The Werewolf of Bamberg (19 page)

“One more step, Guiscard, and I’ll send my whole troupe after you,” Sir Malcolm said in a threatening voice as he sought protection behind a tree. “Then you’ll be lucky if you can leave this town on all fours.”

Guiscard Brolet let out a shrill laugh, like that of a little girl. “And just where is your oh-so-brave troupe? I see here only a weakling, a mere youth with a big mouth.”

“We’re here,” a high voice replied. “And now get out before we have to spill any blood.”

Astonished, Guiscard looked toward the wall, where Barbara was still hiding, and his helpers stopped fighting, as well.

Barbara had spoken up instinctively, and now she was thinking feverishly about how she could help her friend. She couldn’t fight herself, and calling the guards would take too much time—if they would even be interested in a fight between two actors. Finally, she did something she’d always had fun with, even as a child.

She disguised her voice.

“You heard the lady, get out, you dirty frogs,” she growled, trying to sound as rough and deep as a barroom brawler.

“Before we break your legs, you filthy Frenchmen,” she grumbled in an even lower pitch with a Swabian accent.

“Come on, let’s get them!” Barbara shouted then in a brighter, resonant tone, sounding like a real Bavarian. “There are only three of them. This will be a bloodbath.”

She threw a few stones over the wall, then quickly grabbed Matheo’s hat still lying in the flowers, pulled it far down over her face, clambered to the top of a rock pile near the wall, and started bombarding Guiscard and his men with stones. One of them shrieked loudly when a rock hit him right in the temple.

“Damn, there are a bunch of them over there,” he whimpered, ducking down like a whipped dog as he ran over to the back door of the inn. The second thug was hit in the shoulder by a rock and looked around anxiously. He, too, ran off when he noticed the hat of his ostensible attacker on the other side of the wall.

“Monsieur Brolet, come quickly!” he called to the theater director. “We must get some reinforcements. There are too many for us.”

“
Sacrement!
You cowards.” With another French curse on his lips, Guiscard struggled to his feet and ran after his two bodyguards, who had already disappeared inside the building.

“You’ll come to regret this, Malcolm! You’ll regret it!” he shouted again in the direction of the English theater producer, who was still hiding behind the tree. “We’ll see you again, and then the bishop will allow only one troupe of actors here in Bamberg. And that’s us!”

He slammed the door to the tavern with a loud thud.

For a while there was not a sound in the garden, then Sir Malcolm stepped out from behind the tree and turned to his comrade-in-arms, who was gasping for air.

“Well, Matheo, how many warriors did you really bring along with you? And why don’t they come out from behind the wall?”

Matheo was still standing there, his mouth open in amazement. Suddenly he broke out in a loud laugh, shook his head in disbelief, and began clapping his hands.

“
Mamma mia
, that was the best performance I’ve heard in a long time,” he exulted, as tears of laughter ran down his cheeks. “This girl is a natural.”

Sir Malcolm looked at him in astonishment. “Girl? Which girl? I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Matheo clapped a few more times, then called out, “Barbara, you can come out now. The play is over.”

Hesitantly, Barbara peered over the wall, still wearing Matheo’s hat, but her pale face showed how terrified she really was.

“Have they . . . have they left?” she stammered.

Sir Malcolm seemed puzzled at first, but then his face broke out in a wide smile.

“
She
is our men?” he asked. “A whole troupe of actors played by one girl behind the wall?” He bowed deeply. “On my honor, young lady, if that was meant to be an audition to convince me of your abilities, you have come across better than any actor before you.”

Barbara had to catch her breath. “Audition?” she asked softly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Sir Malcolm grinned. “I can see in your eyes that you have the talent befitting an actor. Have you ever thought of appearing on the stage? Well? Now that Matheo is too old, we need someone new for the leading female role.” He sighed with satisfaction. “Matheo and you would be perfect for the roles of Romeo and Juliet. There’s never been a more perfect couple.”

Barbara became weak in the knees. She wanted to reply, but in contrast to before, she was now speechless.

“I . . .” was all she could say. “Matheo . . .”

With his arms open wide and his body quivering with emotion, Sir Malcolm approached her. “My lady, welcome to my troupe. So much talent positively cries out to be expressed on the stage. I can’t pay much, but I promise you, you’ll have the whole world at your feet.”

The apothecary’s wife, Adelheid Rinswieser, listened to the screams echoing down the corridor from the room at the other end. They sounded like the howling of a beast, but she could tell they were made by a man. They were occasionally interrupted by a soft murmur when the stranger asked his questions. And even though Adelheid couldn’t quite hear the voice, she knew what it was saying.

Who taught you the art of magic?

Who are your brothers and sisters?

Where do you meet? In the forest? In the cemetery? Up in the ruins of the old castle?

Where do you go on the witches’ Sabbath?

How do you make the drink that lets you fly?

Confess, witch, confess, confess . . .

Confess . . . Confess . . . Confess . . . Confess . . . Confess!

“Oh, God, I don’t know anything,” the victim shrieked. “Who are you? What do you want from me, you devil?”

Adelheid wished she could hear the answer to that, as she still had no idea why the stranger had locked her up here. Why her? And why the constant questioning and torture in the horrible chamber? The man had to be crazy, a deranged murderer, and they had all become his victims by sheer coincidence. There couldn’t be any other reason.

