The Werewolf of Bamberg (17 page)

“For God’s sake. How stupid are you, anyway?” the doctor interrupted. “It takes more than grease and herbs to make a werewolf. I give you my word, as the personal physician of the bishop, that this man is no monster. And now, off with you.”

The guards left with the shepherd, who was still trembling all over. Jakob Kuisl wiped the dried blood out of his eyes. “You have a pretty influential friend on your side,” he said appreciatively to Simon. “I’m guessing this Doctor Samuel is your old school friend”—he grinned at the two former classmates—“and your years at the university were not a total waste.”

“Well, I hope I haven’t exceeded my authority,” Samuel murmured. “While I do have some influence here in the city, when His Excellency the bishop learns I ordered the release of a man suspected of a crime, I can expect a reprimand—if the suffragan bishop does not skin me alive first.”

“But you saved a person’s life,” said Georg, who, except for a bloodied lip, appeared uninjured. “I think it was worth it,” he continued, casting an admiring look at his father. “You beat the crap out of them. It’s hard to believe you’re already over fifty.”

“It was enough to beat up a couple of wiseass farmers,” Kuisl growled. “I’ll turn on my rude son, too, if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut.” But even as he complained, a warm feeling of affection pulsed through him. The ice between him and his son seemed finally to have thawed.

“You know what, Jakob?” Bartholomäus chortled. “This fight reminds me of when we were kids, and how the sons of old Berchtholdt would sometimes beat us up down by the Lech River. That was always a real blast. I think we should do this more often. It’s what bonds us together.”

Simon shook his head in disbelief. “I always knew I’d married into a strange family,” he mumbled, beating the dust from his badly rumpled petticoat breeches. “Anyway, it’s time for us Kuisls to go back home. My youngster, I believe, has caught us some fish for supper, and if we wait any longer, he’ll be angry. That’s worse, by God, than any fight in the streets.”

A few hours later, after night had fallen like a black shroud over Bamberg, two stooped figures snuck over the City Hall Bridge toward the new section of town.

One of them was as tall and broad as a bear and wore swords, hunting knives, and a loaded wheel-lock pistol on his belt. Cautiously, the huge man stopped at every crossing and looked around before waving to the other man to follow. The hesitant man bringing up the rear was short and crippled, stooped with age, and visibly in pain as he moved forward, clutching his cane. Nevertheless, the elderly city councilman Thadäus Vasold insisted on paying a visit to his old friend at this unnatural hour.

The old man trembled all over, but that had little to do with the cool autumn night. Shivering, he closed the top button of his expensive woolen coat and followed his husky guide warily through the labyrinth of alleys that spread out below the cathedral. The friendly giant was Hans, Vasold’s most loyal servant, who had also served as a coachman to Vasold’s father, scion of an old patrician family. It had become clear, early on, that Hans, though blessed with enormous size and strength, had the intelligence of a doorstop. Still, Vasold had often taken him along on his trips as a bodyguard; the giant might not have been the brightest, but he was discreet—and robbers, thieves, and highwaymen always ran off when they saw him coming.

Vasold hoped his servant would have the same effect on werewolves.

Naturally, the patrician could have paid this visit officially during the day, but Thadäus Vasold wanted to prevent others from hearing about their conversation. Even after so many years, some people might have drawn the right conclusion, and Vasold wanted to attract as little attention as possible. Thus he had decided to make a far more dangerous trip in the dead of night.

In his calloused hands, big Hans carried a tiny lantern to help them find their way through the night. The lantern was just bright enough to form a flickering circle of light for the two men, beyond which lay nothing but the fog and darkness.

Vasold cursed softly to himself. How often had he urged the council to put up lanterns in at least the larger squares in town, as various big German cities had already done? But the council had repeatedly put him off because of the cost, and possibly for fear of starting a fire, and thus he, Thadäus Vasold, one of the most esteemed and oldest patricians in Bamberg, had to find his way like a thief in the night, stumbling over garbage, rotten barrels, and pieces of wood lying around, and nearly shitting in his pants with fear.

