“But . . . who is?” Simon asked.
“Well, let’s look at the other townsfolk.” Jakob tapped his huge hooked nose. “My beak tells me again that it’s someone who lives here in town, someone with a huge grudge. It couldn’t be anyone from out of town. Someone is trying to say: this is what you’re in for if you cross swords with me.” Jakob pulled a few figurines from the pouch and held them up, one by one. “This one is Hans Göbl, our first suspect. He’s jealous of Dominik because of his role in the play. But would he nail him to the cross just for that? I don’t know . . .” He pushed the figurine away to the side of the table. “Likewise, we can probably rule out the victim’s own father, even if he wasn’t especially fond of his son and has been cold and behaving oddly. But what about all the others? A member of the council, for example?” Jakob took a long puff on his pipe and studied the figurines through the smoke.
“Isn’t it possible that Dominik knew something about shady dealings here in the valley?” he finally mused, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “Maybe he learned of it from his friend Xaver? And for that reason they had to silence him, and do it in such a ghastly fashion that everyone would know what would be in store for them if they talked?”
“Hmm. So a troublesome person who knows too much has to be eliminated.” Simon scratched his head. “Before his death, Urban Gabler must have been a very anxious man. Perhaps he was about to talk as well . . .”
“And he had to be eliminated as well, just like pretty-boy Dominik. But by whom?” Jakob set down an especially rough-cut figurine in the middle of the table. “Here’s your man. The mystery man from Oberammergau, a man who wants to keep something hidden, something that now only Eyrl knows.” Lost in thought, he placed Eyrl’s figurine alongside the other in the middle of the table. “We must find Eyrl before our mystery man finds him and kills him, too. So, as fast as we can, let’s—”
He stopped short on hearing a soft scratching against the closed shutters. Jakob cast a wary glance at Simon and continued speaking calmly as he slowly moved toward the window. “Hmm. Let’s go for a quick walk in the mountains and see what’s going on there. Who knows, perhaps we’ll find a shy deer trying to hide from us and . . . Caught you!” He threw open the shutter and reached down. There was a cry of surprise, then someone was wriggling around in Jakob’s huge hands.
Someone Simon knew all too well.
“Peter!” he cried out in surprise. “What are you doing at the window? Were you eavesdropping?”
“Of course he was,” Jakob growled, yanking the boy into the room. He stared angrily at his grandson, still holding him by the scruff of his neck about a foot above the floor. “If your father doesn’t give you a good beating for that, I’ll be glad to.”
Peter struggled to hold back his tears. “I just wanted to talk to Father,” he wailed. “When I heard voices behind the shutter, at first I didn’t know who it was, so I did listen a bit.”
“Let him go now,” Simon pleaded with his father-in-law. More than anything, he was glad to see Peter again. He still had a bad conscience for having neglected his son the last two days. Jakob set Peter down on the bench roughly.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” Simon asked the boy, shaking his finger. “I hope you’re not skipping your classes.”
Peter shook his head. “School was over early today. Poxhannes, the schoolmaster’s assistant, needs the workers’ children to help him do something in the forest. The rest of us were given homework, but all we have to do is memorize a few Bible verses.” He shrugged. “I finished that long ago.”
“And then you thought you’d come and listen at our door,” Jakob grumbled.
“I really just wanted to see Father,” Peter replied, teary-eyed.
Simon walked over to Peter and hugged him. “Of course,” he said in a soothing voice. “And I’m glad you’re here. Just the same, you must keep to yourself whatever you heard here. I don’t want you dragged into this, too.”
Peter nodded earnestly. “I only heard that you’re looking for someone in the village . . . a murderer . . . and that you still don’t know who it is.”
Simon ran his hands through Peter’s hair. “That’s correct, and the biggest favor you can do for us is to let us figure it out.”
“Perhaps I can help,” Peter said.
“And how would you do that?” Simon smiled. “Did you see the murderer with your own eyes, hmm? Or perhaps one of those dwarfs people say are lurking around here making trouble?”
