The Werewolf of Bamberg

6

THE BAMBERG CITY COUNCIL CHAMBER, MORNING, OCTOBER 28, 1668 AD

Gentlemen! Silence, please! Silence!”

Simon sat on a hard wooden chair at one corner of the huge council table, listening and watching attentively as some of the most venerable citizens of the city fought with one another like street urchins. The meeting had started just a little over half an hour ago, but tempers were already at the boiling point. Men in lavish patrician garb shouted at one another, some were about to come to blows, and yet others were just sitting quietly at the table shaking their heads, as if they couldn’t understand the atrocious spectacle. Even Suffragan Bishop Sebastian Harsee, the chairman of the hastily convoked council, could think of nothing better to do than pound his little gavel on the table again and again while casting furious glances around at the group.

“Quiet!” he kept shouting. “Quiet! Is this the way distinguished citizens of our city behave? Once more, quiet, or I’ll have the room cleared!”

Simon and Samuel glanced at one another peevishly. At an ungodly hour of the morning, a messenger with a look of annoyance on his face had pounded on the door of the Bamberg hangman’s house to take Simon first to the castle complex and then, with Samuel, to the city councilors’ offices. They’d walked past the cathedral and then toward city hall and into the council room, where the suffragan bishop had unexpectedly scheduled the first meeting of the so-called Werewolf Commission immediately after Sunday-morning mass. In addition to Simon and Samuel, a half dozen city councilmen were present, as well as a scholar from the Jesuit seminary in the nearby church, two doctors of law, the bishop’s chancellor, and even the dean of the cathedral himself, who was attracting attention with his loud prayers and laments.

The occasion was indeed serious. The night before, the Bamberg werewolf had apparently struck again, and his victim was none other than the venerable patrician Thadäus Vasold-at the age of nearly eighty, the oldest member of the council. Vasold’s servant had seen the monster with his own eyes, though there was not a trace left of the councilman himself. The growing fear of the citizenry, as well as that of the scholars in the council chamber, had soon led to a great commotion in the room.

“And I’m telling you,” insisted one of the councilmen, a gaunt, elderly man wearing an old-fashioned ruff collar, “it’s time for us to shut the town gates. This werewolf is prowling around just outside the walls. Two charcoal burners saw him in the forest just yesterday. And he can come and go in our city as he pleases.”

“And what good is that going to do?” snarled another patrician with fat, drooping cheeks. “Do you know what will happen to our businesses if we don’t allow anyone into town? Anyway, the gates were closed last night, and the beast still managed to get old Thadäus.”

“Let’s not forget, the monster has magical powers,” added one of the jurists in a solemn voice. He cleared his throat and started reading from a large book lying in front of him. “According to Formicarius, which is considered the authoritative work in the field, by the Dominican scholar Johannes Nider, werewolves can assume any shape, animal or human. Who knows?” He paused theatrically and looked around the table. “Perhaps the werewolf is sitting right here in the room with us.”

Loud shouting broke out again, and two patricians were about to pounce on the scholar.

“One last time, silence! For God’s sake, silence!”

The suffragan bishop pounded the table with his gavel again, to no effect. Harsee looked pale and unkempt, and Simon thought he could detect a nervous twitch around his mouth. Nevertheless, his eyes still glared out from beneath his monk’s tonsure with the same evil intensity as when Simon had met him the first time in the palace garden.

It was Master Samuel who finally managed to bring an end to the uproar-with a simple trick.

“Let us all pray for our friend Thadäus Vasold,” he intoned loudly while making the sign of the cross. “I believe he deserves our thoughts and prayers. Or does someone think differently?”

The members of the council paused in their squabbling and finally started praying quietly while still casting suspicious glances at one another.

“Amen,” the suffragan bishop finally said, relieved, and licked his dry lips before continuing in a piercing voice. “Dear members of our committee, we may hold different opinions as to the exact nature of this werewolf, but at least there is no doubt this beast actually exists, given what happened last night. Vasold’s servant saw this monster and unequivocally recognized it as a werewolf.”

“Just like the drunken watchman two nights before,” Samuel murmured, so softly that no one except Simon heard him. “And Vasold’s servant is just as dumb, as everyone in the city knows. He’d think a calf is a werewolf, if you just keep suggesting it enough. But no one here is considering that.”

