The Werewolf of Bamberg (12 page)

“So how is treatment going for my beloved Francesca?” Philipp Rieneck asked with concern. “When I visited her this morning, the poor creature was beside herself. She didn’t even recognize me, her father confessor.” Only now did he notice Simon, and his eyes turned to tiny slits. “Have you perhaps shared our little secret with one of your servants?”

Samuel shook his head vigorously. “Of course not. This gentleman is the renowned physician Simon Fronwieser, a professional friend and esteemed doctor from the Munich area. We’re just discussing other treatment possibilities that won’t be as painful as quicksilver.”

The bishop seemed to be thinking it over for a moment, but finally nodded his head. “Very well, good. Anything is better than this screaming. Sometimes it’s so loud it goes right through you. But one thing has to be clear.” He looked Simon up and down sharply. “It concerns medical confidentiality—or I will soon be pleased to hear
your own
screams, Master . . . Tell me your name again.”

“Fronwieser,” Simon said quickly in a hoarse voice. “Simon Fronwieser.” He couldn’t quite choke out the words to support Samuel’s bold lie, elevating him to the status of certified physician. “You . . . you can depend on me.”

“Very well. I see we understand each other.” The prince-bishop flashed a friendly smile. Then he pointed to the elderly gentleman at his side, who, like himself, was wearing ecclesiastical garb—no doubt the suffragan bishop. While Philipp Valentin Voit von Rieneck was in charge of both the worldly and spiritual administration in Bamberg, the suffragan bishop concerned himself only with affairs of the church. He had the tonsure of a monk and a piercing gaze that Simon could feel going straight through him.

“Well, my dear Master Samuel,” Philipp Rieneck continued, turning to the doctor as his face darkened. “There’s bad news. Suffragan Bishop Sebastian Harsee has just informed me of another gruesome find reported to His Excellency by well-informed friends in the city guard. Evidently an arm belonging to the missing city councilman Schwarzkontz has been found in the Bamberg Forest. Dreadful, isn’t it?” Rieneck shivered. “That old city councilman was always such a strong pillar in the house of God.”

“This same Lord God will watch over him,” Samuel replied. “Probably the poor man was torn to bits by wild animals in the forest.”

“Or something else,” the suffragan bishop interjected. His creaking voice reminded Simon of the crunching sound of rotted wood.

Samuel looked at Harsee in bewilderment. “Something else? What do you mean by that, Your Excellency?”

“As His Eminence has just indicated, this is not the first discovery of a severed body part,” Harsee replied sharply. “And missing persons cases are mounting. Apparently the wife of the apothecary has disappeared, as well. But that’s not all.” He continued in a whisper, “I have just learned that last night a large, furry creature was sighted in the city, walking on its hind legs. It is said to be as large as a man, with long, pointed teeth.”

“A furry creature with long, pointed teeth?” Samuel stared at him open-mouthed. “But—”

“One of the night watchmen saw it, and the brave man reported it to me just this morning,” Harsee interrupted. “There is no doubt.”

Prince-Bishop Philipp Rieneck, who was standing beside him, cleared his throat nervously. “I told the suffragan bishop that I think the entire matter is . . . well, pure fantasy. Evidently the witness is an old drunkard. Unfortunately, the man told other people about it, and the rumor is now coursing through the taverns. The church fears unrest.”

“Rightly so,” Sebastian Harsee noted. He straightened up as if about to deliver a long sermon. “With the earlier reports of men and women who have vanished, and now these gruesome findings of severed body parts, I come to a grave, though logical, conclusion.”

“And what would that be?” Samuel asked hesitantly.

“Well . . .” The suffragan bishop paused briefly for dramatic effect before continuing in a whisper, “It’s not out of the question that a werewolf is afoot in Bamberg.”

For a moment, the men remained silent, and all that could be heard was the splashing of water in the fountain.

“A werewolf?” Simon finally ventured. “But . . . that’s pure nonsense.”

Then he bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to speak out, but the suspicions of the suffragan bishop had completely flustered him.

Sebastian Harsee gave him an indignant look, as if he’d been disturbed by some hideous sound, then turned back to the Bamberg city medicus.

“The existence of werewolves has been proven. Ample proof is provided in that treatise used by the Inquisition, the
Malleus Maleficarum
—
The Hammer of Witches
—which cannot be praised highly enough. Not to mention in other books written by eminent scholars. There were many trials against magical creatures, especially in France, but also here in the German countries. The last of them took place in Landshut and Straubing just a few years ago.” Harsee’s voice began to rise and assumed a priestly tone. “Just like the witches, werewolves are evil ones who have entered into a pact with the devil; he gives them a mantle of wolf’s hide, transforming them into horrible, hairy beasts with a ravenous appetite for all living things. I have studied the scholarly treatises, and I’m certain that a werewolf is prowling the streets of our city.”

The prince-bishop had until then remained silent; he seemed to be struggling with his emotions. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I must admit that I’ve had my doubts, but now, as rumors are spreading and more and more people claim to have seen this beast—”

“This kind of thing is not uncommon,” Samuel interjected. “A person thinks they’ve seen something, and all of a sudden ten others are there to boast they’ve seen it as well. If we investigated every rumor, we’d probably not be able to save ourselves from all the witches, werewolves, and other magical creatures.”

