The Council of Twelve

  “Damn it, Deibler, don’t start on me.” Loibl raised a warning finger. “But your friend has aroused my curiosity now, anyhow.” The captain turned back to Kuisl, ignoring the chaos on the raft landing around him. “The fact that she’s from Altötting was a guess, though. Admit it. You couldn’t have picked it by her accent, now, could you.”

  “No, but the necklace spoke to me.” Kuisl held up the medallion from the bag, a cheap piece of tin on a rusty chain. “A Black Madonna like they worship in the Altötting area. I’m guessing that’s where the girl got the necklace from, and she’s too young for a long pilgrimage.”

  “Damn, now you only need to explain why you think she was ill,” Deibler said, scrutinizing the corpse. “Then your trick is complete. Have you seen any injuries on her? Rotten teeth? Dried blood?”

  “None of those things.” Grinning, Kuisl shook his head. As always, he thoroughly enjoyed holding out on his audience. “It’s the herbs she was carrying. If you buy herbs for cooking, you buy them at the market and put them in the basket with your other groceries. In a sack like this, you keep medicinal herbs.” He frowned. “Although I can’t say for certain what the herbs were. The smell was too faint. Ingredients for a cough syrup, perhaps? Linden flowers? Ivy?” He scratched his nose. “God damn it, I can’t quite figure it out.”

  “I’m just glad you don’t know her name and that of her murderer,” Captain Loibl replied with a laugh. “Or I’d have to arrest you for witchcraft.” He gave the hangman a poke in the side. “I like you, big fellow. Next time I find a strange corpse, I know who to ask.”

  “Let’s hope there won’t be another one,” Deibler grumbled. “Three murder victims a week is plenty for my taste. Although this one can’t be connected to the other two—it’s too old for that. Or . . . hey, what are you doing, Jakob?”

  Michael Deibler watched, perplexed, as the Schongau hangman bent down low over the mummy. He reached into her mouth and pulled something out.

  A tarnished black amulet.

  “What in God’s name is this?” Loibl asked, alarmed.

  “Hmm, it’s barely recognizable,” Kuisl said, studying the pendant closely. “But I think it’s another Virgin Mary. I can make out a woman with a halo, but it’s very faded.”

  “And why was it in her mouth?” Deibler asked. “She was hardly going to eat it, was she? Especially since she was gagged.”

  “Put it away before anyone sees it, damn it,” the captain hissed. “Or people are really going to start believing in ghosts.”

  Kuisl put the tiny medallion in his pocket. He gave Deibler a meaningful glance but didn’t say anything.

  “Let’s wrap up this show as fast as we can so people stop talking about witchcraft and the living dead.” Loibl looked around at the groups of agitated people on the raft landing. Every other moment, someone glared at the hangmen and spat over their own shoulder.

  The captain signaled to his guards. Reluctantly, visibly afraid, they spread a blanket over the stiff body and wrapped it up.

  “We’ll take her to the cemetery at the Church of the Holy Cross,” Loibl said. “There’s a paupers’ grave where she can finally rest in peace.” Then he turned to Kuisl and Deibler. “I’d like to shake your hands to thank you, but I’m afraid I’d lose my job. Anyone who touches a hangman turns dishonorable themselves, as you know. So I’ll just say God bless you.” He nodded at Deibler. “And give my regards to Walburga. The cough medicine for my children really helped.”

  With that, Josef Loibl turned around and led his men up the raft landing. Deibler’s eyes followed the captain for a long moment.

  “A decent fellow, that Loibl,” he said eventually. “Trusts me and my wife more than he trusts the quacks in the city. He treats us practically like honorable folks and always pays right away for his medicines.” He paused, then continued slowly: “The amulet in the mummy’s mouth . . .”

  “The Virgin Mary with an aureole, a halo,” Kuisl said, nodding. “Just like the one on the dead girl in Au.”

  “It has to be a coincidence. There’s more than twenty years between the two murders.” Deibler thought. “I once heard that people used to bury their dead with a coin in the mouth to pay the ferryman for the crossing to the realm of the dead. Perhaps that’s what the medallion in the girl’s mouth was about?”

