The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

  To her surprise, Valentin didn’t seem particularly shocked. He merely raised one eyebrow, then a wide grin spread across his face.

  “So, a dishonorable hangman’s daughter,” he said. “God save me! Where is your devil’s tail? Have you hidden it under your skirt? Well, at least your hair is as black as the coals of hell.” Then he turned serious. “My father was also dishonorable, as a street musician. We’ve gained citizenship since, but we had to pay dearly for it. And to most people, I’m still nothing but a rakish fiddler, just good enough to play at weddings. They cheer the musicians, and then they give them a few coins and tell them to go. It’s always been that way.”

  “At least you’re allowed to live in the city,” Barbara said. “In Schongau, the hangman has to live in the stinking Tanners’ Quarter, and he’s only allowed at the tavern if all the guests agree, and—” She broke off when she heard the sound of Old Peter’s bell.

  “Jesus!” she called out. “Is it five in the evening already? I must go home before my father gets too mad. I’ve been gone for hours.”

  “What a shame.” Valentin looked sad. “Can I see you again before you leave town?”

  Barbara felt a warm wave wash through her. His question made her strangely nervous and happy. “I hope so . . . Um, I mean, I think so,” she said haltingly. “Let’s say, tomorrow morning at the Sendlinger Gate?”

  Valentin winked at her. “You don’t want your family to meet me?”

  “You’d understand if you knew my father,” Barbara replied with a sigh. “He’s not always easy.”

  She stood up and squeezed his hand. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Valentin looked surprised. “What for?”

  “For making me laugh. And for . . . letting me forget my worries for a while.”

  “Is it because of your uncle?” Valentin asked sympathetically. “Did he make you cry like that earlier?”

  “He . . . he isn’t my uncle. He’s . . .” Barbara hesitated, then she turned away. “See you tomorrow,” she said hoarsely and left the tavern.

  Outside, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. For the first time in her life, she had met a man who understood her. Even more: someone she could laugh with, someone who listened . . .

  And someone her own age.

  She thought of Conrad Näher, who was her father’s age. What would it be like in ten or twenty years’ time, living at his side in Kaufbeuren? With a dotard! Would he still be as kind and understanding? She thought of the strange encounter at the Sendling tavern. How could she marry a man she didn’t even know? Meeting Valentin had changed everything.

  Suddenly Barbara knew she could never marry Conrad Näher.

  Feeling guilty, she touched the silk scarf under her woolen coat. It still felt as soft and smooth as on the day he had given it to her, but something had changed: the scarf seemed to weigh a thousand tons. It reminded her of a duty she no longer wanted to fulfill.

  She pulled the scarf off with a jerk, crumpled it up like a rag, and threw it in the gutter.

  Deep in thought, Barbara walked through the narrow, busy lanes of the Anger Quarter, where tradesmen were just closing up their shops for the day. She had almost reached the executioner’s house when Georg came walking toward her.

  “There you are,” he called out with relief. “We were all getting worried.” He gave her a lewd grin. “So, it got a little late with Näher? They say you took a very long walk.”

  “Oh, just leave me alone,” Barbara spat at him. “Stupid menfolk! What do you know about us women?”

  She stormed past him, leaving him gaping.

  And so Georg didn’t see the tears streaming down her face.

  The hunter stood at the window and looked out into the darkness and the fog enveloping the city.

  Despite the icy temperatures, the hunter felt warm inside. There was always a lot to do during the colder months. People huddled close like animals, and then it happened. It might be happening right now behind every one of the small, illuminated squares out there, behind all those windows. The hunter could almost hear the hot breath, the groaning and panting. A steady, shrill cacophony that was carried by the wind and hurt the ears.

  The amulet felt warm between the hunter’s fingers, providing the surge of strength needed to fulfill the mission. How many of these amulets, how many medallions and pendants, had been distributed in the last two decades? The hunter had lost count. Every single medallion had been meant as a warning to other sinful women, but also as protection for those who would be shepherded. The hunter nodded. Yes, truly both a hunter and a shepherd. A shepherd tending a peacefully grazing, innocent flock and keeping away the wolves. Suddenly the hunter trembled and began to recite the psalm that never failed to soothe.