When Klaus Schwarzkontz, his old friend and colleague on the city council, had not returned from a trip to Nuremberg a few weeks ago, at first Vasold had not been at all worried. On the contrary: Schwarzkontz had been one of his major competitors in the wool trade, so that just meant more business for Vasold. But since then, more and more people had disappeared, and gradually Thadäus Vasold was beginning to suspect something horrible. Perhaps he was mistaken, but if the various pieces of the puzzle fell together, there was something there—something reaching far back into the past and touching upon an especially dark part of his life.

Was it possible? After all these years?

After the apothecary’s wife, Adelheid Rinswieser, had disappeared without a trace, Vasold had struggled for a long time before deciding to pay this nocturnal visit. Secretly, the patrician hoped his friend would try to calm him down, laugh at his fears, and together they would raise a toast to old times. Vasold feared nothing more than the idea that his friend might have come to the same conclusion.

But he suspected he had.

And what will we do then? Lock the doors and hope that the
shadow passes? Pray? Go on a pilgrimage? Plead with God for forgiveness?

“What’s the matter, Hans?”

Vasold’s loyal servant had suddenly stopped in his tracks so that the patrician, lost in his thoughts, almost bumped into him. The huge man was standing there like a monument of stone, his hand on the loaded pistol still hanging from his belt.

“I don’t know, master. I thought I heard something,” he murmured.

“And what did you hear?”

“A . . . well, a growling and scraping sound. It came from the entrance to the house here.”

Trembling, Hans pointed to a shadowy niche on their left, and Vasold felt as if a fist were slowly squeezing his heart.

The house was one of the many dilapidated buildings that had been standing vacant for decades. Ivy had wound its way up the unplastered walls, the windows were boarded up, and rotten beams of wood and clumps of rock lay in front of the wide door. Only now did the old patrician notice that the once-splendid portal, with its inlaid wood and carvings, was open a crack. Inside, a form, even darker than the darkness, was undulating back and forth. Somewhere a stone fell, crashing to the ground, and now Vasold heard it, too—a long, sustained growl, deep and evil.

“There it is again, master,” Hans whispered.

Thadäus Vasold had never before seen the big man scared, not even when he’d confronted two marauding mercenaries in the Bamberg Forest—but now he was shaking all over.

“This werewolf . . . ,” he groaned. “People say they love fresh blood, and they slowly tear their victims apart, first the arms, then the legs, then—”

“Damn it, Hans, I didn’t bring you along to tell me all these foolish horror stories,” Vasold replied hesitantly. “Go take a look and see who or what it is.”

“As you say, master.” The large man pulled himself together, drew the loaded wheel-lock pistol, and carefully approached the doorway. He spoke a silent prayer.

At that moment, the door opened with a loud grating sound and a figure appeared, so horrible that Hans uttered a cry, dropped his weapon, and fell to his knees.

The creature looked like a wolf as it slunk toward them on its hind legs. In the darkness of night, it appeared taller than a man, and it had black fur and long fangs that flashed in the light of the lantern that Hans had dropped on the ground.

“God in heaven, help us!”

The voice of the huge man was suddenly high-pitched and whining, like that of a girl. With a final horrified scream, he scrambled to his feet and raced away down the street, disappearing into the darkness.

Thadäus Vasold wanted to call after his servant, but his voice failed him. Terrified, he stared at the creature that was approaching him with its long claws. The lantern on the ground flickered slightly, casting dancing shadows on the wall, making the creature look larger and larger the closer it came.

“Please . . . ,” Vasold croaked, paralyzed with fear, clutching his walking stick and watching wide-eyed as death incarnate approached. “Please, spare me. By God, I’ll give you anything you want. I’ll . . .”

Only then did the old patrician realize what he’d completely overlooked in his anxiety.

