she perhaps here with Katharina?”
Hieronymus shrugged. “No, sorry, she’s not here, though my daughter could really use a little consolation.” He pointed behind him with his thumb. “She locked herself in her room upstairs and is crying her eyes out, the poor thing. It’s really a disgrace. Just recently a half dozen of the most influential councilors told me they approved of the celebration in the wedding house. Bartholomäus’s profession may be offensive to some, but in all these years he has had an excellent reputation.”
“Wasn’t there anything else you could do to persuade the council?” Simon asked. “Maybe a smaller party?”
Hieronymus waved dismissively. “Ever since the werewolf started threatening the city, everyone dances to the tune of Suffragan Bishop Harsee. Nobody wants to be on bad terms with him.” Lowering his voice, he pointed out into the street where a merchant was passing by, pushing a cart. “Especially since, starting today, there’s a reward being offered for any clues,” he whispered. “Now everyone is afraid his neighbor will turn him in for some trivial reason.” Hieronymus looked gloomy. “God help us. It’s just like it was almost forty years ago.”
“Were you working as a scribe back then?” Simon asked.
“Indeed, and it was a terrible time.” He sighed, shivering as if a chill went up his spine, and he rubbed his fat belly. “But why are you standing out there in the cold? Come in and warm yourself with a glass of mulled wine.”
Simon smiled. “I’ve already had enough wine today, but I’ll accept your invitation anyway. I’ll have to wait, in any case, until my wife shows up.”
Hieronymus winked at him. “I think I’ll have some freshly ground coffee. Katharina says you’re wild about this new brew.”
Simon’s heart beat faster with joy, as he hadn’t had a sip of coffee since his visit to Samuel, and he needed it to think, just as Jakob needed his tobacco. “Well, uh, that would be very kind of you,” he replied, “but I don’t want to impose.” Hieronymus had already taken off down the hallway, and Simon followed him, full of expectation.
Hauser’s house was small, but neat and clean. The oaken floor had just recently been scrubbed and polished, and the walls were freshly whitewashed and decorated with pretty little tiles. Everywhere Katharina’s hand was evident. Hieronymus Hauser’s wife had passed away some years ago, and since then his daughter saw to it that the house got a good cleaning every day.
“Please excuse my appearance,” Hieronymus said as they climbed a narrow staircase up to the second floor. “Nowadays I spend almost all my time in my study in the attic. The council has ordered me to recopy a huge pile of old, barely legible financial records.” He sighed. “If there is a hell set aside for scribes, I can imagine what it looks like. Well, at least I can work at home.”
They entered a warm room decorated with colorful wall hangings. In one corner, a cheerful fire flickered on the hearth. Hieronymus offered Simon a stool upholstered in fur, then disappeared in the next room for a while before returning with a steaming pot and two small, dainty cups. Simon raised his eyebrows, knowing that these new drinking vessels were extremely expensive.
“Here, too, this devilish concoction is becoming more and more popular,” Hauser said as he made himself comfortable on another stool, took a slurp of the black brew, and let out a moan of satisfaction. “The suffragan bishop has banned it because it comes from unbelievers—it’s said to instill heretical thoughts. Fortunately, Sebastian Harsee is not yet able to look through the walls of your house.” He grinned. “The bigoted zealot would do that, too, if he could.”
“You were talking earlier about your time as a scribe during the witch trials,” Simon began cautiously. “So were you able to watch the trials yourself?”
Hieronymus nodded gloomily and, as if suddenly seized with a chill, wrapped his chubby hands around the tiny cup. “You could say that. At that time I was just a very young, simple apprentice, but they needed everyone they could get, since many members of the council had also been accused. A few times I even served as a scribe for that notorious Inquisition Commission that sat in judgment on the accused. I saw how some people were sent to the dungeon based only on the testimony of a jealous neighbor, and they were tortured and burned.”
“And there was nothing you could do about it?” Simon asked.
“What could I have done? Anyone who challenged the Inquisition Commission was found guilty of witchcraft himself. I was . . . afraid. Besides, for God’s sake, I was only the scribe. I took the minutes, that’s all.” Hieronymus paused. His fat lips wobbled as he remembered.
“Sometimes it was hard to understand the defendants,” he finall
y said in a soft voice. “They . . . they screamed and whimpered, and in the end all they did was moan. No one can describe this moan, much less write it down.”
Hieronymus had put down the cup of coffee. The conversation had clearly shaken him. His face was gray, and he seemed to have temporarily forgotten his visitor.
“I’m sorry, I’m not accusing you of anything,” Simon said, trying to console him. “It’s just sometimes hard to understand how . . .” He struggled to find the right words, and an awkward silence followed.
Suddenly Simon had a thought. Hieronymus was probably just a lower-level scribe, but certainly he knew all about the influential people in town and their intrigues—then, as well as now. Maybe he had some thoughts about what the dead and missing people of the last few weeks had in common.
He cleared his throat. “My friend, the city physician Master Samuel, has an interesting assumption,” he began in a firm tone. “He thinks that perhaps there’s no werewolf out there at all, just someone who wants to do away with some of the council members, who are possible competitors. What do you think of that?”
Hieronymus seemed perplexed for a moment, though the surprising question seemed to have brought him back to his senses. Lost in thought, he rocked his massive head from side to side. “Hm, I admit I don’t really believe in a werewolf,” he replied finally. “No more than I believed in witches back then. But are you suggesting that all this is just a cold-blooded series of murders designed to get rid of some of the nobles? Let me think.” He stood up and walked back and forth in the room, holding his fat, unshaven chin in his hand.
“Thadäus Vasold and Klaus Schwarzkontz were powerful figures in the city council, to be sure, even if they were long past their primes. Their deaths did, in fact, make room for newcomers on the council. Egidius Gotzendörfer has been dead for a long time, but his widow certainly still had influence. But as to the others . . .” Suddenly the scribe fell silent, his fat body stiffened, and Simon could see that his right hand was trembling slightly.
The Werewolf of Bamberg (US Edition) (A Hangman's Daughter Tale Book 5) Page 26