“Is there something you wanted to tell us, Master Samuel?” asked the suffragan bishop sharply. “Or are you only talking to your learned friend?”

The physician shook his head. “I was just saying that the people we’ve heard from so far are not the most reliable eyewitnesses, but I must confess that it’s true, the honorable councilor Vasold is already the fifth resident to have vanished. In any case, we must find out why these people have disappeared.”

“Listen, he must confess.” With a sarcastic smile, the suffragan bishop looked around at the attendees. Once again, Simon noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

“In this regard, it might be interesting for members of the commission to know,” Harsee continued smugly, “that Herr Doktor released a suspect yesterday on his own authority, a shepherd from the Bamberg Forest who has been peddling magic potions here in the city. A few concerned citizens reported that to me shortly before our meeting.”

The crowd began to murmur and hiss, and many of those present glared at Samuel.

“The magic potions were arnica and crushed bark from oak trees,” the physician replied, “harmless ingredients. Both are used in the medical treatment of animals, as the learned Doctor Fronwieser here can confirm.”

Simon was stunned when Samuel turned toward him to confirm that statement, but finally the little medicus and bathhouse owner nodded, trying to sound as wise and professional as possible.

“Ah, indeed. I have written a paper about that myself,” he said, “‘On the Nature and Growth of Medicinal Plants, with Special Emphasis on Coltsfoot, and Its Effects, as Well as on Arnica, and-’”

“Very well, very well.” Harsee waved him off peevishly. “We don’t need a complicated monologue, just a brief opinion. It’s quite possible they were just harmless herbs, but a thorough questioning of the suspect would have been appropriate.”

“Your Excellency, what do you know about this troupe of actors that has been visiting here for the last few days?” asked the provost of the cathedral, a gaunt, anxious-looking man with a pinched face. “The people who come to me for confession have told me some dreadful stories. They tell of Satanic incantations on the stage, and even today, on our sacred day of rest, they portrayed a devil dancing. Could it be possible the werewolf has been attracted here by this witchcraft?”

Sebastian Harsee nodded. “That’s an important consideration, Your Excellency. These magical doings performed under the pretense of edification are a thorn in my side, as well,” he said with a sigh. “But unfortunately the prince-bishop doesn’t look at it that way. Along with his many beloved animals, the theater is his great passion, and I’ve even heard that a second troupe of actors recently arrived in Bamberg. His Excellency is considering granting them permission to spend the winter in Bamberg, as well. We’ll have to keep a close eye on these immoral persons.”

“Keep an eye on them? Is that all we’re going to do?” Trembling with anger, a middle-aged councilor rose to his feet. He was wearing a gray coat on which a mortar and pestle were depicted-the emblem of the apothecaries’ guild. “This is the monster that presumably ripped my Adelheid apart like a deer, and you are going to do nothing more than keep an eye on things?”

“Why was the woman roaming about in the forest at night?” a younger councilor hissed under his breath. “She was probably gathering magic herbs there. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she was somehow working with the werewolf and up to no good.”

The apothecary wheeled around. “What did you just say?”

“What did I just say, Master Rinswieser?” the other man replied, looking around for support from the others. He was wearing the fancy clothing of a nouveau-riche dandy and seemed quite sure of himself. “Well, your Adelheid watered down those tinctures. Word gets around.”

“How dare you, Master Steinhofer?” He stormed across the room to the younger man. “If only Adelheid’s father could hear that. He and your own father were once members of the council, they were friends, and now you denounce his daughter as a witch, you. . you. .”

“Don’t forget that my beloved Johanna has also disappeared,” his opponent interrupted, stroking his goatee. “And that was just after she’d bought some strange tincture from your wife.”

“And I heard she ran pell-mell away from you after an argument in which even chairs went flying through the air,” the apothecary shot back. “No doubt she couldn’t stand being around you anymore. By the way, you don’t seem too concerned that your young fiancée has simply vanished into thin air. Did you marry her only for the dowry?”

“That’s slander!”

The two men were about to come to blows when the bishop’s chancellor suddenly stood up and spread his arms, trying to calm them down. With his enormous rolls of fat, he looked more like a tavern keeper than one of the highest dignitaries in Bamberg.

“My dear colleagues,” he began jovially, “we must not quarrel. I think I have a solution. Even if His Excellency, the venerable Prince-Bishop Philipp Rieneck, is not among us, I believe we can speak on his behalf. We, uh. . should think about setting up an inquisition.”

