“You mean the witch trials held here forty years ago,” Magdalena replied. “Were you in Bamberg at the time?”
Jeremias nodded grimly. “I was a young man then, and I saw things . . .” He paused, as if trying to shake off some terrible memory, and then continued. “It always begins with just one incident, but then it’s like an avalanche, more and more cases, and finally half the city is condemned. That’s the reason they had the accursed Inquisition House built, with its dungeons, torture chambers, courtrooms, and a chapel for the last confession. Above the entryway was the statue of Justitia, as if there was ever any justice in that dreadful place. It was always a question of power.” He shrugged. “A wave of prosecutions is just what the powers wanted in order to dispose of their enemies.”
“What do you mean by that?” Magdalena asked, frowning.
“Well, back then it didn’t only affect the poor and the dregs of society—there were many decent patricians among them, even a chancellor and some mayors with their wives and children. Entire families of city councilmen were wiped out. Looking back now, it’s clear that it was mostly a redistribution of power.” Jeremias walked over to the birdcage in the middle of the room and tossed a few crumbs to the sparrows. “When positions became free, others could move up, do you see? The dead person can no longer be a troublesome competitor.” He brushed the remaining crumbs from his scarred hands.
“Do you think something like that could happen again?” Barbara gasped. “Then Matheo would be just the first pawn in the game, with many other higher-placed people to follow.”
Jeremias shook his smooth, oval head. “I didn’t say that. But in any case, two venerable councilmen—Herrs Schwarzkontz and Vasold—have already disappeared. Who knows, perhaps soon a patrician will be suspected of being a wolfish magician and tearing his own colleague to bits. Some people would be very happy if that happened.”
“You forget that this time, a lot of very strange things have happened,” Magdalena replied. “Corpses with severed body parts have been found, and many people have also seen this beast. It’s different this time. There is something or someone prowling around out there—so there’s every reason for people to start looking for a perpetrator.”
“You’re right, I’m just talking nonsense.” Jeremias bent over to pet Biff. “Anyway, we ought to be thinking about your sister instead of those dark, forgotten times.”
“I’m not going back, if that’s what you mean,” Barbara said, crossing her arms defiantly in front of her chest. “Not until Father really tries to get Matheo released.” She glared at Magdalena. “And if you squeal on me and tell Father where I am, then . . . then I’m leaving with Sir Malcolm and the other actors, going far, far away, and never coming back. Because I’ve got—”
“Talent, I know,” Magdalena sighed, finishing the sentence. “For something or other.” She stood up and stroked her little sister’s hair again.
“Don’t worry, I’ll just tell Father you are well, and if I know him, he already has a plan to help you.” She looked sternly at Barbara. “But do me a favor, will you? Don’t read so much of this sentimental nonsense. It’s not good for you. You are Barbara Kuisl and not a princess or noble lady. Do you hear me?”
As the morning fog began to rise over the Bamberg Forest, a solitary person could be seen trudging determinedly down the muddy road. The few people coming toward him looked down and passed without greeting. The man didn’t look like anyone who would return a greeting, in any case: his whole being exuded something threatening and unapproachable.
Jakob Kuisl was angrier than he’d been in a long time. To make matters worse, he’d forgotten his tobacco in the Bamberg hangman’s house. He was actually supposed to be helping his brother clean the city moats, and that would have been his chance to tell Bartholomäus about the lad that he and Georg would soon be torturing. But the fast-moving events required intensive thought, and that was something he could best do in the forest—if necessary, even without tobacco.
The Schongau hangman was torn in two directions. He no longer had much interest in hunting down scoundrels and solving crimes, especially in a city that was no concern of his. Besides, he’d become too old for such adventures. In his recent fight with the Bamberg street mob he’d been able to hear his own bones creaking. He wished he could just leave town immediately, along with his whole family, and return to Schongau. But now his beloved Barbara, his youngest child, had run away, and Jakob knew that the little one was just as stubborn as the rest of the family, and she’d carry through on her threat. Barbara wouldn’t return to him until he’d helped this rascal Matheo. But how, for God’s sake, could he do that? Who or what was this monster lurking around Bamberg?
Jakob was certain that something was out there. There were missing people, severed body parts; people had seen a furry monster in the streets; and he himself had come upon the horribly disfigured corpse of the young prostitute whose attacker had evidently tried to rip out her heart. The strange musky odor emanating from the corpse allowed only one conclusion: the girl had, in fact, been attacked by a wild animal.
Was that possible?
And then there was that man he’d seen the day before, in front of the furrier’s house, who had presumably bought five wolf pelts there. Was it conceivable that the stranger had dressed up in these wolf skins to spread panic in the city? Or was the secret hidden somewhere here in the Bamberg Forest, where Jakob had actually seen a strange, large beast two days ago? But above all, could the limping stranger have been his brother? Afterward, Magdalena had also said that she thought she’d seen the man somewhere before.
To find an answer to this last question, the Schongau hangman had set out into the forest after breakfast to pay another visit to the knacker’s house.
A thin column of smoke rising above the trees showed him the way, and after a good hour he finally reached the fenced clearing. A cool breeze was blowing, and Jakob was glad Katharina had given him one of Bartl’s old coats the night before, after he’d lost his own in the waters of the Regnitz.