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters . . .

  They were closing in, it was clear. The hunter could almost feel their breath. Master Hans had been dealt his just punishment before he could reveal anything—but it was like an avalanche. Sooner or later it would sweep down the valley. The hunter’s head would shatter eventually.

  The only question was, How soon?

  Well, there was one way of slowing them down. But the hunter had some qualms about it. The divine mission had to be weighed against the lives of innocents. It hadn’t been hard to make the decision in the case of Master Hans, because the scoundrel had been guilty. But in this case?

  Oh, Lord, give me strength.

  Again, the hunter squeezed the amulet, and indeed, the Lord sent strength. This task was too important. God was showing the way.

  So the hunter would kill to preserve the good. And to save lives.

  But suspicion needed to be avoided under any circumstances. The hunter would have to be smart about it, couldn’t afford another mistake. Who should die first? Who was the most dangerous? Who was the closest in their pursuit?

  Oh, Lord, give me strength.

  The hunter tossed up the amulet.

  Heads or tails . . .

  The medallion landed on the floor with a soft clink.

  Heads.

  The Lord had decided. The victim was chosen. Now all that was needed was a plan.

  The hunter thought . . . and smiled.

  Around the same time, Magdalena went on her way to the Au silk manufactory.

  It was completely dark by now, and a light northerly wind was bringing back winter. Magdalena had taken off the dress Pfundner had given her that afternoon, and instead put on the plain outfit she had worn to the manufactory the day before. The rough woolen scarf was poor protection against the cold.

  Just before she had left, Barbara had finally returned. Her sister had been withdrawn and gone upstairs to her room immediately. It appeared the walk with Conrad Näher hadn’t gone as well as expected. Magdalena hoped she’d get the chance for a long talk with her sister tomorrow.

  Tonight, she had to try to save another girl.

  As Magdalena hurried through the Isar Gate toward Au with some of the last day laborers, she thought again about her decision. Of course, it was dangerous to return to the silk manufactory. And it was possible she wouldn’t even make it down to the basement. But she had to at least try.

  She was still convinced that Uffele and Joseffa were to blame for the deaths of Anni and Elfi. The girls had probably been killed because, like Eva, they had talked. But Magdalena couldn’t figure out how those two murders were connected with the other brutal killings. Had this trade of girls been going on for a very long time? Could Uffele and Joseffa be merely the most recent in a long row of criminals who abused and killed young women? What was really going on at that manufactory?

  Suddenly Magdalena doubted her decision to go back. But then she was already at the door of the silk works. The sounds of music and laughter from the taverns seemed far away now; the street outside the manufactory was dark and empty. Magdalena hesitated for a moment, then she rang the bell.
r />   She heard footsteps, and then Mother Joseffa opened the door. She pulled Magdalena into the hallway and gave her a resounding slap.

  “Where have you been, you hussy?” she hissed. “The other two came back hours ago. Speak up, what have you been up to all this time?”

  “Pf-Pfundner wouldn’t let me go,” Magdalena whined, keeping her head down. “He couldn’t get enough of me. He . . . he figured you owed him that much.” She had just remembered that Joseffa and Uffele were somehow indebted to Pfundner. And it worked—her last sentence appeared to dampen Joseffa’s anger a little.

  “We owe him, bah!” she spat. “He’ll get twice, three times as much money back. But all right, let him have his fun.” She gave Magdalena a sour look. “But don’t think you’ll get paid extra for those hours. You don’t get paid till the end of the month, then we’ll see if you’re worth your money.”

  Magdalena nodded in silence.

  “And he didn’t give you back the laundry,” Joseffa groused. “You’re lucky the guards didn’t stop you. The washing is your cover, understood? You’re just a simple maidservant, nothing else.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” Magdalena said quietly.

