The Werewolf of Bamberg (11 page)

Just as Magdalena was running out of the wedding house on her way to the harbor, she remembered the package that Barbara had put down earlier beside the stage. The little brat was so angry at her older sister that she’d forgotten it.

“Damn it, is it my job to look after everything?”

She cursed as she ran back through the portal and up the stairs. If she showed up at the hangman’s house without the things she’d bought, Katharina would be terribly disappointed—to say nothing of her father, impatient for his tobacco. She walked out onto the dance floor, grabbed the bundle, and hurried back out, intending to give her saucy little sister a good tongue-lashing.

The actors were too busy to notice her. Just the same, Magdalena had to smile. It looked like Barbara had fallen for the suntanned youth.

She’s growing up. It won’t be long before she’ll start driving Father crazy with stories about her boyfriends. And why won’t the old man treat her the same as he did me?

On the stair landing, she heard a mumbling voice coming from a chamber off to one side. Curious, she turned and saw a room full of old chests and theater props. Markus Salter, the playwright, was standing with his back to her, leaning over a small trunk, whispering in an indulgent tone, almost as if speaking with a child. When he glanced over his shoulder and saw Magdalena, he quickly closed the trunk and turned to her. He looked as if he’d been caught doing something forbidden.

Magdalena raised her basket and package apologetically. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, I just forgot something, and then I saw—”

There was a scratching and scraping in the box, and something was squealing softly. Markus appeared to be thinking for a moment, but finally he uttered a sigh of resignation and stepped aside.

“May I introduce you to Juliet? But promise not to tell Sir Malcolm about this.”

Magdalena looked puzzled. “Juliet? I’m afraid I don’t understand . . .”

Without answering, Markus lifted the lid and pulled out a small, wriggling bundle of fur. It took a while for Magdalena to realize it was a ferret. She laughed with relief.

“This is Juliet?”

Markus nodded and lovingly petted the squirming little animal. “I found her last spring in the forest, along with her brother Romeo. They were the only ones in their litter to survive. The others were probably eaten by wild boars. That old philanderer, Romeo, unfortunately ran away some time ago, but Juliet stayed with me. She’s rather friendly—see for yourself.”

Markus opened his hand carefully, and the ferret climbed up his right arm to his shoulder, where it sat down and scrutinized Magdalena with beady red eyes. There was an animal intelligence in its gaze that reminded Magdalena of a rat. Alert, in a strange way . . .

Evil?

Magdalena shook her head, and Markus looked at her, surprised.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like ferrets? They’re pretty smart. You can easily train them to chase rats.” He shrugged with the other shoulder. “Unfortunately, Sir Malcolm can’t stand animals—ferrets, martens, weasels, all the little creatures that live in the forest. He says they transmit diseases. What nonsense. I think he’s just afraid of them.”

“Well, they do need a place to live,” Magdalena replied hesitantly. “Ah . . . especially when they’ve been tamed.”

“If Sir Malcolm finds Juliet, he’ll put her in a sack and throw her into the river. Please don’t tell him anything.” Markus petted the ferret, which was still sitting on his shoulder like a kitten. “I’m hiding her here among the stage props until I can find a better place for her. I’ve really become very fond of Juliet.”

Magdalena smiled. “I’ll be as silent as the grave, I promise.” After a few moments she asked, “How long do you intend to stay here in Bamberg?”

“Well, probably all winter.” Markus put the squirming ferret back in her cage and closed it carefully. “That’s what all itinerant actors do. In the winter it’s too cold to get around. We were here in Bamberg just last May, and evidently the bishop liked our performances, as he has given permission for the troupe to spend the winter. The innkeeper here in the wedding house is very cordial. He’s reserved the dance floor for our rehearsals and shows and provided a few rooms where we can spend the night.” He grinned. “Of course, it brings him business, too. During the shows, people drink as if there’s no tomorrow.”

Magdalena suddenly had an idea. “You say you were in Bamberg once before?” she asked. “Do you happen to know anything about all the abandoned houses in the city? We noticed them when we arrived yesterday evening. It seems rather . . . weird.”

“The abandoned houses?” He appeared to hesitate. When he continued, his eyes looked a bit sadder. “Indeed, they do seem strange—silent witnesses to an enormous crime. Perhaps the most violent this part of the country has ever seen.”

“What sort of crime?” Magdalena asked.

Markus looked at her, perplexed. “You really must be from someplace far away if you never heard of the Bamberg witch trials. It was more than thirty years ago. I myself was just a kid at the time and lived with my parents and siblings in Nuremberg, forty miles away. But even there, everyone was talking about the horror that took place here.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear. “Almost a thousand innocent people in Bamberg and the neighboring towns were accused of witchcraft and put to the stake—men, women, and children. Some were just simple people, but some were noble-men; a few were burgomasters, and there was even a chancellor. The prince-bishop and his henchmen were beside themselves with rage, and nobody could stop them. Not even the pope and the kaiser.” He paused and looked into the distance. “What a tragedy. The events would have been good material for a play, an especially bloody one.”

