The Werewolf of Bamberg (43 page)

After some hesitation, Sir Malcolm had given her more lines than he’d planned at first, no doubt because he’d noticed in rehearsals the effect she had on the men in the audience. In addition to the part of the princess, Barbara now also played the prince and the queen. The drama
Pyramus and Thisbe
takes place at the king’s court, with the simpleminded workers first to appear. One of the actors represents a wall through which Pyramus and his beloved speak. Barbara played one of the male roles with an artificial, high-pitched voice and exaggerated fluttering of her eyelids. The audience applauded wildly.

“You loose, immoral wall!” the mythical Pyramus cried. “You roguish, thieving, frivolous thing!” Then the wall and the hero came to blows, causing a wave of loud laughter in the audience.

“Well, I’d not want to be the wall in this play,” Barbara continued in her role, and the people groaned happily.

Since it was dark in the hall, she couldn’t see beyond the first few rows where the nobles were sitting. The Bamberg bishop was wiping tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes, and the man beside him, evidently the bishop of Würzburg, appeared greatly amused as well.

It’s a hit,
Barbara thought.
Sir Malcolm will surely win the competition, and Matheo
—

The thought of Matheo made her stop short, reminding her of how she’d run away from the executioner’s house, and Magdalena’s promise that her father would certainly do something to help them. Did he already have a plan? Or would her family abandon her and Matheo?

“God forbid, what . . . what . . . ,” she stuttered, forgetting her lines and shifting from one leg to the other. Malcolm cast a disapproving glance at her and suddenly seemed not at all happy.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he whispered so softly that no one else could hear.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she finally exclaimed. But no one else noticed her momentary lapse, since at that moment another workman appeared on the stage holding a painted shield bearing a carelessly scribbled image of the moon.

“Noble queen, this is the moon,” said Sir Malcolm, quickly falling back into his role of Peter Squenz, then turning to the cheering crowd to acknowledge their applause.

The play continued, and after the moon came another workman wearing a threadbare woolen blanket over his head, meowing like a cat, and representing a lion. The audience was abuzz now, and the room seemed to seethe and tremble like a pot of boiling water. Barbara looked down and saw an older cleric in the second row wearing a monk’s cowl. He appeared ill, swaying back and forth in his chair with his face buried in his hands and his mouth opened in a scream, though Barbara could hear nothing in the general tumult. Was the man ill, or were the noise and heat just too much for him?

There was no time for her to ponder that question, as the action on the stage required her full concentration. Assuming that his beloved Thisbe had been attacked and eaten by the lion, the foolish Pyramus had taken his own life. Just the same, he continued chatting merrily with the laughing public. Barbara shook her head in feigned annoyance.

“You can’t just have the corpses get up like that and give speeches,” she scolded.

Sir Malcolm, playing the part of both a worker and a clumsy director, shook his finger. “Pyramus, you’re dead, you should be ashamed of yourself,” he chided him with a wink of his eye. “You can’t say anything. You just have to lie there like a dead pig.”

At that moment there was a loud crash and banging sound in the audience. Barbara looked down from the stage and saw the sick cleric fall off his chair. Most in the audience hadn’t noticed and continued laughing and cheering, but the two bishops turned around to look. With concern, Archbishop Schönborn stood up and beckoned for a servant to come over, while his colleague Philipp Rieneck just shook his head in annoyance, evidently angry at the interruption.

Many in the audience were still unaware of the incident, and they stepped aside reluctantly as two men approached from the rear of the room. One wore the typical hat of the doctors’ guild; the other, who was noticeably shorter, a wide-brimmed hat with a red feather.

“Simon,” Barbara whispered. “But why . . .”

“Damn it, what’s going on?” whispered Sir Malcolm, standing alongside her. “Come, come. It doesn’t matter what’s happening down there, the show must go on.”

With a loud, somewhat forced laugh, Malcolm turned to the public and regained their attention.