“An inquisition?” Master Samuel frowned. “Why do we need that? Don’t we already have this Werewolf Commission?”

“I believe the honorable chancellor is completely right.” Sebastian Harsee smiled, and it seemed to Simon that the suffragan bishop was quite happy with the direction the meeting had taken. A quick glance at the chancellor even made him suspect that this move had been prearranged.

“Forty years ago, at the time of the Bamberg witch trials,” Harsee continued, “quick action was called for in order to get control of the many suspects, so an inquisition composed of only a few members was set up, with the task of deciding who had to be tortured. Their conclusions were presented to the prince-bishop, who signed the death sentences.”

“Only a handful of people are to make the life-or-death decisions?” Master Samuel shook his head in dismay. “But what, then, is the purpose of this commission-”

“I suggest a vote,” the suffragan bishop interrupted. He looked slowly around the table, his gaze resting on one attendee after another. “All those present are naturally above all suspicion. None of the accusations made here will be considered-we are concerned only with the strangers in the city. The actors, for example-but also gypsies and other itinerant people. I will personally appoint the members of this commission if necessary-naturally only with the blessing of His Excellency, the prince-bishop. Are all in agreement?”

For a while, silence prevailed. The bishop’s chancellor was the first to raise his hand, followed by the young dandy with the goatee, and finally all the others. Only Samuel and Simon sat there motionless.

“I see there are only two objections,” the suffragan bishop finally concluded, taking out a silk handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his bald head. “Well, that’s more than enough, especially since one of the two objectors is not even from this town,” he added smugly. He turned to the chancellor. “I ask you to please inform His Excellency the Prince-Bishop of our decision. I’m certain he will approve.”

The chancellor nodded. “I believe you are right, Your Excellency.” He reached for his glass of wine and offered a toast to the others. “Here’s to our city!”

“To our city!” the others replied, raising their glasses as well.

While the councilors and scholars drank deeply from their wineglasses, Simon felt as if a rope was slowly tightening around his neck.

Though she was trudging ankle-deep through the garbage in the streets, Barbara felt like she was walking on a cloud. Together with Matheo she strolled through a narrow, muddy lane that ran from the Green Market to the Lange Gasse. There was an odor of hops and smoked meat in the air, freshly washed clothing hung from the windows, and in a doorway, children were playing with a top.

Since it was Sunday, Sir Malcolm had given his actors time off after the performance, and for an hour the two young people had been walking through Bamberg like a husband and wife on a Sunday-afternoon stroll. Matheo had stopped now and then at one of the many market stalls, bought a few little things, and, like a gallant gentleman from a good family, had given the delighted Barbara some tasty tidbits to eat.

As casually as possible, Barbara reached out for Matheo’s hand and let him help her jump over a large puddle in the street. The day was certainly the finest she’d ever had. Beside her walked the first boy she really loved-not one of those uncouth Schongau farm boys who thought it was a sign of affection to run after her reciting one of their obscene poems, nor the feebleminded knacker’s son from the neighboring town of Peiting, who had only three teeth left in his mouth, stank like a barrel of tannic acid, and actually hoped to marry soon. No, this boy was like something out of one of those wonderful storybooks that Magdalena had always read to her at bedtime. Matheo was muscular and tanned like a Turkish prince, with mysterious, sparkling eyes and a healthy set of white teeth that gleamed when he laughed. And he was smart and funny. Just then he took another playful bow, mimicking a dandy at the royal court.

“My dear lady, allow me to guide you safely through this dubious part of town,” he said in an artificially pompous tone, pointing to the left where the lane opened into a broader avenue.

“Dear lady?” Barbara grinned. “No doubt you have forgotten the family I come from. Or are we still playacting?”

“Isn’t all the world a stage?” he replied with a wink.

Their act that morning in the wedding house had been a great success. Actually, it was Matheo’s act-Barbara had only tossed some balls and hoops to him from time to time. But the performance was well received, the audience laughed, and at least for a short while they’d forgotten their fears. In her excitement, Barbara had hardly given a thought to the werewolf that was once again wandering the streets of Bamberg during the night. While the crowd was applauding at the end of the piece, Matheo had called her up onto the stage, and she’d bowed to the audience, whose applause washed over her like a pleasant summer rain.

