The Council of Twelve

  If she confided in Valentin now and told him about the pregnancy, it would be almost the same as standing naked in front of him. There would be no way back. How would he react? Would he take his arm off her shoulder and view her differently? Barbara knew that once the words were out, they’d be like a wall between them, forever and ever.

  “When . . . when I told you my father and family came to Munich for the guild meeting, it was only half of the truth,” she said after a while. “I had to accompany them for a very specific reason . . .” She faltered, but when Valentin gave her a questioning look, she gathered all her courage and went on: “I’m supposed to marry one of the hangmen from the council, Conrad Näher, the man you saw in Sendling. He isn’t my uncle, he’s my fiancé—at least if my father has his way.”

  “But you don’t want to?” Valentin asked gently.

  Barbara gave a desperate laugh. “Since when do we womenfolk get a say? My father promised I could refuse—but the disgrace would be irrevocable.”

  “Just because you don’t get married?” Valentin looked at her in disbelief.

  “No, damn it! Because . . . because I’m pregnant and the lowlife of a father is over the hills and far away.”

  Barbara wished the bells would chime loud enough to erase everything inside her, but the words kept pouring out of her mouth. “Yes, I’m pregnant. And if I give birth to the child without a husband, I’ll be put in the stocks or worse. And my father is the hangman who’s supposed to carry out the punishments. Do you know what that means? He’ll refuse, and . . . we’ll get chased out of town. All of us. My innocent young nephews, my niece, everyone.” She cried, and Valentin tightened his arm around her shoulders.

  “Does your father know about the baby?” he asked.

  Barbara shook her head, sniffling. “Only my sister and brother know. If . . . if Father finds out . . .” She paused. “You don’t know him. He’s a kind man normally, but when he gets angry—”

  “The sun goes down in the middle of the day,” Valentin said, finishing the sentence for her. He smiled. “I think I’ve got a fair idea of your father by now. But I still think he’ll forgive you.”

  “But that’s beside the point,” Barbara said. “The point is that I don’t want the child in my belly. I know it’s a sin. But it was made with force, not love. Every time I think of it, every time I touch my body, I feel nothing but disgust. And I’m ashamed for it. By God, I know I’ll burn in hell for it, for many thousands of years. I’m ashamed for my thoughts, but I can’t help them.”

  Crying, she collapsed. It was out. The feeling that had increasingly taken over her mind and body in the last few days, this hatred of the thing growing inside her, she hadn’t even confessed to Magdalena. Her older sister might have an idea of how she felt, but Barbara had not told her. Nonetheless, she stood alone with her guilt. No one could help her.

  Not even Valentin.

  For a while, the only sound was the howling of the wind sweeping around the tower. Then Valentin suddenly asked into the silence, “How far?”

  Barbara gave him a puzzled look and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “What do you mean, ‘How far’?”

  “How far along are you?”

  She shrugged. “Over three months. Too long to do anything about it, anyhow. Not without a high chance of dying myself in the process. It’s too late.”

  Valentin thought. “There might be a way,” he said eventually. “But you must really want it. Do you want it?”

  A spark of hope flared up inside Barbara. “Believe me, if there’s anything I can do to undo all this, I’ll do it. I’m not afraid.” She gave him a determined look. “What are you thinking?”

  13

  THE FOREST NEAR MUNICH, NIGHT, FEBRUARY 7, AD 1672

  UNDER THE COVER OF DARKNESS, three men rode through the forest west of Munich. Wrapped in heavy coats against the cold, they bent low over the necks of their mounts. Two of them were broad shouldered and tall, the third one delicate and short. The latter kept cursing and swearing and seemed to be highly uncomfortable in the saddle. At a closer look, an observer would notice that he didn’t even have a saddle—and the animal he rode was no horse.

  “I really don’t understand why I have to ride Deibler’s donkey,” Simon complained. “The darned animal bucks and bites. A hangman could deal with it much better.”

  “At least if you fall off the ass, you won’t break your neck,” Jakob Kuisl said, unable to suppress a thin smile. “Falling off mine would be like falling from a church tower.”