  “Well, you’ll have to pick up the laundry tomorrow. Now it’s time for bed. The candles have already been put out. And you won’t get any supper. Your own fault.”

  I wouldn’t even feed your supper to the pigs, Magdalena thought angrily.

  But she continued acting intimidated and followed Joseffa up to the dormitory, where everything was quiet. The girls lay on their sacks of straw and snoozed, only a few looking up when Magdalena came in.

  “Tomorrow morning you start on the loom,” Joseffa said harshly. “Then you can go back to Pfundner later on.” She grinned. “And tomorrow night, we have something special planned for you. But that’s a surprise.” She slammed the door shut and walked away.

  Magdalena tiptoed over to her sleeping place. She was about to lie down when Agnes nudged her.

  “Hey, sunshine,” she said mockingly. She lifted her blanket and revealed a small, flickering candle. “How was your day at the honorable treasurer’s house? Did he spoil you with wine and white bread and slip a few coins in your pocket? Come on, let’s see it.”

  “His wife spoiled everything,” Magdalena whispered in reply. “I think she suspects something. She called for him the whole time.”

  Agnes giggled. “At least you didn’t have to spread your legs.” She paused and nodded to the left. “Unlike others, who weren’t so lucky.”

  Only now did Magdalena notice Carlotta lying not far away. The fifteen-year-old girl had hidden her face under a thin, ragged blanket and was trembling all over. Now Magdalena heard her muffled sobs.

  “The bastard was rough with her,” Agnes whispered. “Apparently he enjoyed nailing a virgin. I couldn’t get more than a few words out of the poor thing.”

  Magdalena thought about what Carlotta had said this morning, that she and her brother would soon lead a better life than their parents had.

  Is the price too high? Raped and then thrown away like trash . . .

  Magdalena’s eyes had grown accustomed to the dark now, and she studied Agnes’s once-beautiful face. In the flickering of the tiny candle it almost looked like the face of a very old woman.

  “She’ll get used to it,” Agnes said. “We all get used to it.”

  “Have you heard anything else about Eva?” Magdalena asked abruptly.

  “Damn it, forget Eva! Do you hear me? What happened to her will happen to us if we don’t shut up.”

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” Magdalena grabbed Agnes by the shoulders and shook her. “Eva was going to talk, and now she’s waiting for her death in the basement, if she hasn’t already been murdered. Just like Anni and Elfi.” She squeezed Agnes so hard that she gave a little cry. Some of the other weavers groaned in their sleep; others lifted their heads and looked over at them. “Tell me, how many other girls have disappeared since you’ve been here?” hissed Magdalena. “How many?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Agnes coughed. “Three or four, perhaps, maybe more. Who can keep track of all the girls that come and go here? But . . . there’re stories.”

  “What stories?”

  “Stories about balls. Uffele sends entire groups of girls to these balls. Anni and Elfi went to them, too, and Eva. Everyone wears masks, and they play games. Evil games.” Agnes swallowed. “They never spoke about it.”

  Magdalena abruptly let go of Agnes’s shoulder. She remembered what the bald-headed man had said this afternoon at the treasurer’s house.

  That accursed ball spoils everything . . .

  Was he talking about one of those balls? A ball where evil games cost the lives of girls?

  “What . . . what kind of balls are you talking about?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Masquerades.” Agnes’s mouth was very close to her ear now. “I heard there’s another one tomorrow night at Nymphenburg Palace. Uffele was talking to Joseffa about it. The three of us are supposed to go, they don’t have anyone else at the moment. By God, I’m scared.”

  “What if we run away?” Magdalena said. “You, Carlotta, and me?”

  Agnes laughed sadly. “That’s what Eva tried to do, and now she’s dead or locked up in the basement.”

  “Listen,” Magdalena whispered, “you have to help me, Agnes. If Eva’s still down there, we must get her out tonight.”

  “But how? The dormitory door is locked, and then there’s the Venetians, who probably stand guard. It’s impossible.”