Could there?

The screaming of the young woman had stopped the day before. Was she already dead? Wounded? Unconscious? Adelheid didn’t know, but evidently the stranger had found another victim, and the chalice had not yet been passed on to her.

Again there was a loud scream, and Adelheid froze with fear. She couldn’t help thinking of the beast that had attacked her—the tapping in the bushes, the odor of wet fur. Was this perhaps nothing but a ghost, a figment of her imagination? Were the stranger and the beast one and the same? Or was there not only a madman prowling around out there, but a beast obeying his commands?

“On my honor, yes. I’m a witch! Yes, I have kissed the devil’s anus. Yes! Yes! Yes! Anything you want, just please stop. Stop. Stop. Stop!”

The victim’s voice sounded a bit higher now, and Adelheid felt she was about to vomit. Her fear felt like a little rodent gnawing its way through her bowels.

When is it my turn?

Curiously, the stranger had spared her until now. He’d come into her cell twice more, but he hadn’t taken her back to the horrible torture chamber, just brought her a new candle and stared at her silently through his hangman’s mask. Adelheid thought she could see his body trembling softly. Then he’d dashed out again, almost like a man possessed, and had bolted the door behind him.

A few hours ago, the stranger had turned his attention to the male prisoner, and Adelheid was shocked to realize it had brought her relief. Relief, and at the same time guilt.

I’m happy that it’s someone else. Oh, God, forgive my sin!

She tugged at the chain that tethered her to the wall of the cell. Recently, the stranger hadn’t bothered to attach the leather straps, so now she could at least sit up and even walk around a bit. The pain in her arms and legs had eased off some, so she could shake her limbs and massage them to get the blood flowing again. How long had she been in this cell? Day and night merged into one thick clump, but despite everything, she’d not given up. In the endless hours between the stranger’s visits, she constantly thought of how she might escape. She’d turned over all the possibilities in her mind and finally come to a conclusion.

Perhaps there was a way, but to do it, she’d have to wait until the man came back again and took off the chains to lead her to the torture chamber.

It would, no doubt, be her last chance.

Adelheid Rinswieser took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried to retreat into herself, to a place where she could escape the screams and the fear.

“The tanners are invited to the wedding, and so are a few of the Bamberg fishermen, and a whole family of weavers distantly related to Katharina, and—you’ll hardly believe this—even Aloysius, that stubborn hangman’s servant in the Bamberg Forest. Hah! That would never happen in Schongau. But the tavern keeper at the Wild Man, a fellow by the name of Berthold Lamprecht, doesn’t give a damn about what people say and is going to let Uncle Bartholomäus have the party—though not in the main hall, but in the little room off to one side. The city councilors have more to worry about this year than making a fuss about
that.
”

Jakob Kuisl was silent while his daughter Magdalena babbled on. Late in the day, the hangman, his daughter, and his grandchildren took a Sunday-afternoon stroll. They were walking behind a wagon slowly making its way toward the city across the wide, wooden Sees Bridge, whirling up clouds of dust as it went. They’d spent the last few hours in Theuerstadt, a part of town northeast of the city where many farmers grew onions and licorice. The area was well known for both products—not only in Bamberg, but in the areas around the city as well, earning the locals the sobriquet of “onion heads.” Out there in the country, around the monastery of St. Gangolf, the streets became wider, the houses smaller, and the people friendlier and, above all, cleaner. There were vegetable farms and many fruit trees and different kinds of flowers, though most of them had already withered at the end of autumn.

Katharina had asked Magdalena to find flowers to decorate the tables at the wedding, but it seemed to Jakob that the conversation with the old, toothless flower woman would go on forever. After that, the hangman had let Magdalena wheedle him into looking around in Theuerstadt for asters, stonecrop, and autumn crocuses, and ordering the flowers from the gardener for the coming Sunday—a decision Jakob now regretted. He took consolation in the fact that here in Bamberg no one knew him. In Schongau, an executioner who showed more interest in the fragrances of violets and pansies than the security of the noose on the gallows would surely have been laughed out of town.

But it wasn’t just his visit to Theuerstadt that was a total disaster, it was the entire trip. He’d come here for only one reason, to finally see his son Georg again after two years—only to find that his uncle had completely spoiled him. Georg had become rebellious and impudent, and even worse, he stood up to his own father and defended his uncle. The fight in the street the day before had brought them somewhat closer together, but Georg’s attitude revealed that Bartholomäus had told him more than Jakob wished.

“I don’t know what all this fuss is about for the wedding,” Jakob grumbled, struggling to make his way across the wooden bridge behind the agonizingly slow carts, holding both boys by the hands. Below them, the right branch of the Regnitz flowed along lazily. “Your mother and I didn’t need to have any big party back then. There wasn’t any money for it, anyway. We invited the midwife Stechlin, the knacker and his servant, and the night watchman—that was it, and we all had a good time just the same, without all these so-called friends, cousins, aunts, and uncles, who just want to hang around all day eating the free food.”

Magdalena scowled at her father. “Didn’t you want to have your sister and brother there for the celebration?”

“Hah! Ask Bartl. He never would have come to my wedding.”

“But why?” Magdalena took her father by the arm and stopped for a moment. “Something happened between you two. Don’t you want to tell me?”