Now Barbara started dreaming of becoming an artist someday, too. Even as a very small girl she’d enjoyed clowning around and getting dressed up. Was this perhaps the chance she’d yearned for to escape the dreary, predestined life of a hangman’s daughter? She would rumble through the country in a wagon and make people laugh or cry. Weren’t actors just as dishonorable as knackers and hangmen? So, in fact, she’d remain true to her class. But what she didn’t know was how to break this news to her family. She suspected that her father would not be excited about these plans.

“Another prune?”

Matheo handed her the small, shriveled fruit, interrupting her thoughts. They were just passing the barred windows of the city prison on the Hellergasse, and Barbara couldn’t help noting that her uncle occasionally whipped convicts here before dragging them off to the gallows or wherever they were to be beheaded. Matheo seemed to have noticed her worried look.

“Does your father ever have nightmares from all the executions?” he asked, lifting his crumpled hat back over his neck. He had a southern accent but spoke German extremely well. “I can imagine he also has to torture or hang people sometimes. He must feel sorry for some of them, doesn’t he?”

Barbara shrugged as she put the prune in her mouth and slowly chewed on it. For a while they were both silent.

Finally, she swallowed the fruit and said, “He doesn’t talk to us about his work, ever. Actually, none of us knows how he really feels. Maybe Mother did, but unfortunately she’s dead.” Her face turned grim. “My brother, Georg, will probably become the Schongau executioner after my father is gone, and he, too, is stubborn and doesn’t talk much. It’s in our blood, I guess, at least for the men. Uncle Bartl is the same way.” She sighed and wiped her mouth. “But let’s talk about nicer things. For example, how you became an actor.” She cast him a sideways glance as they turned onto a wide, paved street.

Matheo grinned. “There’s not much to tell. I was an urchin on the streets of Sicily, without a father and with a mother who was a drunk; she was happy I ran away. I joined a group of jugglers, and it seems I had talent. Sir Malcolm discovered me at a fair in Siena, and since then I travel the country with him.” He laughed. “Until now I’ve usually been the beautiful girl in his troupe, but recently my voice has become too deep and I’m starting to grow fuzz on my face. Here, feel it.”

He took Barbara’s hand and ran it across his scratchy chin. She got goose bumps on her arms.

“Yes. . yes, you are,” she said haltingly. “Then another fellow will soon have to play the girl.”

Matheo waved her off. “Recently women have been allowed to play the female parts, though the church doesn’t actually condone it. But what does it matter? I prefer playing the role of the lovesick young man, anyway.”

“That’s something I can well imagine.”

The last few minutes Barbara had been walking along as if in a trance, and when she looked up, she saw that they were close to the Lange Gasse, alongside a wild garden in the middle of the city. Beyond the garden was a larger building whose walls were in ruins and overgrown with blackberry vines. Between the piles of stone, Barbara saw some wild apple trees with a few shrunken apples still on their branches.

“Let’s go and get ourselves a few apples.” Matheo winked at her. “Perhaps we can rest a bit in the shade of the trees. The guards aren’t especially happy if people wander around back there, but don’t worry, they won’t catch us.”

Barbara couldn’t help thinking of her last encounter with the guards, when she’d been looking into the abandoned house, but the look in Matheo’s big brown eyes convinced her.

“Rest awhile?” she laughed. “Why not? I do feel a bit hot.” In the next instant it occurred to her that it was the end of October and, because of the cold, she was wearing a thin woolen coat over her blouse. “Ah, I mean I’m a bit tired after the performance. Perhaps we should really lie down for a minute.”

Matheo had already pulled himself up on some protruding stones and offered his arm to help her. She climbed over the wall, and after just a few steps it seemed they were far from the street. A few sparrows chirped in the branches, a light wind was blowing, but otherwise all was quiet. Matheo was still holding her hand.

“A beautiful spot,” she said hesitantly, looking over at the larger building, the back of which was only a stone’s throw away. A second wall separated the wild area from a well-tended garden that evidently belonged to the stately property. “So peaceful, yet in the middle of the city.”

“It was probably not always this beautiful here,” Matheo answered softly. “Our playwright Markus Salter told me about it during our last visit to Bamberg. The people who live here call this place the druid’s garden. Even just forty years ago, there was a building, right where we are now standing, in which alleged witches were examined and tortured. The so-called House of the Inquisition. Did you ever hear about it?”

