The Beggar King

  Kuisl watched Teuber approach the tower on the right and pound on the door. The Schongau hangman was seized by momentary panic. Did Teuber intend to hand him over to the soldiers? Didn’t he just say a garrison was billeted here? And now this idiot was knocking at the door of the lion’s den!

  Then he noticed a woman in a bright dress in the open doorway. On her head was a red and yellow cap just like those the mercenaries’ whores used to wear. He estimated she was about fifty years old, even though her broad hips and full breasts made her look considerably younger. Though she was overweight and her hair graying, she was strangely attractive, and Kuisl supposed she must have been stunning in her day.

  The woman spoke briefly with the Regensburg executioner; she then cast a glance at Kuisl, who tried to sit up a bit amid the piles of rags and manure. Only now did he notice she wore a patch over one eye. With the other eye she squinted at him suspiciously.

  “A stinking excuse for a man you’re bringing me,” she said loud enough for Kuisl to hear. Her voice had something sharp to it, like that of one accustomed to giving orders. “Not worth much more than the carcasses lying next to him in the cart. You know that if the bailiffs catch me with this monster, they’ll put the shrew’s fiddle on me and chase me out of town—but only if I’m lucky. If I’m not so lucky, well…” She sighed. “But for the Holy Virgin and because it’s you, Teuber, bring the poor fellow in. Just make sure my guests don’t get wind of it.”

  “I… can walk… by myself,” Kuisl grunted. “I… can do it.”

  He slid off the cart and staggered toward the doorway. Kuisl hated it when women caught him in weak moments. And this woman didn’t look as if she’d have much sympathy for whiners.

  When he arrived at the door, the woman looked up at him disdainfully. Kuisl was almost three heads taller than she.

  “So this is the devil of Regensburg?” she said. “If you ask me, he looks more like an abused circus bear who’s had his claws ripped out. How tall are you anyway, eh? Six feet?” she asked in a snide tone and laughed. “Be careful you don’t bash your forehead when you enter my modest home. By the looks of you, a whore’s fart would blow you over right now.”

  “It wasn’t him, Dorothea,” Teuber replied. “I had to torture him until the blood came out of his ears. I swear by God he’s not the one.”

  “Leave God out of this”—Dorothea had already turned to go back inside—“or lightning will strike the tower.”

  They entered a low, dark anteroom illuminated by a single torch. A winding staircase led down to a cellar and up to the floors above. From here Kuisl heard laughter and voices and, now and then, a sharp cry followed by a deep masculine groan.

  “You see, my honorable guests are enjoying themselves splendidly tonight,” Dorothea said to the Regensburg executioner as they walked down the spiral stone staircase together. “I wouldn’t want to disturb them, above all because among them are a few aldermen who really mustn’t know about our surly murderer here. I have a nice hiding place down in the basement storage room, and he can stay there for the time being.”

  “That’s fine, Dorothea,” Teuber replied. “We won’t bother you anymore, I promise.”

  After a few more steps they reached the cellar, where sacks and crates were scattered around several large wine barrels. Dorothea hurried over to a barrel in the middle.

  “Push that out of the way, Teuber,” she said, “or is that too much for you? You look a bit worn out. Won’t your wife let you into bed anymore?”

  Silently the executioner placed his arms around the wine barrel and, straining, moved it a bit to the left. Behind it a low doorway led into another dank storage room not much bigger than the cell where Kuisl had spent the last few days.

  “He can stay here for the time being,” Dorothea said. “And now excuse me. Upstairs I’m entertaining a close confidant of the bishop, and I don’t like to keep the church waiting.”

  Without another word, she winked briefly with her good eye and left Kuisl and the Regensburg executioner alone. Once the sound of her footsteps died away, Kuisl finally collapsed, sliding down the wall and rolling into himself like a sick animal.

  “Can… we… trust her?” he wondered, half asleep.

