“I think all ends well for the German Empire. The emperor won’t let himself be chased away by such a clumsy dervish.”
Barbara smiled back, and indeed, the juggler managed to keep all his balls in the air.
That morning, Georg had told her that Magdalena had stayed at the silk manufactory for another night because she wanted to find out more about those murders. Barbara had listened and looked concerned, but her thoughts had already been with Valentin. As arranged, she had met him at the Sendlinger Gate later that morning. Like the day before, they had roamed the lanes of Munich, occasionally stopping to warm up at a tavern, and eventually ended up in Anger Square. If Saint Peter hadn’t chimed the hours, Barbara would have completely forgotten the time. But even so she had managed to push her gloomy thoughts aside for a while.
She felt happier than she had in a long time when she was with Valentin. She glanced at him furtively, and her heart glowed. The flaxen hair, the freckles, the cheeky smile as he watched the jugglers . . . Barbara imagined what it would be like if Valentin, not some dishonorable hangman, asked for her hand. She didn’t even know if Valentin already had a sweetheart. He was almost twenty, he must have thought about marriage. But he hadn’t given much away about himself so far.
Barbara knew only that Valentin’s father had passed away a few years ago. There were two younger sisters and his mother, and he only just managed to feed the three of them with his music. Valentin got paid to play at weddings, funerals, christenings, church fairs, and anywhere else a quick bow and fiddle were required. He was no dishonorable itinerant musician but a municipal one, which meant he had permission from the city to earn his daily bread with his music inside the city boundaries. But Valentin’s threadbare clothes and his hollow cheeks showed Barbara that business wasn’t going overwhelmingly well.
Despite the repeated, increasingly aggressive attacks of the Mussulman, the juggling emperor had so far managed to keep the balls in the air. But now the drummer started a new roll, and the audience held its breath.
“Watch as the faithful German countries finish off the saber-rattling heathens,” he announced in a loud voice. “Behold the power of the emperor!”
The juggler abruptly lowered his hands, and the hard wooden balls rained down like hailstones on the Mussulman, who fled amid loud wailing and cursing. Everyone clapped and cheered, and a young girl in a colorful costume walked through the crowd with a purse.
“Next time, use silver thalers instead of golden apples,” someone from the audience shouted. “They aren’t as heavy, and they get lighter by the day.”
The crowd laughed, and Barbara gave Valentin a puzzled look.
“Apparently there’s a gang of counterfeiters at work in town,” he explained with a shrug. “They turn good silver coins into bad ones and pocket the difference. The merchants especially complain that there are more and more phony coins.” He sighed. “I’d be glad for one single silver thaler in my pocket, even a light one. But the likes of us get paid nothing but rusty kreuzers.”
Barbara smiled. “At least you don’t have to chop anyone’s head off. You make your living by making people dance.”
“Well, your father makes them dance, too—only on the gallows.” Valentin pulled a face, and Barbara shuddered. She looked away.
Valentin reached for her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “No one can help where God places them. The Lord gave me the fiddle and your father the sword.”
“Does that mean we can’t choose our own path?” Barbara asked bitterly.
“I think we can try,” Valentin replied after pondering for a while. “I think God means well with us. Sometimes he shows us a different path, but that doesn’t necessarily mean happiness lies at the end of it. That’s for us to find out. As for me, I wouldn’t want to trade places with a king or an emperor for anything.” He grinned. “What use would all the gold in the world be to me if I had to marry a princess as ugly as a toad just to serve my country? Or even my own niece, like our venerable Emperor Leopold.”
“But even we poor folks must marry because our parents say so, or some reeve or other high and mighty lord,” Barbara replied flatly.
“You’re right. But at least no one gets beheaded over it.” Valentin pointed at the jugglers, who had set up a wooden crate to serve as a stage for puppets. Now they enacted the sad story of some English king, who ended up being executed like a common thief. A tiny puppet hangman with a mask swung his sword, and the king’s wooden head fell to the ground, amid the roaring laughter of the crowd.