Barbara shook her head silently, and Matheo continued.

“It all started when the son of the burgomaster was found with a book about Doctor Faustus. The book was confiscated.”

“The same Doctor Faustus that Markus Salter played on the stage?” Barbara asked.

“Yes.” Matheo nodded. “The fourteen-year-old boy thought it was a genuine book of magic and started randomly accusing people of witchcraft. Soon a wave of arrests began, to which the boy himself fell victim. Evidently there were so many suspicious people then that the dungeons in Bamberg couldn’t house them all, so they had to build this accursed house here.” He pointed at the overgrown garden. “There were cells, torture chambers, stalls, a courtroom, even a chapel to hear confessions. But everything was hidden from view, so that no one knew about it. The Bambergers had no idea what was going on here. Shortly before the Swedish invasion, they released the last prisoner and very quickly tore down the building, probably because it reminded them of their own guilt.”

Matheo sat down on an old tree stump. “By then, hundreds had already died. In the neighboring town of Zeil they even built a huge oven in order to burn all the alleged witches. Isn’t that dreadful?”

Barbara looked around anxiously. A cloud had passed over the sun, casting a dark shadow on the garden. Between the violet heather and the apple trees she could make out the remains of the building’s foundation and a few individual rectangular rooms; here and there, she saw rusty nails and rotten beams eaten away by the ravages of time. Suddenly, the garden no longer seemed so beautiful.

“It’s good that those days are gone forever,” she finally said.

Matheo nodded grimly. “Let’s hope they don’t return. But if this hysteria about the werewolf keeps up, then perhaps we’ll soon need such an inquisition.” He shuddered as if trying to drive away the evil thought. Then he beckoned for Barbara to come over and take a seat next to him.

“I think we’re good partners,” Matheo began hesitantly, after she’d taken a seat on the tree stump. He laughed with embarrassment. “I. . I mean in the theater, naturally. I think you really have talent. The people look wide-eyed when they see you, and you have a natural charisma.”

“A natural charisma?” Barbara moved a bit closer to Matheo. “What does that mean?”

“Well, it means-”

At that moment the angry voices of two or three men were heard coming from the well-kept garden behind them. Matheo stopped and frowned.

“I’ll eat my hat if that isn’t the voice of Sir Malcolm,” he mumbled. “What’s he doing here?” Quickly he stood up and ran back to the rear wall.

Barbara sighed and followed him. She didn’t know what would have happened if she’d sat with him a bit longer under the apple tree, but she really wanted to find out.

Meanwhile, Matheo had discovered a chink in the wall where he could look through and observe without being discovered. Excitedly he beckoned to Barbara.

“It really is Malcolm,” he whispered. “Along with a few other men. Unfortunately, one of them is this Guiscard that our innkeeper was telling us about. This garden belongs to an inn-probably the one where the accursed Frenchman is staying.”

Barbara had also found a crack in the wall to peer through. She saw a pretty little orchard with tables and chairs scattered around, though in late October none of them were occupied. Underneath the trees stood the English producer surrounded by three men Barbara didn’t know. Two of them, dressed in rather shabby-looking clothes, were pointing their swords threateningly at Sir Malcolm. The third man was wearing a wig, like Sir Malcolm, and a bright red jacket covered with gleaming copper buttons. Judging from his stiff lace collar and a hat jauntily pulled down over his face, he was a nobleman. When she looked again, Barbara noticed the many wine stains on his clothing and poorly mended rips in his shirt and stockings.

“Tout de suite! Take back those words at once!” he shouted at Sir Malcolm. He spoke with an artificial-sounding French accent that made him sound affected and feminine. Barbara could now see, too, that he was lightly made-up.

“Il y va de mon honneur,” the Frenchman continued loudly, pounding his chest dramatically. “Have you not understood me? If you lie like that again, I’ll order my men to punch you full of holes like an old wine pouch.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try,” Sir Malcolm snarled back. “You are a bad man and a thief, Guiscard. Unfortunately the theft of plays is not punishable by law, or you’d have long ago been sent to the gallows.” The English producer puffed himself up. “The Doge of Venice belongs to my troupe. It was written personally for us by the great playwright Markus Salter, and now you are peddling it on the road like a door-to-door salesman. You’ve barely even tried to disguise the title. The Dome of Venice.” He laughed maliciously. “What nonsense. As if the dome in this piece played any major role.”