“No, not that.” Peter looked down in embarrassment. “I wanted to tell you yesterday, but then you sent me away, and at night there was that awful earthquake, and you didn’t have any time then, either.”
“Then speak up and tell us what you know,” Jakob grumbled, “and then go out and play.”
“I went out into the woods with Jossi and Maxl and watched a man making strange stone circles on the ground.”
Suddenly the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stood on end.
Strange stone circles . . .
“And who was it?” he finally asked. Peter told him.
And Jakob moved another figurine on the table.
“Stop! I can’t do this.” Magdalena could hear Lukas Baumgartner’s muffled voice through the wall of the barrel. “Stop it, or I’m going to leave and tell the first person I see what’s going on here!”
Wine poured in through the bunghole and over Magdalena as the barrel slowly filled. The cold liquid had already reached her waist, and she shouted and pounded in desperation against the side, but her tormenter just poured it in faster. Then suddenly it stopped and just a few drops followed.
“So what do you want to do with her?” the Tyrolean asked in a threatening voice.
“This woman was one of the midwives when my child was born,” Lukas said, his voice cracking. “I’ve known her since I was a child, and I can’t let her drown like a rat. I’d rather see us all get caught.”
“Oh, just go ahead,” the other snarled. “And I swear I’ll make sure your wife, and your child as well, are nailed up in a barrel just like her.”
“Oh God, please don’t!” Lukas sobbed. “I didn’t want this to happen, I just wanted to make a few extra guilders so my family would have a better life. As God is my witness, I didn’t want this to happen.”
“She saw us, young fellow,” the Tyrolean said. “If we release her, she’ll go straight to the village judge in Soyen and report us, and your child will never see his father again, because you’ll be on some galley heading for the West Indies. So don’t be so stupid!”
“If you drown this woman, I swear I’ll turn you all in.” Lukas’s voice suddenly sounded firm and determined. “That’s my final word. I can’t live with guilt like that no matter what happens to me.”
“I won’t report you,” cried Magdalena, pounding against the side of the barrel. In the half-full barrel of wine her voice sounded strangely muffled, like a voice from the grave. “I don’t even know what you—”
“Hold your tongue, woman!” the Tyrolean snapped, hitting the bunghole with his fist and closing it. “I’ve got to think about this,” he said, and it seemed the young man’s threat had worked. Silence returned.
“Very well, lad,” the Tyrolean said in a gentler voice. “No more wine—too bad it was all wasted. I tell you what we’ll do: we’ll take the woman out of Soyen before anyone here gets suspicious. I know of an old goat shed far from the main road where we can lock her up until this whole thing has blown over. What do you think of that?”
Tears of relief ran down Magdalena’s cheeks, mixing with the wine in the barrel. Although she was trembling all over, it appeared her life had been spared. It was easy to see why the Tyrolean would want to silence her, but for now she at least had a chance to think about what to do next. Fate had granted her a reprieve.
“Very well,” said Lukas, who also sounded relieved. “We’ll lock her up, and later we’ll let her go if she promises not to squeal on u
s.”
“You have my word,” Magdalena gasped.
The Tyrolean laughed. “The word of a hangman’s daughter. Just great. Well, it will have to suffice. In a few days I’ll be back in Tyrol, anyway.”
Now Magdalena finally realized why the man’s voice had sounded so familiar to her even the last time. She remembered that Barbara had told her a Tyrolean man in a Stopselhut had met Melchior Ransmayer in the old cemetery in Schongau. Barbara’s stories had always sounded far-fetched to Magdalena, but now Magdalena wondered if the man who had just been planning to drown her was the same man as Barbara’s Tyrolean. And there was something else going through her mind: the Tyrolean had spoken earlier about a Master from Oberammergau. That was evidently the man who had knocked her out.
What’s going on here, for God’s sake? Who are these people and what is this plot?
“So we can now finally head back to Schongau?” Lukas asked hopefully.
“Not yet,” the Tyrolean replied. “Our people say the route is not yet safe. There are too many black riders along the way. We’ll probably have to wait until nightfall.”
