The Werewolf of Bamberg

5

THE BAMBERG FOREST, MORNING, OCTOBER 28, 1668 AD

The yelping of the hounds echoed through the forest-a hoarse, endless, unsettling howl that got on Jakob’s nerves. It grew louder, then suddenly died away, then morphed into a growling and whimpering as the knacker Aloysius finally tossed the bloody pieces of meat they’d been begging for into their kennel.

The Schongau hangman watched with interest as the hounds, almost twenty of them, fought over the food. Most were agile hunting dogs with black, shiny coats; a few brawny mastiffs were kept in their own kennel next to the others. All the animals were muscular and well fed, baring their fangs as they growled and tore at the large pieces of meat until all that was left of the horse carcass was a few hairy scraps.

“Good dog, good dog,” said Aloysius cheerfully as if talking to some little lap dogs. “Here’s a little more for you. Enjoy it!”

He wiped his bloody hands on his leather apron, reached for a bucket of steaming innards, and tossed the contents into the enclosure. The dogs pounced on it, barking loudly. Jakob had met the inscrutable hangman’s journeyman the day before, when he and Bartholomäus had delivered the horse carcass. Since then, two goats and a pig had died of some mysterious disease. To avoid a possible epidemic, the law required all carcasses to be brought to the knacker in the Bamberg Forest as soon as possible, for processing and disposal.

As usual, Jakob Kuisl was fascinated to see all the ways a dead body could be put to use. The horsehair was used to fill mattresses, or to make sieves and cheap wigs; the hooves and horns were ground into a powder and spread over the fields as fertilizer; and the boiled, foul-smelling fat was used in making expensive, sweet-smelling soap.

We turn garbage into gold, he thought, and they pay us with rusty pennies.

There was actually no reason for Jakob to return to the Bamberg Forest that day, though he was curious to find out about this so-called beast. Even more, though, he had been driven by his longing for his son, whom he hoped to find here. He and Georg had never talked much with each other, yet there was an affinity between them that had not faded away over the years. Despite the great distance between them, Jakob had always felt close to his son, so the quarrel the other day had disturbed him more than he even admitted to himself. What was it, again, that Georg had said?

You just can’t bear the fact that your brother is more successful than you are. .

Is that what it was? Was he really jealous of his younger brother, the one he’d despised so much back then-little Bartl, the slower-witted of the two brothers, who’d looked at every torture as an interesting experiment and had always gotten along better with animals than with people?

Or does reuniting with him remind me of the guilt I can never wash away?

A foul smell stung his nose. When he turned around, he saw his son, Georg, along with Bartholomäus, stirring a large steaming kettle of lye that hung over a fireplace in front of the knacker’s house. The one-story blockhouse was solidly built and the size of a small but formidable castle. In addition, there were a few sheds, a dog kennel, and a smoking coal pile. Taken together, the buildings formed a defensive area surrounded by fences and thorny hedges, standing in a large clearing in the middle of the forest.

“Well, what do you think of my dogs?” With a slight limp in his gait, Bartholomäus walked over to his elder brother and pointed proudly at the hunting dogs, who were yelping and panting as they fought among themselves for the last scraps of food. “It took forever to train them, but they’re fast and untiring, and they do everything I tell them. They’re the best hunting dogs anywhere.”

Jakob frowned. “And you, a hangman, go hunting?”

Bartholomäus laughed and waved dismissively. “Of course not. I only train them for the Bamberg prince-bishop. He’s crazy about dogs and other animals. His Excellency is very happy with me, above all because I tend to his beloved menagerie. I feed the bears there and clean out the cages.” He grinned and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “His Excellency pays me quite well for my work. In a few more years, perhaps I’ll buy a larger house somewhere near the Green Market.”

“Just be careful then that the people don’t set your expensive house on fire,” Jakob warned him. “People don’t like it when dishonorable folks like us come into money and become their equals.”

“Maybe in Schongau, but things are different in Bamberg.” Bartholomäus pointed at Georg, who was still standing at the boiling kettle and stirring it with a long stick. “Ask your son. He likes the way he’s treated here.” A faint smile passed over his lips. “And your daughter Barbara would no doubt like it here, too.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well. .” Bartholomäus paused for a moment, then nodded in the direction of Aloysius, who was standing in the kennel surrounded by the dogs. The knacker was wearing a long leather jacket smeared with blood and dirt, and a glove on one hand that one of the dogs had just sunk its teeth into. “Aloysius has been looking for a wife for a long time,” Bartholomäus continued in a soft voice. “He isn’t the handsomest fellow in the world, but as the Bamberg knacker and hangman’s journeyman, he makes a good living. In addition, he’s loyal and reliable. When I’m not here, he does all the work of the knacker by himself here in the forest-flaying, grinding bones, caring for the dogs. . A little feminine companionship would be good for him.”

Jakob laughed loudly. “You don’t know my daughter, Bartl. She’s got a mind of her own. Years ago I tried to marry off Magdalena to my cousin in Steingaden, but she couldn’t be talked out of marrying her Simon.”

Bartholomäus shrugged. “Just think it over. Other hangmen’s daughters would love to have an offer like this.”

“It’s enough for you to try to change Georg,” Jakob grumbled. “For heaven’s sake, stay away from Barbara. We’re here to celebrate a wedding, and then everyone will go their own ways. That’s what we agreed to.” Jakob turned around, but his brother’s sharp voice held him back.

“That’s what you do best, isn’t it, Jakob? Go your own way, and not concern yourself with others.”

“How dare you. .,” Jakob flared up, but at that moment Aloysius approached with another bucket of fresh guts. The knacker, whose face was scarred by pockmarks, greeted them with a brief nod.

“I’m going out back, master,” he mumbled into his stubby beard. It was clear he was missing some teeth.

“Do that,” Bartholomäus replied, “and remember the bishop needs the mastiffs tomorrow for his bear hunt, so wash and comb their fur, so they don’t embarrass us.”

Aloysius grinned. “Very well, master. They’ll shine like bridled white horses.” Humming a tune, he disappeared behind the shed.

“Do you have more dogs?” Jakob asked.

Bartholomäus looked at him, puzzled. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, Aloysius won’t be eating the entrails in the pail himself, will he?”

His brother laughed loudly, and Jakob thought he briefly detected a nervous twitch around his mouth.

“Hah! My apprentice will eat any damn thing and is a bit strange, but he doesn’t go that far,” Bartholomäus said in a raspy voice. “No, those are the stinking remains of the carcass. We’ve dug a hole behind the house, six feet deep, where we bury the garbage, on orders from the bishop. We can’t leave anything lying around here. The noble gentlemen have a fear of poison vapors.”

He pointed at the large blockhouse and the buildings standing around it, all apparently new. “The animals in the forest, especially his hunting dogs, are extremely important to the bishop; that’s why he had this large house built here. Before the war, the house of the bishop’s master of the hunt stood nearby, but now it’s just a ruin with the wind whistling through it. People say it’s haunted. Well, at least stories like that scare poachers away.” Bartholomäus grinned. “The bishop’s new master of the hunt prefers to live in the luxurious canon’s quarters, and I can do as I please here.”