“And the homes of the condemned are still empty?” Magdalena asked in disbelief.

Markus shrugged. “For a long time, people thought the houses were haunted. It was said that the innocent people who were tortured and burned would wander as ghosts through their former homes. Then the buildings fell into disrepair, and now it’s probably just too expensive to restore them.” He sighed. “Bamberg really has its best years behind it. I’ll be happy when we can leave the city again in the spring.”

Magdalena looked out the window, down at the marketplace where the fishwives were still loudly extolling their wares. The early-afternoon sun shone down mildly on the Regnitz, where a small boat was sailing calmly toward the city hall; in the background, the mighty spire of the cathedral rose up into the mist and low-lying clouds. Everything appeared so peaceful—but it seemed to Magdalena that, since her visit to the market, a gray shroud had descended over the city. Even from up here she could see some of the burnt ruins, the gangrenous wounds of a dying city. War, plagues, witch trials . . . Would Bamberg ever recover from the many horrors of past years?

Suddenly, Magdalena felt a chill in the cold building, and goose bumps appeared on her bare arms. She picked up her basket and package, and bowed slightly.

“I enjoyed meeting you, Master Markus,” she said, “even if your story was a rather sad one. Until tomorrow, then, at the performance.” Suddenly her face broke out in a smile. “Oh, and say good-bye to Juliet. Perhaps I’ll bring her some treats on my next visit.”

Magdalena turned and hurried down the stairs toward the wide portal. Not until she reached the bustling harbor did warmth gradually return to her arms and legs.

4

B
AMBERG
, NOON
,
O
CTOBER
27, 1668 AD

F
OR THE FIRST TIME IN
weeks, Simon felt truly liberated.

The medicus and bathhouse owner wandered aimlessly through the narrow lanes, breathing in the smells of the city—not exactly pleasant, but at least interesting. The prevailing stench of garbage and feces did not completely mask the smell of the river, the sour wine, and the ever-present beer in the taverns, and as he passed through one of the many market squares, he thought he could even smell a faint hint of clove and nutmeg in the air.

In recent years, Simon had felt more and more confined in Schongau; that was the main reason he had decided to close his prosperous bathhouse for a while and accompany the Kuisls on the long trip to Bamberg. He understood the risk of doing that, as a second bathhouse had opened in town, and in the past year a new doctor had even set up business. Simon considered the man a complete charlatan, but that didn’t keep people from buying his highly overpriced and worthless tinctures and medications—just because the man had studied in the exotic city of Bologna on the other side of the Alps.

As Simon strolled through the little back streets—dodging carts and passersby and struggling in vain to avoid stepping into the deep piles of garbage in his new, freshly polished leather boots—his thoughts wandered back to Ingolstadt, where he had studied long ago. That’s where he had met Samuel, who came from a Jewish family that had converted to Christianity years ago. Samuel was smart and well read. But, just like Simon, he had a fondness for a good jug of wine, expensive clothing, and, above all, gambling—a passion that had led the two young students to many a disreputable tavern and had finally cost Simon his expensive place at the university. After just three semesters he had spent all his money on drink and gambling and had to return home to Schongau—a failure for which his father, the Schongau medicus Bonifaz Fronwieser, had never forgiven him.

Nor had he forgiven himself.

Samuel, on the other hand, had enjoyed great success. Since that time, he’d become the official doctor of Bamberg and, on occasion, had even attended the prince-bishop in letting his blood. The two former students corresponded from time to time, and Samuel, who was still single, always inquired about Simon’s family. So Simon was excited when they received the invitation to visit Bamberg. He wanted to finally see his old friend Samuel again, and he hoped to hear about recent advances in medicine that might be useful to him in Schongau.

Besides, Simon enjoyed—more than he wanted to admit to himself—wandering by himself through the little alleyways of Bamberg. He loved his two boys, but they could be incredibly tiring—especially Paul, a little hellion who tended to break out in temper tantrums. Simon hadn’t said when he would be back, so he was free to enjoy these precious moments visiting the many churches and chapels, buying a package of his beloved coffee beans in the spice market (despite the outrageous cost), and shopping for clothing fabric.

As Simon strolled past St. Martin’s Church, he saw a young girl standing by the church portal. Her hair had been shorn; she wore braids of straw and held a wooden tablet informing passersby that she’d had a casual affair with a young man prior to marriage. Some of those passing by spat on the ground in front of the girl, while others regarded her with pity. Simon’s face darkened; he couldn’t help thinking about how he and Magdalena had also been exposed to mockery and hatred in Schongau, before they’d finally been permitted to marry.