  Magdalena thought frantically. There had to be a solution, damn it, there always was. But this time she had no father or husband to help her. She was on her own.

  Or was she?

  Magdalena bit her lip, then she nodded.

  “It’s possible,” she said with grim determination. “But only if all of us girls work together. We’ll show those bastards. Now listen carefully.”

  Torn between happiness and despair, Barbara lay on her bed in the executioner’s house and listened. She could hear her nephews whispering excitedly in their bed next door and the muted conversation of the men downstairs. A soft whimpering came from the apothecary chamber, together with Walburga’s gentle lullaby.

  How Barbara longed to have Magdalena at her side now. She was bursting to tell her what had happened. She had met a young man, and suddenly everything she had known as true and right had gone out the window. She had tried to be reasonable, but then she’d crossed paths with love.

  Love.

  “Valentin,” her lips formed all by themselves. “Valentin, Valentin . . .” A shiver ran through her.

  Barbara remembered something similar happening to her in Bamberg a few years ago. She had visited her Uncle Bartholomäus and met a handsome young lad she had wanted to run away with. But she had only been fifteen then, a naive thing, and the passion had soon ebbed away. It was different this time, much more powerful. Invincible.

  But most of all, she knew that she could no longer marry Conrad Näher. Moreover, the encounter in the Sendling tavern had had something uncanny about it. Who was that stranger, unsettling Näher so much that he had to break off their conversation? She had wanted to discuss all these things with Magdalena, her joy and her sorrow, but her sister had left for the silk manufactory as soon as Barbara had arrived home. Now Barbara was alone with her worries and didn’t know whom she could talk to.

  She placed a hand on her belly, which grumbled and growled as if a nasty little goblin lived inside. That’s exactly what she felt like: a woman with a goblin in her tummy. Would she ever learn to love this . . . this thing? She winced.

  Oh God, Barbara, you can’t think like that. Ever! God hears everything.

  She heard footsteps coming up the stairs, then someone knocked timidly. She didn’t answer, but the door opened nonetheless and her brother’s concerned face appeared.

  “Are . . . are you all right?” he asked.

  Barbara wish
ed she could tell Georg about Valentin. He was her twin brother—they always used to share their secrets. But he was also a man. How could he understand what she was going through? Still, she decided to tell him at least part of her sorrows.

  “Come in before you grow roots,” she sighed.

  Georg sat down on her bed and took her hand. It was almost like when they were children and stayed up late. “There’s so much going on at the moment,” he said, sounding tired. “All those murders and nightmares. And we just wanted to find a nice husband for you in Munich.” He smiled. “Well, perhaps you’ve found one now.”

  “Listen,” Barbara began hesitantly. “Something’s up with Näher. I’m not sure what, but there’s something he’s not telling us.”

  Georg frowned. “How do you mean?”

  She told her brother about the incident at the Sendling tavern. Georg listened in silence, then he shook his head with disapproval.

  “Don’t you start suspecting people now,” he scolded. “Your sister, father, and Simon already do too much of that. I mean, is it really that bad? Näher met an acquaintance and wanted to speak with him in private. Men do that from time to time.”

  “Oh, and it upsets him so much that he leaves his future wife to walk home alone with a murderer about? You should have seen his face. He was pale as a ghost.” Barbara continued beseechingly: “I’m telling you, something’s not right with Näher and that young fop. They’re up to something.”

  Georg looked at her suspiciously. “One could almost think you found someone else and are frantically looking for reasons to get rid of Näher. Am I right?” He squeezed her hand. “I’m your twin, Barbara. You can’t keep a secret from me. I can tell there’s something else.”

  “Even if there is, it’s none of your business,” Barbara snapped. She could feel herself blush. “We all have our secrets. You still haven’t told Father that you have to leave Bamberg.”

  Georg groaned. “Because he’ll pester me about going back to Schongau with him. But I don’t want to. I’m glad to have turned my back on Schongau once and for all.”

  “And I don’t want to marry a man I can’t trust,” Barbara said. “Is that so difficult to understand?”