“As you please. .” Jakob nodded. “I see.” He looked over at his son, who was scooping fat from the kettle. “How much longer do you need Georg today?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. “The womenfolk in my family are going to the theater to watch those silly people prancing, dancing, and singing. That’s not for me. I thought that Georg and I might perhaps go for a stroll in the forest. .”

“He’ll surely be busy for a while with the boiling, and the leather needs to be sent to the tanner today. I’m afraid there’s no time.” Bartholomäus forced a thin smile. “But feel free to ask him if he wants to talk with his father later on about the good old days.”

Jakob was about to offer a blunt response, but then he waved his hand wearily.

“Maybe it’s just better to go our own separate ways for a while. Georg and me, I mean, but also you and me. See you this evening, dear Brother.”

“Hey, where are you going?” Bartholomäus shouted gruffly as his brother started to leave.

Jakob turned around. “I need some peace and quiet, and some fresh air. The foul odor here is too much for me.”

“Then you’re heading in the wrong direction. There’s nothing to see there, just the place where we bury the garbage.”

As if to confirm Bartholomäus’s answer, the servant Aloysius just then came around the corner of the building with empty buckets in his hands. He looked at Jakob distrustfully and, spreading his legs apart, blocked the Schongau hangman’s way.

“One might almost think I’m not welcome here,” Kuisl growled. “Some family this is.”

He hesitated briefly, then headed for a small gate he’d noticed at the far end of the clearing, leading from the yard out into the forest. He walked through it without turning around again. The sudden silence of the forest immediately calmed him down a bit. Just the same, inwardly his spirit was in turmoil. He kept thinking of Bartholomäus’s words.

Ask your son. He likes the way he’s treated here. And your daughter Barbara would no doubt like it here, too.

Jakob knew his brother was right. His children would probably have a better life here than at home in Schongau. Perhaps Georg would someday even marry a woman from a higher social class, just like Bartholomäus was doing. But Jakob also knew the real purpose of these offers from Bartholomäus.

He wants to destroy me. After all these years, he still cannot forget.

A narrow, almost overgrown deer path ran along the fence behind the buildings and then deeper into the pine forest. The musty odor of wet needles mingled with the burning smell from the knacker’s fire behind him, while overhead the clouds hung so low they grazed the upper branches. Though it was only noontime, dusk seemed to already be settling over the forest.

Jakob Kuisl had gone some distance when he suddenly heard a long, drawn-out growl. At first he thought it had come from the dog kennels, but then he realized the knacker’s house lay far behind him. He stopped and listened.

Again he heard something growling, deep and threatening-but more importantly, very nearby.

Instinctively, Jakob Kuisl reached for the long hunting knife hanging on his belt, pulled it out, and looked around carefully. Then he took a few steps forward, but immediately stopped again when he heard a crackling sound close by.

Just a few steps in front of him, a ghostly figure scurried through the bushes. The thicket obscured his view, and all he saw was a vague apparition. But the figure was very large, and it growled deeply and angrily, like a veritable hound of hell.

“What in the world. .” he muttered, holding his hunting knife up and ready to strike.

But as fast as the figure had appeared, it vanished again. There was one last rustling in the bushes, suggestive of some large, furry creature, and then the spirit had vanished. Jakob waited awhile before cautiously moving on.

Who or what was that?

His heart beat faster and his worries about Georg, Barbara, and his younger brother suddenly receded into the background. The hangman thought of the severed arms and legs, the dead whore in the watchman’s office, and the strange odor emanating from them.

The odor of a wet beast of prey.

For a moment, Jakob was no longer sure whether or not he believed in the existence of werewolves. But then his reason won out. Deep in thought, he pulled out his cold pipe, put it between his teeth, and plodded onward. This creature might have been a large wolf, perhaps a wild dog, but certainly it wasn’t what his imagination had been leading him to believe.

Or maybe it was?

Kuisl picked up his pace. Perhaps the creature would pay him another visit. But this time, he’d be ready.

Wide-eyed, Magdalena sat in the sold-out hall of the tavern, staring at the stage, where Doctor Faustus screamed as he was taken off to hell.

The figure of the scholar was shrouded in clouds of smoke, and thunder rumbled through the room as the man condemned by God slowly sank into the earth while the devil danced around him, laughing. An older woman seated next to Magdalena groaned and fainted, while the man seated on the other side of the woman, presumably her husband, did nothing to help her, spellbound by the events on the stage. Cries of horror could be heard in the hall, and many in the audience clenched their fists or gripped their beer mugs in fear. The same people who had been carousing gaily just a few hours ago now seemed to have turned to stone. When Magdalena looked back briefly, she saw her younger sister standing behind her, pale and wiping the tears from her eyes.

“Oh, God,” Barbara gasped, chewing on her fingernails, “it’s. . it’s so horrible!”

While the men in the Kuisl family went about their usual business and the two boys spent the day with Katharina and her goodies in the kitchen, Magdalena and her younger sister were attending the matinee performance in the wedding house. Ever since yesterday, when the theater director, Sir Malcolm, had invited them, Barbara had been beside herself with excitement-and Magdalena, too, had been eagerly looking forward to the performance. For almost three hours they’d been immersed in a world the two young women had never imagined.

Along with Doctor Faustus and the devil, they had traveled to Rome, where the devil played tricks on the pope, and they had witnessed the notorious sorcery at the court of the Habsburg emperor-how people were suddenly made to grow antlers on their heads and angels from heaven actually came swooping down to earth. When finally the beautiful Helen of Troy from Greek mythology appeared in person and Doctor Faustus promptly fell in love with her, Magdalena and Barbara were overwhelmed. The two women watched helplessly as the scholar, who had wandered off the straight and narrow path, could not be saved even by the love of the beautiful Helen, and was dragged mercilessly down to hell, condemned to eternal damnation.

Magdalena knew, of course, that Doctor Faustus was in fact the playwright Markus Salter, and that the devil with the horns on his head and the black-and-golden robe was none other than Sir Malcolm. Still, she broke out in goose bumps and her heart beat faster as demons dressed in scarlet robes and wooden masks tugged at the doctor’s clothes until all they held in their hands were bloody shreds.

It’s magic, Magdalena thought, and yet it isn’t. Is it a miracle. .?

Finally, Faustus had disappeared completely into the ground, and while the devil laughed and danced through the mist, the curtain squeaked as it was pulled closed.

For a moment the crowd just stood quietly in the great hall, then scattered cheers went up and soon turned into thunderous applause. Beer mugs and hats flew into the air, while toward the back of the room, windows had been opened and women leaned out, fanning themselves. The curtain rose again, and the performers came forward to take a bow. Some drinking cups flew in the direction of Sir Malcolm, whom many in the audience evidently still regarded as the devil; the producer dodged the mugs with a smile, apparently proud of the confusion between him and the character he had played.