It’s always the same. Bathhouse owners, amateur doctors, and hangman’s children . . . we’ll always be shunned as dishonorable, all our lives. Probably even in the sophisticated city of Paris they’d be singing lewd songs, making fun of us.

After stopping several times to get directions, Simon finally stood in front of the Burgher’s Enclave, adjacent to the distinguished Jesuit college, near the Hay Market. Several buildings surrounded an elegant interior courtyard full of flowers and fruit trees. Simon had learned that the head city clerk and the city physician were housed there. Gazing on the freshly roofed buildings, carefully pruned apple trees, and meticulously clean yard, he couldn’t help but think of his own wretched bathhouse back home.

Perhaps Father was right, after all. I’m just a miserable failure.

Then he thought of Magdalena, the boys, and all the exciting things that had happened since then, and his gloom evaporated.

Excitedly Simon knocked on the door that he had been directed to, and waited. After a while he heard footsteps, and an elderly woman—presumably Samuel’s housekeeper—opened the door. She was haggard, severe looking, unusually tall for a woman, and had her hair tied in a tightly wound bun. She cast a disapproving glance down at the short bathhouse owner in his rumpled clothing.

“The doctor is not in,” the haggard old woman snarled. “If you have an ailment that needs tending, come back tomorrow.” She scowled. “On Friday mornings, Master Samuel treats common people.”

Simon choked back the nasty reply on the tip of his tongue. “I’m an old friend of his,” he said instead, smiling. “Where could I see him now?”

The housekeeper pursed her lips. “People like you wouldn’t be admitted there. Herr Doktor is over at Geyerswörth Castle with His Holiness the bishop. One of his”—she hesitated—“uh,
chambermaids
has a woman’s ailment that only Master Samuel is able to cure. But that’s no business of yours.”

“Aha, a chambermaid. I’ll wager she’s a bit younger, prettier, and, no doubt, more affectionate than your average chambermaid. Well, in any case, good day to you.”

While the housekeeper was still frowning and trying to figure out the meaning of what he’d just said, Simon had already turned away and left the Burgher’s Enclave. As it always did when someone alluded to his low social standing, a barely controllable rage rose up in him. Once again he swore to himself that his children and grandchildren would someday be better off than their father, who, despite all his talent, had made it no further in life than the post of a dishonorable bathhouse owner in a backwater town. Would things have turned out differently if he’d completed his studies in Ingolstadt? Would he, too, have become the personal physician of a duke or bishop?

Simon was still seething as he turned into a small lane leading to the hangman’s house, along the city moat. Then, on the spur of the moment, he decided to give it a try, after all, and go to Geyerswörth Castle to look for Samuel. There was no reason for the old woman to have turned him away so rudely; his clothing, though a bit rumpled, was still quite appropriate. His petticoat breeches and smart feathered hat had cost him a fortune. Simon attached great importance to his appearance, trying to make up for his small stature.

At the next corner he inquired about the way to the castle and was directed toward the left branch of the Regnitz. Soon he could make out, a bit upstream and not far from the city hall, a long island on whose northern half stood a magnificent building decorated with oriels and turrets. Stained-glass and lead-lined crown-glass windows reflected the light of the afternoon sun. It looked like a slightly smaller version of a royal hunting lodge. Suddenly, Simon was no longer so sure he should ask to see his friend Samuel in this splendid building.

Summoning up his courage, however, he strode across the bridge to a large doorway with two oaken wings, where the bishop’s guards stood on duty. Along the way he’d straightened his clothing a bit, and the soldiers who looked him up and down were not hostile toward him.

“Is the city physician available?” Simon asked, trying to sound both blasé and accustomed to giving orders.

One of the guards frowned. “He’s inside with one of the girls. Why do you ask?”

“Well, uh . . . he forgot his package of Bengali fire beans.” Impulsively, Simon held up the small purse of coffee beans he’d just bought. “Without these, the patient’s treatment will probably be ineffective. I need to take them to the doctor right away.”

“Bengali fire . . . what?” The guard’s forehead creased. “Do you think that will help cure the girl’s accursed French disease?”

Simon smiled inwardly. Now he at least knew what the bishop’s so-called maid was suffering from. The French disease, also known as syphilis, was a contagious and extremely dangerous sexual infection, often leading to madness and eventually death. It was especially feared in the royal courts, as there was practically no cure. The bathhouse owner shook the bag so that the beans rattled inside.

“A cure is possible only with the use of Bengali fire beans,” he announced solemnly. “They come directly from the West Indian Islands, and the prince-bishop paid a fortune for them. They’re effective for only one hour, and after that they start going bad.”

