Magdalena could see some of the council members nodding approvingly. She was on the right track.
“Now my sister is accused of having some things in her possession that look like magic . . .” she continued. “But—”
“‘Look like magic’?” Ransmayer hissed from the back row. “Ha! Let’s call these things by their right names—evil things—a mandrake root and magic books.”
Matthäus Buchner cast a disapproving glance at Ransmayer and drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. “Doctor Ransmayer, please control yourself. You have been invited here only as a witness. When I wish to hear your opinion, I will call on you, do you understand?”
Ransmayer nodded. “Naturally. Excuse me, Your Honor. But such devilish and evil things make me furious.”
“The mandrake root is a widely used medicine,” Magdalena replied, trying to sound calm and level-headed. “Perhaps its appearance is a bit strange, but actually it’s nothing but the root of a mandragora plant. Even the great doctors Hippocrates and Dioscorides praised its healing power. It helps in cases of fever and women’s illnesses, and it is furthermore an excellent anesthetic for surgical procedures.” She gave Ransmayer a sideways glance. “It is likely the venerable Doctor Ransmayer himself has mandrake root in his office. But what I actually wanted to say is—”
“The mandrake may indeed be useful as a medication in certain cases, that’s correct,” Buchner continued with a shrug, “but it’s also a substance used in witches’ salves and other satanic tinctures and is therefore strictly forbidden in the homes of dishonorable hangmen and midwives. Only doctors and pharmacists are allowed to use them. That is something you should know, Frau Fronwieser.” He opened the satchel that had been lying until then inconspicuously on the table alongside him and carefully removed the white root that Magdalena had seen in their living room that morning. With visible revulsion Buchner turned to the other members of the council. “Of course we have seized the evidence and put it in a safe place. See for yourself what this witch has been keeping in her coat pocket. I’m certain we will be able to prove that she used this mandrake root to prepare a salve that would make her broom fly.”
“I certainly don’t believe that,” Magdalena replied dryly, “because this is not a mandrake root.”
Buchner looked at her in astonishment, and for the first time he was speechless. “What do you mean, this isn’t a mandrake root?” he finally spoke in a hesitant voice.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along,” Magdalena responded. “This isn’t a mandrake, but a gentian root, and the honorable pharmacist Johannson can certainly confirm that.”
There was a general murmur of astonishment at the table. After a while, the apothecary Magnus Johannson, a member of the external council, rose to his feet. Leaning on his cane, the elderly white-haired man hobbled toward Buchner, took the suspected mandrake root in his trembling hand, and inspected it carefully. Then he turned to the other members. “Frau Fronwieser is correct,” he said with surprise. “This is a gentian root, an excellent medicine for digestive disorders. I myself sell it as an infusion or liqueur almost every day.”
“And it is not forbidden,” said Magdalena, smiling confidently and hoping the men didn’t notice how she was shaking. She had been able to see the plant only briefly when Barbara was arrested and even then the white root looked suspicious to her. Since then, she’d had time to think it over. Her conversation with Jakob Schreevogl had finally strengthened her resolve.
A genuine mandrake root was expensive, since it only grew in southern climates and required special care and harvesting. It was unlikely that Ransmayer would plant such a valuable item on Barbara. It was much more likely to be one of those counterfeits often sold by itinerant peddlers—bryony, bloodroot, plantain, or, in fact, gentian. But that had just been a guess.
Until the apothecary Johannson had examined the plant and made his determination, Magdalena had played a high-stakes game—and won.
“I suspect Barbara got it from a peddler,” Magdalena continued with growing confidence. “We had a few cases of digestive problems recently in the medicus’s office on account of people consuming too much fatty food and good wine.” She smiled at the gentlemen, most of whom were quite overweight. “A problem no doubt all too familiar to most of you. For that, a gentian root like this can be put to good use. Soaked in brandy it is easily digestible. I’ll gladly prepare an infusion for the gentlemen at a reasonable price.”
