The Hangman's Daughter

  Jakob Kuisl took a knife from his coat and tried inserting the blade into one of the wounds. On either side there was a gap at least half an inch wide.

  “It must have been something wider,” he murmured.

  “A sword?” asked Simon.

  Kuisl shrugged. “More likely a saber or a halberd.”

  “Who could have done something like that?” Simon shook his head.

  The hangman turned the body over. On the shoulder was the sign, faded a bit more after being carried up from the river, but still quite visible. A purple circle with a cross under it.

  “What’s that?” asked Simon.

  Jakob Kuisl bent down over the boy’s body. Then he licked his index finger, rubbed it gently over the sign, and put his finger into his mouth. He smacked his lips with relish.

  “Elderberry juice,” he said. “And not at all bad.” He held his finger out to Simon.

  “What? But I thought it was…”

  “Blood?” The hangman shrugged. “Blood would have washed away a long time ago. Only elderberry juice keeps its color so long. Just ask my wife. She gets very angry when the little ones smear themselves with it. But anyway…” He began to rub the mark.

  “What is it?”

  “The color is partly under the skin. Someone must have injected it with a needle or a dagger.”

  Simon nodded. He had seen such works of “art” on soldiers from Castile and France. They had tattooed crosses or images of the Mother of God on their upper arms.

  “But what does the sign mean?”

  “A good question.” Kuisl drew deeply on his pipe, puffed out the smoke, and remained silent a long time. Then he replied, “It’s the Venus mark.”

  “The what mark?” Simon looked down at the sign. Suddenly he remembered where he had seen this sign before: in a book about astrology.

  “The Venus mark.” The hangman went back into the little room and reappeared with a stained leather-bound tome. He turned the pages a little while until he found the one he wanted.

  “There.” He showed Simon the place. Here, too, the same sign could be seen. Next to it was a circle with an arrow pointing up and to the right.

  “Venus, goddess of love, spring, and growth,” read Jakob aloud. “Countersign to that of Mars, god of war.”

  “But what can this sign mean on the boy’s body?” asked Simon, confused.

  “This sign is old, very old,” said the hangman, taking another puff on the long-stemmed pipe.

  “And what does it mean?”

  “It has many meanings. It stands for woman as counterpart to man, for life, and also for life after death.”

  Simon felt as if he could not breathe anymore. And this was only partly because of the clouds of smoke that enveloped him.

  “But…that would be heresy,” he whispered.

  The hangman raised his bushy eyebrows and looked him straight in the eye.

  “That’s just the problem,” he said. “The mark of Venus is a witches’ mark.”

  Then he blew his tobacco smoke directly in Simon’s face.

  Schongau lay under the light of a pale moon. Again and again it was eclipsed by clouds, and the river and the town were plunged into darkness. Down by the Lech stood a figure looking into the murmuring waters, sunk in thought. The man put up the collar of his fur-lined coat and turned toward the lights of the town. The gates had long been closed, but for men like him there was always a way in. One only needed to know the right people and have the necessary small coins handy. For this man neither was a problem.

  The man began to shiver. This was only partly due to the cold, which in April still was carried down from the mountains by the wind. Fear crept over his scalp. He looked carefully all round, but apart from the black band of the river and a few bushes on the bank there was nothing to be seen.

  It was already too late when he heard a rustling behind him. The next thing he felt was the point of a sword in his back, boring through his fur coat, velvet cloak, and padded doublet.

  “Are you alone?”

  The voice was directly behind his right ear. He smelled brandy and rotten meat.

  The man nodded, but that didn’t seem to satisfy the person behind him.

  “Are you alone goddamn it?”

  “Yes, sure!”

  The pain in his back diminished; the sword point was withdrawn.

  “Turn around!” hissed the man.

  He turned as ordered and nodded apprehensively at his partner. The stranger, wrapped in a black woolen coat, a wide-brimmed feathered hat pulled well down over his face, looked as if he had just risen from the underworld.

