The Werewolf of Bamberg (42 page)

The young child is quite beautiful,
Simon thought.
She almost reminds me a bit of Magdalena.

He couldn’t help admiring her grace and noble bearing as she stepped to the front of the stage. For the first time, her face gleamed in the light of the candles.

“We all enjoy comedies and tragedies,” she said in a clear, bright voice, her right hand trembling just a bit. “Which type do you wish to see?”

Simon was stunned, and a muffled cry escaped his lips. He knew the voice.

“What in the world . . . ,” he gasped.

The stunning Princess Violandra was none other than Barbara.

Night had fallen over Bamberg and the gates of Geyerswörth Castle, and the autumn fog rose from the river, embracing the city and, soon, the hills around it, enveloping everything in a damp, billowing quilt with only a few church spires rising above it.

Under the protection of darkness and fog, three disguised figures slunk toward the cathedral mount, each holding a large, wrapped bundle. They stayed off the main streets and took long detours to avoid the night watchmen. When the bell of the church struck eight, they could hear the watchman’s call somewhere nearby, but his steps receded, so they pressed on up the hill until finally they reached the vast, deserted cathedral square.

Magdalena pushed her head scarf down inside her collar and looked around, squinting while her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. On the left, the towers of the cathedral rose up like long, black shadows, while on her right was the new building site for the royal residence, with only the two rear wings of the building so far complete. Faint music could be heard coming from the city below, but otherwise it was as silent as a tomb.

“We’re too early,” Magdalena whispered, out of breath from the steep climb and the bundle she was carrying. “We should have at least waited for the next ringing of the bells. How do we know there aren’t a few night owls still roaming around?”

“The sooner this is over, the happier I’ll be,” Bartholomäus growled. “Besides, this is the best time, believe me. Most of the guards are still down at the reception in the castle, but later they’ll return with the two bishops when they come here to sleep. And the good citizens are carousing in the taverns.” He gave a dry laugh. “The Bambergers drink and party for any reason at all, even if it’s just the visit of some bishop.”

“We need a place to change,” Jakob Kuisl grumbled, looking around the cathedral square. “Here we’re as easy to see as the devil’s naked ass.”

“Don’t worry, I know where we can go,” his brother replied. “Follow me.”

With Bartholomäus leading the way, they slipped along the walls of the cathedral, then, just before reaching the old palace, they turned left into an alleyway so dark they could barely see anything. After a few paces, Bartholomäus stopped, set down his bundle, and drew back the lantern shade so that for the first time since leaving they had a bit of light.

“We’re safe here for the time being,” Bartholomäus whispered. “I’ve checked this out. The only one pulling guard duty tonight is Matthias, the old drunk.” He turned with a wide grin and looked at his older brother. “You remember—the old boozehound from our first nighttime expedition. I stopped by earlier and brought him a bottle of brandy. Right now he’s no doubt off in dreamland. But of course that doesn’t apply to the guards in front of the old palace.”

“We’ll send them off to dreamland, as well,” Jakob replied. “And now stop talking so much and give me the pelt.”

Bartholomäus unrolled his bundle, which contained a number of animal hides along with some pots sealed with beeswax. Magdalena, though standing a way off, could smell the odor of decomposition. She, too, was carrying a bundle of pots and pelts. Her father had dragged the almost-one-hundred-pound wolf, wrapped in nothing but a thin cloth, up to the cathedral mount. Now he threw it down in front of them like a sack of stones.

If we mess this up, they’ll break us on the wheel right here in the middle of the cathedral square,
Magdalena was thinking.
But we won’t mess up. We mustn’t.

Carefully she opened one of the pots, which gave off a pungent odor, and with trembling fingers immersed two of the larger linen rags into it until they were completely soaked. They hadn’t been able to find real sponges at the market, as they were too rare and too expensive, but Magdalena hoped they could get by on what they had. Her father had worked for hours that day to get the proper mix, and finally they tried the potion on a stray dog, which immediately fainted, collapsed, and only regained consciousness more than an hour later. That was no guarantee, however, that it would have the same effect on the guards.

“Well, how do I look?” Jakob asked, interrupting her thoughts. His voice sounded strangely muffled, as if underneath a blanket. “Will I pass for a werewolf?”

Magdalena looked up, and it hit her like a bolt of lightning.

In front of her stood two horrible creatures that looked like a hellish mixture of man, wolf, bear, and fox. As in an ancient ritual, both brothers wore wolf’s skulls on their heads, making the huge men appear even taller than they already were, and the hides of stags and bears wrapped around their necks made them look much wider, as well.

In the flickering light of the lantern, Magdalena stared into the empty eye sockets of the wolf skulls. Though she knew they were just her father and her uncle, she had difficulty suppressing a scream.

“This stuff stinks like the plague,” panted the creature on the left. It was Uncle Bartholomäus, and he tugged angrily at the hides. “If I have to run around in this getup much longer, I’ll throw up on the guard’s shoes.”

“Pull yourself together,” the werewolf next to him said. “Your servant, Aloysius, doesn’t smell much better.”