“For heaven’s sake!” It was clear from the look on the guard’s face that he was imagining what was in store for him if the bishop had any reason to complain. “Then get yourself in right away. The Jew must have forgotten to bring his medicine,” he grumbled softly, but Simon had already slipped by him and entered the shaded inner court of the palace. He could feel the suspicious gazes of the other guards like arrows in his back, so he hurried along, his head held high, toward a stone archway that appeared to lead to the back of the castle.

As soon as he’d passed through the arch, he stopped, overwhelmed by the sight in front of him. Before him lay a large park, with lines of green hedges bounded by two branches of a river. Some bushes were shaped in the form of animals, others stood in waving rows, and still others had leafy tops. Between the rows there were beds of all kinds of roses, many of which had faded. In the middle of the park stood a fountain with graceful statues; holy water sprayed from the antlers of a bronze stag. Colorful, exotic birds chirped in a nearby aviary, and next to it was a gleaming hothouse containing dark-green lemon trees. After all the filth and stench outside in the alleyways, this scene seemed so bizarre that Simon almost thought he was dreaming. A loud voice calling his name finally brought him back to the present.

“My God, Simon! Tell me it’s really you.”

From a balcony with steps leading into the castle, a tall man came running toward him. He was wearing a broad, black cloak and a pointed hat, making him look like a magician, and his arms were spread out in greeting. Not until the man had drawn closer did Simon recognize the friendly face, slightly hooked nose, and bushy eyebrows. His hair had thinned and he had a few more wrinkles around his eyes, but otherwise he looked just like he used to.

“Samuel!” Simon replied with a laugh.

They embraced warmly, and for a moment, the park with the fountain, the hedges, the exotic birds—indeed, all of Geyerswörth Castle—was forgotten.

“You should have sent a messenger to tell me you were coming,” Samuel chided him, raising his finger playfully. “I was worried something might have happened to you on your long trip.”

Simon sighed. “I’m afraid you overestimate my financial means, Samuel. I’m just a simple bathhouse owner who can’t afford a messenger on horseback.” His gaze wandered, half in wonder and half with envy, to the castle towers. “You, on the other hand, evidently are a regular guest of the Bamberg prince-bishop.”

“And shoot enemas up his fat ass,” Samuel laughed, waving him off. “The life of an esteemed city physician is not always as pleasant as people think. You know, of course, that the richer the patient, the more difficult he is to deal with. At present I’m treating not His Excellency but one of his playmates—”

“The one suffering from the French disease, I know,” Simon interrupted.

Samuel grinned. “I see you haven’t changed. Curious and sly as an old Jew. I don’t even want to know how you got wind of this highly secret information—nor how you slipped by the guards of the bishop’s summer residence,” he added with playful mock-seriousness.

“Well, let’s just say I managed both at the same time,” Simon replied with a smile. But then his face darkened. “The French disease is a horrible scourge. Years ago my father had some cases to treat, and all the patients died. Is just the girl infected? Or the prince-bishop, as well?” He lowered his voice and looked around to see if anyone might be listening.

Samuel shook his head. “Probably not, though naturally that is Philipp Rieneck’s greatest worry at present. I spread quicksilver all over the girl’s body to stop the disease, and the young thing screamed like a stuck pig. If the syphilis doesn’t drive her mad, then possibly the treatment will—but what can I do? I don’t know any other treatment.” He sighed sadly. “That’s why we’ve quarantined the patient here in Geyerswörth and not in his palace up in Mengersdorf where the prince-bishop resides in the cooler months.” Samuel smiled with tightly pursed lips. “The screams remind His Excellency too much of his own mortality—though today, at least, he deigned to come and visit her. After all, until now she was his favorite concubine.”

“Did you ever try using the potion made from the guaiac tree?” Simon asked. “I read about it just a few months ago. The great humanist Ulrich von Hutten, in an experiment on himself—”

Samuel laughed. “I see in this regard, as well, you haven’t changed—always in search of the newest treatments. Perhaps you’re right. I’ll . . .”

He fell silent as two elegantly dressed men, accompanied by several guards, appeared beneath the archway and walked toward them. With a sigh, Samuel removed his hat and motioned to Simon to do the same.

“What a schlimazel,” Samuel muttered, falling back into the Yiddish jargon of his childhood. “The prince-bishop and the suffragan bishop at the same time. I am spared nothing. Let’s just hope these two high-placed gentlemen don’t both want to be bled at the same time, so I can return home before morning.”

He bowed deeply, and Simon, hesitantly, did the same.

A deep, booming voice greeted the city physician: “Ah, my dear Samuel.” The cleric was large, with long, elegantly waved gray hair and a goatee, likewise gray. His garb was that of a nobleman, with only the cap on his head revealing to Simon that the man standing before him was none other than the prince-bishop himself. He appeared to be about fifty years old.