  “Why have you called me here?” he asked, calmly returning the sword to its sheath.

  The man in front of him swallowed. Then he regained his usually unshakeable self-confidence. He straightened up, before replying, “Why did I call you here? You have all failed. You know that very well!”

  The stranger shrugged.

  “The boy is dead,” he said. “What more do you want?”

  The man from the town was not content with this. Angrily he shook his head, the thin index finger of his right hand rising and falling. “And the others?” he hissed. “There were five! Three boys and two girls. What about the others?”

  The stranger gestured dismissively.

  “We’ll get them too,” he said and turned to go.

  The other hurried after him.

  “Damn! It wasn’t supposed to end like that!” he cried and gripped the stranger hard by the shoulder, an action he regretted in the next moment. A muscular hand seized him by the throat in a viselike grip. In the stranger’s face white teeth suddenly glistened and he smiled. A wicked smile.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked quietly.

  The man swallowed and noticed how difficult it was to breathe. Just before all went black the stranger let him go and flung him away like some annoying animal.

  “You are afraid,” he repeated. “You’re all alike, you big, fat, rich people.”

  The man gasped and retreated a few steps. After straightening his clothes he felt in a position to speak once more.

  “Finish the matter quickly,” he whispered. “The children mustn’t squeal.”

  Once again he saw the flash of his partner’s teeth.

  “That will cost you a bit more.”

  The man from Schongau shrugged. “I don’t care. Just get it done with.”

  For a moment the stranger seemed to be thinking. Finally he nodded. “Give me the names,” he said quietly. “You know them, so how about the names?”

  The man swallowed. He had only seen the children briefly. Nevertheless, he thought he knew who they were. Suddenly he was overcome by the feeling that he was standing on the threshold of something. He could still draw back…

  The names came tumbling out before he could think about it anymore.

  The stranger nodded. Then he turned abruptly and in just a few seconds had vanished into the darkness.

  CHAPTER

  3

  WEDNESDAY

  APRIL 25, A.D. 1659

  SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

  JAKOB KUISL WRAPPED HIS COAT TIGHTLY AROUND him and hurried along the Münzgasse, being careful not to step into the garbage and excrement piled up before the entryway of each house. It was early in the morning, the streets were enveloped in fog, and the air was damp and cold. Directly above him a window was opened, and somebody poured the contents of a chamber pot into the street. Kuisl cursed and ducked away as the urine splashed to the ground alongside him.

  As Schongau’s executioner, Jakob Kuisl was also responsible for the removal of refuse and sewage, a task that he performed on a weekly basis. Soon he’d be wandering through the lanes with his handcart and shovel again. But today there was no time for it.

  Right after the ringing of the morning bells at six o’clock, the town jailer had shown up at Kuisl’s house to tell him that Johann Lechner wanted to see him at once. Kuisl could guess what the court
clerk might be wanting. The murder of the boy had been the talk of the town. Rumors of witchcraft and diabolical rites spread faster than the odor of excrement in a small town like Schongau.

  Lechner was known as a man who made fast decisions, even on complicated matters. Moreover, the town council would meet today, and the notables would be eager to know the basis of the rumors.

  The hangman had a powerful hangover. Last night Josef Grimmer had been at his place to collect his son’s body. The man seemed almost a different person from the Josef Grimmer who had nearly clubbed the midwife to death a few hours before. He bawled like a baby, and only Kuisl’s homemade herbal spirit was able to settle him somewhat. And the executioner shared a couple of glasses with him…

  Jakob Kuisl turned to the right into a narrow lane and headed toward the ducal residence. In spite of his headache he had to grin, because the proud title of “residence” couldn’t quite live up to what it promised. The building before him looked more like a hulking, run-down fortress. Not even the oldest Schongauers could remember a day when a duke had actually taken residence there.

  And the Elector’s secretary, who represented the interests of His Serene Highness in the town, hardly ever bothered to show himself there. He usually lived in a remote country house near Thierhaupten. Otherwise, the dilapidated building served as the barracks for two dozen soldiers and as the court clerk’s office. In the secretary’s absence, the former represented Ferdinand Maria, Elector of Bavaria, in Schongau.