“Before I was a
prologus
, so now I am an
epilogus
,” he declaimed, bowing deeply.

That was as far as he got, for at that moment there was a piercing scream in the hall. It came from one of the servants who had just bent down to the sick man, who lay writhing and quivering on the floor. His monk’s cowl lay alongside him, and a thin stream of blood trickled across his bald head. Suddenly the sick man jumped up from the floor and began waving his arms and dancing around wildly. The wheezing sounds that came from his mouth sounded brutish and inhuman.

For a moment, he turned to face the stage, and in the flickering light of the candles Barbara could see his face. It was pale like that of a corpse, and his eyes bulged out of his head. The worst thing, however, was his mouth. His lips were so thin as to be almost invisible, and between them was a row of sharp, yellow teeth much larger than those of an ordinary human. Foaming spittle dripped from his teeth onto his cassock while the creature, clearly possessed by the devil, let out a long, brutish cry and rushed at Simon, who was paralyzed with fear.

“My God, it’s the werewolf!” the terrified servant shouted, stepping back a few paces and knocking down some of the others as he fell to the floor. “Our suffragan bishop is a real werewolf! Oh, God, be with us, the devil is in our midst!”

Then the entire hall erupted in chaos.

12

B
AMBERG
, NINE O’CLOCK AT NIGHT
, N
OVEMBER
1, 1668 AD

U
P ON THE CATHEDRAL MOUNT,
the fog had been getting thicker and thicker. The damp air made Magdalena’s clothes cling to her, as if trying to prevent her from getting any closer to her father and uncle.

Matheo was imprisoned in St. Thomas’s in the Old Residence, a huge enclave on the cathedral square surrounded by high walls on all sides. Years ago, kaisers, kings, and bishops had resided there, and meetings of the parliament had been held there as well. Now the Old Residence was not much more than a large horse barn and arsenal, but the meeting room for the city council, and the former main room of the castle, gave evidence of the great power centered there in the past.

The three of them passed by a chapel recessed into the wall, then snuck quietly by the council chamber until they reached the so-called Schöne Pforte, which served as the entrance to the old enclave. During the day, there was much hustle and bustle as people entered and left—workers, coachmen, and soldiers on patrol on the opposite side, where construction was proceeding on the bishop’s new residence. But at night, and in the heavy fog, practically no one was around—just two lonely guards stood watch at the gate, tightly clutching their halberds as if struggling not to keel over with boredom and exhaustion. The only light was a single lantern hanging on a hook on the wall, swaying back and forth in the wind. The cathedral bells struck the ninth hour.

“We have to get by the two of them, we can’t avoid that,” whispered Bartholomäus, sweating profusely under his werewolf costume. “And then there are probably some more guards inside—I have no idea how many tonight. I hear that the captain has a unit he can call up for special occasions. If they’re busy down in the city now, perhaps we’ll have an easier job of it.”

“One thing at a time,” Jakob grumbled, turning to Magdalena. “It’s important to get to them before they can sound the alarm, or our beautiful plan is going to fall apart at the very beginning. Is there anything you can do to distract the fellows for a while?”

Magdalena smiled and batted her eyelids. “That shouldn’t be too hard for me.” She swayed her hips suggestively from side to side. “What do you think?”

“For God’s sake, don’t overdo it,” her father scolded. “What would Simon think? A little flirting should be enough.”

“Believe me, a little flirting won’t get very far with these men. I’ll have to pour on the charm.”

Without any explanation, Magdalena pulled a yellow scarf out from under her jacket and tied it around her head. Adeptly, she pulled her bodice down so far that her breasts almost popped out.

“Damn it, girl, you’re not going to—” he started to say.

But Magdalena had already stepped away from the wall and started sashaying toward the entrance. Soon she stepped into the light of the lantern, and the guards looked at her suspiciously.

“Hey, you,” they called to her. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know it’s way past curfew?”