  “A murder victim who was walled in?” Jakob Kuisl rubbed his huge nose again. “Then it could only have been the murderer himself. After all, she was gagged.”

  “For God’s sake, Jakob.” Deibler rolled his eyes. “Stop your guesswork and look after your family. They need you more than some ancient mummy.” He gave his friend a pat on the back. “Speaking of family—I’ve got a feeling my Walburga wouldn’t mind at all if the Kuisl family moved in with us for a few days.”

  Kuisl frowned. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, since I heard what Master Hans nearly did to your Barbara, I can understand why she doesn’t want to sleep under the same roof as him. And admittedly, Au isn’t the best neighborhood for your grandchildren.”

  “Nonsense.” Kuisl waved dismissively. “That’s not necessary. I’ll speak with Barbara and—”

  “Now, don’t be like that, you stubborn old dog.” Deibler grinned. “Walburga and I don’t have children, so we’ve got plenty of room in the executioner’s house. You can stay at the Radl Inn if you want, but your family would be better off at my place. Go on, shake on it, or I’ll sulk.” He held out his calloused hand to Kuisl.

  “Well . . . all right, then. Perhaps it is for the best.” Kuisl grabbed Deibler’s hand and smiled, although it was hard to tell under his thick beard. He felt deeply grateful. The rest of the world might shun them, but hangmen would always stick together. And Deibler was right: What did he care about a corpse that had been dead for more than twenty years? He was here as a member of the Council of Twelve, and that was all. Also, he had enough problems with Barbara.

  “It’s a pity you’re already married, Michl,” Kuisl said. “Or I’d gladly give you my Barbara.”

  “Thank you very much, but I love my Walburga dearly.” Deibler laughed. “And I think your daughter would have a word or two to say about that. As far as I can tell, you’ll have a hell of a time getting that hothead hitched.” He wrinkled his nose. “And now, dear cousin, it’s time to dip your head into the Au creek once more. You stink like an old barrel of beer after the hangmen’s christening.”

  When Simon finally reached the Radl Inn at Au, he realized that something was amiss. Inside, several hangmen he had met the night before sat at a table, but neither his father-in-law, nor Georg, nor Magdalena was among them. He remembered the meeting had started at noon. Was it already over? Then he’d be in a world of trouble. The Passau hangman, Kaspar Hörmann, came wavering toward him, fiddling with his codpiece. Evidently, he was on his way to the privy.

  “Um, pardon me,” Simon began, still clutching the stolen book on microscoping. “I’m looking for my father-in-law and my wife. Do you, by any chance—”

  He broke off when he noticed Hörmann’s angry glare. “A lovely family you have,” the Passau hangman slurred. “As soon as the Kuisls are on the council, everything turns upside down.” He waved his finger in Simon’s face. “And you can tell that brazen sister-in-law of yours that I wouldn’t want her for anything, the little hussy. Who does she think she is? My son deserves better. Just wait till Widmann gets hold of her.”

  “I . . . I’m afraid I don’t follow . . . ,” Simon stammered. He was getting the impression he had missed more than just a boring guild meeting. “Is the meeting already over?” he asked.

  “Over?” Hörmann laughed. “It hasn’t even started properly. Thanks to you Kuisls, we have to wait. God knows when we can continue.” The hangman burped loudly. “And now let me pass before I piss my pants.” He stumbled past Simon through the doorway.

  When Simon saw the grim looks of the other hangmen, he decided to continue his search outside. To his great relief, he
spotted Paul out in the street. Dressed in dirty trousers and just a thin shirt, the boy was playing with a group of street children with a whip and a spinning top. Of all the family members, Paul—along with his grandfather—seemed to have the least problem with Au. He looked happy among the other filthy children. Simon tapped him on the shoulder, and his son turned around reluctantly.

  “Where’s everyone else?” Simon asked. “Your mother, Grandpa, your brother . . .”

  “Peter’s upstairs, looking after Sophia and reading some boring Latin stuff,” Paul replied. “And the others are looking for Barbara. I think she ran away.”