Not until the curtain had fallen for the third time did the people slowly make their way down the steps and out of the building, where it was already late afternoon. Magdalena realized she had completely lost track of time. She looked up at the stage, which now, without the costumed actors, music, and loudly declaimed verses, looked cold and lifeless. The magic had vanished. In one corner of the room, an old man was sweeping up broken beer mugs while a dog lapped up the sweet-smelling puddles.

“Let’s go backstage to visit the actors, shall we?” Magdalena suggested.

By now Barbara had recovered, but her nose was still a bit red, and she hadn’t quite regained her voice yet. “That. . that sounds wonderful.”

Magdalena smiled. “You said before you thought it was horrible, so which is it, horrible or wonderful?”

“Both at the same time.”

The two sisters had long forgotten their little quarrel of the day before. With a nod, Barbara headed for the front of the room, where a wooden staircase on the left led up to the stage and behind a curtain. Magdalena followed and was startled when Sir Malcolm suddenly appeared between the folds of the curtain. Sweat had rolled down over his white makeup, smearing it and giving him an almost diabolical appearance, combined with his black-and-gold costume and the plaster horns on his forehead.

“I hope you enjoyed the performance,” he said with a slight bow.

“You were splendid,” Barbara replied. “The people were practically bewitched.”

“Oh, just don’t let your bishop hear that.” It was the voice of Markus Salter, who had changed his clothes and was approaching the two young women. “According to the rumors going around, quite a few people believe a werewolf is afoot in the city. It would be a shame if His Excellency thought it was connected with our group of actors.”

“Oh, they’ll figure that all out, just wait and see.” Sir Malcolm smiled and waved his hand dismissively. “We can easily explain our little tricks.” He pointed at a hole in the stage floor with white dust around the edges. “Doctor Faustus disappears in this heap of flour, our angels fly on ordinary ropes, and our thunder, too, is homemade.” He laughed as he pounded on a thin metal plate leaning against a wardrobe closet. Barbara was startled and put her hands to her ears.

“Anyway, it isn’t the worst thing in the world for us if people come here to be entertained because of all the dreadful things going on out there,” Sir Malcolm continued as the thunder gradually died away. “Tomorrow we’re performing a comedy called Vincentius Ladislaus, and then people will have something to laugh about. I will be playing the part of the brave Vincentius, Markus will be the duke, and Matheo the beautiful Rosina. Believe me, Matheo is the most beautiful girl from here to the Far East. Isn’t that so, lad?”

As if on cue, the suntanned Matheo jumped out from behind the curtains. He had taken off the dress of the beautiful Helen but still had some makeup on his face, making him even more attractive, Magdalena thought.

At least to a fifteen-year-old girl, for whom men are still nothing more than crude, beer-guzzling ogres, she thought as she glanced secretively at her younger sister. Barbara let out a soft sigh and gripped the curtain tightly.

“I stepped on the hem of the dress a few times,” Matheo said with a laugh. “One more step and the beautiful Helen suddenly would have been standing there naked.”

“Oh, I know a few people who wouldn’t have minded seeing that,” Magdalena replied with a slight smirk. She suppressed a cry of pain as Barbara stepped on her foot. Matheo grinned and returned the compliment with an affected curtsy, then turned to Barbara.

“Are you coming tomorrow, as well?” he inquired with genuine interest. “At the next performance I will need someone to throw balls to me to juggle. Would you perhaps like to do that?”

“You mean. . me?” Barbara squeaked. “Oh, certainly, if-”

“If time permits,” Magdalena interrupted. “We have to help get ready for a wedding this week.”

Matheo put on a disappointed face and turned back to Barbara. “Oh, your own, perhaps? Best wishes.”

“Oh, no!” Magdalena replied with a laugh for Barbara, who was at a loss for words. “Our uncle is getting married. Incidentally, right here in the wedding house. . but oh, God,” she continued, slapping her forehead, “with everything going on here, I almost forgot. My aunt had some things she wanted me to ask the innkeeper. I suppose he’s over in the tavern.”

“You can spare yourself the trip.” Sir Malcolm pointed at a huge man who had just entered and was walking toward them. “He’s right here.”

The man approaching them with wide-opened arms was extremely fat. It looked almost as if a mountain of flesh was making its way through the room. He had a huge mane of red hair and snorted and wiped the sweat from his brow with a large cloth.

“Damn, Malcolm,” the fat man panted. “These steps will be the death of me yet. I should have set you up over in the tavern. Don’t forget, I’m no longer as slim and trim as I used to be.”

“Well, you couldn’t have accommodated anywhere near as many people over there,” the director replied with a smile, “nor sold as much beer, either.”

The fat man roared with laughter. “Right you are. After a few more performances like this, my cellars will be empty. But I must congratulate you, Malcolm. People say the devil was really here in person at the wedding house.”

“Speaking of weddings. .” Malcolm pointed at Magdalena and Barbara, who were standing off to one side. “These two young ladies want to talk to you about their uncle’s wedding. He’s, uh-”

“Bartholomäus Kuisl,” Magdalena interrupted, trying to sound casual. “The Bamberg executioner.”

Markus Salter gasped, and for a moment both Sir Malcolm and Matheo were speechless. Until then, Magdalena hadn’t mentioned her uncle’s vocation, but now she saw no reason not to. They could just go ahead and gossip-she was accustomed to it.

The innkeeper’s resounding laugh finally broke the awkward silence.

“Ha, ha! You see, young lady,” he said, extending his huge hand and vigorously shaking Magdalena’s, “some people are more afraid of an executioner than of the devil. My name is Berthold Lamprecht. I’m the innkeeper of the Wild Man, right next door to the wedding house. I’ve known your uncle for a long time. It’s an honor for me to host his wedding to the beautiful Katharina.”

“An honor?” Magdalena looked at him, puzzled. “Excuse me, but that word sounds unusual to someone in a hangman’s family.”

“I don’t care what other people say,” replied Lamprecht, waving his hand dismissively. “Your uncle has a hard job, and it’s said he does it very well. Why, then, shouldn’t he marry just like other people?”

“That’s very kind of you.” Magdalena smiled. Perhaps her brother was right, after all, and this city was the promised land for families of executioners.

“I’m here to make some requests for my aunt,” she said finally. “She’d like wine, beer, sausages, sauerkraut and bread, and some pastries, as well.”

Lamprecht nodded. “Of course. But first I have a message for the actors-an unsettling bit of news.” His face darkened. “I’ve been told that another group of actors arrived in town this morning and have taken lodging in the Grapevine Inn.”

“A second group of actors?” Sir Malcolm’s jaw dropped. “But the bishop assured me. .”

Lamprecht shrugged. “The bishop changes his mind as often as he uses the chamber pot. It seems to be a French troupe directed by a certain Guiscard Brolet. Do you know him, by chance?”