  Kuisl was riding a solid draft horse that was more than five feet tall; it usually pulled carts laden with beer barrels. A friend of Michael Deibler’s had loaned them the gentle, very slow horse without asking too many questions. Georg was sitting on a skinny old mare that belonged to the Anger knacker. The scrawny gray looked as if it was nothing but skin and bones and might collapse any moment under the hangman’s son’s weight. But they hadn’t been able to find any other mounts in a hurry, and Nymphenburg Palace was too far away to walk. It was already late enough now.

  “Three oh-so-terrible riders of the apocalypse,” Georg jeered. “If we’d brought Deibler along, the four bringers of ill fortune would have been complete.”

  “Deibler is holding down the fort at the executioner’s house in case there’s any news,” Kuisl said. “The murders really seem to hit him hard. He’s not the same. He’d only have been in the way on this crazy scheme of ours.”

  Kuisl still wasn’t sure what to think of his son-in-law’s ludicrous plan. Simon had remembered that the boys had been playing with masks and costumes at the executioner’s house. In the last hour, Walburga had rummaged through the attic and found a few suitable garments. There hadn’t been enough time for proper alterations, but at least she’d found carnival masks in another chest; their former owners had probably rotted away in their graves a long time ago.

  Kuisl hadn’t even taken a proper look at their costumes so far. The whole thing was just too ridiculous. But he couldn’t think of a better plan, either. If Magdalena really was at the masquerade at Nymphenburg Palace, they had no choice but to dress up. They weren’t invited, not he and Georg, at least, and Kuisl doubted executioners would ever be invited to balls at court.

  They rode along a narrow forest track that ran parallel to a wide new avenue leading toward the palace. Apparently, the royal plan was to largely clear the woodland on both sides to give the electress an unobstructed view of Munich. Simon had heard that the new palace wasn’t finished yet, but enough of it had been built to hold balls and other festivities.

  Kuisl felt sick at the thought of Magdalena being at the mercy of some lechers from court right at this moment. But at least that would also mean that she wasn’t dead or seriously injured. Why else would Uffele and Joseffa go through the trouble of taking her to the palace? But what if Walburga had misheard Eva’s mumbled words and Magdalena wasn’t at Nymphenburg Palace at all, but somewhere else? And if she was at the ball, how were they supposed to find her among all the masked people?

  Now they had left the forest behind and were crossing a snow-covered field, at the end of which they saw a brightly lit building several stories tall. On the left were outlines of houses, and on the right stood a small church. In between, tiny dots of light danced like will-o’-the-wisps, and Kuisl heard soft music.

  “Nymphenburg Palace,” Simon said, while his donkey jumped and veered to the right. “I think we’ve arrived.”

  “I’ll never understand those courtiers,” Georg said, shivering. “Why in God’s name would anyone dance around in this cold dressed like a fool when they could be at home by the stove?”

  “I think the ball will mainly be held inside,” Simon replied. “And the nobility is grateful for any kind of distraction. If you don’t have to work, life can get very boring.”

  “Let’s quit talking and go inside to look for Magdalena.” Kuisl kicked his horse’s sides, and it broke into a reluctant trot. The others followed
.

  The avenue ended at a newly built wooden fence guarded by several soldiers. The music sounded much closer now. Kuisl could make out violins and trumpets, mixed with the laughter of many guests. Several carriages with gleaming black and white horses stood nearby; even two sleds padded with furs were parked in the flickering torchlight. A group of masked ball guests were just alighting from one of the sleds and were led toward the great building by the guards.

  “What now?” Georg asked his brother-in-law. “What’s your plan? We put our costumes on and introduce ourselves as the Barons of Thunderfist?”

  “We must avoid talking at all costs,” Simon said, ignoring Georg’s mocking tone. “Or we’ll get tangled up in lies. And we don’t have an invitation. I was supposed to attend with Peter, but he didn’t come home.” He nodded to the right, where the small church bordered the forest. “We should make use of the fact that the walls haven’t been completed yet. We’ll just walk around to the back.”

  “And if they’ve put up guards there, too?” Georg asked.