  “Ran away?” Simon was shocked. What on earth had happened here while he was gone? He was about to ask more when he noticed a man watching him on the other side of the street. He was wearing a black coat with a hood. Now he came toward them with long strides. Suddenly Simon felt hot, despite the icy weather.

  Oh my God, a city guard! he thought. How could I forget? They followed me all the way from the bookshop. Now it’s all over.

  He was about to turn around and run when the man called out to him.

  “Hey, you! Are you Simon Fronwieser?”

  Simon paused. They already knew his name? Then there was little point in running now. He could only hope for a mild sentence, because, after all, he had been given the coins. Or was this about the stolen book? With a deep sigh, he turned around.

  “Yes, that’s me,” he said with bowed head.

  The man pushed back his hood and revealed long, wavy hair and a well-groomed beard. On his coat, Simon saw a silver cloak pin studded with tiny diamonds. Christ, if this was a plain city guard, Munich was truly wealthy. The man gave him a formal smile.

  “I’m so glad I found you, Dr. Fronwieser,” he said. “I’m an envoy from the electoral court.”

  Now Simon was completely confused. Sure, the coins he’d tried to give the shopkeeper were counterfeit, but it had only been five. Or were they trying to accuse him of minting them large scale? Would they boil him in oil as the supposed head of a gang of counterfeiters?

  “Listen, I . . . I think there must be a misunderstanding,” he stammered. “I only had the thalers for a very short time—they came from a pair of Veronese merchants. And . . . and the book was an accident, I swear—”

  “Thalers? Book?” The man looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am here as the personal envoy of the highly esteemed, serene Electress Henriette Adelaide. The electress heard about your abilities and your sharp mind, and wishes to see you at an audience at noon tomorrow.”

  Simon’s jaw dropped. He didn’t know what to say. He heard the words over and over in his mind. Or was he dreaming?

  The electress heard about your abilities and your sharp mind . . .

  Could it really be possible that the Bavarian court had heard about his medical observations? He had discussed them with several colleagues from the wider region, he supposed. And once he had treated a traveling alderman from Munich, who had seemed somewhat interested in his observations. But he’d never have thought . . .

  He swallowed hard before he finally thought of something to say. “I-I’ll be there. Please tell Her Electoral Excellency how deeply grateful and—”

  “That’s settled, then.” The envoy handed him a folded and sealed document. “This is your permit; you must present it at the audience. Don’t forget, when the bells ring at noon.” Then he looked around at the stinking, narrow street with disgust. “And now you’ll have to excuse me. I have several more errands to run, in other quarters.” He hinted at a bow, pulled the hood over his carefully combed hair, and strutted off.

  Simon remained in the middle of the street for a long time, standing as if frozen, the sealed document in his trembling hands. He was aware of neither the children playing around him nor the noise from the tavern. Over and over he heard the sentence that would surely change his life forever.

  The electress heard about your abilities and your sharp mind . . .

  He woke only when his son’s snowball hit him right on the nose.

  When Magdalena arrived back in Au with Barbara and the others, Simon ran toward her, clearly excited. He was bleeding slightly from the nose, but that didn’t seem to bother him.

  “It’s . . . it’s a miracle,” he said, panting. “She . . . she’s heard about me.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Magdalena stopped and shook her head. “Are you delirious because someone punched you in the nose?”

  “Uh, no. That was Paul.” Simon absentmindedly pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his vest and dabbed at the blood. “Never mind my nose—I’m destined for greater things.”

  “For God’s sake, I think a greater thing fell on your head,” Jakob Kuisl growled. “Now tell us what you’re talking about before Deibler locks you into the madhouse.”

  “An envoy from the electress has just been here. Because of me.” Breathlessly, Simon told them about the strange encounter and the audience at noon tomorrow. For a moment, everyone was silent with astonishment.

  “You are supposed to meet the electress?” Magdalena gaped at him. “Are you sure it’s not a misunderstanding? Maybe the messenger thought you were someone else.”

  Simon shook his head and held up the sealed document. “He explicitly mentioned Doctor Simon Fronwieser. And my sharp mind. I’m guessing the court is interested in my treatise.”