“But it’s still magic!” shouted Ransmayer, enraged. He had jumped up from his chair and was pointing at the gentian root. “See for yourself . . . The root has the shape of a little man.”
“The radishes in my wife’s garden also sometimes have the shape of a little man, sometimes even the shape of a very important part of the male anatomy,” said Jakob Schreevogl with a wink from his seat at the end of the table. “Would you accuse my wife of magic, as well?”
Some of the men laughed, and Ransmayer turned crimson. Continuing to stare angrily at Magdalena, he finally took his seat again.
“Let’s forget the mandrake, uh, the gentian root for a while,” said Buchner, taking control of the questioning again. “Let’s turn our attention to this.” He reached for the satchel again and this time removed one of the three dog-eared books that the guards had found underneath Barbara’s bed. “The contents of these books are so reprehensible that I hesitate even to quote them,” he continued, shaking his head. “But I am compelled to, nevertheless.” He put on his pince-nez and picked a random page in the book.
“‘How to conjure up a hailstorm,’” he began reading. “‘Bury the heart of an unborn child under an oak tree in the forest. Wait for the third full moon, when a bush bearing stinking berries will grow out of it. Pick the berries, throw them into the wind, and a hailstorm will come to destroy the fields of your enemies.’ Or here . . .” He leafed to another page in the book. “‘If you wish to make your neighbor infertile, make a doll from her hair, stick a needle in its belly, and she will bear no more children.’” Buchner looked at Magdalena sternly. “Do you wish to deny that this is about casting magic spells?”
“No,” Magdalena responded coolly.
Buchner smiled. “Well, then—”
“Those are magic spells, but this is not a magic book,” Magdalena interrupted. “These books once belonged to my great-grandfather, Jörg Abriel, as you know. They are records from an interrogation, nothing more and nothing less, confessions made under duress by women being tortured. You will find similar things in your own city archives.” She looked around the table. It all came down to this. It was Jakob Schreevogl’s idea to call the magic books nothing but minutes of an interrogation—which they basically were—but it was impossible to know if the council members would accept this argument.
“The honorable Secretary Johann Lechner can confirm this,” Magdalena continued, “but unfortunately he is not here. I therefore plead with you, honorable gentlemen, to wait until the Schongau secretary returns from Oberammergau, and in the meantime take your time and think about it.”
“These books are the work of the devil,” Buchner blurted out, throwing the tattered pages on the floor. “I’m not going to listen to any more of your excuses. Moreover, it’s questionable if Johann Lechner is even authorized to search the city archives.” He turned to the members of the council and spoke in a booming voice. “I have suggested several times in our meetings that it’s time for the city to do a better job of exercising our ancient rights. Lechner is an emissary of the Bavarian elector. For far too long we have allowed him to do as he pleased here. Do we really want our once so proud city to be ruled by Munich?”
Whispered expressions of outrage could be heard all around the table. Some of the council members were conferring individually as Jakob Schreevogl suddenly rose to speak.
“I view the proposal of Frau Fronwieser as quite acceptable,” he said so loudly that the others stopped whispering. “Let us wait until the secret
ary has returned, then surely we can clarify everything.”
“We can’t wait that long,” Matthäus Buchner replied, shaking his head. “People in town are demanding a quick resolution—they want us to act confidently, not like willing vassals of the elector.”
“You know yourself that in capital cases you need permission from Munich,” Schreevogl added. “We must at least wait until—”
“Do you really think the elector will engage in a power struggle with Schongau just because of a dishonorable hangman’s daughter?” Buchner interrupted. He shrugged and then raised his hand for silence. “But please, let us vote. Who is in favor of our beginning the questioning of the accused before Johann Lechner returns from Oberammergau?”
Hesitantly, and one by one, the councilmen raised their hands. Finally, the only one opposed was Jakob Schreevogl. Buchner smiled broadly.
“I believe the matter is decided. I shall at once seek an out-of-town executioner to question the accused. Her father, after all, isn’t here, and besides he would refuse to torture his own daughter. The meeting is herewith concluded.”
