The Werewolf of Bamberg (34 page)

“You . . . you have not disappointed me, Father,” she said softly. “On the contrary. But it’s good that—”

She winced when she suddenly heard a deep growl from the shed just beside her.

“For heaven’s sake, what was that?” she asked anxiously.

Her father smiled wearily. “That’s an alaunt, or rather two of them. Your uncle’s pets.” He sighed and began filling his pipe. “I’m afraid we’ll have to put aside the old family matters, at least for the time being. There’s a whole lot of catching up to do.”

A while later, Magdalena was sitting between her father and her uncle on the wet woodpile, going over in her mind everything she had just heard. She kept looking at the shed, where growling and occasional scraping and scratching could be heard against the wooden wall.

“Well, at least we probably know now what the wild animal was that killed the stag, the one Simon and the boys found in the forest the day we arrived,” she finally said. “Let’s hope this animal wasn’t responsible for killing a few people, as well. In any case, it probably isn’t the werewolf we’re looking for.”

Bartholomäus sighed. “I don’t understand why Brutus didn’t come back. He has everything he needs here.” Now that the conversation was no longer about the family but only about his runaway dog and the werewolf, he had calmed down. It looked like the two Kuisl brothers had declared a truce, at least for the time being.

“I can do without your beloved pet for now,” Jakob responded grimly, puffing on his pipe, from which little clouds of smoke rose heavenward. “I only had a glimpse of him, but that was enough for me. The beast is as big as a calf.”

“Bigger.” His brother grinned. “The three alaunts eat half a horse between them every day.” Suddenly he paused and raised an eyebrow. “Ah, that’s something that might interest you. A few wolf pelts were found in Matheo’s possessions, weren’t they?”

“And what about it?” Magdalena asked.

“Well, yesterday a whole bunch of pelts were stolen from the knacker’s house—everything we’d made from a few weeks of slaughtering. Hides of horses, cows, but also a stag, a few dog hides, and even an old bearskin full of holes.”

“I knew it!” Jakob smacked his forehead. “It was that stranger hanging around the furrier’s. That son of a bitch bought the wolf pelts and was using them in town. And when things got too hot for him, he hid the pelts in Matheo’s room . . .”

“And he came here to the knacker’s house to get new ones,” Magdalena added. She nodded, thinking it over. “It certainly could have happened like that. But why did he do it, and above all, who was it—we don’t have the vaguest idea about that.” She sighed. “And as long as we don’t have any culprit to present to the bishop, more people will have to die, and not just Matheo.”

She briefly told her uncle and her father about the mob down at the river and the poor peddler who had probably already drowned.

“I’m afraid this is only the beginning,” Magdalena concluded. “It will be just as it was in the witch trials. Then, too, there were hundreds of victims before things finally settled down. The executioner really had his hands full.”

“If you think I’d dirty my hands with this, you’re wrong,” Bartholomäus chimed in angrily. “I know that the victims in these trials are usually innocent. That’s nothing a hangman ever wants to do, even if he makes good money at it.” He wiped his mouth nervously. “The previous Bamberg executioner went crazy—from guilt, it was said. He walked off into the forest and no one ever saw him again. I took his place, but only after it was all over.” Bartholomäus looked at his brother and Magdalena in despair. “Believe me, I wouldn’t do that. Three times I’ve hanged convicted thieves, I’ve tortured a confession out of a man who robbed a church offertory box, and I’ve broken an arsonist on the wheel—that I can do. But a wild-goose chase like this . . .” His voice failed him. “Well . . . I suppose I’d have to. Jakob, you know yourself what happens to hangmen who can’t perform. They wind up swinging from a tree themselves.”

Jakob nodded. “True, that’s our job. People are always glad to find someone to do the dirty work for them.”

“Then help us find the real culprit,” Magdalena urged her uncle. “Perhaps we can still stop this madness.”

Bartholomäus gave a despairing laugh. “Nobody can stop the madness—not once it has started. They have their first werewolf, this Matheo, and you can be sure I’ll torture a hair-raising confession out of him. The suffragan bishop will badger him and torment him until he turns into a real, howling werewolf.”

“A real werewolf . . .” Jakob Kuisl took another deep drag on his pipe and sent a few smoke rings up into the autumn sky. His forehead was deeply furrowed, as it always was when he was thinking hard. “A real werewolf . . . Of course. We need a real werewolf,” he murmured.

Magdalena looked at him, puzzled. “What are you saying?”

A small smoke ring pushed its way up through a larger one as Jakob’s face broke out in a broad smile. “Yes, that might work,” he finally said, mostly to himself.

“For God’s sake, what are you talking about?” his brother scolded. “That’s one thing I’ve always hated about you—this constant, arrogant secretiveness.”

Magdalena sighed. Just like her uncle, and Simon, too, she hated it when her father tortured her like this. “Now come on, spit it out,” she demanded. “What are you going to do?”

“If we want this madness to stop, we’ve got to present a real werewolf to the people,” he replied calmly. “Then they’ll be happy, and the pursuit will perhaps come to an end.”

“A
real
werewolf?” Magdalena stopped short. She’d hoped her father would find a way out, but now she was more confused than ever. “And who would that werewolf be?” she asked gruffly.

“Matheo.”