Barbara thought of Conrad Näher, the Kaufbeuren executioner she was supposed to marry. How could she explain to her father that she’d never take Näher as her husband, ever? Especially since she didn’t trust him.
And because you’re in love with someone else, she thought secretly. Admit it.
By now, perhaps Georg had found out something about Conrad Näher and yesterday’s strange behavior in the Sendling tavern. But who was to say she could trust Valentin? So many men had betrayed and disappointed her—lastly a juggler in Schongau, who, just like the jugglers here, had made her laugh.
Just like Valentin . . .
Why shouldn’t he betray her, too? Barbara’s hands went to her belly, which once again rumbled as if some kind of beast were living inside.
Who can I trust at all?
While the people around her continued to roar and applaud, Barbara suddenly felt tears running down her cheeks. Valentin took her hands in his and gave her a concerned look.
“Barbara, what’s the matter? There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
She remembered that her brother had asked the same the night before. She hadn’t told him about Valentin, because she knew Georg would only try to talk her out of her foolishness. And then he might tell Father about Valentin—her father, who was doing everything in his might for her to marry a well-to-do executioner and definitely not some obscure town musician without any money.
Barbara noticed some of the people around them staring at her. Probably because she was crying when everyone else was laughing. But perhaps also because of something else. They were in the Anger Quarter, not far from the executioner’s house. By now word was bound to have gone around that the Munich executioner was harboring some strange guests. If her father found out about her meeting with Valentin, he’d explode like a barrel of gunpowder.
Who can I trust? she thought again. Valentin?
“I . . . I can’t talk about it,” Barbara said quietly. “Not here, anyway.”
Valentin thought for a moment, then winked at her. “I know a good place to talk. You’ll like it, I promise.”
He took her by the hand and led her away from the howling masses, away from the suspicious looks. And Barbara felt poignantly how good it was to simply follow him.
“Van Uffele? What sort of a name is that? Sounds like someone from the jungle. Uff, uff, uff!” Seppi danced across Neuhauser Street like a monkey, and the other children laughed. Even Peter couldn’t help but grin.
They were standing outside the large complex of the Jesuit monastery, not far from Frauenkirche church. Many homes of nobility and religious houses were situated here in the Kreuz Quarter. In the nearby Augustiner monastery, mass was coming to an end; the bells tolled, and men in black clothes and women in austere bonnets walked past the boys with admonishing glances. This part of town was too fancy for beggars and peddlers. Most likely, it wouldn’t be long before the guards chased the children away.
“So, this, uh . . . Uffele has the prince’s dog now, right?” Moser summed up the conversation Peter had held with Amalie in Frauenkirche church earlier. “If he hasn’t already killed him and sold his pelt to the knacker, that is.”
Peter nodded. “Uffele must be a pretty sinister sort of a fellow, but he’s still highly esteemed at court. He has dealings with just about everyone there. Amalie says he has stolen dogs off wealthy people before and sold them back to their owners or others at horrendous price
s.”
“So why isn’t he doing it with Arthur?” Schorsch asked, while a group of Jesuits in black regalia and hats as large as wagon wheels walked past.
“I’m guessing he doesn’t dare extort the electoral family,” Peter replied pensively. “That’s too big, even for him. And he can’t get rid of the dog elsewhere. Arthur barks and whimpers and is a total pain in the backside, Amalie says.”
“If Uffele is so high up, we probably don’t have a chance of getting the dog back,” Paul said, disappointed. He was playing with his knife, which he handled very nimbly by now. “He probably lives in a palace or something like that. To hell with all those arrogant snots! Grandpa should chop off all their heads.” He hurled the knife at an old barrel by the side of the road, where it lodged with a hum.
Peter smiled smugly. He had saved his best news for last. “Well, I happen to know where the arrogant snot lives,” he announced triumphantly. “And it sure is no palace.”
All eyes were on him. Peter paused a moment longer, then he turned to his brother. “Do you remember the grown-ups talking about the silk manufactory?”
Paul nodded. “You mean the house where Mother has been working for the last two days because she’s trying to find out more about the dead girls?”