  “Dorothea?” Teuber nodded. “Fat Thea is the procuress of the whorehouse here at Peter’s Gate. Actually, such houses are illegal, but—oh, the flesh is weak. Even the honorable aldermen’s…” Grinning, he lit another torch and spread out some wool blankets he’d brought along on the floor of the tiny room. “The patricians know about this place, but they leave Thea alone, and in return they get special favors. The soldiers garrisoned next door are of course regular guests, and for a few hellers I make sure the guests don’t get out of line and hurt the girls. If the fellows misbehave, all I have to do is grab them by the scruff of the neck, and the next morning they’re bowed over in church saying the Lord’s Prayer a hundred times because they think my touch has brought an evil spell on them.” He bent down to Kuisl, who was still doubled over on the floor. “Do you need anything else?”

  “Why?” Jakob Kuisl asked, half asleep.

  “Why what?”

  “You didn’t have to help me. It’s… dangerous. Your family…”

  Teuber was silent a long time before replying. “You’re one of us, Kuisl,” he said at last. “Just as much an outcast as I am. You have family, just as I do, and I know you’re innocent. Someone’s out to get you, some rotten bastard of an alderman got it into his head to do this, and now I’m supposed to carry out his dirty work for him. They think I’m stupid, but we hangmen aren’t stupid, are we, Kuisl? We may not have honor, but we’re not stupid.”

  The Schongau executioner had already dozed off.

  Teuber spread a blanket over him, ducked through the low entryway, and pushed the wine barrel in front of the opening again. He would return early in the morning with herbs and medicines that would help Kuisl bear at least the worst of the pain.

  Teuber stomped up the steps and out into the cool night air. A moment later Dorothea appeared beside him and squeezed his hand; her cold, calculating manner seemed to have vanished now as they looked up into the clear, starry sky together.

  “So you really believe he’s innocent?” Dorothea finally asked.

  Teuber nodded. “I’ve never before been so sure of anything. He doesn’t have to stay long, I promise. Perhaps only a few days, until he’s able to take a few steps again.”

  Fat Thea sighed. “Do you realize what you’re saddling me with? Tomorrow half the council will be here, to say nothing of the soldiers at Peter’s Gate. If just one of them catches sight of this monster—”

  “Thea, I beg you.” Teuber brushed a gray lock out of his friend’s face and looked at her earnestly. “Just this once.”

  The Regensburg executioner knew he could count on Dorothea, but it was also clear just how dangerous the matter was for them both. Teuber had known Fat Thea for almost twenty years. She started out as a simple streetwalker but for the last few years had run this house at Peter’s Gate, becoming the most powerful prostitute in the city. Nevertheless, it would take just one word from the aldermen, one slip-up, one false accusation, to send her back to where she came from.

  Back to the gutter.

  “How’s your daughter?” Teuber asked abruptly, trying to change the subject. “Is she still as beautiful as I remember?”

  Dorothea smiled. “More so, and she knows it. I have to hide her from her suitors, or they’ll drive me crazy.” Her face became serious again. “I want Christina to have it better than I did. Tomorrow, when the councilors come here, their purses will be jangling. Who knows, maybe I’ll just up and quit, marry a good-looking bookbinder, and spread my legs for him alone after that.”

  Teuber grinned. “Consider that carefully. In a few months the Reichstag is coming to Regensburg, and the ambassadors will be pounding at your door. You’ll earn so much you’ll be shitting gold.”

  All at once he had an idea. “To
morrow when the aldermen visit, can you do a little snooping for me?”

  Dorothea eyed him crossly. “Don’t you think one favor is enough? What else do you want?”

  “There were three inquisitors present when Kuisl was being tortured,” Teuber mused, “and all three are members of the council: Rheiner, the president of the court; young Kerscher from the tax office; and a third one I don’t know. Can you find out who that was?”

  Dorothea shrugged. “If it was an alderman, it’s possible he’ll be with the group tomorrow night as well. Almost all of them intend to come. I even had to bring a few girls in off the street, since at least two of the noble gentlemen will most certainly want to be whipped…” She made a disgusted face. “It will be a tough job, but I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Thanks, Thea, I don’t know how—”

  “One of my girls missed her monthly menstruation,” she interrupted crossly. “Take care of her and give her a few of your herbs. I have no use for a child around here.”