“I don’t know how I ever let myself get roped into such a crazy thing,” Bartholomäus complained as he staggered back and forth like a drunk in his hides. “Besides, I can hardly see anything underneath this wolf’s head.” He tugged at the skull tied in place over his chin by a leather strap. “I’ll be lucky if I don’t run right into a wall.”

Bartholomäus tugged harder on the skull, but Jakob grabbed his arm and pulled it down.

“Just keep thinking of your dogs, my dear brother,” he whispered. “You don’t want to lose them, do you? So don’t back out now.”

“For God’s sake, you bastard. I’m—”

“Stop it right now, you two,” Magdalena interjected. Her voice was so loud she was afraid someone might have heard her. But all remained calm.

“We all want to see the end of this werewolf frenzy,” she continued in a softer voice and looked pleadingly at the two men. “We certainly don’t want anyone to suspect later that Uncle Bartholomäus gave us the key, and we can only achieve that if we present the Bambergers with a dead werewolf on a silver platter. Here it is,” she said, pointing at the carcass on the ground, “so let’s put an end to all this, and no more threats, Father, do you understand?”

The creature mumbled something unintelligible from under his fur pelt.

“I asked if you understand me,” Magdalena persisted.

“Yes, yes, all right. I won’t make another sound if that guy keeps his mouth shut, too.”

Magdalena took a deep breath, then handed each of the brothers a cloth soaked in sheep’s blood along with some sulfur from the little wooden boxes, the tinder, and the gunpowder.

“So let’s begin,” she said quietly. “From now on, there’s no going back.”

Down below in the Blue Lion, at the foot of the cathedral mount, Georg had learned one of the great maxims of drinking: the more beer you guzzle down, the better it tastes. That was especially true of Bamberg beer brewed with smoked mash, which always gave it a slight taste of cold ashes and ham. By now, Georg was on his fourth mug, and he felt great.

Behind him, a hot fire was roaring in the tile stove, which made sweat run down his forehead. In one corner, three men were drinking and singing an old Frankish melody, and Georg noticed himself instinctively humming along. As a child he’d often had small beer to drink, as it was supposed to be healthier than the polluted water, which was used only for washing and cooking. The beer here, however, was dark and strong . . . very strong. Finally Georg understood why men always wanted to go to the taverns. Something as splendid as this beer couldn’t really be appreciated in silence and alone. You needed company. As he tapped the table with one hand to the beat of the melody, he chugged down his mug of beer and beckoned to the hefty woman behind the bar, who smiled and set down another freshly filled mug in front of him.

“You’re the executioner’s boy, aren’t you?” she said with a wink. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I recognized you right away when you came in. You’re a splendidly built lad.”

Georg grinned sheepishly. He wanted to reply but couldn’t think what to say. It was strange—just a while ago the woman at the bar had appeared very old and fat, but since the last beer she suddenly seemed to have gotten younger and more attractive. She probably wasn’t much older than Magdalena.

Magdalena . . . the children . . .

Georg was startled at the thought.

“What . . . what time is it?” he asked, dazed. “How long have I been here?”

The woman shrugged. “No idea. Two hours, maybe.” She winked at him. “Don’t worry, we don’t have any closing time, if that’s what you’re wondering. All the taverns are open later on account of the reception for the bishops. Why do you ask?”

Georg stared into the foam on his freshly served beer, trying to think. Something came to mind, fleetingly, and then it was gone. It had something to do with Jeremias and the children, but all he could remember was Jeremias saying he could stay away longer than two hours.

Just one more beer—it’s right here in front of me. It would be too bad to let it spoil.

Not until then did he notice that the woman was still standing next to him. He pushed a few coins across the table.

“Thanks very much,” he mumbled, “but after this beer, I’ve really got to go home.”

“Of course,” she replied with a smile. “That’s what they all say.”

With a laugh she turned away, and Georg put the mug to his mouth.

As the black brew dripped from his lips, he struggled to remember what had gone through his mind before. Once again, the thought flashed through his head.

Jeremias . . . the children . . . the sword . . .

But the beer washed the memory away, and soon his head sank down onto the table.

A short time later he was snoring peacefully to the beat of the music.

“That surely is a kindly wall that doesn’t hold me back . . . ,” Barbara was saying, up on the stage of the dance hall, but the rest of her lines were drowned out in a chorus of laughter and applause.

The applause was like a soothing, warm wave washing over her and, at the same time, filling her inside. Barbara rolled her eyes theatrically and stepped back a pace in order to make room for the other actors in the scene. Her initial trembling and the rumbling in her stomach that the actors called
stage fright
had disappeared as if by magic, making her feel like she was in seventh heaven now. She was not just acting the part, she
was
the princess Violandra! When she put on this splendid dress, she’d been able to leave her old life behind her. The theater gave her the chance to be anything she wanted. She was no longer a dishonorable hangman’s daughter but a princess, a queen, or a beautiful young woman waiting for her lover. There were so many roles to play. And it was clear that the people here loved her. They laughed at her few lines, and when she gracefully skipped to the front of the stage, they whistled and cheered. It was just fabulous.