“Guiscard!” Malcolm’s face suddenly turned as white as chalk. “That old snake in the grass. He steals and copies whatever material he can get his hands on. A charlatan! He probably thinks he can settle down here for the winter and spy on us. But he’s mistaken.”

“I can’t imagine that the bishop in this city wants to put up two troupes of actors,” Markus Salter said. “He has enough trouble already with his suffragan bishop, who considers our work blasphemous.” He turned to Sir Malcolm. “Remember our performance for His Excellency a few months ago, when he suggested a possible permission for us to spend the winter here? The suffragan bishop shot us a look that could kill.”

“Naturally there can be only one acting troupe in Bamberg, and we are the ones.” Malcolm stiffened like a soldier at attention. “I will ask today for another audience, and then the prince-bishop will have this swindler whipped and chased out of town.” He turned to Magdalena and declared in a theatrical voice: “Tell your uncle, the executioner, that he’ll soon have some work to do.”

“I’d be happy if we were just allowed to stay in the city,” Matheo murmured. “Just imagine what it would be like to have to wander through the countryside in the winter.” He shuddered. “It’s all the more important, then, that the performance tomorrow goes well and that the people like us.”

The innkeeper nodded. “I agree.” With a smile, he turned to Magdalena and Barbara. “But now let’s give our attention instead to the beautiful ladies. After all, a wedding ceremony is something very special, isn’t it? Particularly when it’s the hangman who is getting married.” He turned around, looking for someone.

“Jeremias!” he bellowed. “There’s work for you. Come here, you lazy fellow. Did you fall asleep while you were scrubbing the floor?”

A stooped figure came shuffling out of a corner of the room, with a little dog jumping at his feet. It was the old man Magdalena had observed cleaning up earlier. As he approached, Magdalena shuddered instinctively. The man was completely bald, and his head and face were heavily scarred and covered with scabs. All that was left of his two ears were tiny stumps, giving the poor fellow the appearance of a smooth egg-but in the midst of all these horrible wounds were two sparkling, friendly eyes.

“Don’t be afraid,” Berthold Lamprecht said. “Jeremias comes from a family of charcoal burners. When he was a child he fell into a pit of burning lime, which explains his appearance. Many people are superstitious and don’t want anything to do with him-they think he’s a monster. But with me he has a job.”

“You can go ahead and call me a monster, if you like,” Jeremias told Magdalena and Barbara with a smile. His voice sounded soft and pleasant. “I’m used to it. Just please don’t call me meat loaf, even if Biff here thinks that’s what I am.” The little dog jumped up and licked the man’s hands. Not until then did Magdalena notice that the dog had a misshapen paw. He was a cripple, just like his master.

“Jeremias is the good soul of this house,” Lamprecht continued. “Cleans, picks up after us, and above all, takes care of our books.” The innkeeper grinned. “For that alone, he’s earned his pay. You can go over to the tavern with him, and he’ll carefully note down what you need.”

Jeremias nodded enthusiastically, and Magdalena and Barbara followed him hesitantly down the stairs into the Wild Man tavern. The dog limped along, barking happily. A small but solid door next to the main entrance led into a large room where several notebooks lay on a table. A large birdcage hung from the ceiling, and inside it, a few sparrows were chirping merrily, while on a narrow bed an old cat dozed, apparently not disturbed by either the birds or the barking dog.

“My kingdom,” Jeremias said proudly, spreading his arms. “It’s small, but at least no one disturbs me here.” He shrugged. “The children in the streets outside can be very annoying with their mean words. I’m happy to have found peace and quiet here.” The old man groaned as he bent down over a notebook and dipped his quill pen into an inkwell. “So, what exactly do you wish to order?”

Magdalena listed the individual items just as Katharina had asked, while Barbara bent over to pet the little dog, which whined and panted happily. When she looked up again, she noticed a few books in a rickety bookcase alongside some bottles and jars.

“William Shakes. . Shakespeare,” she said, looking puzzled as she deciphered the writing. Then her face brightened. “Ah, Shakespeare! Is that the fellow Malcolm’s playwright Markus thought so highly of? Do you read plays?”

The old man smiled. “I actually bought a few of them just last year from a traveling book salesman. They are especially popular translations into German, published here for the first time under the name William Shakespeare. This Shakespeare is a celebrity in England, though all that anyone knows about him here are his plays. But I’m afraid they don’t appeal to me-there’s too much blood and heartache, and no numbers or balance sheets at all. You’re welcome to visit me and have a look. .” He hesitated and regarded Barbara, puzzled. “But can you read-I mean more than just a few letters?”

“As you probably heard earlier, we come from a hangman’s family,” Magdalena explained. “We have to read. After all, we deal with medicines, and much of our knowledge is found only in books.”

Jeremias nodded and, for a moment, seemed surprised. “I see. Well, if you come from a hangman’s family, you must know how it feels when people go out of the way to avoid you.” He pointed at the books. “I taught myself how to read. It’s a consolation during all those lonely hours. Very well. .” He clapped his hands, and Magdalena saw that they were also scarred. “I’m afraid I have to take care of some wine that’s being delivered. The wagon is no doubt standing outside the door.” He smiled as he turned to Barbara. “And, young lady, my offer stands. If you want to read theater pieces, you are always welcome here. Biff likes you, and I rely on his judgment.”

The little dog ran to its master, jumped up, and barked as Jeremias petted him. Barbara curtsied, then turned to run after Magdalena, who had already stepped out into the yard.

“That poor fellow,” said Barbara after they were back at the harbor. “He really does look like a monster.”

Magdalena shrugged. “The nicest people can look like beasts, and the evilest of people sometimes have the faces of angels. Never rely on outward appearances.” She picked up her pace. “And now let’s get home quickly, before the rascally boys drive good Aunt Katharina completely out of her mind.”

The next day, when Simon knocked on the door of the Bamberg city physician, it took only a few moments for the door to open. Once again, it was the haggard old housekeeper, but in contrast to their first meeting, this time she was noticeably friendlier.

“Ah, the old friend from the university,” she said in a saccharine voice. “Excuse me-but if I had known. .”

“Of course.” Simon pushed past her into the house. “Where can I find the doctor?”

“He. . he’s over in his study. Follow me.”

They walked down a freshly plastered hallway. On his right, he got a brief glimpse into a room furnished with exquisite chests of drawers and stools. The walls were decorated with splendid tapestries, and though it was just after noon, a cheerful fire was already burning on the hearth. Simon sighed softly to himself. He wondered again if he might have enjoyed such comforts if he hadn’t broken off his studies in Ingolstadt.

But then I probably would never have met Magdalena, and I’d be married now to the daughter of some boring Munich burgher who would spend the whole day nagging me and trying to stop me from reading.

All morning he’d been looking through Bartholomäus’s little home library, which, except for a few writings on veterinary medicine, contained nothing of interest. Simon’s greatest joy had been helping his son Peter learn to read, and the five-year-old had made astonishing progress. Little Paul, meanwhile, had gutted fish with Katharina for supper, and working with a knife seemed to be in his blood. Magdalena and Barbara were now probably at the theater performance they’d looked forward to so much, the children were playing with Katharina in the hangman’s room, and Simon could finally pay the visit to Samuel that he’d promised the day before.