  Teuber nodded. “I’ll see what I can do—”

  “And find the madman who’s been killing my girls out in the streets these last few weeks,” Dorothea interrupted again. “He’s knocked off half a dozen already. Something’s not right. Someone’s lurking around out there, and I can only hope it isn’t the monster I’ve got in my cellar now.”

  Without another word, she disappeared into the tower, where giggles and an occasional moan could still be heard. Alone now, Teuber stood outside the door and watched a falling star shoot across the sky.

  Dear God, see that my family gets through this unharmed…

  He took a deep breath, trying to shake the fear that had been raging inside him like a wild beast since the previous night. If the aldermen could find even the slightest piece of evidence against him, a new hangman would drag the old one off to the scaffold, and his wife and children would be driven from town to live out the rest of their days in the forest. The little ones would slowly die of hunger, asking their mother again and again why their father had done this to them.

  The Regensburg executioner climbed into his wagon and set out for home. Dense fog crept in through the city streets and beneath his coat and trousers, causing a shiver to run up and down his spine.

  He knew the shaking didn’t come from the cool night air alone.

  “Do you know what your little Venetian friend might be looking for here?” Simon whispered, pointing to Silvio Contarini, who still crouched behind the pews.

  “First, he’s not my little Venetian, and second, I have no idea,” Magdalena replied in a low voice. “But if you absolutely have to—”

  “Shh!” Simon put his finger to her lips, but it was too late. The stranger by the Saint Sebastian altar seemed to have heard something, for he quickly screwed the secret tube together and placed it back in the statue’s right hand. Then he reached for his rapier and tensed up. Step by step, holding the blade in front of him, he approached the column behind which Simon and Magdalena hid. Beads of sweat broke out on Simon’s brow, and he held his breath, hoping the intruder wouldn’t see them. The footsteps paused, and just when the medicus thought perhaps the man had turned to look elsewhere, the stranger’s monstrous head darted out from behind the pillar.

  The stranger seemed just as surprised as Simon and Magdalena. For a moment it looked as if he wanted to say something, but before he could, a shadow rushed toward them from the left. Silvio Contarini leaped over several pews, knocked over a few chairs, and finally threw himself at the intruder. Their blades clashing, Silvio drove his opponent farther and farther back toward the sarcophagus.

  In a movement so fast it was nearly imperceptible, the stranger feinted to the side and then struck Silvio’s upper torso, ripping the entire length of his velvet coat from top to bottom. The attacker thrust his rapier a second time, and the little Venetian foundered and fell to his knees. A cold smile spread over the stranger’s face as he raised his weapon to deliver a coup de grâce to the heart. The blade sloped down like the head of a venomous snake.

  “No!” Magdalena screamed. “You—you monster!”

  Instinctively the hangman’s daughter grabbed the silver statuette of Saint Sebastian from the altar and flung it toward the stranger.

  With a dull thud the heavy figurine struck him on the back of the head.

  The man reeled, flailing his arms, then crashed to the floor like a fallen angel. He lay there so long Magdalena thought he might even be dead, but moments later he struggled to his feet again, breathing heavily. Like a drunk, he reached for his rapier, staggered, and tried to find something to hold on to. In this manner he made his way step by step down the center aisle. Even disoriented he somehow seemed as dangerous as ever.

  Simon and Magdalena were about to run after him when they heard someone moaning nearby. Silvio. The Venetian seemed more seriously injured than it first appeared. He was bleeding from his left arm and chest, and a bright red gash ran across his right cheek. He struggled to get up, panting, but then tipped back over on his side and lay motionless on the floor.

  “My God, Silvio!” Magdalena rushed to the ambassador. For a moment Simon was tempted to pursue the stranger, but the man had already disappeared, and all Simon could see was the fog creeping in through the open church portal.

  “Grazie,” Silvio gasped. He leaned against the sarcophagus, breathing heavily. “If you hadn’t thrown that statue, then…”

  “I owed you a dress,” Magdalena said, inspecting the Venetian’s wounds. “Let’s just call it even.”

