The Werewolf of Bamberg

11

BAMBERG, NOON, NOVEMBER 1, 1668 AD

The Bishop of Würzburg arrived the following afternoon with a large entourage.

Since early morning, people had been standing at the wooden bridge by the town gate to welcome and show homage to His Excellency the elector. This display was not completely selfless. Johann Philipp von Schönborn was a good-natured and, above all, generous leader who liked to throw coins and small gifts to the crowds who came to meet him on his trips. Accordingly, the crowd was large at the bridge and everyone wanted to be standing in the first row.

Magdalena stood off to one side with the children. The boys had climbed a scraggly willow tree with a good view of the proceedings. Though they had no idea who or what a bishop was, they were clearly enjoying the excitement as well as the fragrance of chestnuts and candied apples that street vendors were roasting over glowing coals and hawking to the crowd. Magdalena, too, couldn’t help smiling. The fear of the werewolf, the paralyzing horror that lay over Bamberg like a dark cloud, seemed to have lifted, at least for a while.

Magdalena had wanted to help her father and uncle prepare the tincture for the sleep sponge, but Peter and Paul kept grabbing the henbane and hemlock from the table and throwing it around, and Jakob was getting angrier and angrier. After little Paul had almost taken a sip of the opium juice, the hangman lost his temper and Magdalena hastily left the house with the children. Now she was standing near the busy bridge, each of the children was holding a slice of apple in his hand, and she could reflect in peace on the plans they’d made.

At first, the plan sounded so far-fetched that she couldn’t decide if the idea was crazy or a stroke of genius. Tonight they’d actually create a werewolf, a fiendish monster on which the people of Bamberg could vent their anger.

The tense mood in the city was evident here, as well, among the people in the waiting crowd. Two young journeymen in front of her kept whispering and turning around cautiously to make sure no one was listening.

“. . and early this morning they came to arrest Jäckel Riemer, that drunk tower guard in the church,” one of them whispered. He was wearing the kind of hat traditionally worn by raftsmen on the river. “They say that the sexton at St. Martin’s Church saw him at night in the cemetery, digging up corpses to eat.”

“Bah!” the other journeyman replied with disgust, shaking his head. “You just have to hope this will all be cleared up before the whole city goes mad.”

“What are you trying to say?” the raftsman asked suspiciously. “You mean to tell me you don’t believe in the werewolf?”

“Oh, I do,” his acquaintance assured him. “It’s just that. .”

He was struggling for the right words when suddenly there was the sound of a trumpet on the bridge. A wave of applause followed, and the journeyman was clearly relieved that instead of replying to his friend, he could acknowledge the bishop’s arrival. “Look, the noble visitor has finally arrived. What gorgeous horses. We haven’t seen anything like this for a long time.”

At that moment they indeed heard the clatter of hooves and, shortly thereafter, saw the team of six horses crossing the bridge. The two lead horses were wearing plumes, and their silver harnesses glittered in the noonday autumn sun.

“Mama, Mama!” Peter shouted. “Look, here comes the kaiser!”

Magdalena smiled. “Not exactly the kaiser, Peter, but someone who’s almost as rich and powerful. He’s the bishop of Würzburg-a real, living elector, who takes part in naming the king of the Reich.”

“I want to see the elector, too,” Paul said, sitting on the branch below so that the crowd blocked his view. He climbed a bit higher as Magdalena watched with trepidation, but then she turned back to the sight before them.

They’re growing up, she thought. I’ll have to get used to it.

Royal guards with gleaming breastplates rode before and behind the coach, and one was holding up the flag of the Würzburg bishop. Behind them came a line of smaller coaches, no doubt conveying lesser clerics and courtiers. When the coach, with its six-horse team, passed Magdalena, she briefly caught sight of an older, bearded man inside with long, gray hair, smiling benignly and waving out the window.

The applause and cheers grew louder as the soldiers took out leather pouches containing small coins and threw them into the crowd. The journeymen in front of Magdalena caught a few of them.

“Three cheers for the Würzburg elector!” the raftsman shouted. “Three cheers for the elector!” But after the coach had passed, he turned crossly to his neighbor. “He’s getting stingier and stingier. The last time there were a few guilders among the coins, and now look at this. Only a few piddling kreuzers.”

“The guilders and ducats are for our Bamberg bishop,” his friend responded with a grin. “So he can finally finish building his residence up on the cathedral mount. The word is that Johann Philipp von Schönborn isn’t here just for fun. He’ll no doubt have to lend his colleague a big sum of money again.”

The other raftsman bit his kreuzer to check it. “But they’ll also have time for amusement. Have you heard? Two troupes of actors will be performing tonight. It will be a long night.”

“If the werewolf doesn’t come first and run off with two fat bishops.”

The two sauntered off, laughing, and Magdalena suddenly felt her good mood dissipating. The conversation had reminded her again of their scheme for that night, and she felt a lump in her throat. Would the sleep sponge work? And how far along was her father in preparing the gunpowder? Simon had gone off to visit his friend Samuel that morning to get the rest of the ingredients. No doubt he was still in the executioner’s house with the two Kuisls stirring the highly explosive mixture, and the three men would certainly have no need for a couple of rowdy boys.

On the spur of the moment, Magdalena decided to visit Katharina and offer her some consolation. Simon had said she had gone to her father’s house to grieve the cancellation of the wedding reception.

“Shall we go and visit Aunt Katharina?” she suggested to the two boys with a wink. “Who knows, maybe she’ll make you porridge again with lots of honey.”

She didn’t have to ask twice. Peter and Paul were wild about the motherly Katharina, and especially her cooking. As quick as two little squirrels, they scurried down from the willow and pushed their way with their mother through the crowd, which was starting to break up now that the Würzburg bishop had passed on his way to the cathedral mount-though the cheering could still be heard in the distance.