  Johann Lechner was a powerful man. While he was really only in charge of His Highness’s affairs, he had expanded his position over the years, so that now he was able to influence town matters as well. In Schongau, no document, no ordinance, not even the smallest note, could bypass Johann Lechner. Jakob Kuisl was certain that the clerk had been brooding over town files for hours.

  The executioner passed through the stone gate on which two rusty gates hung crooked on their hinges, and entered the courtyard. The sentry posts gave him a tired nod and let him pass.

  Jakob Kuisl looked around the narrow, dirty courtyard. The Swedes had plundered it for the last time more than ten years ago, and since then the residence had fallen even deeper into decay. All that was left of the fortified tower on the right was a sooty ruin, and the roofs of the stables and the threshing floor were leaky and covered with moss. Broken wagons and all manner of bric-a-brac peered forth between the splintered planks of the walls.

  Kuisl climbed the worn steps to the castle, crossed a gloomy corridor, and stopped at a low wooden gate. As he was about to knock, a voice called from within.

  “Enter.”

  The clerk must have very keen hearing, he thought.

  The executioner pushed the door open and stepped into the narrow chamber. Johann Lechner sat at his desk, all but concealed by piles of books and parchments. His right hand was scrawling notes into a register; his left hand directed Kuisl to a seat.

  Despite the early morning sun outside the window, the room, lit only by a few sputtering tallow candles, was murky. The executioner took a seat on an uncomfortable wooden stool and waited patiently for the clerk to look up from his writing.

  “You know why I’ve called you?”

  Johann Lechner gazed at the executioner with piercing eyes. The clerk had the full black beard of his father, who had likewise officiated as Schongau’s court clerk. The same pale face, the same penetrating black eyes. The Lechners were an influential family in this town, and Johann Lechner liked to remind others of it.

  Kuisl nodded and began to fill his pipe.

  “Stop that,” said the clerk. “You know I don’t like smoking.”

  The hangman pocketed his pipe and gave Lechner a provocative glance. It took a while before he spoke to him.

  “On account of the Stechlin woman, I assume.”

  Johann Lechner nodded. “There’s going to be trouble. In fact, there already is. And it happened only yesterday. People are talking…”

  “And what business is that of mine?”

  Lechner leaned across the desk and forced himself to smile. He was not quite successful.

  “You know her. You have worked together. She brought your children into the world. I want you to talk to her.”

  “And what am I supposed to talk about?”

  “Make her confess.”

  “Make her what?”

  Lechner leaned even farther across the desk. Their faces were within inches of each other now.

  “You heard me right. Make her confess.”

  “But nothing’s been proved. A few women have gossiped. The boy was at her place a few times. That’s all.”

  “The matter must be disposed of.” Johann Lechner sat back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the armrests. “There has been too much talk as it is. If we let it drag on, then we’ll have a situation like in your grandfather’s days. Then you’ll be one busy man.”

  The hangman nodded. He knew what Lechner was talking about. Nearly seventy years ago during the famous Schongau witch trial, dozens of women had been burned at the stake. What had started as an angry outburst and a few unexplained deaths had ended in mass hysteria, with everyone accusing everyone else.

  Back then, his grandfather Jörg Abriel had beheaded more than sixty women, and afterward their bodies were burned. This had made Master Jörg rich and famous. On some of the suspects, they had found so-called witches’ marks, or birthmarks, whose shape determined whether the wretched women lived or died. This time, an obviously heretical sign was involved. Not even Kuisl could say this didn’t look like witchcraft.

  The court clerk was right. The people would keep looking for signs. And even if there were no more deaths, there would be no end to the suspicion. A wildfire that could lay the whole of Schongau in ashes. Unless someone confessed and agreed to take the blame.