  “What kind of a dress?” Simon asked with some irritation as he stepped out from behind the column. “What’s this Venetian got to do with your dress?”

  Magdalena sighed. “It’s not what you think. He gave me—”

  “I lent her a gown from my dressing room to wear to the ball,” Silvio interrupted, struggling to his feet and wiping blood from his face with a white lace handkerchief. “She looked positively charming in it, a real principessa!”

  Simon raised his eyebrows. “A gown to wear to the ball. I see. You didn’t tell me about that, principessa.”

  “Damn it all,” Magdalena cursed. “Because it wasn’t important!” Her voice was so loud it echoed throughout the cathedral. “There are murderers running around in here, my father will probably be drawn and quartered, and you have nothing better to do than act like a spoiled, jealous child!”

  “Me, jealous? Ridiculous.” Simon, affecting a hurt expression, ran his hand through his hair. “A man should at least be allowed a question when he learns his girl has been out tarting herself up for strangers in some foreigner’s dressing room.”

  That was the last straw. “Tarting?” she snapped. “You’re one to talk, you dandy!” Her voice cracked with emotion. “And just what do you mean by girl? Not once have I heard a proposal from you. Only excuses, excuses! When have you ever given me a dress, or even a lousy engagement ribbon, huh? I’d let that pass, but now, you little overeducated wimp, you want to tell me—me—how to live my life! Get away, you wretch!”

  Her final words echoed through the cathedral, then faded into an awkward silence.

  Simon bowed stiffly. “I understand. I wish you both a pleasant good evening.” He turned on his heels and headed toward the main portal, where the priest had just arrived to prepare for morning prayers. Leaving the cathedral with his head held high, Simon stumbled on the door frame and had to grab the astonished priest to keep from falling.

  “Someone back there is in need of confession, Father,” the medicus said. “Pride and wrath, two mortal sins. Don’t let the lady go until she recites the Lord’s Prayer a hundred times.”

  Before the startled priest could reply, Simon disappeared into the foggy night.

  Back in the niche, Silvio sighed and looked up to the ceiling. “O Invidia!” he lamented. “Your amico is jealous. That’s not what I intended.”

  “Oh, don’t worry; he’ll come back down from his high horse,” Magdalena said, but
there was a twinge of doubt in her voice. Perhaps she’d gone a bit too far. She knew that Simon suffered from not being able to offer her the life they both longed for.

  “He’s probably waiting for us right outside the door,” she said, trying to console herself. “Why don’t you tell me what in the world you came looking for here in the church? You haven’t been stalking me, have you?”

  Silvio shook his head in horror. “Madonna! Never would I do anything like that! I was following that man! I was coming home from the Whale when I saw him sneak across the square in front of the cathedral—the same man who ambushed us before! So I followed him and—well, you know the rest.” He smiled. “You see, it’s really up to you to explain what you’re doing here. By the way, it was disgraceful how you abandoned me at that boring soirée. In return you should at least offer me another invitation.” His eyes started to glaze over and he reached for his left arm. Only now did Magdalena notice that Silvio’s shirt was drenched in blood.

  “Oh, God, with all this fuss, I completely forgot you’re injured!” she exclaimed. “Quick, I’ll take you to Simon. He’ll—”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Silvio lamented as he leaned against a column for support. His face was as pale as a ghost. “No doubt your amico would let enough blood from me to paint the whole cathedral.”

  Magdalena smiled. “You might be right about that. Well, then, I’ll have to see to your wounds myself. Let’s go—fortunately your house is just across the way.”

  She supported Silvio under his arms as they left.

  “What a wonderful feeling to be carried by you,” the little Venetian rejoiced. “I hope to require your help a long time.”

  “Stop talking such nonsense,” Magdalena replied sharply. “A few bandages and herbs from the market to stanch the bleeding, and you’ll be your old self again. The wounds aren’t as bad as I thought. Now quit making such a fuss and try walking a bit. You men are all such sissies!”