After a while, they crossed the City Hall Bridge and soon were standing in front of the Hausers’. It was Katharina herself who answered the door after a few knocks. Her eyes were red from crying, but the sight of the children brought a smile to her face.

“Peter! Paul! How glad I am to see you. Come in, I’ve just taken some buttered apple fritters out of the oven. I think you’ll like them.”

In fact, there was a heavenly aroma of warm apples and hot butter throughout the house, and the children stormed, hooting and cheering, into the kitchen, where Katharina served them a whole tower of the sweet pastry. While the boys sat at the table eating happily, Magdalena had the chance to have a quiet conversation with Katharina.

“When I’m unhappy, I often stay in the kitchen,” Katharina said with a faint smile. “Cooking is still the best way for me to forget my cares. You should feel free to come and visit me more often.”

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the wedding,” Magdalena replied, holding Katharina’s hand. “In any case, we’ll stay a while longer in Bamberg, and if necessary, we’ll just have a smaller party.”

Katharina nodded. “I’m so grateful for that. Thank you.” She stared off into space, and there was a pause during which the only sound was the children’s chewing and smacking their lips.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this wedding?” Katharina finally continued in a soft voice. “People in Bamberg thought of me as a dried-up old maid who’d never find a man. Too old, too fat. .,” she sighed. “There were a few men earlier, but when the time came, they always ran off.”

“And then?” Magdalena asked.

“Then Bartholomäus came along.” She smiled and her eyes began to sparkle. “I met him down at the fish market when he offered to carry my heavy basket. Most people steer clear of him. He’s the Bamberg executioner, after all, and people don’t want anything to do with him. But I’ve seen what kind of a person he really is-he can be very warmhearted, you know.”

Magdalena laughed. “Up to now, he’s kept that well hidden from me, but of course, you know him better.”

“Well, that’s the way he is.” Katharina rubbed her chubby fingers, which were sticky from baking, and looked down. “At first, everyone opposed this marriage-my father, my friends. Being married to an executioner-what can be worse than that? It would be better to die an old maid. But I got my way, even with my father.” She laughed sadly. “I was even able to talk him into a big, expensive reception, though Bartl was so reluctant at first. He said he didn’t want any more to do with his family than was absolutely necessary. But do you know what?” She winked at Magdalena. “I think in the end he was proud to show his big brother what he’d made of himself here-the big house, the marriage to a clerk’s daughter, a good dowry, a beautiful wedding reception. .” She sighed deeply. “But the last of those, at least, is not to be.”

They both fell silent for a while, then finally Magdalena asked, “Was your father able to make any progress with the city council? He was going to put another word in for the wedding reception.”

Katharina shook her head. “He hasn’t gotten to it yet. In the last few weeks he’s seemed lost in his thoughts, almost constantly up in his study because he has to copy some old lists for the city. I was getting used to it, but since yesterday I’ve not even been able to talk to him. He keeps leaving the house without telling me where he’s going. I really wish I knew what’s wrong with him.” She shook her head. “Just this morning I was up in his room to clean up, and I’m telling you, it looks like lightning has struck the place! He didn’t even look at me, just shouted at me to get out.”

Magdalena remembered what Simon had told her about Hieronymus Hauser. Was it possible that his preoccupation had something to do with yesterday’s conversation?

“Simon was here yesterday to visit your father,” she said carefully, “and he learned that Hieronymus attended the witch trials back then as a young scribe. Do you think all this werewolf business has upset him?”

Katharina seemed to be thinking it over. “Hmm, it’s possible. That was before I was born, but I know it upset him very much. He sometimes dreams of the torturing that he had to witness, as the scribe, in order to document the statements. Then he screams in his sleep. But he doesn’t want to talk about it.” She shrugged. “Just like everyone else in Bamberg, as if they wanted to forget and bury what happened.”

“Simon thinks he saw your father in the bishop’s archive after their meeting,” Magdalena added. “Is it possible he was looking for something there? Something having to do with the events back then?”

Her aunt was silent for a while, then she picked up one of the crisp apple pastries and took a bite. “Unfortunately, I just don’t know,” she said, chewing on the cake. She gestured apologetically. “Excuse me, but I think the constant crying has made me hungry.” After she’d finished, she continued. “It would be best for you to ask my father yourself. He probably won’t be back from his office until late afternoon, but you can stop by and see us again then.”

“This isn’t a good day for it,” Magdalena replied hesitantly, “as I have other things to do.” She pointed at her two children. “I just wanted to ask you if you could look after the boys for a while. Simon is visiting the bishop today, and Father and I have some things to discuss with Georg. It’s been such a long time since we’ve seen each other. .”

Magdalena cleared her throat, embarrassed. She’d made Uncle Bartholomäus promise not to tell Katharina about their plans for that night, and she searched desperately for some explanation. The idea of leaving the children in Katharina’s care had just occurred to her. She had already asked Georg to do that, but he hadn’t been especially fond of the idea. And after asking him again several times that morning, his reply was still gruff and noncommittal. Evidently he could not get over the fact that Magdalena was being allowed to take part in freeing Matheo that evening, and he wasn’t.

Katharina appeared to accept her vague excuse, but then she gestured apologetically. “You know I love your boys, Magdalena, but on this particular evening I can’t do it. Believe it or not, my father is also invited to the bishop’s reception, and he even managed to get an invitation for me.” She smiled slightly. “He thought that would cheer me up a bit. Such a celebration will only make me think of my own wedding reception, of course, but I can’t turn him down. It’s a great honor for our family. Only the better classes of citizens are invited.” She hesitated. “Many members of the city council will be there, and of course Father still hopes he can do something about the wedding reception.”