  Magdalena groaned. “Oh well, at least then all your scribbling from the last few months won’t have been for nothing. In any case”—she gave her husband a determined look—“you’re not going on your own.”

  “Um, please don’t get me wrong, but I hardly think a hangman’s daughter at court—”

  “Nonsense!” she said. “I wasn’t talking about me, I mean Peter. He’ll never get another opportunity like this in his life. When the court sees what an intelligent, well-mannered boy he is, they might let him attend the Jesuit college in Munich.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve always said the Schongau Latin School isn’t good enough for my eldest son. Ha, I can’t wait to see the look on old Weininger’s face when I tell him that Peter was accepted at the Jesuit school. Then he can recite his stupid catechism by himself.”

  “But my treatise—” Simon protested.

  “You’re taking Peter, and that’s the end of it.” Magdalena put her hands on her hips and glared at her husband. “That’s not too much to ask. I want my sons to become something better than dishonorable hangmen. Peter, at least,” she added grimly.

  “Don’t say anything against dishonorable hangmen,” said Georg, who was now standing by the others with Barbara. “Your father, your uncle, and your brother are all hangmen. And half the guests at the tavern here.”

  “Which we’re soon going to leave, thank God,” Magdalena replied. On their walk home, her father had told her about Deibler’s invitation to stay with him and his wife at the Munich executioner’s house. She hadn’t hesitated to decide, and neither had Barbara.

  Her younger sister had been very quiet since their conversation down by the pier and the discovery of the eerie mummy. Magdalena hoped she would get the chance for a long talk with Barbara in the coming days, and not only because she worried her sister would try to run away again or harm herself. The laws against so-called frivolity had become very strict in the last few decades, especially here in Catholic Bavaria. A woman giving birth to an extramarital child could expect the shrew’s fiddle, imprisonment on bread and water, and even banishment.

  But maybe they would still find a suitable husband for Barbara.

  On cue, Johann Widmann stepped out the door of the Radl Inn. He gave the Kuisl family a derisive look while twirling his mustache.

  “So you’ve caught the wild filly?” he jeered. “Better put a bridle on her before someone else gives her a whipping.”

  “Shut up, Widmann,” Jakob Kuisl snapped. “Or I’ll pluck your whiskers one by one.”

  “How dare you!” Widmann flared up. “Your
daughter—”

  “I’m sick of sucking up to you,” Kuisl interrupted him. “Everyone’s had enough of your arrogance. I regretted sending you that letter the day I wrote it.” He took a step toward Widmann, towering over him by more than a head. “They say you’re squeamish like a little girl at beheadings. How many strokes did it take you last time? Five, six? Or did you pass out first?”

  The Nuremberg hangman grew red but didn’t reply, and turned to Deibler instead. “We’re all waiting for the meeting to continue,” he spat. “With or without this loudmouth.”

  Widmann turned around and stalked back inside, slamming the door shut behind him. Deibler grinned broadly. “Thanks for your clear words. Someone should have told him off long ago.”

  Great, I guess we can cross out candidate number two, Magdalena thought. The choice is getting slim.

  “I should never have written to Widmann about Barbara,” Kuisl said. “I was blinded by his wealth. But in truth he’s nothing but an arrogant oaf, and my Barbara is much too good for him, right?”

  He smiled at Barbara, but she didn’t smile back. Instead, she stared straight ahead, her arms folded on her chest.

  “If Master Hans is still in there, I’m not going in,” she whispered. “And I don’t want to see any of the other boozehounds, either, staring at me like a horse at the market. I’m not spending another night in this hole.”

  “Speaking of Master Hans,” Georg said pensively. “I was talking to Matthäus Fux earlier—you know, the Memmingen hangman, he was here last night, too.” He lowered his voice. “Well, Fux swears up and down that last night he saw Hans—who claimed he’d just arrived from a torture in Weilheim this morning.”

  “And?” Deibler said. “Perhaps he just didn’t want to admit that he needed to sleep off his hangover somewhere.”

  “Hang on, it gets better,” Georg continued. “Fux says Hans was with a girl when he saw him, here in Au. With reddish-blonde hair. I mean, the dead girl in the creek, she also had—”