He knew this house, and he knew also who had once lived there.

I was right. But why—

Vasold’s thoughts scattered like snowflakes in a storm as the creature pounced on him with a contented snarl.

In the distance, the servant’s shrill cries for help rang out, but the councilor couldn’t hear them anymore.

6

T
HE
B
AMBERG CITY COUNCIL CHAMBER
, MORNING
, O
CTOBER
28, 1668 AD

G
ENTLEMEN! SILENCE, PLEASE! SILENCE!”

Simon sat on a hard wooden chair at one corner of the huge council table, listening and watching attentively as some of the most venerable citizens of the city fought with one another like street urchins. The meeting had started just a little over half an hour ago, but tempers were already at the boiling point. Men in lavish patrician garb shouted at one another, some were about to come to blows, and yet others were just sitting quietly at the table shaking their heads, as if they couldn’t understand the atrocious spectacle. Even Suffragan Bishop Sebastian Harsee, the chairman of the hastily convoked council, could think of nothing better to do than pound his little gavel on the table again and again while casting furious glances around at the group.

“Quiet!” he kept shouting. “Quiet! Is this the way distinguished citizens of our city behave? Once more,
quiet
, or I’ll have the room cleared!”

Simon and Samuel glanced at one another peevishly. At an ungodly hour of the morning, a messenger with a look of annoyance on his face had pounded on the door of the Bamberg hangman’s house to take Simon first to the castle complex and then, with Samuel, to the city councilors’ offices. They’d walked past the cathedral and then toward city hall and into the council room, where the suffragan bishop had unexpectedly scheduled the first meeting of the so-called Werewolf Commission immediately after Sunday-morning mass. In addition to Simon and Samuel, a half dozen city councilmen were present, as well as a scholar from the Jesuit seminary in the nearby church, two doctors of law, the bishop’s chancellor, and even the dean of the cathedral himself, who was attracting attention with his loud prayers and laments.

The occasion was indeed serious. The night before, the Bamberg werewolf had apparently struck again, and his victim was none other than the venerable patrician Thadäus Vasold—at the age of nearly eighty, the oldest member of the council. Vasold’s servant had seen the monster with his own eyes, though there was not a trace left of the councilman himself. The growing fear of the citizenry, as well as that of the scholars in the council chamber, had soon led to a great commotion in the room.

“And I’m telling you,” insisted one of the councilmen, a gaunt, elderly man wearing an old-fashioned ruff collar, “it’s time for us to shut the town gates. This werewolf is prowling around just outside the walls. Two charcoal burners saw him in the forest just yesterday. And he can come and go in our city as he pleases.”

“And what good is that going to do?” snarled another patrician with fat, drooping cheeks. “Do you know what will happen to our businesses if we don’t allow anyone into town? Anyway, the gates were closed last night, and the beast still managed to get old Thadäus.”

“Let’s not forget, the monster has magical powers,” added one of the jurists in a solemn voice. He cleared his throat and started reading from a large book lying in front of him. “According to
Formicarius
, which is considered the authoritative work in the field, by the Dominican scholar Johannes Nider, werewolves can assume any shape, animal or human. Who knows?” He paused theatrically and looked around the table. “Perhaps the werewolf is sitting right here in the room with us.”

Loud shouting broke out again, and two patricians were about to pounce on the scholar.

“One last time, silence! For God’s sake, silence!”

The suffragan bishop pounded the table with his gavel again, to no effect. Harsee looked pale and unkempt, and Simon thought he could detect a nervous twitch around his mouth. Nevertheless, his eyes still glared out from beneath his monk’s tonsure with the same evil intensity as when Simon had met him the first time in the palace garden.

It was Master Samuel who finally managed to bring an end to the uproar—with a simple trick.

“Let us all pray for our friend Thadäus Vasold,” he intoned loudly while making the sign of the cross. “I believe he deserves our thoughts and prayers. Or does someone think differently?”