“But we’ve been stuck here since yesterday. I must get home to my wife—she’ll be terribly worried.”
“This is my last word—we’re waiting until nightfall.”
Magdalena was shocked by the Tyrolean’s words.
Until nightfall . . .
Magdalena had already been held here since yesterday, and now more endless hours would follow. It was possible that Burgomaster Buchner had already discovered she was no longer in Schongau. He’d certainly be suspicious. Her time was running out.
“Let’s take her out of the barrel,” Lukas suggested. “If we gag her, she can’t cry for help.”
“Do whatever you think you must,” the Tyrolean responded, “but just so you understand, later we’ll have to put her back in the barrel. We can’t risk anything.”
Magdalena heard pounding, then she saw a beam of light shining into the dark barrel. Lukas’s powerful hands pulled Magdalena up, and she gasped for air as if she’d been pulled up from the bottom of a lake. Her dress was soaking wet, she stank of wine, and every muscle in her body ached, along with the back of her head where she’d been struck earlier.
But I am alive. At least for now, she thought.
“Thank you,” she croaked as Lukas lifted her out of the barrel.
“I’m so sorry, Frau Fronwieser,” the young wagon driver whispered in her ear. “This is all a big misunderstanding, believe me.” He glanced over at the Tyrolean, who was leaning listlessly against a barrel, sipping from a bottle of wine. “I had no idea what I was getting myself into.” He shook his head. “Somebody is going to pay for this when it’s all over.”
“Who?” Magdalena whispered, almost unconscious. “Who is behind this?”
But Lukas didn’t answer as he grabbed her under the arms and dragged her to a corner of the basement. She hardly noticed that the Tyrolean tied her up after that, and gagged her.
Her final conscious thoughts were of her little sister, whose rescue was looking more and more unlikely.
13
OBERAMMERGAU, ON THE MORNING OF MAY 9, AD 1670
SO YOU BOYS WATCHED AS Franz Würmseer made a circle of pebbles on the path over by the Malenstein?” Simon asked his son again.
They were seated with Jakob at the table in the old medicus’s bathhouse. As Peter recounted what he had seen, the hangman’s pipe gradually went out, and he picked up a chip of wood to light it again.
Peter nodded emphatically, clearly happy that the grownups were finally listening to him. “I was trying to tell you yesterday, but you wouldn’t listen,” he said, turning to his father. “It looked just like the circle of pebbles we saw on our trip here to Oberammergau. If Herr Würmseer is even half as mean as his son, then he’s a very bad man. Besides, Jossi says he hates the laborers.”
Simon remembered how Franz Würmseer had behaved in the council meeting earlier that day. He hated the immigrants. So much that . . .
Suddenly a horrible thought crossed his mind. The murdered children on the Döttenbichl . . . the circle of stones . . . the black rider . . .
The idea was so horrible that he rejected it out of hand. It couldn’t be possible, could it? But in any case it was strange that the second burgomaster of a village would be making pagan symbols in the forest—strange enough to warrant looking into.
“We need to keep an eye on Würmseer,” said Simon, turning to Jakob. “I can’t tolerate him anyway—always attacking foreigners, and now this. He’s up to something.”
“And what do you think that might be?” Jakob asked gruffly. “I’ve got to get back to Lechner in a while, and you’ll be staying here as the medicus. You could make a house call to Würmseer and snoop around a little, though, unfortunately, he looks fit as a fiddle.”
“Of course, you’re right,” Simon replied. “That won’t work. We need someone who—”
“We can do it,” Peter interrupted.
Simon looked at him in surprise. “Who is we?”
“I told you about my new friends,” Peter said excitedly. “Jossi, Maxl, and many others. They are all children of laborers and can’t stand Würmseer, and even less his son, fat Nepomuk. I could ask them to keep a close eye on Würmseer, and so would I.”
Jakob snorted. “You can forget that idea. How old are you? Seven? If you’re as clever at spying on people as you were just a while ago eavesdropping at our window, Würmseer will whip your ass so bad you won’t be able to walk for a week!”