Just as before, a fire was burning in front of the huge log house and Aloysius was apparently boiling the bones of some carcass. The wind turned suddenly, and Jakob held his nose in disgust. To the right of the log house was the dog compound. The dogs had scented the new arrival much earlier and now broke out into loud barking, jumping up against the fence.
“Good day, Aloysius,” Jakob called out amid the racket. “What you’re stirring there stinks all the way to Bamberg.”
The hangman’s journeyman looked at him suspiciously, then set down the stirring pole and wiped his hands on his apron.
“The master’s not here,” he grumbled without responding to Jakob’s remark. “He’s over in the city cleaning out the moats.”
The hangman saw the innumerable pockmarks on the man’s face, only partly concealed under his stubbly beard, and couldn’t help remembering how, just a few days ago, Bartholomäus had suggested his servant as a possible husband for Barbara.
Well, perhaps a better choice than some vagrant actor.
“I know Bartl isn’t here,” Jakob replied. “I’m just looking for some sweet cicely that Katharina needs to make cakes for the wedding. Do you have any idea where I can find it?”
“Recently, it’s been dangerous to go out there alone to search for herbs,” Aloysius said. “Lots of wolves out there.” He turned his head to one side and pointed to a few stiff carcasses lying nearby on some pine branches. “I caught these right around here with a few wolf traps. You’ve got to be really careful . . .” His words hung in the air like a vague threat.
He’s not as dumb as he looks, thought Jakob.
With a shrug, the hangman walked over to the dog compound, where the bloodhounds and mastiffs had calmed down a bit. They ran nervously back and forth behind the fence, and some whined while others growled at the visitor.
“Nice dogs you have,” Jakob said with admiration. “Well fed and cared for—and smart. I bet they c
an be easily trained. They belong to the bishop, I’ve heard. Does he ever take them out hunting?”
Aloysius nodded silently.
“It’s really a shame. They ought to be taken out more often,” the hangman continued after a while, then he cast a conspiratorial glance at Aloysius. “It’s a big forest here. One could easily take them out hunting without the sovereign getting wind of it. Bears . . . wolves . . . deer . . . Come now, tell me—don’t you and Bartholomäus itch to take them out sometimes?” He paused for a moment. “Or perhaps . . . someone else?”
“Only the lords are permitted to go hunting,” Aloysius answered stiffly, as if reciting the words from memory. “Poachers are hanged. As an executioner you really should know that.”
Jakob nodded. “Of course, of course.”
He walked along the fence, examining the mastiffs that, with their black, shining pelts and red chops, looked like the hounds of hell.
“Besides, all the dogs are branded with the bishop’s seal,” the servant continued, his voice now sounding a bit nervous. He walked over to Jakob and pointed to one of the young hounds lying near the gate, panting. When it saw Aloysius, it came over to him, whimpering happily, and licked his hand. The seal of the Bamberg prince-bishop was indeed branded on its right side near the foreleg: a lion and a diagonal line.
“Each of the dogs is branded like that soon after birth,” Aloysius explained. “The bishop’s master of the hunt carefully records all the new births. They’re an expensive breed, and he can’t miss a single one.”
“Are you trying to say it’s impossible to steal these dogs?” Jakob inquired.
The servant grinned. “Precisely. It can’t be done. When a nobleman loses one of his charges in the hunt to a bear or a boar, we hear about it and take charge of replacing it. There are strict procedures for all that.”
“Well, too bad,” Jakob said, shrugging. “I thought I might be allowed to take out a few dogs—”
“Out of the question,” Aloysius interrupted. “And now, excuse me, I have to go back to my bones.” Suddenly he stopped, and a grimace spread across his face. It took a moment before Jakob realized it was a smile.
“They say your younger daughter is a real beauty,” Aloysius said, now in a much milder tone of voice, “and the master tells me she still doesn’t have a husband. I’d like to meet her sometime. Perhaps we can talk about that during one of our hunts.” He broke out in a loud, nervous laugh, and Jakob felt goose bumps rising on his neck.
Maybe the actor isn’t such a bad choice, after all, he thought.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied.
Aloysius nodded, then returned to his simmering kettle and left the hangman by himself. Jakob examined the bloodhounds and mastiffs a bit longer, then finally strolled toward the log house and the buildings behind it. Immediately Aloysius stopped stirring the kettle.
“What are you doing there?” he asked suspiciously.
“Well, I thought you might have some more dogs in back to admire,” Jakob replied with feigned innocence.
“These up here in front are all we have. The only thing in back is the place we bury the waste. It’s not a good place—it stinks to high heaven.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I won’t bother you any longer.”
The hangman raised his hand in farewell, then headed through the front gate and back onto the path heading toward the city. Singing an old army song from his mercenary days, he trudged on.
His visit had gone differently than he’d expected, but he’d learned a few things. He hadn’t asked about the branding marks, but Aloysius was eager to tell him all about them, as if quickly trying to dispel any suspicions. And why had he flared up when Jakob wanted to see the building in back? Was something hidden there?