“That’s the one. It belongs to Uffele, or at least Mother was talking about him.”
“Hang on a minute,” Schorsch said. “Are you saying this monster not only abducts dogs, but also murders girls? The same girls everyone has been talking about lately?”
“I don’t know what he does exactly,” Peter replied with a shrug. “But he sounds like a really nasty fellow.”
“Ha!” Paul clapped his hands. “We’ll show him! Imagine if we catch him, not the adults. Grandpa would give us licorice every day for the rest of our lives.”
“It’s not that easy,” Peter said. “And very dangerous. If Mother is right, then Uffele is a murderer. And he has helpers, a woman and a bunch of tough Venetians.”
“Are you chickening out?” Paul gave his older brother a defiant look. “Now that we finally know where the dog is?”
“Your brother may be clever, but he still wets his pants when it gets down to it,” Moser jeered. “He’d rather play catch with the prince in the court gardens.” He made a feminine gesture and imitated Peter: “Oh, Max, I’m so scared, I think I peed my pants.” The boys giggled, and Peter felt himself flush.
“We could ask the prince for help,” Seppi suggested.
Peter shook his head. “I told you, Uffele is well known at court. Someone would tip him off. And Max’s nursemaid would get in trouble. And I don’t think that’s what he wants—he likes Amalie a lot.”
“Well, looks like our adventure ends here.” Schorsch brushed the dirt off his trousers and turned to leave, toward the Anger Quarter. “We do it together or not at all. That’s how it works with the Anger Wolves.”
Peter felt the piercing looks of the others, especially his brother, who regarded him with disappointment. Contempt lay in the eyes of the boys—and just when they’d celebrated him as a kind of leader a little while ago. Didn’t they realize how dangerous, even hopeless, this undertaking was? For all they knew, Uffele was a cold-blooded murderer. He had helpers, and they were no more than a gang of scrawny, half-starved boys. And Peter didn’t know for certain if Arthur really was at the silk manufactory, let alone if he was still alive or hadn’t already gone to the knacker’s as a piece of fur.
Embarrassed, Peter looked away. He gazed at the Jesuit monastery, where presumably the Latin school his mother had told him about was also situated. Just then some students dressed in fine garments walked over to mass. They were no older than him, and yet they seemed to be from another world, a world he’d been allowed to glimpse through Max. If he brought back the dog, he might become part of this world—or at least it might increase his chances of getting into a better school. Peter bit his lips.
The others were still looking at him.
“All right, let’s do it,” he said eventually. The boys clapped their hands and cheered, but he raised his hands, asking for silence. “Although it’s going to be difficult to get into the manufactory in the first place. It’s like a prison. Anyone have any ideas?”
“Ha, we’re prison experts,” Paul exclaimed excitedly. “Our grandfather is the Schongau jailer, after all.”
“I might know someone who could help us,” Seppi said. “I’ve met a few boys from Au before. They know the place better than anyone.”
“Brrr. Those Au guys are really fierce,” Moser said, shaking himself. “If they catch you, you’re done for. They call themselves the Au Dogs, but if someone else calls them that, they cut his throat.”
“Oh, bull, they’re not that bad.” Seppi waved dismissively. “We’ll tell them they won’t go empty handed if they help us break into the silk manufactory.” He winked at them. “Silk is very precious, they say.”
“We’re doing this for the dog,” Peter reprimanded him. “We’re no thieves.”
“Yes, yes, and my grandfather is the pope in Rome.” Schorsch gave Peter a disdainful look. “You have much to learn if you want to become a true Anger Wolf.” He smiled suddenly. “But you are very clever, I have to hand it to you. If you were as cunning as your brother, you’d be a born leader.”
Disappointed and pensive, Georg walked down the wide main street of Au toward the Radl Inn.