“I understand.” Magdalena nodded. “Then you’ve got to go.”

She looked over at the two boys, who had by now wolfed down their apple fritters and turned their attention to the pot of butter, which they were taking out and smearing in each other’s hair.

“I think it’s time to take the kids back to their strict grandfather, so he can tweak their ears a bit,” Magdalena said with a grin, then she stood up and embraced Katharina. “Good luck to you. You’ll see-everything will work out.”

As she left the house with her two boys, she wasn’t sure that her last wish hadn’t been directed primarily at herself.

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.

Watch the kids while the others are planning a daring escape from the dungeon. Damn, this is a woman’s job. Barbara should be doing this.

Then he remembered they’d gotten dragged into this only because of his lovestruck twin sister, and his anger rose. Even as a small child, Barbara always had gotten her way with their father, maybe because she was smarter than her twin brother and could read and work with the healing herbs far better than he could-skills that almost always impressed Father more than a flawless execution or a quick confession. And no matter what Georg did, Father always found something to complain about and to criticize. Then he accidently beat old Berchtholdt’s boy so badly that he crippled him and was thrown out of town. He was depressed and angry when he first arrived in Bamberg to live with his uncle. He would lie in bed many a night, sleepless and cursing his fate, but then he realized how free he felt in this city, far away from Father. His uncle respected him as a hangman’s apprentice and asked him to do things his father never would have allowed. And so, Georg gradually became an adult. Then, a year ago, Uncle Bartholomäus told him how his father had fled Schongau as a young man and abandoned his family. Since then, the great monument had started to crumble.

Bartholomäus had invited him to stay in Bamberg, and Georg felt truly comfortable here. Why should he return to little Schongau and a grumbling father who, even after he became an old man, would probably still be pushing him around? Why should he put up with that when he could have a far more appealing career here? Bartholomäus had assured him more than once that he could follow in his footsteps as the Bamberg executioner. But he had to put all these considerations aside now, because his sister once more was getting her way. And on top of it all, he had to play the part of a babysitter. It was enough to drive a person crazy.

“I’m cold,” little Peter whined, rubbing his fingers as he stood alongside him. He no longer seemed interested in throwing stones. “Let’s go back to our great-uncle, can we?” he begged. “Or to Aunt Katharina. She has such yummy apple fritters. Please!”

“We can’t go back to your great-uncle, because you’ll just pester him,” Georg grumbled. “And we can’t go back to Aunt Katharina, either. Your mother told me to walk around Bamberg with you for a while, so let’s do that.”

“But I don’t want to walk around the town,” little Paul wailed. “It’s so boring. I’d rather go back to old Jeremias. He has a sword just like Uncle Bartholomäus, only smaller. And a slingshot, too. I want to play at old Jeremias’s place.”

“Oh, yes, let’s go to visit Jeremias,” Peter pleaded as well. “He’ll tell us more stories. And his little dog can even do tricks. Please, please, let’s go there.”

Georg sighed. He’d picked up the children the night before at the Wild Man and had met the old crippled custodian. This Jeremias looked like a monster but was really a good-natured fellow. He’d told the boys stories and let them play with all sorts of stuff in an old trunk. The children hadn’t even wanted to go home.

“Jeremias won’t be thrilled if you go and bother him again,” Georg said, shaking his head, but suddenly the idea no longer sounded so far-fetched. He, too, was cold and bored, and he had no desire anymore to keep watching the boys throw stones while listening to their complaints.

“Fine, we can ask if he has time,” he said begrudgingly.

The children broke out in cheers and tugged at his hand. Georg grumbled a bit, but he’d made up his mind. They walked down the muddy towpath along the river and finally reached the harbor and the wedding house. The boys laughed as they ran through the door and the inner court until they were finally standing before Jeremias’s room. Out of breath, Georg knocked, and a moment later the astonished custodian was standing in the doorway.

“Oh, you again?” Jeremias laughed. “Rascally bunch! Tell me, would you like to hear more stories?”

“Oh, yes, please, Jeremias,” Peter said. “Can we come in? Uncle Georg said we could, please, please.”

Georg shrugged. “Well, I only said we could ask,” he said, embarrassed. “Their parents are really busy right now and I thought-”

“You thought, ‘Why should I put up with these rascals when that crippled Jeremias has nothing to do,’” he interrupted with a grin. “But you’re right about that. The sound of children laughing is a medicine for me, something I can never get enough of. So come on in.”

With loud shouts, the boys stormed into the room with the birdcage hanging from the ceiling and the shelves full of books. They ran to a trunk in the corner and immediately began pulling things out of it. Georg caught sight of a musty old blanket, a few wooden dolls, a battered helmet, and a sword with a handle that had broken off, which Paul immediately picked up to use as a weapon. They laughed as they tussled with the crippled dog that Georg had seen on his last visit. Meanwhile, old Jeremias sat down on the straw mattress.

“Would you like a venison pie?” he asked, handing Georg a steaming plate that had been lying on a shelf. “I just brought them from the kitchen. They taste wonderful.”

“Thanks, I’ve already eaten.” He declined with a wave and a slight smile while furtively examining Jeremias’s scarred face. The sight made him sick to his stomach. He remembered men from the Schongau leprosarium whose faces had been disfigured in the same way. Unlike the custodian of the Wild Man, those poor devils had to live outside the city because people were afraid of catching the disease. But Jeremias, too, lived a very secluded life.

The old man seemed to sense Georg looking at him. He winked, and his face contorted into a grimace.

“You’d better watch out if you ever work with unslaked lime,” he said. “One careless moment and you’ll never find a woman who wants to marry you.” He laughed mischievously. “I made advances to your two sisters, but I fear it was in vain.”

Georg stopped short. “Do you know Barbara, too?”

