The Werewolf of Bamberg (49 page)

Finally she grabbed hold of a slippery shrub along the shore and pulled herself up. Gasping for air, she scrambled up the steep bank and looked for refuge behind a few splintered barrels.

In front of her was a dark street littered with horse droppings. Everything seemed calm, and the only thing she heard were the bells in the distance striking the eleventh hour.

Barbara leaned against one of the barrels and tried to catch her breath. Her whole body shook and her teeth chattered with the cold, but she had made it. Now she just had to get back to the executioner’s house. Her father would probably give her a good whipping, but she’d accept that punishment in return for a cup of hot mulled wine and a warm embrace from her big sister.

They’ll excuse me. A family always forgives.

Carefully she sat up and got her bearings. The city hall had to be in front of her, somewhere on the right. There was also a bridge there that she could take to get to the newer part of the city. Hastily, she picked up the dripping hem of her skirt and set out on her way.

Just as she reached the next corner, a mob of young men armed with scythes, pitchforks, and torches came running out of a side street. They appeared just as surprised by the sudden meeting as she was, but their hesitation didn’t last long.

“Hey, isn’t that the cute princess from the troupe of actors?” one of them shouted, pointing at Barbara’s torn dress. Instinctively, she cringed. In the excitement she’d completely forgotten the expensive red dress, and now she felt it was practically glowing in the dark.

“Just have a look at this,” another young man said, ogling her breasts beneath the soaking dress. “Looks like the dirty little water rat has been taking a bath in the city moat.” He looked down at her condescendingly. “Tell me, did you meet with the other witches? You can’t deny it. We’ve already caught a couple of you, and they all admit they changed the suffragan bishop into a werewolf. So speak up.”

Barbara immediately understood that further discussion was pointless, so she did the first thing that came to mind—she turned and ran down the street as fast as she could. The young men ran after her, shouting.

She zigged and zagged a few times, then darted off into a narrow lane. Not until it was too late did she notice that the way led steeply uphill, probably to Kaulberg Hill adjacent to the cathedral mount, a labyrinth with many tiny houses, stairways, winding lanes, churches, and chapels. Barbara struggled for breath as the young men behind her bellowed triumphantly and drew closer.

The lane became steeper and narrower, and now Barbara had completely lost her way. Evidently the men had split up, as she could now hear the sounds of running feet on all sides.

They’re surrounding me. Like wolves chasing a young deer, they’re closing in on me.

Suddenly the lane widened, and before her she saw the dark outlines of a monastery. She hesitated for a moment, looked around, then ran across the market square to the large doorway of the monastery church. Building cranes and scaffolding stood all around, just as they did in front of many other church buildings in the city. The entire square was one huge construction site, with piles of stone blocks and sacks of mortar that served as cover as she hunched over and ran toward the monastery. If she could make it into the church, she had some chance of evading her pursuers. As in all churches and monasteries in the Reich, the right of asylum applied in Bamberg as well. Anyone who had entered the protective interior would be safe.

With her last bit of strength, she rushed toward the gate and shook the doorknob frantically.

But the door was locked.

Furiously she pounded the massive wooden door. It simply wasn’t possible. A church was supposed to be open at all hours of day and night. Apparently the monks, in their fear of werewolves and marauding militias, had locked the door.

She looked around and could see the light of torches entering the square and drawing closer. In desperation, she stormed toward a building crane in the middle of the square, where she could see the dark outlines of a large pile of sand. Perhaps she could find some place to hide there.

She quickly scrambled up the pile, damp from the evening fog, and was almost at the top when the sand beneath her suddenly gave way. She reached out wildly in all directions, but found nothing to hold on to and rolled back down the slope into a pit at the foot of the sand pile. Facedown, she lay there in the mud.

This is the end,
she thought.

And indeed, she heard the shouts of the young men, this time very close by. They were somewhere on the construction site.

She crawled away from the pile, from which sand was still trickling down, and suddenly she caught sight of a tunnel supported by wooden beams. It appeared to have been dug by the workers looking for the necessary sand for their building. She crept toward it, ducked down to get inside, and at once was enveloped in darkness as black as the grave. The tunnel was waist-high but noticeably narrower at the far end. Nevertheless, she kept moving forward until the shouts behind her were muffled and finally faded away.

She lay there panting and listening.

Everything was quiet; apparently the men had given up the chase.

Barbara decided to wait. It was possible her pursuers were still outside. As the water dripped down onto her hair, she thought she could feel the weight of the tons of soil and sand above her.

Just as she was about to crawl back out of the tunnel, something attracted her attention—a tiny ray of light coming from the far end. Was there possibly another way out?

She decided to go and see. If it really led to the outside, she would be a good distance from the men, who were probably still looking for her at the construction site. She crawled forward on all fours, and the light, which seemed to be coming from one side of the tunnel, grew brighter.

In about another fifty or sixty feet she reached the end of the tunnel, where, on the right, several slippery, worn steps led into a larger tunnel. The first steps were covered by fallen rocks, but after a few yards there was an area of solid, smooth stone. The dim light came from a low doorway apparently leading to a room above.

Holding her breath, Barbara slowly moved toward the light. Upon entering the room, she found a single, smoking torch revealing the outlines of several dust-covered crates and trunks; a figure in a threadbare brown monk’s habit cowered among them. The man’s face was scratched and full of bloody welts, and he was so pale he appeared almost transparent. Still, Barbara recognized him at once.

It was the playwright, Markus Salter.

When he caught sight of her, the haggard man winced, then a tired smile spread across his face.

