The Werewolf of Bamberg (39 page)

At about the same time, a man was sitting somewhere along the banks of the Regnitz, daydreaming and staring out over the water. Branches and leaves floated past him, and occasionally dirty rags or the carcass of a small animal. Further upriver there had been an autumn storm, and brown whirlpools formed in the water, making the leaves dance around until they finally sank and popped up again downstream.

Nothing disappeared forever, it all eventually returned to the surface.

He flung a branch out into the river as far as he could and watched it drift along like a ship pitching and rolling in the waves. Briefly, he felt the urge to jump in after it and end his own life. He felt empty, so empty, but he still had to complete his plan—he was almost finished.

Just two more to go.

It was only a day ago that the clever woman had ripped his hood from his head. She’d seen his face and thus sealed her fate. Now she was tied up again in the cell, and he wouldn’t let that happen to him again. He had briefly lost control of himself, of the entire situation, but now his decision was firm.

He would not waver again.

He had, in fact, even before the previous day’s event, considered letting the woman live. It had gotten harder and harder for him to torture and kill the women—while with the two old men he’d felt nothing but elation with every blow, every squeeze of the tongs, every turn of the wheel.

When old widow Gotzendörfer died of fear, he’d even felt a sense of relief. He’d walked up to the window to terrify the old woman, but also in the hope that she’d open the window for him. When he’d seen the solid iron gate in front of the window, he had almost been ready to give up, but then the mere sight of him (and the woman’s own weak heart) had been enough to kill her. It had been a clean death, and he hadn’t had to hear that screaming again.

The screaming . . .

The man shook, as if trying to cast off the memories. But it was in vain—they’d eaten their way too far inside him. Just the same, since the young woman had seen his face, she would have to die, too. She’d almost gotten away, and what he’d been planning for so long would have been doomed.

Now he’d gotten control again.

Even if things didn’t work out just the way he intended, he’d been waiting too long not to carry out his clever plan. At first, he thought it was ingenious. He would conquer his foes with their own weapons, create a monster in their midst and at the same time crush his worst enemy. But still the long-awaited change had not occurred. It seemed like God still had the power to control life and death.

The man closed his eyes and murmured an old Bible verse, something that had been with him all his life.

Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord . . .

He decided to wait a few more days. By then he would have his next-to-last victim. And besides, he had to think about what to do with the woman. He didn’t want her to suffer more than necessary, but nonetheless he’d have to get rid of her somehow.

The man gazed into the river, where the carcass of a fox was drifting by.

The river consumed everything. It had swallowed the others, and it would also take the woman. A quick blow, the silence after that, the lonely trek through the forest, and everything would again be as it had been.

He stood up and walked away.

Soon it would be over.

“No, damn it! The trunk goes on the right, the stairs are on the left. Shall I break a leg when I try to climb the stairs to the stage for my first scene? Is that what you want?”

His face as red as a beet, Sir Malcolm was running back and forth between his actors, unpacking some of the props and costumes. They were in the so-called festival hall of Geyerswörth Castle, where the two performances were scheduled for that evening. To get there, Barbara and the actors had to first make it past a well-guarded gate, and then through another door to the interior court that was just as well guarded. The guards had been watching them with a mixture of disgust and tense anticipation, as if they were exotic animals—a look that was all too familiar to the young hangman’s daughter from Schongau. Like the vocation of executioner, that of actor was regarded as dishonorable, and anyone engaged in that line of work was reviled by the good citizens of the town. Just the same, everyone expected a technically perfect and above all entertaining performance from both troupes.

It was still more than five hours before the performance, but Sir Malcolm already seemed at the end of his rope. Barbara couldn’t help wondering how he would be just before the curtain rose.

Will he explode? Go through the roof? Murder us all?

As Malcolm continued his rant, she looked up dreamily at the vaulted ceiling of the festival hall, with its paintings of flowers and strange beasts that, along with the stone columns, gave her the feeling of being in an enchanted forest. The tingling sensation in her stomach grew stronger. When she’d first noticed it the day before, she thought it was the sign of indigestion, but some of the actors assured her it was quite normal. Stage fright, they called it, a sickness that could only be cured by a successful performance.

Looking around at her colleagues, Barbara noticed that some of them were reciting their lines in a low voice as they moved the trunks around without paying any heed to Malcolm’s temper tantrums. Evidently they were accustomed to their director’s outbursts.

“And go and get Salter,” he shouted. “The dress rehearsal will begin in an hour and we can’t wait for everyone to get here.”

“Uh, you yourself sent him to the Bamberg tailor this morning to pick up the princess’s costume,” said fat Matthäus, who would be playing the part of the joiner, Klipperling, in the play. Barbara had come to know the older actor as a good-natured fellow who had almost as many problems memorizing his lines as she did.

“And then you wanted him to look around for some metal for the king’s crown,” the fat man reminded his director. “The last crown started to rust long ago.”

“Ah, that’s right.” Sir Malcolm nodded absentmindedly. “Well, let’s hope the lad will get back in time.”

“I hope so, too,” a snide voice suddenly said from behind one of the columns in the back. It was Guiscard Brolet, who stepped forward and looked into one of the open trunks full of colorful costumes. “You have exactly two hours for your last rehearsal, Malcolm,” he continued while fanning himself with a threadbare, dirty lace handkerchief. “Not a minute longer. Then it’s our turn. That’s what we agreed on.”