He pounded the table with his mallet, and the councilors rose. Magdalena was stunned. She looked over at Melchior Ransmayer, who sat on a bench along the wall, smiling slightly. He slowly rose and walked by her so close she could smell his sickly-sweet breath.
“The game is over, Frau Fronwieser,” he whispered in her ear, “and your sister is just the start. This city no longer needs a medicus, or his wife. A real doctor would be quite sufficient. Farewell.”
With delicate steps and holding his ivory walking stick, he sauntered toward the exit.
A short time later, Magdalena was sitting on a crate downstairs, staring into the darkness. There was an odor of cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and many other spices in the crates and sacks waiting to be forwarded, but Magdalena smelled nothing, felt nothing—the only thing she could think of was that all hope was lost. The Schongau Town Council had decided to torture her little sister, and the pain would be so extreme that Barbara would confess to everything she was accused of.
Her execution was now just a question of time.
The guards had cast furtive glances at Magdalena, some of them compassionate; they had allowed her to remain down here alone for a while. At one time or another, the mostly young guards had sought her help, and the Kuisl family had much support among the common people. Jakob Kuisl, Simon, and Magdalena had set many broken bones for them, removed warts, or made them medicines to cure constipation. She had helped to bring their much-longed-for children into the world—and aborted unwanted ones. And now these same guards would drag her little sister, only seventeen years old, through the city, torture her with glowing tongs, and finally burn her at the stake. And there was nothing Magdalena could do about it.
For the first time in her life she broke down and cried bitterly. Her body, weakened by the onset of her pregnancy, trembled. The vigor she had shown during the council meeting had dissipated, and all that remained were sorrow and emptiness.
She was still crying when she felt a hand give her shoulder a tender squeeze. It was Jakob Schreevogl. Evidently he had been waiting for her outside the entire time.
“You did well, Frau Fronwieser,” he said softly. “Very well, even, but as I had feared, Buchner wants to make an example of your family.” He shook his head slowly. “Still, it’s strange how important this trial appears to be for him—it’s as if he is afraid of something.”
Suddenly, Magdalena remembered what Barbara said about the burgomaster and Dr. Ransmayer.
The two of them are involved in a shady deal, and they know I’ve figured out what they’re up to.
Was there perhaps something to her sister’s claims, after all?
“Barbara noticed some strange things going on,” she said hesitantly, turning to Schreevogl. “And Matthäus Buchner played a role in at least one of them. She may have exaggerated a bit, but perhaps there is something to it.” She told Schreevogl what Barbara had said about the secret meeting between Buchner and Doctor Ransmayer, and Schreevogl frowned.
“Well, that is indeed remarkable, and it fits in nicely with what I have observed myself,” he replied after a short pause. “I never thought anything of it, but now I’m no longer so sure. Something strange is going on here.” He sighed and settled down alongside her on a sack of pungent spices. “Before you arrived at the council meeting, Buchner pushed through another resolution. He’s betting on the injured pride of our citizens—Schongauers want to be important again, just as they used to be.” He laughed softly. “The people don’t notice how Buchner is lining his own pockets with each resolution. He stands to make thousands of guilders just from the renovation of the church that he pushed through—he earns a percentage of every sack of mortar sold.”
Magdalena wiped away her tears and stared defiantly at Schreevogl. “Someone had better warn Johann Lechner what this man is doing in his absence, and perhaps then the secretary can intervene.” She nodded emphatically. “We need to send a messenger to Oberammergau.”
“Do you think I haven’t already thought of that?” Schreevogl whispered, looking around cautiously. “But Buchner is not stupid—he and his friends on the council have given strict orders to intercept any messenger heading for Oberammergau. For some days now, the city gates have been closely watched and guards are patrolling the streets. Buchner knows that not everyone in town agrees with what he is doing. On Pentecost he is supposed to hand over his position as chairman to one of the three other burgomasters, and he intends to fight to keep his seat. He’s sitting in his cleverly spun web like a big fat spider.”