Something smells bad here, and it’s not just the garbage.
He had gone about a half mile when he met a group of men coming toward him from the city. They were carrying scythes, pitchforks, and clubs, marching in step like a group of soldiers. As they drew closer, Jakob could see they were simple Bamberg workers, but their stride had something pompous about it, something artificial, as they looked all around from side to side where the dense stands of firs formed a barrier.
Jakob stepped to the side of the path to let the group pass, but the first man suddenly stopped and looked at him suspiciously. Only now did the hangman see they were the same men who had chased the unfortunate shepherd through the city two days before. The man in front was the wagon driver whom Jakob had beaten over the head with a club at the beginning of the fight.
“Who are you and what do you want?” one man asked in a loud, brash voice.
Jakob sighed under his breath.
Well, isn’t this just great. This is the last thing I need.
“You know who I am,” he answered. “I had the pleasure of meeting you a few days ago—so stop this nonsense and let me by, or we’ll both do something we regret.”
The tall, broad-shouldered wagon driver acted as if he hadn’t recognized Jakob until then.
“Ah, of course,” he exclaimed. “The brother of the Bamberg hangman, how delighted I am to see you again.” He turned around to his friends. “Standing here all by himself, he doesn’t look so big, does he? Almost as if he’d shrunk.”
The men laughed, but their leader stood up straight and threw out his chest.
“We’re the Bamberg citizens’ militia,” he declared. “If the city council and the bishop can’t do anything to protect us from this werewolf, we have no choice but to do it ourselves.”
“And that’s the reason you’re running around like rabbits in the forest?”
“You’ll soon regret your fresh remarks,” the man hissed. “We’re looking for suspicious characters—charcoal burners, shepherds, people who steal wood . . . The forest is full of such riffraff, and it’s quite possible a werewolf is hiding among them. They can change their appearance. But with holy water, we will be able to view their true form.” He shook a little bottle hanging on his belt as if it were a deadly weapon. Then he jutted out his chin in a defiant gesture and demanded, “So tell me again. What are you doing here?”
“I went to visit the knacker. Is that forbidden?”
The man grinned. “No, it’s not forbidden, but it makes you look . . . suspicious.” He stepped closer to Jakob and began sniffing.
“Do you smell this, too, men?” he asked with a sneer. “It’s the smell of a wild beast, of dirt and feces, and hm . . . yes, a bit like sulfur. Phew!” He held his nose tightly. “So this is either a werewolf or a hangman who’s never taken a bath.”
While the men grumbled, Jakob closed his eyes and tried to keep a cool demeanor. He couldn’t let them get under his skin, though he suspected the wagon driver wouldn’t stop needling him. The last time, Kuisl had sent the powerful man sprawling to the ground with a single blow and made him look foolish in front of his friends. The wagon driver wouldn’t pass up this chance to pay the hangman back in kind.
So let’s get it over with.
Jakob reached for the cudgel hanging on his belt. There were six of them, but if he was fast enough, he could get the best of the leader and perhaps one or two others. Then he could seize the moment of surprise to flee into the forest. But he wasn’t as fast as he used to be, and once again he could feel the ripping of his tendons as if on a rack. Probably they’d catch him, and then—
“What a lovely autumn day,” a loud voice behind him suddenly proclaimed. “Much too lovely for a quarrel. Don’t you think so, men?”
He turned around and saw his brother coming down the path from the knacker’s house.
But how . . .
By now, Bartholomäus had already reached the group of men and placed his arm around Jakob in a friendly gesture.
“My brother came to visit me in the forest,” Bartholomäus said. “Is there a problem?”
The wagon driver and the other men were clearly disappointed. They could have easily done away with Jak
ob; he was from out of town and no one would miss him. Bartholomäus, on the other hand, was known in town. If he disappeared or was beaten, there would be unpleasant questions.
“We have the right to question any suspect,” the leader snapped. “Your brother is a dubious character; we don’t want him in our city. We want him out of here.”
“If anyone should get out, it would be you,” Bartholomäus shot back.
The wagon driver picked up his cudgel and seemed about to throw caution to the winds. “You damned bastard,” he shouted. “I’m not going to let some dishonorable person—”
“Just stop, Johann,” one of the men interrupted. He was an older farmer with small, rat-like eyes that darted around nervously. “I wouldn’t take on two hangmen. That can only bring bad luck. It’s bad enough that we had to come across them here in the forest.”
He turned away and murmured a quiet prayer. Now the other men hesitated as well, and some in the rear made a sign to ward off curses and bad magic.
Jakob grinned. Even back home in the Priests’ Corner, there were many superstitions concerning the executioner. Now, for once, it seemed to be an advantage to be a social outcast allegedly in league with the devil.
“Your friend is right,” he growled. “If anyone touches me, they will have seven years of bad luck in everything they set their hands on. Their children will become sick and their wives will be dry and infertile, I swear to you as surely as I am the accursed hangman.” He stepped forward with a threatening look in his eye, and the men murmured to each other anxiously. Their leader, the burly wagon driver, also seemed uncertain.
“Very well,” he said. “Today I’ll just give you a warning. But if we meet alone in the forest again—”