“Greetings, Barbara,” Salter said, raising a shaking hand. “I thought they’d finally caught up with me, but evidently Providence has allowed the two of us, at least, to escape this madness.” Tears ran down his bloodied face. “I don’t know where God is, but tonight he has clearly abandoned Bamberg.”

The blow that struck Georg on the side was powerful, yet not especially painful. Nevertheless, it was hard enough to hurl him back into the corner of the little room, where he came to rest with his head against the wall. A strange odor was in the air; at first Georg couldn’t place it. Then he recognized the stench of a beast of prey, and of decay.

A werewolf. Jeremias has conjured up a werewolf.

Trembling, he turned around, only to look straight into the angry face of his father.

“What the hell are you doing, beating up a crippled old man, eh?” he shouted. “I don’t know what happened here, but my son doesn’t beat cripples, do you understand?”

His heart pounding wildly, Georg stood up and wiped his mouth where his father had slapped him.

Next to Jakob stood Magdalena, her arms crossed, staring angrily at Georg. “Good God, Georg, what are you doing here at Jeremias’s house at this hour of the night?” she scolded. “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been? And where are the children? They should have been home and in bed hours ago.”

“The children are next door in the tavern,” he croaked. “They’re all right. In contrast to me.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Speak up.” His father pulled him to his feet. “Say something.”

Georg pointed at Jeremias, still lying on the floor, panting for breath. His scarred face was bright red from the hot water Georg had flung in his face.

“He
’
s no defenseless cripple,” Georg said angrily. “He’s Michael Binder, the man who used to be the Bamberg executioner. He’s a murderer and probably the werewolf we’ve been looking for. He . . . he poisoned me with hemlock.”

Sheer terror seized him as he felt the strange tickling that had already traveled up to his thighs.

“He has an antidote.” He turned urgently to Jakob and Magdalena, who stood there gaping at him. “Rose of Jericho and other things. He’s the only one who knows the exact formula. We must force him to give it to us, or I’m done for.”

Jakob dropped down onto a stool, which creaked perilously with the sudden weight. The hangman shook his head, at a loss.

“Murderer . . . antidote . . . rose of Jericho . . . ,” he mumbled. “Damn it, Georg, how much have you had to drink? I can smell your breath from here.”

“But it’s the truth,” Georg insisted. “Jeremias is a murderer, he admitted it himself. And he poisoned me. Here.” He pointed to the cup of hemlock still standing on the table. “He gave me the hemlock in this cup.”

Jakob picked up the cup, and his huge hooked nose disappeared for a moment inside, as if it were an autonomous creature acting on its own. He sniffed a number of times, then shook his head.

“I’ll eat a witch’s broom if there’s hemlock in this,” he said calmly. “Hemlock smells like mouse droppings. This here is actually . . .” He stopped to smell again. “Cinnamon, honey . . . hmm, probably cardamom, a pinch of pepper—”

“And a few cloves from far-off India,” Jeremias interrupted. He’d gotten to his feet again and sat down unsteadily on the bed. “And don’t forget the sinfully expensive muscat. The brew is a so-called hippocras, brewed according to the original recipe of the Greek physician Hippocrates—a strong and, by the way, very delicious spiced wine that is not at all poisonous.”

“But . . . but you told me yourself it contained hemlock. Now I’m completely confused.” Georg’s gaze wandered back and forth between Jakob and Jeremias. “And I can feel this tingling . . .”

“Do you really, Georg?” Jeremias asked with a mischievous smile. “Or is it possible it’s just your imagination?”

Baffled, Georg wiggled his toes, and indeed the tingling seemed to have almost completely disappeared. How was that possible?

“The fascinating power of suggestion,” Jeremias said. “With a little showmanship you can make people believe anything. Healing powers as well as deadly ones. Your father surely knows as much about this as I do.”

“And the rose of Jericho?” Georg asked hesitantly, though he already suspected what the answer would be.

“The rose of Jericho is a pretty, though expensive, ornament,” Magdalena said with a shrug. “When you water it, it turns green, but I’ve never heard that it was a strong antidote for anything. If you’d paid a little more attention to Father back home, you’d know that.”

Georg tore his hair in anger. He’d thought he was so smart, and now it appeared he’d made an ass of himself again in front of his father and big sister. Furious, he turned around to Jeremias. “You . . . you did that just so I’d keep my mouth shut, didn’t you?”

Jeremias raised his hands apologetically. “And it worked. Believe me, Georg, that one murder was enough for me.” His face turned dark. “I’ll roast in hell for that alone.”

“I think you owe us an explanation,” said Magdalena, looking at Jeremias suspiciously, “but first I want to see my children. And perhaps someone else,” she added vaguely.

Jeremias pointed toward the little door next to the bookshelves. “Georg was right, the two boys are sleeping peacefully in the next room. But please assure yourself.”

Magdalena opened the door and disappeared. When she returned, she was visibly relieved. “The boys are fine,” she declared. “Judging from the smears around their mouths, at worst they have had too much plum jam to eat. The one I’m really missing, however, is Barbara.”

“Barbara?” Jakob looked at her in surprise. “This is getting even more confusing. Are you saying that Barbara was here the whole time? Damn it, damn it!” He was getting ready to explode, but Magdalena cut him off.

“None of that matters anymore,” she said. “Now that we’ve brought Matheo to safety, I would have come here tomorrow and brought her home.” Magdalena turned to Jeremias and asked sternly, “So where is she?”

Jeremias sighed. “Actually, Barbara was with the actors most of the time, and I haven’t really seen her. She left this morning to go to the castle with them. Perhaps she was helping with their costumes.”

“Just wait till I get my hands on her,” Jakob growled. “But we’ll take care of that later.” He turned back to Georg. “And now it’s high time you told me what happened here.”