The housekeeper knocked quietly on a door at the end of the hallway, and Samuel answered, smiling broadly.

“Ah, Simon, I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, greeting his friend with a firm handshake. “Do come in.” He turned to the elderly housekeeper. “And Magda, please, no more patients today.”

The housekeeper nodded silently, then walked away with a majestic bearing, leaving the two men alone.

Simon looked all around the room, impressed. The walls were lined with bookshelves on three sides, filled with books right up to the ceiling. Heavy books, notebooks, and rolls of parchment were piled on the floor and on a side table, as well. Simon felt jealousy welling up inside him. The Schongau bathhouse owner loved books above everything else. What he wouldn’t have given to someday have a library like this.

“I’m sorry things are such a mess here, but I’ve spent half the morning trying to learn more about this accursed werewolf,” Simon said. “We need to be well prepared, after all, when we attend the bishop’s council,” he added with a smirk.

“We?” Simon looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean, we?”

“Well, perhaps you remember. You are no less than Doctor Simon Fronwieser, the learned physician from Munich, an experienced and well-traveled gentleman-as I described you again yesterday to the prince-bishop.” Samuel grinned from ear to ear. “I’ve urged His Excellency to invite you to the meeting of the council.”

Simon shook his head. Suddenly it felt terribly hot in the stuffy room. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. If they find out that-”

“Oh, how would they learn about that?” Samuel interrupted. “Munich is very far away. Besides, I really value your curiosity and insights, Simon. Come on.” Samuel looked at his friend, pleading. “You can’t leave me alone with that gang of superstitious priests. Anyway, I have a little surprise for you.” Bowing like a magician at a carnival, he reached behind the books on the table and pulled out a little silver box. When he removed the cover, a tantalizing odor spread through the room.

“I hope you still like coffee the way you did during our time at the university,” Samuel said, pouring them each a cup. “This is a very special aromatic blend from Turkey. I order it at sinfully expensive prices directly from Genoa. It will help us to separate pure superstition from crystal-clear logic.” He grinned. “Maybe I should bring a little packet of it to the pious suffragan bishop.”

Hesitantly Simon raised the cup to his nose and sniffed. The fragrance was divine. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

“This is pure and simple bribery. You really know how to make a case, Samuel.” Simon made a dour face, but inwardly he was thrilled by the chance to take part in the meetings of the council and eager to see what proof the members of this commission would offer for the existence of a werewolf.

But I’ll be sure to keep my damned mouth closed, he resolved, so no one gets it into their head to learn more about the world traveler and scholar Doctor Fronwieser. If I don’t watch out, I’ll be hanged by the brother of my father-in-law for fraud.

Simon tasted the bitter brew, and almost at once he felt the stimulating effect. This coffee was incomparably better than the dried beans he’d bought in the market the day before.

“Really excellent,” he acknowledged. “Bitter, as it should be. Though I often wonder if something creamy or sweet might be used to balance the bitterness-warm milk, for example, or that expensive sugar from the West Indies, the way the Arabs are said to drink it.”

Samuel laughed. “You haven’t changed. Never content, always looking! That’s exactly what these crusty old councilors need!”

The steam from the coffeepot spread through the room, and soon the two friends were talking about old times. Simon told about his life as a medicus and bathhouse owner in Schongau and his marriage to Magdalena, which had cost him his standing in society.

“Believe me, Simon, a high social standing can also be a prison.” With a sigh, Samuel took another sip of coffee. “Count yourself lucky that you were able to start a family and have a wife at your side who loves you. Look at me.” He pointed at all the costly books on the shelves and the expensive furniture around them. “What good is all the money if the only woman in this house is a withered old housekeeper who jealously observes the few rendezvous I have? I’m almost afraid I’ll never find the right woman.” He waved his hand. “But enough complaining. I’m afraid it’s time to talk about a much more serious topic.” He set down his cup and reached for one of the books on the side table. It was bound in leather; the text was not printed but handwritten in a flowing script, with colorful pictures and drawings. The city doctor flipped to a page in the back, where a number of headless men were drawn, each with a face in the middle of his abdomen. Other figures had duck beaks instead of mouths, or colorful, shimmering fish tails instead of feet.

“Megenberg’s Book of Nature,” he explained. “For hundreds of years the standard work about all living things. You are no doubt familiar with it. Konrad von Megenberg devotes one chapter completely to animal men, or human animals-and he mentions the werewolf, though his description is very vague.” He turned to another page showing a wolf standing erect while it was eating a child. Only the poor child’s feet protruded from the wolf’s mouth. Simon couldn’t suppress a shudder.

“There have no doubt been stories about werewolves for as long as there have been people to tell them,” Samuel continued. “I’ve read about them in German legends. The Roman historian Pliny the Elder also mentions such wolf-men. They are always hybrid creatures imbued with enormous strength because of a pact they have made with the devil, and they kill sheep and cattle, just as wolves do. In their wolflike form they cannot control themselves-they keep killing and devouring their prey and are practically invincible.”

“Practically?” Simon asked, curious. “So it is possible to defeat them?”

Samuel shrugged. “Well, it is said that a potion made from the highly poisonous wolfsbane flower, commonly called monk’s hood, can kill them. Others swear by silver bullets. It is safest to completely burn their bodies.” He snorted disapprovingly. “I suspect this is the method Suffragan Bishop Harsee would prefer. He can cite as his authority The Hammer of Witches and a few more recent writings. Scholars, however, are not in complete agreement whether the werewolf is truly transformed or if the change is just a perfidious illusion. On the other hand, no one denies their existence. To dismiss it as nonsense would be tantamount to blasphemy.”

Simon looked again at the drawing of the wolf-man devouring the child and shook his head.

“Do you think there really are such creatures?” he asked. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never seen a werewolf, a real witch, or a sorcerer, even though most scholars are convinced they exist.”

Samuel grinned. “Interestingly enough, a few hundred years ago, people were put to the stake for saying witches and sorcerers did exist. Times have changed. But have they really, as far as the werewolf is concerned?” He walked to the bookshelf and took out a little book, which he handed to Simon. It contained a number of old, crudely drawn engravings, among them a wolf on its hind legs attacking a child. Other illustrations showed a chase with hunting dogs, a trial, and finally an execution, in which the head of a wild-looking old man was chopped off while he was tied to a wheel. Simon put the book down with disgust.

“That’s the execution of Peter Stump,” Samuel explained, sipping contentedly on his coffee. “Years ago you could buy this print at any fair for a few kreuzers. Almost a hundred years ago, in the vicinity of Cologne, they say Stump killed two pregnant women and thirteen small children. He ate the brain of his own son before he was finally caught and executed. The case was a sensation all over the Reich, but there were many more like it. Just a few decades ago, in France, hundreds of so-called werewolves were tried and burned, and in Franconia there were werewolf trials, as well. The last case I heard of was just a few years ago.” The physician set his cup down carefully on a pile of books. “Everyone talks about witches and charlatans, but most people are much more afraid of werewolves.”