Guiscard waved him off. “It sounds good-that’s the main thing. Besides, you know yourself that with a few chases, sword fights, and broken hearts, the story could take place anywhere.”

“Then you admit you stole the piece from us?”

The Frenchman smiled. “Didn’t you just say there’s no law against taking plays? As soon as they’re written down, anyone can use them. And now, excusez-moi.” He tried to push his way past Malcolm. “We will be having one more rehearsal, and I’m certain that The Dome of Venice,” he said, emphasizing every word and adding a smug pause, “well, this performance in the Grapevine Inn will be a great success, followed by many others. The bishop has invited us to spend the entire winter in Bamberg.”

“He signed a document giving us the exclusive right. . you frog eaters.” The gaunt Sir Malcolm stood more than a head taller than Guiscard. Like a scarecrow that had just sprung to life, he pushed his archenemy to the ground.

“Murder! Murder!” Guiscard cried out theatrically, clutching his chest as if in the throes of great pain. “Men, save me from this cowardly assassin.”

Now the two huge men took up their swords and attacked the English producer, who fought back, darting from one table to the next.

“We must help Sir Malcolm,” Matheo whispered, “or they’ll skewer him alive.”

“But how-” Barbara started to say, but Matheo had already climbed over the wall, and his hat went flying off. On the other side he picked up a heavy branch and attacked the men. Approaching from behind, he struck one of the huge men, who screamed and fell to the ground. The other turned away from Sir Malcolm and looked at Matheo in astonishment.

“What in the world are you doing here, you wimp?” he growled. “You’ve gotten yourself into a lot of trouble, little fellow.”

“I know him,” cried Guiscard, who in the meantime had struggled to his feet and was leaning on one of the tables with an anguished expression. Breathing heavily, he dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief. “That’s the pretty boy in Malcolm’s troupe. Beat him black and blue. Then we’ll see if he can still play the part of the young hero.” He smirked. “Without the handsome hero there’s no play, and thus no permission from the bishop. Compris?”

Guiscard’s helper was now back on his feet. Along with the other guard, he rushed at Matheo, who looked in vain for a way to escape. He was still holding his weapon in his hand, but it was trembling noticeably.

“One more step, Guiscard, and I’ll send my whole troupe after you,” Sir Malcolm said in a threatening voice as he sought protection behind a tree. “Then you’ll be lucky if you can leave this town on all fours.”

Guiscard Brolet let out a shrill laugh, like that of a little girl. “And just where is your oh-so-brave troupe? I see here only a weakling, a mere youth with a big mouth.”

“We’re here,” a high voice replied. “And now get out before we have to spill any blood.”

Astonished, Guiscard looked toward the wall, where Barbara was still hiding, and his helpers stopped fighting, as well.

Barbara had spoken up instinctively, and now she was thinking feverishly about how she could help her friend. She couldn’t fight herself, and calling the guards would take too much time-if they would even be interested in a fight between two actors. Finally, she did something she’d always had fun with, even as a child.

She disguised her voice.

“You heard the lady, get out, you dirty frogs,” she growled, trying to sound as rough and deep as a barroom brawler.

“Before we break your legs, you filthy Frenchmen,” she grumbled in an even lower pitch with a Swabian accent.

“Come on, let’s get them!” Barbara shouted then in a brighter, resonant tone, sounding like a real Bavarian. “There are only three of them. This will be a bloodbath.”

She threw a few stones over the wall, then quickly grabbed Matheo’s hat still lying in the flowers, pulled it far down over her face, clambered to the top of a rock pile near the wall, and started bombarding Guiscard and his men with stones. One of them shrieked loudly when a rock hit him right in the temple.

“Damn, there are a bunch of them over there,” he whimpered, ducking down like a whipped dog as he ran over to the back door of the inn. The second thug was hit in the shoulder by a rock and looked around anxiously. He, too, ran off when he noticed the hat of his ostensible attacker on the other side of the wall.

“Monsieur Brolet, come quickly!” he called to the theater director. “We must get some reinforcements. There are too many for us.”

“Sacrement! You cowards.” With another French curse on his lips, Guiscard struggled to his feet and ran after his two bodyguards, who had already disappeared inside the building.