The whole morning and half the afternoon, he had combed the quarters of Munich. He’d been to the knacker’s, countless taverns, the raft landing, even the Munich dungeons below the city hall and the Falken Tower. It was as if the earth had swallowed up Conrad Näher. No one had seen the graying older man with—for a hangman—elegant clothes and refined speech. On his way back to Au, Georg had called at the executioner’s house in the hope of finding Barbara and the others there. But to his surprise, only Walburga had been home, along with little Sophia and half a dozen meowing cats. The hangman’s wife didn’t know where everyone else was, either. Where on earth could they all be?
A short while later, Georg was back outside the Radl Inn, where he’d begun his search for Näher that morning. He entered the pub room and was on his way to the back room when the innkeeper blocked his way.
“What do you want here?” the bald, potbellied man barked.
“What do you think? I want to go to the guild meeting of the executioners,” Georg replied, astonished. “I’m one of the journeymen. You know me.”
“There is no more guild meeting, and there’s never going to be another one in this tavern.” The innkeeper crossed his thick arms over his chest. “I’ve had enough. You kill others, and now you’re killing each other as well. I should never have agreed to this. I’m lucky if people don’t set fire to this place now.”
“What happened?” Georg asked.
“What happened? Ha, the guards carried one of you out this afternoon—dead! Poisoned, they say.”
“Jesus!” Georg grew pale. He thought of Master Hans and what happened to him because he stuck his nose in somebody else’s business.
Just like my father. Oh, Mary, mother of God, don’t let it be my father.
“Who was it?” he breathed.
“That drunkard from Passau.” The innkeeper snorted derisively. “At first I thought he simply drank himself to death. At least he won’t puke in my chamber again.” He eyed Georg suspiciously. “Did you know him well? You’re all related, aren’t you? Then you can pay his bill. His son fled town as fast as he could run.”
We almost would have been related, Georg thought, remembering his father had considered Hörmann’s son as a suitor for Barbara. A wave of relief washed over Georg; his father had been spared.
“I’ve never seen him before this meeting,” he replied truthfully. Then he remembered something else. A question he’d forgotten to ask that morning in all the excitement.
“I’m actually looking for someone,” he started. “Conrad Näher, from Kaufbeuren. You know, the
graying man from the second floor? Do you happen to know where he went?”
“For Christ’s sake, didn’t you hear me? I want nothing more to do with you hangmen. That’s what I told the others and threw them out. You have until tonight to pack your bags and be gone.” The innkeeper shrugged. “Most of you have already left. First of all that snob from Nuremberg, along with his flashy servants. He was going to skip out on the bill, but I stopped him.” The innkeeper tapped Georg on the chest. “Tell that Kaufbeuren hangman, Näher, if he doesn’t fetch his things by tonight, I’ll burn them. Everything you godless executioners have touched brings misfortune.”
He turned around and left Georg standing in the pub room. Some of the patrons gave him sullen glances, but when Georg returned them, they all stared into their mugs. No one wanted to speak with a hangman’s journeyman. It was always the same story. They needed him if someone was to be hanged, but they didn’t want to share a beer with him. On the contrary, if he wasn’t careful, they spat in his mug.
In that moment, Georg was more than glad that at least Barbara, Magdalena, and her family had found shelter in the executioner’s house. It looked like the Council of Twelve was finished. He’d have to find somewhere else to stay that night, and tomorrow he’d return to Bamberg with Bartholomäus. He couldn’t imagine his uncle would have left without him. He was probably out looking for a new place to stay, too.
He didn’t know what the future held for him, Barbara, and the other Kuisls. But their task in Munich was finished. Even Father would have to accept that. There wouldn’t be any more investigating. Let Deibler and that Captain Loibl solve those murders. It had nothing more to do with the Kuisl family. But Georg had to at least find out what had happened to Conrad Näher. After all, he might be his future brother-in-law.
Georg nodded, deep in thought. It would be best if Barbara and Näher got engaged this very day. Everything else could be settled from Schongau.
If Näher is still alive, Georg thought. Perhaps he also fell victim to that madman.
He was about to leave the inn when he heard someone snigger in the corner. A little old man sat there, almost toothless, a plate of steaming bread soup in front of him.
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