“Some people don’t even start work until after curfew,” she cooed, smiling and swaying her hips as she drew closer. Only then did they see the yellow scarf over her head that identified Magdalena as a whore. The fatter of the two guards grinned lewdly.

“Aha, Hans, just look, we have an important visitor,” he said, bowing slightly. “It looks as if the beautiful lady has lost her way. The Rosengasse is, as far as I know, down below near St. Martin’s.”

“That can happen easily with fog like this,” said his colleague, a pimply youth who surely had not yet touched many women in his young life. Lewdly he stared at Magdalena’s low neckline. “But since she’s already here . . .”

“You know, we could arrest you and throw you in the dungeon,” the fat man said to Magdalena, shaking a finger at her in jest. “Fortunately, there’s already someone there whom you surely don’t want to meet, unless you like to have sex with animals.” He let out a dirty laugh.

“I’d much prefer a couple of strapping lads,” she replied, fluttering her eyelids. “What would you say if I gave you two handsome boys a special price, hmm?” She stroked her bodice, and the young man gaped, sheep-like, at her.

“Well, we’ve got to stand guard here until the shifts change,” he said hesitantly. “Maybe later . . .”

“Later, I’ll be back to turning tricks on the Rosengasse.” Magdalena smiled. “Besides, who’s going to notice? I hear that the captain and the other guards are down at the castle. They just left you two poor devils up here?”

“You forget our three colleagues in the Old Residence,” the fat man chimed in. “But you’re right, it’s not fair. The people down below are having a party, drinking and watching the play, and we’re standing around here in the damp and the fog, tired and ready to drop.” He grinned. “Ah, but I know what we can do. One of us will stand here to guard the gate while the other can go over to the little alley next to the cathedral with you and see what you have to offer. We’ll switch off.”

Magdalena gave him her sweetest smile. “What a wonderful idea. I should have thought of that. So, which of you two handsome lads will go first?”

Even before she asked, she was sure it would be the fat one. She walked ahead, swinging her hips back and forth while the heavy man followed, groaning and snorting. He left his halberd behind, leaning against the wall.

The guard grinned expectantly. Soon, he was sure, he’d get to use his other lance.

In the meantime, skinny Hans remained standing in front of the gate, imagining vividly what he would soon be doing with the woman.

Hans was seventeen years old, and actually he’d never seen a naked woman before—with the exception of his mother, of course, a fat old linen weaver, but that wasn’t a pretty sight. With trembling lips, he imagined the shapely woman with the wild black locks and how he would soon slip his hand under her skirt. What would he find down there? Friends had told him the strangest stories about the female sex organs; they spoke of a quick little mouse hiding there, but they were probably just pulling his leg. Well, he’d soon find out. Hans had five kreuzers in his pocket, and that should suffice for a first voyage of discovery.

He listened anxiously, full of expectation for his turn that was about to come. Suddenly he heard a muffled cry that probably came from fat Jonas, his father’s friend and colleague. Was that part of this great secret? People shouted when they made love—he’d heard that also from his mother, who, in years past, had rolled around with his father under a sheepskin blanket in the room. It was the only heated space in the house, so the eightmember family had to use it as a common bedroom. Their parents’ bed was separated from the children’s beds by nothing more than a thin curtain full of holes, and sometimes Hans had the feeling that his mother was crying with pain. Now, too, what he heard were not shouts of rapture, but rather . . . panic? Yes, they were clearly cries of horror. Was that also part of the game? And what were they doing there all this time?

Shivering, Hans rubbed his cold hands together. A year ago, when he’d taken this job with the city guards, he thought he’d find real adventure. But for the most part what he did was pick up drunks in the streets and stand guard for hours on end until his feet were killing him. And if the captain was putting together an elite squad for some secret mission, as he had just a few days ago, Hans naturally couldn’t be part of that. It was driving him mad.

Hans was just wondering whether to leave his post for a moment, to see if everything was all right, when he heard a scraping sound behind him, as if someone in large boots was shuffling over the pavement. Was it that fat Jonas? That was strange, since he had gone off in the other direction. So who . . .