“You’ll come to regret this, Malcolm! You’ll regret it!” he shouted again in the direction of the English theater producer, who was still hiding behind the tree. “We’ll see you again, and then the bishop will allow only one troupe of actors here in Bamberg. And that’s us!”

He slammed the door to the tavern with a loud thud.

For a while there was not a sound in the garden, then Sir Malcolm stepped out from behind the tree and turned to his comrade-in-arms, who was gasping for air.

“Well, Matheo, how many warriors did you really bring along with you? And why don’t they come out from behind the wall?”

Matheo was still standing there, his mouth open in amazement. Suddenly he broke out in a loud laugh, shook his head in disbelief, and began clapping his hands.

“Mamma mia, that was the best performance I’ve heard in a long time,” he exulted, as tears of laughter ran down his cheeks. “This girl is a natural.”

Sir Malcolm looked at him in astonishment. “Girl? Which girl? I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Matheo clapped a few more times, then called out, “Barbara, you can come out now. The play is over.”

Hesitantly, Barbara peered over the wall, still wearing Matheo’s hat, but her pale face showed how terrified she really was.

“Have they. . have they left?” she stammered.

Sir Malcolm seemed puzzled at first, but then his face broke out in a wide smile.

“She is our men?” he asked. “A whole troupe of actors played by one girl behind the wall?” He bowed deeply. “On my honor, young lady, if that was meant to be an audition to convince me of your abilities, you have come across better than any actor before you.”

Barbara had to catch her breath. “Audition?” she asked softly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Sir Malcolm grinned. “I can see in your eyes that you have the talent befitting an actor. Have you ever thought of appearing on the stage? Well? Now that Matheo is too old, we need someone new for the leading female role.” He sighed with satisfaction. “Matheo and you would be perfect for the roles of Romeo and Juliet. There’s never been a more perfect couple.”

Barbara became weak in the knees. She wanted to reply, but in contrast to before, she was now speechless.

“I. .” was all she could say. “Matheo. .”

With his arms open wide and his body quivering with emotion, Sir Malcolm approached her. “My lady, welcome to my troupe. So much talent positively cries out to be expressed on the stage. I can’t pay much, but I promise you, you’ll have the whole world at your feet.”

The apothecary’s wife, Adelheid Rinswieser, listened to the screams echoing down the corridor from the room at the other end. They sounded like the howling of a beast, but she could tell they were made by a man. They were occasionally interrupted by a soft murmur when the stranger asked his questions. And even though Adelheid couldn’t quite hear the voice, she knew what it was saying.

Who taught you the art of magic?

Who are your brothers and sisters?

Where do you meet? In the forest? In the cemetery? Up in the ruins of the old castle?

Where do you go on the witches’ Sabbath?

How do you make the drink that lets you fly?

Confess, witch, confess, confess. .

Confess. . Confess. . Confess. . Confess. . Confess!

“Oh, God, I don’t know anything,” the victim shrieked. “Who are you? What do you want from me, you devil?”

Adelheid wished she could hear the answer to that, as she still had no idea why the stranger had locked her up here. Why her? And why the constant questioning and torture in the horrible chamber? The man had to be crazy, a deranged murderer, and they had all become his victims by sheer coincidence. There couldn’t be any other reason.

Could there?

The screaming of the young woman had stopped the day before. Was she already dead? Wounded? Unconscious? Adelheid didn’t know, but evidently the stranger had found another victim, and the chalice had not yet been passed on to her.

Again there was a loud scream, and Adelheid froze with fear. She couldn’t help thinking of the beast that had attacked her-the tapping in the bushes, the odor of wet fur. Was this perhaps nothing but a ghost, a figment of her imagination? Were the stranger and the beast one and the same? Or was there not only a madman prowling around out there, but a beast obeying his commands?

“On my honor, yes. I’m a witch! Yes, I have kissed the devil’s anus. Yes! Yes! Yes! Anything you want, just please stop. Stop. Stop. Stop!”

The victim’s voice sounded a bit higher now, and Adelheid felt she was about to vomit. Her fear felt like a little rodent gnawing its way through her bowels.

When is it my turn?