Jeremias hesitated, then he nodded. “Oh, yes, she was here once with her big sister. She was very interested in my library.” He pointed to a shelf in the back of the room, where Georg could see a row of large books. He struggled to read some of the titles, among them books of medicine he’d seen in his father’s collection, but also some he didn’t recognize. Then he shrugged and turned away.

“Books aren’t my thing,” he replied. “I prefer to work with my hands.”

Jeremias smiled. “I know your family, Georg, and believe me, I respect your profession.”

Georg looked at his two nephews, wondering. As usual, it was Paul who had cornered the older boy with the broken sword handle while the dog barked excitedly at both of them.

Someday they’ll be executioners, too, he thought. Soon I’ll be taking Peter along to his first execution.

But then it occurred to him he’d probably be staying in Bamberg.

Or maybe not? What do I want, anyway?

To get his mind off things, he stood up and wandered along the shelves, on which some full vials and crucibles stood alongside the books. Little boxes were labeled in Latin, and Georg read the names Hyoscyamus niger, Papaver somniferum, and Conium maculatum. His blood ran cold as he remembered how his father had tried to drill some Latin into him-without much success. That, too, was better with Uncle Bartholomäus. His uncle was only interested in Latin terms when dealing with herbs for curing diseases in animals.

“This is quite a pharmaceutical library,” Georg finally said, turning to Jeremias. “There’s almost as much here as in my father’s library in Schongau.”

“Well, I know a bit about medicine-the sorts of things you learn in the course of a long life,” the old man responded. “Sick people visit me, especially those so poor they can’t afford a doctor or a barber surgeon, and I can earn a heller or two that way, too.” He winked conspiratorially. “Just don’t tell the city council, or the honorable Magnus Rinswieser and the other members of the Bamberg apothecaries’ guild will see to it that I spend the rest of my days in a dungeon.”

Georg laughed. “I think the council has bigger things to worry about right now.”

“Indeed.” Jeremias nodded sadly. “This matter of the werewolf is serious. People never learn. Homo homini lupus, as the playwright Plautus used to say. Man is a wolf to man. In those cruel witch trials back then, they attacked one another like animals. Yes, I remember them as if they were just yesterday.” But then he brushed the thought aside. “But why am I telling a young fellow these old stories? I’m sure you want to go off and have a good time. So go ahead, leave.”

Georg looked at him, amazed. “What? Go?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted to do?” He grinned. “Drop the boys off here so you can knock about town a bit. So, be off with you.”

“Well, actually. .” Georg was about to say something, but then he burst out laughing. “I’ll admit, you’ve seen through me. And it looks like the children would rather stay with you than with me.” He pointed at Paul, who was happily hacking away at one of the dolls with the broken sword, and Peter, who was looking at illustrations in one of the old books, leafing through it attentively. “I’ll be back in two hours,” Georg said. “All right?”

Jeremias cut him off. “It doesn’t matter if it’s three hours. Most of the guards are down at the castle for the bishop’s reception, so you can go home after curfew without being thrown into the stocks. And now, off with you, at once.”

Georg thanked him with a smile, then bid good-bye to his nephews, who hardly paid any attention.

Moments later he was standing out in front of the wedding house. Night was falling, and for a moment he considered returning to the executioner’s house. He suspected, however, that his big sister wouldn’t be happy with how he’d shirked his responsibilities, so he started drifting aimlessly through the alleyways.

He crossed the City Hall Bridge, which was still open at this hour, and turned off into the section of town near the Sand Gate, where he could hear noise and laughter. Here along the river below the cathedral mount, there were almost as many taverns as houses. The Bambergers liked to drink and carouse, especially on a holiday like this when an important visitor was in town. Georg had once heard there were more breweries here than in any other city in Franconia. Everywhere he turned, he could hear music and the clinking of beer mugs.

The party was especially raucous in the Blue Lion tavern, famous for its smoked beer-which took a little getting used to. Georg had often been here to fetch a jug of beer for his uncle. As the Bamberg executioner, Bartholomäus Kuisl was not especially welcome in the taverns, so he preferred to drink alone at home. Georg, on the other hand, had always enjoyed the atmosphere in the Blue Lion, even if he hadn’t frequented it much lately. He stopped to think.

Well, why not?

He was just fifteen, but with the dark fuzz on his face and his imposing size, he looked considerably older. And as a hangman’s journeyman, he was nowhere near as well known as the Bamberg executioner himself. He’d always wanted to stop here and have a beer. He thought some more as he fingered the few coins in his pants pocket, his pay for the week.

I think I’ve earned it.

Pulling himself together, he opened the door latch and entered the noisy tavern. The odor of fermented mash, smoke, and hot sauerkraut drifted toward him. Someone was plucking the fiddle, and people were shouting and laughing. The noise enveloped him like a soft cocoon, and in the back he noticed an empty seat. He pushed his way through the crowd with his broad chest, took a seat at the scratched wooden table, and ordered his first beer.

It would not be his last.

In the meantime, the first guests had arrived in Geyerswörth Castle.

Simon stood off to one side with Samuel, watching the activity in the inner courtyard. Yesterday, his friend had lent him a new pair of petticoat breeches, a clean shirt with a lace collar, and a strikingly handsome dark-green jacket that was a bit too large but looked much better on him than the dirty street clothes he’d taken for the trip. He was also wearing a flashy hat with a red feather, an expensive accessory that he’d bought from the Bamberg hatmaker with the last of his money. After all, the reception and the theater performance that day were given in honor of a German elector, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself by looking out of place.