Hans turned around and let out a long squeal. Actually, he tried to scream, but what was standing in front of him was so horrible that his voice failed.

It was a huge, hairy creature with a foul odor, towering two heads above him. With dead eyes it stared down at him as a deep growl and then human sounds escaped from its lips.

“
Ach
. . . curses . . . I can’t see . . . damn!”

Hans whimpered, his hand went limp, and he dropped his halberd on the ground. He hadn’t understood exactly what the monster said, but there was no doubt in his mind that this creature in front of him was the slender lad imprisoned in St. Thomas’s, changed back into the monster who’d killed so many people and now had escaped the dungeon. Surely he’d already killed fat Jonas and the prostitute as well, and now it was his turn.

“Please . . . please spare my life,” he whimpered, throwing himself down in front of the werewolf. “In the name of all fourteen holy saints in our hour of need, please . . .”

He got no further, as a shadow swept down on him. Suddenly Hans felt something soft placed over his face with a strong, bitter taste.

The thought raced through his mind:
The werewolf’s jaws. He’ll rip my lips off and eat them. Oh, Holy Mother of God . . .

Then he felt heavy and sank into a dark fog that smelled of old, musty animal hides. The werewolf had swallowed him whole.

“Damn! That could have easily blown up in our faces. Why didn’t you get rid of the fellow sooner?”

Jakob stood next to his brother, pointing at the unconscious guard at their feet.

“Because I can’t see a damn thing under these hides,” Bartholomäus replied. “Just be happy I found his face so I could put the sleeping sponge over it.”

“Pull yourselves together, both of you. Do you want to wake up everyone in the Old Residence?”

It was Magdalena, approaching them from the narrow alley and speaking in a hushed voice as she glanced around. The two brothers looked quite fearsome, like two demons wrestling for dominion in an endless battle in hell.

Or like two old grouches always criticizing each other,
she thought.
When this is all over, I hope I won’t have any Kuisls to put up with for a while.

But then it occurred to her that she was, in fact, a Kuisl herself.

How did Father put it in the forest yesterday? You can’t pick your family . . .

After Magdalena had lured the guard into the lane, her father had come down on him like a ton of bricks. The guard could only utter a brief cry before Jakob pressed the sleeping sponge in his face. The guard had twitched and moaned briefly but then fell silent. The potion seemed to have worked. But then they heard the other guard wailing and crying and ran over to the gate, where Bartholomäus had already gotten things under control.

“Well, so far so good,” Jakob said with satisfaction, turning to his brother. “I hope you remembered the keys.”

They were standing in front of the so-called Schöne Pforte—“beautiful gate”—made of stone and surrounded by several figures and statues of Mary. On the left, next to the larger gate, which was intended for wagons, was a smaller gate. Bartholomäus searched under the furs and finally fished a rusty set of keys out of his pocket.

“These keys are for the gate, St. Thomas’s Chapel, the torture chamber, and the dungeon down in the city,” he whispered. “They’ll take us anywhere we want to go, but you still have the guards, and I just don’t know how many of them there are.”

“The fat guy mentioned three guards at the Old Residence,” Magdalena whispered.

Jakob cursed. “That’s one too many, unless—” He stopped short, then pointed at the whore’s cloth in Magdalena’s hair.

“Give it to me—it’s a thorn in my side, in any case.”

She handed him the kerchief, and he quickly opened the pot of henbane and dunked the cloth in it. Finally, he gave it back to her. “If things really get tough, you’ll have to take on one of the guards yourself. With this, you won’t need to use your wiggling behind and fluttering eyelashes.”

She smiled as he handed her the sharp-smelling cloth. She noticed before that the sight of his daughter as a whore had enraged him. Still, Jakob had to admit to himself that her plan had worked. His grumbling and growling now was just a peculiar, Kuisl-like compliment.