“Matheo?” Magdalena shook her head in horror. “Have you lost your mind? People already think the poor fellow is the werewolf. Barbara will never come back to us if—”

“For God’s sake, let me explain, you cheeky little madam,” Jakob cut in angrily. “Yes, we’ll rescue Matheo from the dungeon, but we’ll make it look like he changed himself back into a werewolf—with fire, and brimstone, and thunder, and all that. Matheo will disappear, and all that will remain in the cell is the wolf. A dead one, that is. The werewolf everyone was looking for died in the dungeon, killed by the incense and all the prayers. And the hunt will be over.” Grinning, he pointed behind him, where Aloysius was still busy flaying the dead cow. “Your servant trapped a few wolves in the forest just yesterday. One is enough for our little trick. It just has to be big.” Jakob looked around, waiting for everyone’s reactions. “Well, what do you think?”

Magdalena was at first too surprised to say anything. Her father’s plan was so bold and absurd that her first thought was just to reject it. But then, slowly, she came around and began to like the idea.

Mainly because she couldn’t think of anything better.

“It might work,” she mumbled. “It’s very risky, but it might work.”

“Nonsense,” Bartholomäus snapped. “People will never fall for anything like that! And even if they do, how do you intend to get the young man out of the dungeon, huh?”

“With your help,” his brother replied.

Bartholomäus laughed. “With my help? I’m afraid you don’t understand how hard that would be. I can’t—”

“Do you have the key to the dungeon in St. Thomas’s Cathedral, or not?” Jakob interrupted him curtly.

“Well, as the Bamberg executioner, I do have the keys to all the dungeons.” Bartholomäus shrugged. “But you forget the guards. The dungeon is in the old courthouse, right next to the city-council room, and it’s teeming with guards.”

“I know what might be a good time,” Magdalena interrupted excitedly. “Tomorrow evening is this great competition between the two groups of actors in Geyerswörth Castle. Simon told me that His Excellency the elector and bishop of Würzburg will be arriving with his entourage, and for that occasion, they’ll need every available man in the castle. Maybe the dungeon up on the cathedral mount won’t be so closely guarded then.”

Bartholomäus waved his hand dismissively. “That only requires two or three guards. If you somehow get rid of them, you’ll immediately arouse suspicion, and people will figure out that somebody came and freed Matheo. And I’ll be the first one everybody suspects.”

“Damn!” Magdalena kicked the woodpile. “Bartholomäus is right, that won’t work.”

“Oh, but it will. We just have to adjust the plan a bit.” Jakob knocked the pipe out and stuck it in the pocket of his ripped jacket. He thought for a while longer and finally continued, nodding happily. “The werewolf will at first overwhelm the guards as it flees, before finally dying in a fight with them. They have to believe they’re fighting a real monster.” He grinned. “Believe me, it’s a story the silly guards will be telling their great-grandchildren.”

“Ah, and if I refuse to help you?” Bartholomäus suggested again. “What then?”

Jakob shrugged. “Then Damian and Cerberus will no doubt spend the rest of their days in the bishop’s menagerie alongside bad-tempered apes and half-starved bears. Yes, I’m afraid someone will tip off the authorities.”

“That’s . . . extortion,” Bartholomäus muttered. “You’re extorting your own brother.”

“It’s not extortion, I’m just making you do something for your own good. After all, I’m your big brother, and I can do that.” The Schongau hangman stood up and slowly started walking back to the knacker’s house. “Now let’s go up front and let Aloysius find us a nice big werewolf. And it has to look terrifying. If I have to, I’ll file down his teeth to make them even sharper myself.”

Tormented by violent chills, the Bamberg suffragan bishop Sebastian Harsee lay in his bed and cursed the devil and all the archdemons for sending this fever at such an unfavorable time.

The fever had come on a few days before, and since then Harsee had felt dizzy and exhausted. His headaches were so severe it felt like his brain was riddled with large needles, and he had completely lost his appetite. Until now, the illness could be relieved with infusions of hot linden-blossom tea and iron self-discipline, but that morning something odd had happened. As Harsee was preparing to drink the freshly brewed tea, a horrible aversion had come over him. He forced himself to drink it, immediately threw it up again, and from that moment on his aversion to every liquid just increased. He should have just stayed in bed. Then he learned of the death of Gotzendörf’s widow and, bathed in sweat, had attended the meeting of the city council and later the Inquisition Committee. With his last ounce of strength, he’d finally dragged himself back to his room adjacent to St. Martin’s Church, and since then he had lain in bed shivering, with chattering teeth.

Sebastian Harsee clenched his fist and pounded the bedpost so hard that the pain at least made him forget his headache for a moment. He couldn’t get sick now, not when everything was going his way. For half his life, he’d waited for this werewolf. The devil had finally come to Bamberg spreading fear, and fear was the glue that held this city together. Finally his flock had gathered around their shepherd, finally they turned to the Lord God in their despair. With the help of this werewolf, Harsee would succeed in doing what had been denied to him and his followers almost forty years ago: to turn Bamberg into a City of God. And now, this accursed illness had confined him to his bed.

In addition, the bishop of Würzburg, Johann Philipp von Schönborn, an elector of the Empire in person, had announced his arrival the next evening. Together with the Bamberg bishop, Schönborn would be attending this ridiculous competition between the two theater groups that His Stupid Excellency had naively thought up in order to impress his powerful neighbor.

Harsee shook his head angrily as a new wave of pain racked his body. It was finally time for him to take the reins of leadership firmly in hand in this city. His bishop was so enamored of his menagerie—his monkeys, bears, peacocks, and all his other useless pastimes—that it was quite possible he would soon retire to his estate in the country and turn over the rule to the cathedral chapter. And Harsee had already softened up the cathedral chapter, gaining their trust. Finally, he, Sebastian Harsee, the most devout servant in the vineyard of the Lord, would be the man of the future—a powerful adversary of the depraved worldliness spilling over from the neighboring bishopric of Würzburg.