Crossing his arms, he leaned against an ivy-covered fountain where water flowed from the mouths of nymphs, and he observed the Bamberg citizens strolling by, nodding to each other with a smile and making pleasant conversation. The constant chatter, laughter, and clinking of glasses made it hard to believe there was a werewolf just outside the city gates striking terror into people’s hearts. In spite of the open fires burning in iron pots all around the city, it was uncomfortably cool and damp at the castle. Simon couldn’t help but think of Magdalena, who, along with her father and uncle, was making final preparations for freeing Matheo.

And all this while I’m visiting the theater. Well, my father-in-law told me straight out that he didn’t need me. Let’s see how the cranky old man gets along without me.

Nevertheless, Simon was having a hard time concentrating. What if the guards up on the cathedral square surprised Magdalena and the others in the act? He could only hope the Schongau hangman was still the old swashbuckling brawler he knew from earlier adventures.

“Almost the entire city council is here,” Samuel whispered, standing next to him dressed in the black coat of the doctors’ guild. “Strange, isn’t it? All these people who have been struggling to cast off the yoke of the church fall to their knees as soon as the archbishop of Würzburg arrives.”

“They say that Johann Philipp von Schönborn is very open-minded and tolerant of worldly things,” Simon replied, sipping on his glass of cool white Sylvaner. He was happy for this diversion. “I expect a few strong words from him about the werewolf panic here in Bamberg.”

“Hah! I’m not even sure Schönborn knows about it! Our own bishop will no doubt do everything he can to cover it up. After all, he wants to stay on good terms with his Würzburg colleague. He needs him to-” Samuel stopped short on hearing cheers suddenly coming from the entrance to the castle. He turned toward the sound and squinted, trying to see through the crowd of visitors.

“Well, speak of the devil,” he mumbled. “The noble gentlemen have arrived. It’s about time.”

Now Simon could see the bishop’s legates, a small group of clerics and some courtiers who fluttered around the bishop like moths around a candle. When the pompous-looking courtier stepped briefly to one side, Simon caught a glimpse of the Bamberg prince-bishop Philipp Valentin von Rieneck, and alongside him an elderly gentleman with wavy gray hair and a bushy beard. The elderly man smiled good-naturedly while representatives of the Bamberg citizenry stepped up and bowed to him and to their own sovereign. Behind the two bishops stood an ashen-faced Sebastian Harsee. His skullcap had partially slipped off his bald head, he staggered a bit, and he kept taking out his handkerchief to dab the sweat on his forehead.

“Didn’t I tell him he’d have to stay in bed?” Samuel whispered. “Just look, Simon. The man is running a fever. But no, he won’t listen.”

“There was something else about his illness you wanted to check,” Simon replied in an undertone. “Did you find anything else?”

Simon himself had been thinking about the illness of the suffragan bishop, especially the red circle around the wound on his neck. He’d consulted some books from Bartholomäus’s library, but the Bamberg executioner was not as interested in medicine as his brother was. Almost all his books were about curing animals, and they were of no help to Simon.

“Unfortunately, I’ve been busy caring for the bishop’s mistress for the last few days,” Samuel answered with a shrug, “and haven’t had much time to deal with Harsee’s illness, but I think-”

“Master Samuel!” cried Philipp Rieneck, interrupting the conversation. Evidently the Bamberg bishop had just discovered his personal physician in the crowd. “So here you are. I’d like to introduce you to our friend Johann Philipp.”

Samuel sighed softly, then took the surprised Simon by the arm and led him to the front row, where they both knelt down before the elector.

“This is a great honor for me, Your Excellency,” Samuel said, bowing reverently, “and also for my friend Simon Fronwieser, a widely traveled scholar who even in distant Munich has heard about your wisdom and kindness.”

Simon cringed. Once again, Samuel was lying through his teeth, this time to one of the most powerful men in the Reich. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Harsee, trembling and watching it all.

He suspects something, Simon thought. Perhaps it’s just as well he’s so sick.

“Philipp Rieneck has told me about your wondrous cures, Master Samuel,” the Würzburg bishop replied in a deep and pleasant voice. “They are said to be a bit unusual, but nevertheless effective. It seems you have been very helpful to a young woman Philipp cares greatly about.”

“Ah, a loyal servant, nothing more,” the Bamberg bishop interjected. “But it is indeed true that Master Samuel is caring for her at the moment with great success. Just this morning I spoke with her and. . ah. . took her confession.”

“Perhaps you could use your expertise to help our dear brother, Sebastian,” Schönborn said, turning to the shivering suffragan bishop, who was as white as a corpse. “You don’t look well at all, my friend.”

“Oh. . I’m. . managing,” Sebastian struggled to say. “A slight fever, nothing serious. Didn’t. . want. . to miss the performance. If only I could get rid of these damned headaches. But of course, our Savior also had to suffer.”

He struggled in vain to smile. Meanwhile, the Würzburg bishop had turned back to Samuel, who, like Simon, was still kneeling before him.

“But do stand up, dear doctor,” he said warmly, “and your friend, too.”

After the two had gotten to their feet, Schönborn continued. “I’d like very much to hear your opinion on one matter, Doctor. I have heard that a werewolf is prowling about here in Bamberg and magically abducting his victims.” He frowned. “As you may know, we don’t think much of this hocus-pocus in Würzburg, something I’ve debated often with my friend Philipp. Isn’t that right, Philipp?” He glanced at the Bamberg prince-bishop, who laughed stiffly. “On the other hand, such creatures appear again and again in stories and reports, and now here in Bamberg,” Schönborn continued. “Tell me, dear doctor, is there an explanation for this as far as you know?”

The entire courtyard fell strangely silent, as visitors halted their conversations. Simon looked at Philipp Rieneck, who politely nodded as if encouraging him to respond, though his eyes were as cold as ice. Right behind him stood Sebastian Harsee, who despite his fever suddenly looked very threatening.