“But can’t you go to Oberammergau yourself and warn Lechner?” Magdalena suggested. “The ruling burgomaster certainly can’t arrest one of his representatives.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Schreevogl replied glumly. “Judging from the mood of the council, he will be able to turn the other council members against me. He has probably already bought off the two other burgomasters, old Hardenberg and the cloth merchant Josef Seiler, judging from how meek and lamblike they were in the meeting. The two gentlemen were as quiet as mice.” Schreevogl frowned. “In any case, Buchner won’t let me go—and even if I go secretly, he’ll notice my absence in the next daily meeting of the council, become suspicious, and try to stop me.”
Magdalena thought it all over in silence for a while, as the church bells outside rang the eighth hour of the evening. The intoxicating aroma of the spices helped her start thinking clearly again. “He probably won’t let you go,” she replied finally, “and would stop a messenger on horseback as well, but how about a harmless old woman with a scarf over her head who’s just heading out to visit one of the local markets?”
Schreevogl looked at her in astonishment. “You mean . . .”
“Buchner can’t possibly lock all the city gates,” Magdalena replied, taking the patrician’s hand firmly. “Give me a letter for His Excellency Secretary Lechner,” she pleaded, “and I swear I’ll pursue this mission with just as much passion as I did in the town council.”
“I have no doubt about that, but have you stopped to think what will happen when they notice your absence? Buchner and Ransmayer will at once become suspicious.”
Magdalena sighed. “You’re right, but they’ll still have to delay Barbara’s questioning until the other executioner arrives—I probably have two or three days, enough time to find Lechner and bring him back.”
“But if you come back too late . . .” Schreevogl stopped short and stared into the darkness. “Buchner’s vengeance will be dreadful.”
“I won’t be too late, not when it’s a matter of my sister’s life. Do you see any other possibility?”
The patrician shrugged. “Unfortunately, no, but—”
“Then write this accursed letter for me, and tomorrow, before dawn, I’ll set out for Oberammergau.” Magdalena got up from the crate she was sitting on and walked with determined steps toward the door, visible as a gray patch
amidst the bales and crates. “I’ll be back on time with Johann Lechner, I swear. You know my father, and so you also know that we Kuisls are a rather stubborn bunch.”
Under a starry sky, Jakob Kuisl stomped through the moor, heading for Oberammergau. Out here in nature, removed from the noise and chatter of people, he could think clearly. The moon provided the needed light for him to find his way along the narrow paths and deer trails. He heard the cries of barn owls that always put his mind to rest, but this time he could find no inner peace.
The conversation with Johann Lechner had not gone well. The Schongau secretary reminded him they had to find a culprit—and that it was Jakob’s job to find this culprit as soon as possible. Lechner didn’t even need to say anything about the trouble awaiting Jakob after they got back to Schongau. Jakob knew.
The secretary has me right where he wants me because of that stupid fight with the doctor. I have to dance to his tune whether I want to or not—or my son, Georg, will never come back from Bamberg . . .
And if there was one thing Jakob hated more than anything else, it was to dance to someone else’s tune.
In addition, he was still convinced that the imprisoned Hans Göbl was innocent; he couldn’t possibly have set up the cross all by himself, and it seemed very unlikely that the Göbls had all ganged up to kill young Dominik Faistenmantel. Then there was the murder of Urban Gabler, which Hans Göbl could not possibly have had anything to do with, as he’d been imprisoned in the dungeon at Ettal when it happened. Nevertheless, Jakob would probably have to torture the poor fellow soon, because those were Lechner’s orders. It was driving him crazy.
On a whim, Jakob took the path through the moor instead of the main road—the same one poor Gabler had taken before him. After a while, he passed the scene of the crime that he’d examined earlier that day. In the moonlight he could see the shadowy footprints of many men, and twigs that had broken off the bushes all around. There was no sign that until recently a dead man had been lying there in his own blood.