  Martha Stechlin…

  Jakob Kuisl shrugged. “I don’t think the Stechlin woman has anything to do with the murder. Anyone could’ve done it. Perhaps strangers. The boy was floating in the river. The devil knows who stabbed him, perhaps marauding soldiers.”

  “And the sign? The boy’s father described the sign to me. Didn’t it look like that?” Johann Lechner handed him a drawing. It showed the circle with the inverted cross. “You know what that is,” hissed the clerk. “Witchcraft.”

  The hangman nodded. “But that doesn’t mean that the Stechlin woman…”

  “Midwives are expert in such matters!” Lechner had raised his voice more than he usually did. “I have always warned against permitting such women in our town. They are keepers of secret lore, and they ruin our wives and children! There’ve always been children around her lately, haven’t there? Peter among them. And now they find him in the river, dead.”

  Jakob Kuisl longed for his pipe. He would have loved to clear the room of evil thoughts with its smoke. He was fully aware of the aldermen’s prejudice against midwives. Martha Stechlin was the first midwife whom the town had officially appointed. These women with their feminine wisdom had always been suspect to men. They knew potions and herbs; they touched women in indecent spots; and they knew how to get rid of the fruit of the womb, that gift of God. Many midwives had been burned as witches by men. Jakob Kuisl, too, knew all about potions and was suspected of sorcery. But he was a man. And he was the executioner.

  “I want you to go to the Stechlin woman and make her confess,” Johann Lechner said. He turned to his notes again and was scribbling. The matter was finished for him.

  “And if she won’t confess?” asked Kuisl.

  “Then you show her your instruments. Once she sees the thumbscrews she’s bound to soften.”

  “You need the council’s approval for that,” whispered the hangman. “I can’t do it alone, and neither can you.”

  Lechner smiled. “As you know, the council meets today. I’m certain that the burgomaster and the other notables will follow my suggestion.”

  Jakob Kuisl reflected. If the council agreed today to begin
torture, the trial would proceed like clockwork, and the end would be torture and probably death at the stake. Both were the executioner’s responsibility.

  “Tell her that we’ll begin the questioning tomorrow,” said Lechner, as he continued scribbling in one of the files on his desk. “Then she has time to think it over. If she insists on being stubborn, however, well…well, we’ll need your help.”

  His pen continued scratching across the paper. In the market square, the church bell struck eight. Johann Lechner looked up.

  “That’ll do. You may leave now.”

  The hangman rose and turned to the door. As he pushed the handle, he heard once more the clerk’s voice behind him.

  “Oh, Kuisl.” He turned around. The clerk spoke without looking up. “I’m aware you know her well. Make her talk. That’ll save her and you unnecessary suffering.”

  Jakob Kuisl shook his head. “She didn’t do it. Believe me.”

  Now Johann Lechner looked at him again straight in the eye.

  “I don’t think that she did it, either, but it’s what’s best for our town, believe me.”

  The hangman didn’t reply. He ducked under the low doorway and let the door fall shut behind him.

  When the hangman’s footsteps in the street had faded away, the clerk returned to his files. He tried to concentrate on the parchments before him, but that was difficult. Before him lay an official complaint from the city of Augsburg. Thomas Pfanzelt, a Schongau master raftsman, had transported a large pack of wool that belonged to Augsburg merchants together with a heavy grindstone. Owing to its weight the cargo had fallen into the Lech. Now the Augsburgers demanded compensation. Lechner sighed. The everlasting quarrels between the Augsburgers and the Schongauers were getting on his nerves. And especially today he couldn’t be bothered with such petty grievances. His town was on fire! Johann Lechner could almost see how fear and hatred were eating their way from the outskirts to the very center of Schongau. There had been whispering in the inns last night already, both in the Stern and the Sonnenbräu. People were talking about devil worship, witches’ sabbaths, and ritual murder. After all the plagues, wars, and storms, the situation was explosive. The city was a powder keg, and Martha Stechlin could be the fuse. Lechner twisted his quill nervously between his fingers. We have to extinguish the fuse before disaster strikes…