If Samuel wants to continue practicing in Bamberg, he’s got to be very careful about what he says now, Simon thought. Sometimes it’s a real advantage to be just a barber surgeon in Schongau.

“Well. .,” Samuel said hesitantly, “a thorough answer to this question would probably not be appropriate for this large audience. But let me assure you that I and my learned friend”-he gave Simon a friendly pat on the shoulder-“have come a long way toward finding an answer. We have already reached some tentative conclusions.”

“That would really be of great interest to me,” Schönborn replied with a smile. “But you’re right. The first of the two theater performances will begin soon. Perhaps we’ll have time to debate this topic afterward.”

“Ah, indeed. It will be my pleasure.”

Samuel bowed one last time, then stepped back into the crowd with Simon while the suffragan bishop eyed them suspiciously.

“Good God, what are these tentative conclusions?” Simon whispered. “If Schönborn asks you about them later, you must have something to say.”

“Hopefully I’ll think of something by then,” Samuel replied. “What should I have done? If I question the existence of the werewolf, I’ll fall out of favor with my prince, and if I support it, I risk my reputation as a doctor and scholar and will lose favor with one of the most powerful men in the Reich.”

“A really impossible situation.” Simon nodded sympathetically. “Let’s hope the two plays are so boring we’ll have time to think about a compromise. Shall we enter?”

They entered the great dance hall of the palace with the other guests, passing through a low doorway. In the back third of the room, a stage had been constructed of spruce wood with stairs leading up to it and a red curtain in front. The room was illuminated by hundreds of candles, giving a lifelike appearance to the paintings of plants and animals on the vaulted ceiling.

In the first row there were fur-upholstered seats for the two ruling princes, the suffragan bishop, and some of the leading aristocrats. The rest of the audience, as usual, had to stand. Behind them, stairs led up to a gallery, where Simon and Samuel managed to find room standing along the railing with a good view of the stage.

The excited murmurs in the audience stopped abruptly when the Bamberg prince-bishop gave a sign to one of his servants, who blew a fanfare on his trumpet, then took out a long parchment roll and began to read.

“Honored guests, noblemen, and gentlemen of Bamberg. It is with great joy that His Excellency Philipp Valentin Voit von Rieneck welcomes to the hallowed halls of Geyerswörth Castle his beloved friend, the Bishop of Mainz, Würzburg, and Worms, a prince of the Reich, defender of the faith and close confidant of the German kaiser, the honorable Johann Philipp von Schönborn. .”

While the servant reeled off the usual tributes, Simon’s eyes wandered over the audience, where he caught sight of Hieronymus Hauser and Katharina, whom he had overlooked earlier in the milling crowd. Magdalena had told him that the Hausers were also invited to the reception. Katharina had put on her best dress, and her father wore a coat and vest like a real councilor, but he looked almost as pale as the suffragan bishop. He seemed distracted and kept turning around carefully, as if looking for someone in the audience. In the next moment, though, he seemed completely lost in his thoughts.

I wonder if it has anything to do with our conversation yesterday, Simon thought.

By now, the herald had greeted all the important guests by name and started explaining the rules of the theater competition.

“In his infinite kindness, our bishop has decided to offer winter quarters to a group of itinerant actors,” he proclaimed. “Since there are two groups in Bamberg this year, a competition will decide which one will be permitted to remain in the city. Each group has selected a short piece to perform for us now, and after that the bishop will choose the winner. The two pieces are entitled”-he looked down at his parchment roll-“Papinian and Peter Squenz, both from the pen of the esteemed author Andreas Gryphius. Good luck to everyone.”

One last time he played the fanfare on his trumpet, then the candles in the audience were extinguished, bathing only the stage in a warm light. The curtain rose, and out stepped a pale, made-up, somewhat feminine-looking actor who spread his arms and turned toward the two bishops while declaiming the prologue in a slight French accent.

“Those who climb over everyone else, then looook down prouuudly as reeech people at how pooor people behave,” he began in a fervent voice, pronouncing each vowel in a peculiar way. “As ooonder heeem a Reich gooz uup in flaaames, or theeere the miiighty waaaves cooover the feeelds. .”

Simon wasn’t familiar with Gryphius’s Papinian, but it was soon clear it was very melodramatic and yet also very boring. It concerned a courtier in a Roman royal family who stood between two feuding emperors, brothers who eventually killed each other. There was also an almost endless number of characters in the play but only a limited number of actors, so that each actor played multiple parts, and Simon was soon completely confused.

Well, at least we have enough time now to think about what we’re going to say to the Würzburg bishop, he thought.

And indeed, within a few minutes his thoughts wandered, while up in front the actors declaimed, whined, and died. How was Magdalena doing? Was she already up on the cathedral mount with Jakob and Bartholomäus, preparing to free Matheo? If so, by now the tower guard would surely have already sounded the alarm. .

Now and then he glanced at the two prince-bishops in the first row. While Johann Philipp von Schönborn listened attentively, observing the action on the stage, Prince-Bishop Rieneck appeared extremely bored, shifting back and forth in his chair and even yawning loudly one time. Moments later he demanded a glass of wine, which startled the actor playing Papinian on the stage. Other guests followed the example of their leader and began talking or loudly clinking their glasses, while the actors continued to struggle through their lines.

The person most distracted from the performance on the stage, however, was the suffragan bishop Sebastian Harsee. He was having difficulty even sitting up in his chair and occasionally slumped forward, but then caught himself at the last moment. He appeared to be in great pain, kept putting his hands to his head, and Simon wasn’t certain he would be able to hold out through the two performances.

After what seemed like an eternity, Papinian finally spoke his final lines.

“Receeeve my innocent bloood, and show meeercy to thiiis innocent empire.”