  “Then tough luck for the guards,” Kuisl growled. “And now let’s go before my horse freezes to the spot.”

  Out of view of the guards, they rode around the large building and the church, and were soon back in dense forest. They tied the horses and the donkey to trees, and Simon opened the sack of costumes that had been tied to the back of Kuisl’s saddle. The medicus reached for a black robe and an equally black hangman’s hood and handed them to his father-in-law.

  Kuisl couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “I’m going as a hangman?” he asked incredulously and stared at the hood. “Are you serious?”

  “Well,” Simon replied, “I heard courtiers like to dress up as commoners. Shepherds, tavern keepers, butlers . . .”

  “And hangmen?”

  “I couldn’t whip up a nymph costume for you in a hurry,” Simon said tersely. “To be honest, I’m just glad Walburga found something in your size at all.”

  Kuisl accepted his costume without another word, while Simon handed Georg a coat made of colorful patches of cloth and a black eye mask. “You’re a harlequin,” Simon explained.

  Georg frowned. “A what?”

  Simon sighed. “A kind of Italian buffoon. You can’t really go wrong. Just jump in the air from time to time and move as awkwardly as you can. I’m sure you’ll be fine. And the advantage of the harlequin disguise is that you can go armed.” He handed Georg a short, wide wooden sword that looked more like a plank. “This is the harlequin’s weapon.”

  “Great,” Georg groaned and waved the sword through the air. “When push comes to shove, I can at least swat some flies.” Curious, he watched Simon pull the last costume from the sack. “And what will you be going as?”

  “Uh, I’m the dottore,” Simon replied. “That’s Italian for doctor. I thought it was appropriate for me. Also, both the harlequin and the doctor are popular disguises at the carnival and don’t require much effort. We should be fairly inconspicuous.”

  Simon’s costume consisted of a black coat, a white ruff, and a mask with a bulbous nose and bulging forehead. When he tied it on, Georg took an involuntary step back. “Brrr, you look more like the devil to me!”

  “Some doctors are nothing but devils,” Simon replied in a nasal voice, pushing the mask into place. “And now let’s hurry before the guards find us here.”

  Awkwardly, Georg and Jakob Kuisl put on their costumes. Then they stepped out of the cover of the forest together and walked toward the palace from the rear.

  Suddenly, the hangman paused.

  In front of them, a clearing surrounded by Greek statues was bathed in a flickering, eerie light from several large fires. Countless candles in tiny boats floated on a pond, and torches in the snow guided the way through the grounds. Farther back, a park had been partially landscaped but looked unfinished, with its overgrown groves of trees and shapeless bushes.

  Between the fires pranced the strangest creatures Kuisl had ever seen. There were forest sprites wrapped in green garments and wearing masks of tree bark, fauns with horns and tails, Amazons in gleaming armor; there were Moors with black masks of ebony, Saracens with tin sabers, red-haired gypsies, Roman soldiers, and three Chinese emperors. The creatures laughed and chatted while footmen with serious faces served wine in paper-thin blue glasses.

  Jakob Kuisl was completely dumbstruck.

  “My God,” he said eventually. “Has everyone here gone insane?”

  Kuisl’s idea of carnival consisted of a handful of journeymen roaming the streets in fools’ costumes and drinking plenty of beer along the way. In the twelve nights after Christmas, people in Bavarian villages also joined processions wearing devil masks to banish winter. But this here was like a disturbing dream in which noblemen acted like animals and children at the same time, spending a heap of money in the process.

  “How are we ever supposed to find Magdalena in this madhouse?” Georg asked, just as stunned as his father. “What if she’s also in disguise? She could be anywhere.”

  “We must at least try,” Simon replied. “If Walburga heard correctly, my wife is here somewhere. And by God, I’m going to find her.” He rearranged his mask, raised his chin, and strutted toward the palace with the confident posture of the courtiers.

  As Jakob Kuisl followed him cautiously, he realized that they indeed blended in rather well. The handful of guards positioned in the garden were obviously cold, and gave them no more than a tired glance. The masquerade guests didn’t pay them any particular attention, either. Kuisl thought about how often people looked askew at him, the hangman, just because he wanted to drink a beer at the tavern. But here he was nothing but one fool among many.