The members of the council paused in their squabbling and finally started praying quietly while still casting suspicious glances at one another.

“Amen,” the suffragan bishop finally said, relieved, and licked his dry lips before continuing in a piercing voice. “Dear members of our committee, we may hold different opinions as to the exact nature of this werewolf, but at least there is no doubt this beast actually exists, given what happened last night. Vasold’s servant saw this monster and unequivocally recognized it as a werewolf.”

“Just like the drunken watchman two nights before,” Samuel murmured, so softly that no one except Simon heard him. “And Vasold’s servant is just as dumb, as everyone in the city knows. He’d think a calf is a werewolf, if you just keep suggesting it enough. But no one here is considering that.”

“Is there something you wanted to tell us, Master Samuel?” asked the suffragan bishop sharply. “Or are you only talking to your learned friend?”

The physician shook his head. “I was just saying that the people we’ve heard from so far are not the most reliable eyewitnesses, but I must confess that it’s true, the honorable councilor Vasold is already the fifth resident to have vanished. In any case, we must find out why these people have disappeared.”

“Listen, he must
confess.
” With a sarcastic smile, the suffragan bishop looked around at the attendees. Once again, Simon noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

“In this regard, it might be interesting for members of the commission to know,” Harsee continued smugly, “that Herr Doktor released a suspect yesterday on his own authority, a shepherd from the Bamberg Forest who has been peddling magic potions here in the city. A few concerned citizens reported that to me shortly before our meeting.”

The crowd began to murmur and hiss, and many of those present glared at Samuel.

“The magic potions were arnica and crushed bark from oak trees,” the physician replied, “harmless ingredients. Both are used in the medical treatment of animals, as the learned Doctor Fronwieser here can confirm.”

Simon was stunned when Samuel turned toward him to confirm that statement, but finally the little medicus and bathhouse owner nodded, trying to sound as wise and professional as possible.

“Ah, indeed. I have written a paper about that myself,” he said, “‘On the Nature and Growth of Medicinal Plants, with Special Emphasis on Coltsfoot, and Its Effects, as Well as on Arnica, and—’”

“Very well, very well.” Harsee waved him off peevishly. “We don’t need a complicated monologue, just a brief opinion. It’s quite possible they were just harmless herbs, but a thorough questioning of the suspect would have been appropriate.”

“Your Excellency, what do you know about this troupe of actors that has been visiting here for the last few days?” asked the provost of the cathedral, a gaunt, anxious-looking man with a pinched face. “The people who come to me for confession have told me some dreadful stories. They tell of Satanic incantations on the stage, and even today, on our sacred day of rest, they portrayed a devil dancing. Could it be possible the werewolf has been attracted here by this witchcraft?”

Sebastian Harsee nodded. “That’s an important consideration, Your Excellency. These magical doings performed under the pretense of edification are a thorn in my side, as well,” he said with a sigh. “But unfortunately the prince-bishop doesn’t look at it that way. Along with his many beloved animals, the theater is his great passion, and I’ve even heard that a second troupe of actors recently arrived in Bamberg. His Excellency is considering granting them permission to spend the winter in Bamberg, as well. We’ll have to keep a close eye on these immoral persons.”

“Keep an eye on them? Is that all we’re going to do?” Trembling with anger, a middle-aged councilor rose to his feet. He was wearing a gray coat on which a mortar and pestle were depicted—the emblem of the apothecaries’ guild. “This is the monster that presumably ripped my Adelheid apart like a deer, and you are going to do nothing more than
keep an eye
on things?”

“Why was the woman roaming about in the forest at night?” a younger councilor hissed under his breath. “She was probably gathering magic herbs there. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she was somehow working with the werewolf and up to no good.”

The apothecary wheeled around. “What did you just say?”

“What did I just say, Master Rinswieser?” the other man replied, looking around for support from the others. He was wearing the fancy clothing of a nouveau-riche dandy and seemed quite sure of himself. “Well, your Adelheid watered down those tinctures. Word gets around.”