He bared his naked chest to the executioner, and as he uttered a death rattle, the curtain came down. There was some restrained applause, but also a few boos. The garishly made-up leading man grimaced, stepped forward with the cast, and curtsied effeminately in response to the nonexistent ovations.

He was mercilessly booed off the stage, and from behind the curtain came the sound of trunks and heavy props being moved around. Finally the curtain opened again, and Simon saw the second group of actors in threadbare costumes, among them a skinny beanpole of a fellow with a wig, evidently the director of the troupe. From talking with Magdalena, Simon knew he was an Englishman by the name of Sir Malcolm. There was whispering in the crowd, as naturally most of the guests knew that the werewolf who had been caught came from this group of actors. Simon’s heart began to pound.

They must be very good to have avoided any hint of suspicion.

But it soon became clear that Malcolm’s people had chosen the right piece to perform. Two actors played the parts of stupid workmen rehearsing a play for their king and his entourage and getting involved in all sorts of foolishness. Sir Malcolm proved to be a superb comedian. The mood of the audience grew much more relaxed as people laughed and slapped their thighs. The Bamberg bishop laughed loudest of all, causing the audience to burst out laughing even louder.

After a while, the clueless workers exited the stage to more loud laughter and applause, and the second act began with the entrance of the king and his retinue. A dainty maiden in a red dress-no doubt the character mentioned previously, the beautiful Princess Violandra-walked alongside the monarch. A murmur went through the crowd, as it was unusual for women to appear on the stage.

The young child is quite beautiful, Simon thought. She almost reminds me a bit of Magdalena.

He couldn’t help admiring her grace and noble bearing as she stepped to the front of the stage. For the first time, her face gleamed in the light of the candles.

“We all enjoy comedies and tragedies,” she said in a clear, bright voice, her right hand trembling just a bit. “Which type do you wish to see?”

Simon was stunned, and a muffled cry escaped his lips. He knew the voice.

“What in the world. .,” he gasped.

The stunning Princess Violandra was none other than Barbara.

Night had fallen over Bamberg and the gates of Geyerswörth Castle, and the autumn fog rose from the river, embracing the city and, soon, the hills around it, enveloping everything in a damp, billowing quilt with only a few church spires rising above it.

Under the protection of darkness and fog, three disguised figures slunk toward the cathedral mount, each holding a large, wrapped bundle. They stayed off the main streets and took long detours to avoid the night watchmen. When the bell of the church struck eight, they could hear the watchman’s call somewhere nearby, but his steps receded, so they pressed on up the hill until finally they reached the vast, deserted cathedral square.

Magdalena pushed her head scarf down inside her collar and looked around, squinting while her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. On the left, the towers of the cathedral rose up like long, black shadows, while on her right was the new building site for the royal residence, with only the two rear wings of the building so far complete. Faint music could be heard coming from the city below, but otherwise it was as silent as a tomb.

“We’re too early,” Magdalena whispered, out of breath from the steep climb and the bundle she was carrying. “We should have at least waited for the next ringing of the bells. How do we know there aren’t a few night owls still roaming around?”

“The sooner this is over, the happier I’ll be,” Bartholomäus growled. “Besides, this is the best time, believe me. Most of the guards are still down at the reception in the castle, but later they’ll return with the two bishops when they come here to sleep. And the good citizens are carousing in the taverns.” He gave a dry laugh. “The Bambergers drink and party for any reason at all, even if it’s just the visit of some bishop.”

“We need a place to change,” Jakob Kuisl grumbled, looking around the cathedral square. “Here we’re as easy to see as the devil’s naked ass.”

“Don’t worry, I know where we can go,” his brother replied. “Follow me.”

With Bartholomäus leading the way, they slipped along the walls of the cathedral, then, just before reaching the old palace, they turned left into an alleyway so dark they could barely see anything. After a few paces, Bartholomäus stopped, set down his bundle, and drew back the lantern shade so that for the first time since leaving they had a bit of light.

“We’re safe here for the time being,” Bartholomäus whispered. “I’ve checked this out. The only one pulling guard duty tonight is Matthias, the old drunk.” He turned with a wide grin and looked at his older brother. “You remember-the old boozehound from our first nighttime expedition. I stopped by earlier and brought him a bottle of brandy. Right now he’s no doubt off in dreamland. But of course that doesn’t apply to the guards in front of the old palace.”

“We’ll send them off to dreamland, as well,” Jakob replied. “And now stop talking so much and give me the pelt.”

Bartholomäus unrolled his bundle, which contained a number of animal hides along with some pots sealed with beeswax. Magdalena, though standing a way off, could smell the odor of decomposition. She, too, was carrying a bundle of pots and pelts. Her father had dragged the almost-one-hundred-pound wolf, wrapped in nothing but a thin cloth, up to the cathedral mount. Now he threw it down in front of them like a sack of stones.

If we mess this up, they’ll break us on the wheel right here in the middle of the cathedral square, Magdalena was thinking. But we won’t mess up. We mustn’t.

Carefully she opened one of the pots, which gave off a pungent odor, and with trembling fingers immersed two of the larger linen rags into it until they were completely soaked. They hadn’t been able to find real sponges at the market, as they were too rare and too expensive, but Magdalena hoped they could get by on what they had. Her father had worked for hours that day to get the proper mix, and finally they tried the potion on a stray dog, which immediately fainted, collapsed, and only regained consciousness more than an hour later. That was no guarantee, however, that it would have the same effect on the guards.

“Well, how do I look?” Jakob asked, interrupting her thoughts. His voice sounded strangely muffled, as if underneath a blanket. “Will I pass for a werewolf?”

Magdalena looked up, and it hit her like a bolt of lightning.