“Hmm. I’m not sure—the children could at least try,” Simon said. He was glad that Peter had made friends so quickly in Oberammergau. In Schongau, where he was just the dishonorable hangman’s grandson, he’d never been able to do that. In addition, after all the disappointments of recent days, he wanted to do something for his son, and when he saw the spark of enthusiasm in Peter’s eyes, he continued: “If you get caught we can just say it’s mischievous kids, fooling around. What do we have to lose? In any case, it’s better than if we stalk Würmseer ourselves. He’d immediately become suspicious.”
“Well, then it’s all right with me.” Jakob raised his massive arms in surrender and he sighed. “We’ll let a bunch of toddlers help us find the murderer. It’s all worth it if we can finally solve this riddle.”
Noisy steps could be heard coming down the hall in the Schongau dungeon.
Barbara, startled, straightened her tousled hair. Up to now she’d been able to face the guards who brought her a skimpy meal twice a day with defiance and her head held high. She didn’t want them to notice her fear, her racing heart, and the gloomy thoughts plaguing her mind as she sat alone there in the dungeon. The last message that Paul had brought her from Magdalena was almost a night and two days old, and by now her sister should have arrived in Oberammergau. Had Johann Lechner agreed to see her? Barbara was still hiding the message underneath her bodice, but now and then she took out the crumpled piece of paper and silently mouthed the words.
I’m going to get help . . . Hold on . . .
Most of the time she dozed, trying not to think of what was awaiting her.
The first level of torture . . . then the burning, stretching, and pulling . . . the indescribable pain of finally being burned alive at the stake, all because of some stupid mistake.
Her only diversion was when Paul appeared at the window from time to time and told her about his latest pranks—but the guards always quickly shooed him off. At least Melchior Ransmayer hadn’t appeared again. She still felt sick to her stomach thinking of the doctor’s spindly fingers on her body. His hateful words had convinced her that her suspicion was justified; Ransmayer and Burgomaster Buchner were up to something.
But what?
The loud steps outside did not augur well. Ransmayer had threatened that the torture might begin that very day. Had the time come? Every muscle in her body tensed as the bolt squeaked and was pushed aside.
When the
door opened, she suppressed a scream.
“Good day, Barbara,” Master Hans said, ducking through the doorway. “I see you’ve grown up since the last time I saw you.”
Barbara tried to stay calm, but she couldn’t control the faint trembling that gradually came over her. She had seen the Weilheim executioner only once before in her life, at a meeting of Bavarian hangmen that her father and her brother had taken her to in Nürnberg. She was only nine years old then, and the sight of the huge, cruel man had followed her in her dreams for weeks afterward.
Master Hans had long snow-white hair even though he was at least ten years younger than her own father, and his skin, too, was a faded white like bleached, flaking stucco. But what made him look so menacing were his eyes.
They were bloodred like a rat’s.
The eyes of the devil, she thought.
There were rumors about Master Hans, horrible stories people whispered to one another that had made the Weilheim executioner famous and infamous in all of Bavaria. Some considered him the son of Satan, others said he was the child of a reformed witch, which explained why he was so cruel to heretics. His specialty was the pulling of fingernails and toenails, and he always got his confession. At the gallows, Hans tied the knot in such a way that the victim struggled and writhed an especially long time, much to the amusement of the onlookers.
During the execution he passed his hat around to the spectators, and the kreuzers, hellers, and pennies kept coming as long as the writhing continued.
Master Hans leaned against the opposite wall of the cell and stared at Barbara, who cowered in a corner like a wild animal brought to bay.
It seemed to her he was trying to determine how much pain she could tolerate. Suddenly a thin smile appeared on his face.
“It’s a bad thing you got yourself into,” he whispered in a voice that was both strangely tender and hoarse. It sounded to Barbara like the rustling of dried leaves. “Hiding magic books. How stupid of you.” He shook his head sadly. “You might just as well have set fire to yourself, girl.”