“You didn’t really answer my question,” Simon quickly replied. “Are there werewolves-or not?”

Samuel remained silent for a long time, then began to speak hesitantly. “For some years I’ve been a member of the Academia Naturae Curiosorum, a circle of honorable men who are dedicated to scientific research into the natural world, and believe me, Simon, this world contains more wonders than you can even imagine. I’ve seen the tusk of a real unicorn. . There are camelopards in Africa with necks as long as trees. . And washed up on the shores of our oceans, eyeballs have been found as large as pig heads. So I can’t rule out the existence of what the common folk call werewolves. Perhaps they are just especially large, aggressive dogs; perhaps they are men who have been turned into monsters by a cruel fate-who knows? But I’m afraid that the pursuit of such a monster here in Bamberg will hurt many innocent people. That’s just what we saw during the last witch trials. In any case, we’ll have to proceed very carefully in the council.”

“Which you have announced I’m joining as a famous scholar, without asking me,” Simon replied with a smile. “I hope no one expects me to cite references from the standard works in this field.” His face turned serious again. “And it would be a good idea for you to fill me in on what’s been happening in Bamberg the last few weeks, so I don’t make a complete ass of myself before the council.”

“Very well, then.” Samuel took a deep breath. “It all began about four weeks ago, when the venerable councilman Klaus Schwarzkontz set out on a trip to Nuremberg-a trip from which he never returned. Most people thought he had been attacked somewhere in the forest. These things happen. As luck would have it, some children found his left arm in a pile of garbage down by the Regnitz but still within the city walls.”

“His right arm was found in the forest along the shore of a swampy branch of the river,” Simon interjected. “My father-in-law thought it had been severed cleanly, with something like an ax.” Simon had told his friend earlier about the strange finding in the Bamberg Forest.

“Perhaps.” Samuel shrugged. “In any case, two weeks later, Barbara Leupnitz, the miller’s beloved wife, disappeared after she’d left on a visit to relatives in neighboring Wunderburg. And, as you told me, two severed legs belonging to a woman have been found in the city since then. Whether they belonged to the miller’s wife or someone else, we can’t say.”

“One of the legs appeared to show she was tortured. And then there is the corpse of the young prostitute whose thorax had been ripped open.” Simon sipped his coffee, musing. “This werewolf’s behavior is becoming stranger and stranger.”

“Indeed,” Samuel replied. “Very strange. The people started to take notice, in any case, when, only a few days after the disappearance of the miller’s wife, another prominent citizen, Johanna Steinhofer, also vanished. Johanna is the granddaughter of the late Julius Herrenberger, an esteemed city councilor. Just prior to her disappearance, she had a quarrel with her fiancé, who was younger than she.” Samuel rubbed his temples. “And now the highly regarded wife of the apothecary Rinswieser has also vanished.”

“Is it possible these cases have nothing at all to do with each other?” Simon asked. “A robbery, wild animals in the forest, a young woman who runs away after a quarrel with her husband. .”

“And the severed limbs that have shown up in the city? The signs of torture? The furry beast inside the city walls that the night watchman told us about?” Samuel shook his head. “Something strange is going on here, Simon, and if it’s not a werewolf, then it’s something else. A werewolf would, of course, be the simplest solution for many Bambergers. A monster like that would be capable of anything.” He stared at Simon. “Dear friend, it’s not just as a joke that I want to bring you along with me to the council meeting. You have a sharp mind and were always skeptical of supernatural things. Please help me solve this riddle. Otherwise, I fear the worst for our city.”

Simon set his cup down. Suddenly, not even the coffee he loved so much appealed to him, and he had a queasy feeling in his stomach. “I’m afraid you’re overestimating my intelligence, Samuel. I don’t know how I can-”

Just then, he was interrupted by angry shouts coming from the street.

Silently, Jakob Kuisl slipped through the streets of Bamberg with Georg and Bartholomäus at his side. He’d spent half the day in the forest alone, but the odd, shadowy figure that he had come upon did not appear again. He’d returned to the office of the city guards, where Bartholomäus and his own son, Georg, had given him a cool reception. Now the three men were walking along the stinking city moat back to the hangman’s house, where hopefully a good meal would be awaiting them. Jakob had told no one of his strange encounter.

He was trying to sort out the events of the last two days-the dead prostitute with the slashed-open chest, the strange odor emanating from her, Captain Lebrecht’s report about the missing persons, the various body parts, the growing rumors of a murderous werewolf. . But as hard as he tried, he wasn’t able to make sense of it all. In addition, his thoughts kept turning to his son, Georg. As he watched him walking like an old friend alongside his brother Bartholomäus, he felt deeply hurt.

Just what did Bartl tell him about me? Does he know everything?

“Katharina promised to make some fish chowder,” Bartholomäus said, breaking the silence as they passed the dilapidated houses along the moat. “I love fish chowder. Let’s just hope she’s gotten around to it, with everything she has to do to prepare for the wedding.” He grinned. “I’m eager to see her wedding dress. The fabric cost a pile of money.”

“No wonder, given how big she is,” Jakob grumbled.

Bartholomäus broke out in a loud laugh. “It’s true, if you marry Katharina, you don’t need any soft comforters in bed during the night. But she’s a good soul, and I love her, believe it or not.”

“Her? Or her money?” Jakob asked.

“You may have a point, but it’s still no business of yours,” Bartholomäus shot back. “This marriage may make it possible someday for me to buy my citizenship. Other hangmen before me have been able to do that.”

“And where does it get you?” Jakob retorted gruffly. “People will still shy away when they see you coming.”

Georg spoke up. “Just ask Magdalena or Barbara how they feel, being cursed all the time as hangman’s brats. Believe me, Father, if they could, they wouldn’t waste any time-”

He stopped suddenly, hearing angry shouts coming from a narrow lane that led down to the marketplace. A moment later, an elderly man with tattered clothing and an unkempt beard came running out of the lane. He looked around anxiously but at first didn’t notice the three men in front of him. He bumped against Jakob Kuisl’s broad chest and fell over.

“Hey, what’s the rush?” the Schongau hangman asked. “You haven’t been up to some mischief, have you?”

Gasping for breath, the man struggled to his feet and grabbed Jakob’s shirt. “Oh, God no, help me!” he panted. “They’re. . they’re going to kill me. They. .”

Now he noticed Bartholomäus and Georg, and he winced. “Oh, no, the Bamberg executioner and his apprentice. Did they call for you? Now I’m as good as dead.”

“Take it easy, now. .,” Bartholomäus started to say, but at that moment an angry mob burst out of the lane. There were nearly two dozen of them, some armed with pitchforks and scythes and others with clubs. When they saw the old man standing beside the three hangmen, they stopped with triumphant looks on their faces.