In front of her stood two horrible creatures that looked like a hellish mixture of man, wolf, bear, and fox. As in an ancient ritual, both brothers wore wolf’s skulls on their heads, making the huge men appear even taller than they already were, and the hides of stags and bears wrapped around their necks made them look much wider, as well.

In the flickering light of the lantern, Magdalena stared into the empty eye sockets of the wolf skulls. Though she knew they were just her father and her uncle, she had difficulty suppressing a scream.

“This stuff stinks like the plague,” panted the creature on the left. It was Uncle Bartholomäus, and he tugged angrily at the hides. “If I have to run around in this getup much longer, I’ll throw up on the guard’s shoes.”

“Pull yourself together,” the werewolf next to him said. “Your servant, Aloysius, doesn’t smell much better.”

“I don’t know how I ever let myself get roped into such a crazy thing,” Bartholomäus complained as he staggered back and forth like a drunk in his hides. “Besides, I can hardly see anything underneath this wolf’s head.” He tugged at the skull tied in place over his chin by a leather strap. “I’ll be lucky if I don’t run right into a wall.”

Bartholomäus tugged harder on the skull, but Jakob grabbed his arm and pulled it down.

“Just keep thinking of your dogs, my dear brother,” he whispered. “You don’t want to lose them, do you? So don’t back out now.”

“For God’s sake, you bastard. I’m-”

“Stop it right now, you two,” Magdalena interjected. Her voice was so loud she was afraid someone might have heard her. But all remained calm.

“We all want to see the end of this werewolf frenzy,” she continued in a softer voice and looked pleadingly at the two men. “We certainly don’t want anyone to suspect later that Uncle Bartholomäus gave us the key, and we can only achieve that if we present the Bambergers with a dead werewolf on a silver platter. Here it is,” she said, pointing at the carcass on the ground, “so let’s put an end to all this, and no more threats, Father, do you understand?”

The creature mumbled something unintelligible from under his fur pelt.

“I asked if you understand me,” Magdalena persisted.

“Yes, yes, all right. I won’t make another sound if that guy keeps his mouth shut, too.”

Magdalena took a deep breath, then handed each of the brothers a cloth soaked in sheep’s blood along with some sulfur from the little wooden boxes, the tinder, and the gunpowder.

“So let’s begin,” she said quietly. “From now on, there’s no going back.”

Down below in the Blue Lion, at the foot of the cathedral mount, Georg had learned one of the great maxims of drinking: the more beer you guzzle down, the better it tastes. That was especially true of Bamberg beer brewed with smoked mash, which always gave it a slight taste of cold ashes and ham. By now, Georg was on his fourth mug, and he felt great.

Behind him, a hot fire was roaring in the tile stove, which made sweat run down his forehead. In one corner, three men were drinking and singing an old Frankish melody, and Georg noticed himself instinctively humming along. As a child he’d often had small beer to drink, as it was supposed to be healthier than the polluted water, which was used only for washing and cooking. The beer here, however, was dark and strong. . very strong. Finally Georg understood why men always wanted to go to the taverns. Something as splendid as this beer couldn’t really be appreciated in silence and alone. You needed company. As he tapped the table with one hand to the beat of the melody, he chugged down his mug of beer and beckoned to the hefty woman behind the bar, who smiled and set down another freshly filled mug in front of him.

“You’re the executioner’s boy, aren’t you?” she said with a wink. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I recognized you right away when you came in. You’re a splendidly built lad.”

Georg grinned sheepishly. He wanted to reply but couldn’t think what to say. It was strange-just a while ago the woman at the bar had appeared very old and fat, but since the last beer she suddenly seemed to have gotten younger and more attractive. She probably wasn’t much older than Magdalena.

Magdalena. . the children. .

Georg was startled at the thought.

“What. . what time is it?” he asked, dazed. “How long have I been here?”

The woman shrugged. “No idea. Two hours, maybe.” She winked at him. “Don’t worry, we don’t have any closing time, if that’s what you’re wondering. All the taverns are open later on account of the reception for the bishops. Why do you ask?”

Georg stared into the foam on his freshly served beer, trying to think. Something came to mind, fleetingly, and then it was gone. It had something to do with Jeremias and the children, but all he could remember was Jeremias saying he could stay away longer than two hours.

Just one more beer-it’s right here in front of me. It would be too bad to let it spoil.

Not until then did he notice that the woman was still standing next to him. He pushed a few coins across the table.

“Thanks very much,” he mumbled, “but after this beer, I’ve really got to go home.”

“Of course,” she replied with a smile. “That’s what they all say.”

With a laugh she turned away, and Georg put the mug to his mouth.

As the black brew dripped from his lips, he struggled to remember what had gone through his mind before. Once again, the thought flashed through his head.

Jeremias. . the children. . the sword. .

But the beer washed the memory away, and soon his head sank down onto the table.

A short time later he was snoring peacefully to the beat of the music.

“That surely is a kindly wall that doesn’t hold me back. .,” Barbara was saying, up on the stage of the dance hall, but the rest of her lines were drowned out in a chorus of laughter and applause.

The applause was like a soothing, warm wave washing over her and, at the same time, filling her inside. Barbara rolled her eyes theatrically and stepped back a pace in order to make room for the other actors in the scene. Her initial trembling and the rumbling in her stomach that the actors called stage fright had disappeared as if by magic, making her feel like she was in seventh heaven now. She was not just acting the part, she was the princess Violandra! When she put on this splendid dress, she’d been able to leave her old life behind her. The theater gave her the chance to be anything she wanted. She was no longer a dishonorable hangman’s daughter but a princess, a queen, or a beautiful young woman waiting for her lover. There were so many roles to play. And it was clear that the people here loved her. They laughed at her few lines, and when she gracefully skipped to the front of the stage, they whistled and cheered. It was just fabulous.

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.