Sir Malcolm slammed the cover on the trunk and scrutinized his competitor angrily. “Don’t worry, Guiscard, we don’t need any longer than that. In contrast to your group, we’re neither amateurs nor thieves.”

Guiscard sighed. “Always the same old story,” he sneered in his French accent. “Well, we shall see which piece the prince-bishop prefers. I happen to have learned from a reliable source that he’s especially fond of Gryphius’s
Papinian.
” He shrugged. “Your crude farce, on the other hand . . .”

“
Papinian!
” Malcolm replied, putting his hand to his forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that myself?” He trembled with anger, and if Barbara hadn’t known better, she would have sworn that Sir Malcolm was just hearing about Guiscard’s choice for the first time, rather than it being a plot of Malcolm’s own making.

He’s really a pretty good actor,
she thought,
on stage as well as in real life.

Guiscard grinned. “As I said, I have my sources. And you can rest assured His Excellency will be horrified by your
Peter Squenz.
I have that from trusted sources, as well.”

Sir Malcolm managed to turn white as a sheet. He ran his hand through his hair in feigned despair, and Barbara had to wonder if he wasn’t overdoing it a bit.

“I didn’t think about that,” he muttered. “You’re a slippery character, Guiscard.”

“But somehow you managed to be scheduled after us,” Guiscard replied darkly. “I have no idea how you managed to arrange that with the bishop’s court. But that won’t help you, either, Malcolm.” He let out a diabolical laugh. “Especially since clearly one of your key actors is missing. Or so I hear.”

Sir Malcolm’s face became as red as a beet again, and Barbara could see at once that he was no longer playacting.

“I swear, Guiscard,” he hissed, moving a few steps closer to his competitor. “If I find out you’re behind Matheo’s arrest, then God help you.”

Guiscard waved him off. “Always this histrionic talk. Save that for the stage.” He pointed at the trunks that still hadn’t been unpacked. “Until then, it appears you have some things to do. But remember . . . two more hours. After that, I’ll personally make sure the guards throw you out.”

Waving his lace handkerchief in the air, he left the ballroom humming a little French tune. Sir Malcolm waited a minute, then clapped his hands triumphantly.

“
Mon dieu
, zees I know frem a reliable soorce,” he mimicked, running his hand through his hair in a feminine gesture. “Hah! He’ll be looking around for another job, the sucker. Isn’t that right, people?”

Some of the actors grinned, but Barbara looked serious. “Did he really arrange Matheo’s arrest?” she asked. “Perhaps the wolf hides come from his people, and we’ll have another nasty surprise this evening. This Guiscard seems capable of anything.”

“Do you think a real werewolf will interrupt our performance?” Malcolm shook his head and grinned. “I don’t think the old fellow has that much imagination. Believe me, the bishop will doze off during the first play and wake up the moment our play begins. It will be a great triumph for us.”

He was spreading his arms in a dramatic gesture when suddenly the door to the hall burst open and Markus Salter entered. As usual, the young man looked tired and pale. He was carrying a tightly wrapped bundle.

“I had to run all over town looking for a tinsmith to cobble a crown together for just a few kreuzers,” he complained, glowering at Malcolm. “You didn’t want me to spend any more than that. We put a little gold-colored paint on it and stuck on a glass stone with wax. We need to make sure it doesn’t get too warm or the stone will fall down on your nose, but otherwise everything looks good.”

He unwrapped the bundle and picked up a sparkling object that looked like one of those magnificent crowns Barbara had seen before only in stained-glass church windows. The other actors clearly liked it, and even Malcolm, who was usually so critical, nodded his approval.

“So it was worth the wait,” he said, patting Markus on the shoulder. Then he pointed at the bundle. “And the dress for our new princess?”

Markus grinned, and suddenly his face brightened. “In this dress,” he said, winking at Barbara, “even an empress could attend a reception. Everyone will fall in love with you in this dress.”

Carefully he opened the bundle, taking out a red dress embroidered with lace and glittering metal buttons.

It took Barbara’s breath away. “It’s beautiful!” she gasped. “May I try it on?”

“Please do,” Malcolm replied, motioning toward the dress. “After all, we want to see how our princess Violandra looks in it.”

Carefully, Barbara slipped into the dress, and it fit perfectly. She was happy to see how all the other actors looked at her in astonishment.

“Ah, yes, fine feathers make fine birds,” Sir Malcolm murmured. “You really do look like a princess. It’s hard to believe you’re actually the dishonorable daughter of a hangman.” He stopped to think for a while, then clapped his hands. “But even princesses have to learn their lines,” he continued in a stern voice. “So please, everyone, take your places. Let’s begin the rehearsal, before Guiscard comes snooping around here again.”

Georg was bored standing with his two nephews along the left branch of the Regnitz and watching as the children threw one stone after another into the water. Magdalena had handed the children over to him just an hour ago, but it already felt like an eternity. It was late afternoon, but night seemed endlessly far off.

“Look, Uncle Georg, see how far I can throw,” Peter called as he skipped a stone out into the river. Georg nodded approvingly and grumbled something unintelligible as his thoughts drifted away like the water in the river.