  His initial anxiousness evaporated with every step, and he became increasingly bold. He helped himself to one of the small blue glasses from the tray of a passing footman, walked past two French-speaking Moors, raised his drink to a Greek philosopher whose teeth chattered in his thin toga, and eventually followed Simon and Georg up a wide flight of stairs, which led into the palace from two sides. No one stopped them.

  The stairs led them up to the second floor, and the sight in front of them took Kuisl’s breath away.

  He was standing inside the biggest hall he’d ever seen. The ceiling was dizzyingly high, and the lights of countless chandeliers reflected in the polished marble floor. Over a hundred masked guests crowded the room like exotic animals in an enormous menagerie. On the opposite side, around two dozen musicians played atop a stage, among them violinists, flutists, and a dainty harpist, along with an older man in a wig who was bent over a wooden crate, punching some sort of keys.

  “That’s the electress’s concertmaster,” Simon said in a low voice. “A certain Johann Kaspar von Kerll. I saw him at the opera. Apparently, he’s the best harpsichordist in all of Europe.”

  “If he’s the best, I don’t want to know what the others sound like,” Kuisl replied. “If you played like that in Schongau, I’d put you in the stocks.”

  The music was indeed a little strange. It sounded slow and solemn, almost like a funeral march. The ball guests performed a kind of processional dance, in which Venetians, Muscovites, nymphs, Arabs, and tree sprites held each other’s hands and twisted and turned in complicated ways.

  “If this is how they dance at court, I’m glad for our simple folk dances at the tavern,” Georg murmured behind his mask. “What a ridiculous mummery.”

  “How about Georg and I take a look through any nearby chambers,” Kuisl whispered. “If whores are part of this feast, they’ll probably be somewhere more private. My son-in-law can keep his eye on the dance floor.”

  “All right.” Simon nodded. “And remember, Magdalena may be sedated or not entirely herself. Take a close look at every girl.”

  The two Kuisls walked through a side portal while Simon mingled with the crowd. The other ball guests readily made way for the hangman and the harlequin, and Jakob Kuisl especially was met with respectful glances. Th
e music, the flickering torches, and the bizarre costumes made Kuisl feel as if he were dreaming. Any moment he expected someone to shake him awake.

  Several smaller halls branched off the stucco-walled corridor. In the light of more sparkling chandeliers, Kuisl saw his own reflection multiplied by endless mirrors on the walls, as if the world were full of executioners. Giggling couples lolled on divans and furs, most of them masked shepherdesses and shepherds or farmers’ wives and farmers in plain garb that was much too clean, feeding each other sweets. Kuisl ran his eyes over each pair. When he passed yet another shepherd couple, the fur-clad courtier grinned and winked at him. The young woman at his side seemed very drunk. Her almost-naked body was covered with blankets, and a mass of hair flowed out from under her mask.

  Black hair, like Magdalena’s.

  “I swear, my compliments on your costume,” the shepherd called out to Kuisl with a laugh. “I haven’t seen anything like it in all my years. Who are you going to drag up the scaffold tonight, Herr Hangman? The electress? Or a pretty wench you’d like to marry?”

  “You, if you don’t shut up,” Kuisl said, too softly for the other man to hear. Instead, he took a step toward the couple, leaned down, and lifted the girl’s mask in one swift movement.

  Drunk eyes stared at him. The girl was heavily made up, very young, and definitely not Magdalena.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” The courtier flared up. “This is my playmate. Go find your own.”

  “Forgive me, I thought it was mine,” Kuisl grumbled and quickly walked off. He would have liked to beat the fellow to a pulp, but he doubted that was permitted at an electoral masquerade. This feast was starting to repulse him.

  He crossed the room as fast as he could, scanning the other masked women from the corner of his eye. None looked even remotely like Magdalena. He was no luckier in the next room. He began to doubt they were even in the right place.

  Walburga must have been mistaken.

  Jakob Kuisl and Georg were about to go into another room when Simon came toward them, visibly agitated.