“How dare you, Master Steinhofer?” He stormed across the room to the younger man. “If only Adelheid’s father could hear that. He and your own father were once members of the council, they were friends, and now you denounce his daughter as a witch, you . . . you . . .”

“Don’t forget that my beloved Johanna has also disappeared,” his opponent interrupted, stroking his goatee. “And that was just after she’d bought some strange tincture from your wife.”

“And I heard she ran pell-mell away from you after an argument in which even chairs went flying through the air,” the apothecary shot back. “No doubt she couldn’t stand being around you anymore. By the way, you don’t seem too concerned that your young fiancée has simply vanished into thin air. Did you marry her only for the dowry?”

“That’s slander!”

The two men were about to come to blows when the bishop’s chancellor suddenly stood up and spread his arms, trying to calm them down. With his enormous rolls of fat, he looked more like a tavern keeper than one of the highest dignitaries in Bamberg.

“My dear colleagues,” he began jovially, “we must not quarrel. I think I have a solution. Even if His Excellency, the venerable Prince-Bishop Philipp Rieneck, is not among us, I believe we can speak on his behalf. We, uh . . . should think about setting up an inquisition.”

“An inquisition?” Master Samuel frowned. “Why do we need that? Don’t we already have this Werewolf Commission?”

“I believe the honorable chancellor is completely right.” Sebastian Harsee smiled, and it seemed to Simon that the suffragan bishop was quite happy with the direction the meeting had taken. A quick glance at the chancellor even made him suspect that this move had been prearranged.

“Forty years ago, at the time of the Bamberg witch trials,” Harsee continued, “quick action was called for in order to get control of the many suspects, so an inquisition composed of only a few members was set up, with the task of deciding who had to be tortured. Their conclusions were presented to the prince-bishop, who signed the death sentences.”

“Only a handful of people are to make the life-or-death decisions?” Master Samuel shook his head in dismay. “But what, then, is the purpose of this commission—”

“I suggest a vote,” the suffragan bishop interrupted. He looked slowly around the table, his gaze resting on one attendee after another. “All those present are naturally above all suspicion. None of the accusations made here will be considered—we are concerned only with the strangers in the city. The actors, for example—but also gypsies and other itinerant people. I will personally appoint the members of this commission if necessary—naturally only with the blessing of His Excellency, the prince-bishop. Are all in agreement?”

For a while, silence prevailed. The bishop’s chancellor was the first to raise his hand, followed by the young dandy with the goatee, and finally all the others. Only Samuel and Simon sat there motionless.

“I see there are only two objections,” the suffragan bishop finally concluded, taking out a silk handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his bald head. “Well, that’s more than enough, especially since one of the two objectors is not even from this town,” he added smugly. He turned to the chancellor. “I ask you to please inform His Excellency the Prince-Bishop of our decision. I’m certain he will approve.”

The chancellor nodded. “I believe you are right, Your Excellency.” He reached for his glass of wine and offered a toast to the others. “Here’s to our city!”

“To our city!” the others replied, raising their glasses as well.

While the councilors and scholars drank deeply from their wineglasses, Simon felt as if a rope was slowly tightening around his neck.

Though she was trudging ankle-deep through the garbage in the streets, Barbara felt like she was walking on a cloud. Together with Matheo she strolled through a narrow, muddy lane that ran from the Green Market to the Lange Gasse. There was an odor of hops and smoked meat in the air, freshly washed clothing hung from the windows, and in a doorway, children were playing with a top.

Since it was Sunday, Sir Malcolm had given his actors time off after the performance, and for an hour the two young people had been walking through Bamberg like a husband and wife on a Sunday-afternoon stroll. Matheo had stopped now and then at one of the many market stalls, bought a few little things, and, like a gallant gentleman from a good family, had given the delighted Barbara some tasty tidbits to eat.