“But what do you say about all the missing persons and the horribly dismembered bodies?” Philipp Rieneck shook his head. “I’m afraid I can no longer close my eyes to all this, even if I wanted to. People are becoming restless, and if this continues, I won’t be able to find beaters for my hunting trips, because no one will dare to go into the forest anymore.” He sighed. “Moreover, in just a few days, Johann Philipp von Schönborn—His Excellency the elector’s representative and the bishop of Würzburg—will be paying us a courtesy visit. He is one of the most powerful men in the Reich and a friend of the kaiser, and we cannot allow any unresolved horrible acts to mar this occasion. I have therefore decided, with great regret, to call together a commission to investigate these matters more closely.” Rieneck pointed to Harsee, who was standing alongside him, looking grim with his arms folded. “Suffragan Bishop Harsee will head the commission, and I would also like to have you join the group, Master Samuel. After all, everything needs to be scientifically verified. Bamberg cannot afford to be placed once again in a bad light.”

Simon had no idea what the prince-bishop meant by that last sentence. He cast a questioning look at Samuel, but Rieneck had already turned back to address the city physician. “I’d like to discuss a few details with you. Alone.” He glanced briefly at Simon. “Your friend will certainly be able to find his way out by himself.”

“Of course.” Simon bowed deeply and was about to hurry off when Samuel held him back.

“When this nonsense has passed, I’d be glad to have a glass of wine with you,” he whispered discreetly in Simon’s ear. “Let’s say tomorrow afternoon at my house?”

Simon nodded nearly imperceptibly, then headed toward the exit. When he turned around again, he saw Bishop Philipp Rieneck walking along the row of hedges with Samuel, in animated conversation.

Only the suffragan bishop was still standing in the same place, watching Simon suspiciously as if wondering if a short, brash doctor might be in truth a dastardly werewolf.

A few hours later, in a far less hospitable place, Adelheid Rinswieser, the wife of the apothecary, stared at the flickering wick of a small candle, which was about to go out. Her voice was hoarse from screaming, and her bones and muscles ached from the leather straps tying her to the bench. She could move only her right arm, and she used it to reach for an earthenware cup of water on the ground beside her, which she used to wet her fingers and moisten her lips.

Where am I? How did I get here?

The cell she was in was square and stuffy, and it smelled of sour wine and the feces of rats, which scampered now and then across the dirt floor, squeaking. Most of the time there was a leaden silence, as if she’d been buried somewhere in the bowels of the earth. Now and then Adelheid heard the screams of the other woman, and then she knew it was starting again.

When is it my turn? Oh, God, when?

Adelheid had long ago given up calling for help, and now the only sound coming from her mouth was an occasional whimper. She had no idea how long she’d been lying down here. The last thing she could remember was that crackling sound when the creature had thrown itself upon her in the forest—that, and the odor of wet fur. Then she had awakened in this cell with a headache as if she’d drunk a bottle of brandy. On one side of her head, above the temple, a large bump was throbbing.

Since then, the dreary hours dragged on. There was no window, not even a crack where light might penetrate into the damp chamber; the only light came from a tallow candle that cast dancing shadows on the walls. The only sounds she could hear were the occasional shrill screams of the other woman. Adelheid had never seen the poor woman but assumed she was in a room at the other end of the hall. Adelheid feared this room more than anything else.

The torture chamber.

Shortly after she had regained consciousness, a man wearing a hangman’s hood had led her there in chains. Even now, she shuddered when she thought of all the strange instruments she’d seen there. Though Adelheid didn’t know what most of them were, she suspected they all served the same purpose: to inflict as much pain as possible on a human being. Her suspicions were confirmed by hastily sketched drawings on the walls of the chamber. They were drawn on strips of cloth that hung down from the ceiling like the flags of an evil kingdom, and they showed images so horrible that even hours later she was still gagging with fear.

Adelheid remembered the image of a man riding astride a sharp wooden cone, his mouth opened wide in agony, and the face of a woman whose jaw was propped open by an iron clamp while her tongue was cut out with a knife. A third image showed a naked, red-haired girl lying on the rack while a masked hangman poured water into her mouth through a funnel. Other torture victims wore bronze boots full of pitch, were hung from the ceiling like slaughtered animals, or were driven with pitchforks into the rushing, dark waters of a river. The images in the chamber showed a more horrible vision of hell than anything she’d seen in the Bamberg Cathedral. And Adelheid still had no idea what her offense had been.

What agony is in store for me? Oh, God, let me lose my mind first, so I no longer can feel the pain. Or am I perhaps already mad? Is this hell?

The man had not removed his hangman’s hood and at first spoke not a word, not breaking his silence until they were in the torture chamber. His voice was firm and matter-of-fact, and he kept asking the same questions.

Confess, witch! Who taught you your magic?

Who are your brothers and sisters?

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

Where do you meet on the witches’ Sabbath?

How do you brew the drink that makes you fly?

Confess, witch, confess, confess, confess . . .

There was nothing Adelheid could tell him—she just shook her head and pleaded for her life. But he had continued asking the same questions, his voice an unending torrent of words.

Confess, witch, confess, confess, confess . . .

Then he took her back to her cell and whispered in her ear one final, strange sentence.

This is the first degree.

Adelheid knew from stories she’d heard that suspects were always first shown the instruments of torture. Often that, by itself, was enough, and they confessed out of sheer terror. But the apothecary’s wife had no idea what to confess to, and the man had brought her back without saying a word, tied her to the bench again, and left her alone.

What the second, third, or fourth degree might be, she could now hear in the next room.

From deep within the walls she heard another high-pitched scream, and she groaned softly. There was no doubt that the torture was continuing in the chamber. The screams of the other prisoner faded in and out, but somehow Adelheid knew the man would not inflict pain on her until the other woman was dead.

Hang on, whoever you are. Hang on as long as possible.

A while ago Adelheid had made out some bits of words amid all the screams—shrill calls for help, pleading, praying—but since then, the words had begun to sound like the whimpers of a mad person.