“Aha! The hangman has already caught the beast,” shouted an old farmer at the front of the group. “Let’s go, let’s take him away right now to be burned. There are plenty of bales of straw over at the Hay Market.”

“What’s going on here, folks?” Bartholomäus asked in a threatening tone. “Speak up, and be quick about it. Exactly what did this fellow do?”

“This is the werewolf!” cried a skinny man standing farther back in the crowd, in a shrill voice. “We’ll make short work of him before he attacks any more of us!”

“What makes you think he’s a werewolf?” the Bamberg executioner asked.

“Can’t you see?” a third man spoke up, a young wagon driver with broad shoulders and a broken nose. “This is Josef Hartl, the shepherd in the Bamberg Forest. Day after day he’s out there with his animals. Karoline Furtwängler swears to God that he makes an ointment that he can rub onto himself to turn into a werewolf.”

“But that’s just a salve I rub onto their inflamed udders,” Hartl retorted, wringing his hands. “Haven’t I told you that a thousand times?”

“Hah! And how about the strange herbs you used to sell at the Green Market?” the older farmer hissed. “Admit it, we’ve seen you slinking into the city to peddle your magic tinctures and turn everyone into werewolves.”

“That was arnica and ground oak bark, for the sick horse belonging to the tavern keeper at the Grapevine. The horse has scabies, that’s all.” Josef turned to the Bamberg executioner. “Master Bartholomäus,” he pleaded. “You know me. You yourself have bought ointments and herbs from me for your dogs.”

Bartholomäus nodded. “Indeed I have, and I don’t think-”

“Just look at his eyebrows,” the skinny man shouted again, pointing at the trembling shepherd. “They have grown together in the middle-a sure sign that he’s a werewolf.”

“If that’s the case, then all three of us are werewolves,” Jakob Kuisl growled. “We have bushy eyebrows, we sell ointments and herbs, and by God, when I see dumb-ass farmers like you, I might howl like a wolf and devour you, too.” He took a threatening step forward. “Now get out of here, every last one of you, before things really do get violent.”

“Who are you to boss us around, stranger?” the burly wagon driver asked.

“He’s my brother,” Bartholomäus replied and stepped between the two men. “And, just incidentally, a lot tougher than any of you. If you want Josef Hartl, you’ll first have to deal with us Kuisls. All right, now, who’s first?” He cracked the knuckles of his right fist, and the people stepped back.

Finally the powerfully built wagon driver stepped forward, swinging a club as he ran toward Jakob. “You son of a-” he started to say, but at that moment the Schongau hangman punched the large man in the stomach, sending him sprawling onto the ground, gasping for air. When he tried to get up again, Georg kicked him for good measure.

“Just stay right there on the ground, big fellow,” Georg said, shaking a finger at him. “That’s the safest place for you right now.”

In the meantime, a few other men had drawn closer with their pitchforks, flails, and scythes and started threatening the three Kuisls with clubs and swords, but from a safe distance. Josef Hartl had taken refuge behind his protectors, where he cowered against the wall of a house, crying.

“Oh, God, they’ll kill me, they’ll kill me. .,” he kept repeating.

Jakob, Bartholomäus, and Georg stood shoulder to shoulder, warding off the attacks as best they could. Shouts, gasps, and heavy breathing combined to make a noise reminding Jakob of the war. He had not yet reached for his large hunting knife, knowing that once blood was shed, he might wind up on the gallows himself.

And who is going to hang me? he thought. My own brother?

In a rage, another large man came running toward him. Jakob tripped him, then he punched another attacker in the nose, so hard that the man sank to the ground, moaning. Nevertheless, one blow hit Jakob in the face, and warm blood ran down his cheeks. The fight was dirty and mean, and Jakob knew that in the end they would lose. There were simply too many attackers, and they had heavier weapons. What should they do? Flee and abandon the old shepherd to his fate?

Just as Jakob dodged another blow from a scythe, a commanding voice rang out nearby.

“You will stop at once, or I’ll have you all thrown into the city dungeon on orders of the prince-bishop.”

Jakob looked up in astonishment and saw some figures emerging from another small side road. There were a half dozen city guards armed with pikes and halberds. The man who had just spoken stood next to the guards, wearing the official robe and hat of a doctor. Behind him, Jakob spotted a smaller, somewhat foppishly clothed young man who appeared to be trying to hide behind the guards.

The Schongau hangman, relieved, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Damn, I would never have thought I’d be so happy to see my son-in-law!” he called out. Then he turned to his astonished attackers. “Didn’t you hear? Drop your weapons before these two learned gentlemen stab you to death with their letter openers.”

Simon stepped out from behind the guards and gave a smirk. “In return for our having saved your life, dear Father-in-Law, you will keep your mouth shut.”

“Saved my life? Since when have I had to ask you for help in a fight?”

“Perhaps you can put aside your family squabbles until later,” said the man standing next to Simon. “We have more important matters to attend to now.” Then he turned again and, in a firm voice, addressed the milling crowd.

“Haven’t I made myself clear? Hurry up and leave. You know me: I am the prince-bishop’s personal physician. Shall I report that you are being insubordinate? You know very well that rioting in the city is forbidden.” He pointed at the shepherd still standing beside the wall of the house, frozen in fear. “Whether this man has broken some law is up to the court to decide, not you. So move on, and let the law take care of this.”

Grumbling, the crowd dispersed, one person after another. They picked up the injured and carried them off-but not without turning around a few times with threatening glances. When the last steps had died away, the physician took a deep breath.

“That was close,” he said softly, and turned to Jakob. “You really should thank your son-in-law for this. He’s the one who called the guards. Otherwise, we would probably no longer have an executioner here in Bamberg, but only a murderous, pillaging mob. Take the poor fellow down to the Langgasser Gate. It would be best for him to stay away from Bamberg for the next few weeks.”

“But if he really is a werewolf-” one of the soldiers demurred.

“For God’s sake. How stupid are you, anyway?” the doctor interrupted. “It takes more than grease and herbs to make a werewolf. I give you my word, as the personal physician of the bishop, that this man is no monster. And now, off with you.”

The guards left with the shepherd, who was still trembling all over. Jakob Kuisl wiped the dried blood out of his eyes. “You have a pretty influential friend on your side,” he said appreciatively to Simon. “I’m guessing this Doctor Samuel is your old school friend”-he grinned at the two former classmates-“and your years at the university were not a total waste.”

“Well, I hope I haven’t exceeded my authority,” Samuel murmured. “While I do have some influence here in the city, when His Excellency the bishop learns I ordered the release of a man suspected of a crime, I can expect a reprimand-if the suffragan bishop does not skin me alive first.”

“But you saved a person’s life,” said Georg, who, except for a bloodied lip, appeared uninjured. “I think it was worth it,” he continued, casting an admiring look at his father. “You beat the crap out of them. It’s hard to believe you’re already over fifty.”

“It was enough to beat up a couple of wiseass farmers,” Kuisl growled. “I’ll turn on my rude son, too, if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut.” But even as he complained, a warm feeling of affection pulsed through him. The ice between him and his son seemed finally to have thawed.

“You know what, Jakob?” Bartholomäus chortled. “This fight reminds me of when we were kids, and how the sons of old Berchtholdt would sometimes beat us up down by the Lech River. That was always a real blast. I think we should do this more often. It’s what bonds us together.”

Simon shook his head in disbelief. “I always knew I’d married into a strange family,” he mumbled, beating the dust from his badly rumpled petticoat breeches. “Anyway, it’s time for us Kuisls to go back home. My youngster, I believe, has caught us some fish for supper, and if we wait any longer, he’ll be angry. That’s worse, by God, than any fight in the streets.”

A few hours later, after night had fallen like a black shroud over Bamberg, two stooped figures snuck over the City Hall Bridge toward the new section of town.

One of them was as tall and broad as a bear and wore swords, hunting knives, and a loaded wheel-lock pistol on his belt. Cautiously, the huge man stopped at every crossing and looked around before waving to the other man to follow. The hesitant man bringing up the rear was short and crippled, stooped with age, and visibly in pain as he moved forward, clutching his cane. Nevertheless, the elderly city councilman Thadäus Vasold insisted on paying a visit to his old friend at this unnatural hour.

The old man trembled all over, but that had little to do with the cool autumn night. Shivering, he closed the top button of his expensive woolen coat and followed his husky guide warily through the labyrinth of alleys that spread out below the cathedral. The friendly giant was Hans, Vasold’s most loyal servant, who had also served as a coachman to Vasold’s father, scion of an old patrician family. It had become clear, early on, that Hans, though blessed with enormous size and strength, had the intelligence of a doorstop. Still, Vasold had often taken him along on his trips as a bodyguard; the giant might not have been the brightest, but he was discreet-and robbers, thieves, and highwaymen always ran off when they saw him coming.

Vasold hoped his servant would have the same effect on werewolves.

Naturally, the patrician could have paid this visit officially during the day, but Thadäus Vasold wanted to prevent others from hearing about their conversation. Even after so many years, some people might have drawn the right conclusion, and Vasold wanted to attract as little attention as possible. Thus he had decided to make a far more dangerous trip in the dead of night.

In his calloused hands, big Hans carried a tiny lantern to help them find their way through the night. The lantern was just bright enough to form a flickering circle of light for the two men, beyond which lay nothing but the fog and darkness.

Vasold cursed softly to himself. How often had he urged the council to put up lanterns in at least the larger squares in town, as various big German cities had already done? But the council had repeatedly put him off because of the cost, and possibly for fear of starting a fire, and thus he, Thadäus Vasold, one of the most esteemed and oldest patricians in Bamberg, had to find his way like a thief in the night, stumbling over garbage, rotten barrels, and pieces of wood lying around, and nearly shitting in his pants with fear.

When Klaus Schwarzkontz, his old friend and colleague on the city council, had not returned from a trip to Nuremberg a few weeks ago, at first Vasold had not been at all worried. On the contrary: Schwarzkontz had been one of his major competitors in the wool trade, so that just meant more business for Vasold. But since then, more and more people had disappeared, and gradually Thadäus Vasold was beginning to suspect something horrible. Perhaps he was mistaken, but if the various pieces of the puzzle fell together, there was something there-something reaching far back into the past and touching upon an especially dark part of his life.

Was it possible? After all these years?

After the apothecary’s wife, Adelheid Rinswieser, had disappeared without a trace, Vasold had struggled for a long time before deciding to pay this nocturnal visit. Secretly, the patrician hoped his friend would try to calm him down, laugh at his fears, and together they would raise a toast to old times. Vasold feared nothing more than the idea that his friend might have come to the same conclusion.

But he suspected he had.

And what will we do then? Lock the doors and hope that the shadow passes? Pray? Go on a pilgrimage? Plead with God for forgiveness?

“What’s the matter, Hans?”

Vasold’s loyal servant had suddenly stopped in his tracks so that the patrician, lost in his thoughts, almost bumped into him. The huge man was standing there like a monument of stone, his hand on the loaded pistol still hanging from his belt.

“I don’t know, master. I thought I heard something,” he murmured.

“And what did you hear?”

“A. . well, a growling and scraping sound. It came from the entrance to the house here.”

Trembling, Hans pointed to a shadowy niche on their left, and Vasold felt as if a fist were slowly squeezing his heart.

The house was one of the many dilapidated buildings that had been standing vacant for decades. Ivy had wound its way up the unplastered walls, the windows were boarded up, and rotten beams of wood and clumps of rock lay in front of the wide door. Only now did the old patrician notice that the once-splendid portal, with its inlaid wood and carvings, was open a crack. Inside, a form, even darker than the darkness, was undulating back and forth. Somewhere a stone fell, crashing to the ground, and now Vasold heard it, too-a long, sustained growl, deep and evil.

“There it is again, master,” Hans whispered.

Thadäus Vasold had never before seen the big man scared, not even when he’d confronted two marauding mercenaries in the Bamberg Forest-but now he was shaking all over.

“This werewolf. .,” he groaned. “People say they love fresh blood, and they slowly tear their victims apart, first the arms, then the legs, then-”

“Damn it, Hans, I didn’t bring you along to tell me all these foolish horror stories,” Vasold replied hesitantly. “Go take a look and see who or what it is.”

“As you say, master.” The large man pulled himself together, drew the loaded wheel-lock pistol, and carefully approached the doorway. He spoke a silent prayer.

At that moment, the door opened with a loud grating sound and a figure appeared, so horrible that Hans uttered a cry, dropped his weapon, and fell to his knees.

The creature looked like a wolf as it slunk toward them on its hind legs. In the darkness of night, it appeared taller than a man, and it had black fur and long fangs that flashed in the light of the lantern that Hans had dropped on the ground.

“God in heaven, help us!”

The voice of the huge man was suddenly high-pitched and whining, like that of a girl. With a final horrified scream, he scrambled to his feet and raced away down the street, disappearing into the darkness.

Thadäus Vasold wanted to call after his servant, but his voice failed him. Terrified, he stared at the creature that was approaching him with its long claws. The lantern on the ground flickered slightly, casting dancing shadows on the wall, making the creature look larger and larger the closer it came.

“Please. .,” Vasold croaked, paralyzed with fear, clutching his walking stick and watching wide-eyed as death incarnate approached. “Please, spare me. By God, I’ll give you anything you want. I’ll. .”

Only then did the old patrician realize what he’d completely overlooked in his anxiety.

He knew this house, and he knew also who had once lived there.

I was right. But why-

Vasold’s thoughts scattered like snowflakes in a storm as the creature pounced on him with a contented snarl.

In the distance, the servant’s shrill cries for help rang out, but the councilor couldn’t hear them anymore.