Curiously, the stranger had spared her until now. He’d come into her cell twice more, but he hadn’t taken her back to the horrible torture chamber, just brought her a new candle and stared at her silently through his hangman’s mask. Adelheid thought she could see his body trembling softly. Then he’d dashed out again, almost like a man possessed, and had bolted the door behind him.

A few hours ago, the stranger had turned his attention to the male prisoner, and Adelheid was shocked to realize it had brought her relief. Relief, and at the same time guilt.

I’m happy that it’s someone else. Oh, God, forgive my sin!

She tugged at the chain that tethered her to the wall of the cell. Recently, the stranger hadn’t bothered to attach the leather straps, so now she could at least sit up and even walk around a bit. The pain in her arms and legs had eased off some, so she could shake her limbs and massage them to get the blood flowing again. How long had she been in this cell? Day and night merged into one thick clump, but despite everything, she’d not given up. In the endless hours between the stranger’s visits, she constantly thought of how she might escape. She’d turned over all the possibilities in her mind and finally come to a conclusion.

Perhaps there was a way, but to do it, she’d have to wait until the man came back again and took off the chains to lead her to the torture chamber.

It would, no doubt, be her last chance.

Adelheid Rinswieser took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried to retreat into herself, to a place where she could escape the screams and the fear.

“The tanners are invited to the wedding, and so are a few of the Bamberg fishermen, and a whole family of weavers distantly related to Katharina, and-you’ll hardly believe this-even Aloysius, that stubborn hangman’s servant in the Bamberg Forest. Hah! That would never happen in Schongau. But the tavern keeper at the Wild Man, a fellow by the name of Berthold Lamprecht, doesn’t give a damn about what people say and is going to let Uncle Bartholomäus have the party-though not in the main hall, but in the little room off to one side. The city councilors have more to worry about this year than making a fuss about that.”

Jakob Kuisl was silent while his daughter Magdalena babbled on. Late in the day, the hangman, his daughter, and his grandchildren took a Sunday-afternoon stroll. They were walking behind a wagon slowly making its way toward the city across the wide, wooden Sees Bridge, whirling up clouds of dust as it went. They’d spent the last few hours in Theuerstadt, a part of town northeast of the city where many farmers grew onions and licorice. The area was well known for both products-not only in Bamberg, but in the areas around the city as well, earning the locals the sobriquet of “onion heads.” Out there in the country, around the monastery of St. Gangolf, the streets became wider, the houses smaller, and the people friendlier and, above all, cleaner. There were vegetable farms and many fruit trees and different kinds of flowers, though most of them had already withered at the end of autumn.

Katharina had asked Magdalena to find flowers to decorate the tables at the wedding, but it seemed to Jakob that the conversation with the old, toothless flower woman would go on forever. After that, the hangman had let Magdalena wheedle him into looking around in Theuerstadt for asters, stonecrop, and autumn crocuses, and ordering the flowers from the gardener for the coming Sunday-a decision Jakob now regretted. He took consolation in the fact that here in Bamberg no one knew him. In Schongau, an executioner who showed more interest in the fragrances of violets and pansies than the security of the noose on the gallows would surely have been laughed out of town.

But it wasn’t just his visit to Theuerstadt that was a total disaster, it was the entire trip. He’d come here for only one reason, to finally see his son Georg again after two years-only to find that his uncle had completely spoiled him. Georg had become rebellious and impudent, and even worse, he stood up to his own father and defended his uncle. The fight in the street the day before had brought them somewhat closer together, but Georg’s attitude revealed that Bartholomäus had told him more than Jakob wished.

“I don’t know what all this fuss is about for the wedding,” Jakob grumbled, struggling to make his way across the wooden bridge behind the agonizingly slow carts, holding both boys by the hands. Below them, the right branch of the Regnitz flowed along lazily. “Your mother and I didn’t need to have any big party back then. There wasn’t any money for it, anyway. We invited the midwife Stechlin, the knacker and his servant, and the night watchman-that was it, and we all had a good time just the same, without all these so-called friends, cousins, aunts, and uncles, who just want to hang around all day eating the free food.”

Magdalena scowled at her father. “Didn’t you want to have your sister and brother there for the celebration?”

“Hah! Ask Bartl. He never would have come to my wedding.”

“But why?” Magdalena took her father by the arm and stopped for a moment. “Something happened between you two. Don’t you want to tell me?”

“Maybe some other time. I’m tired now, and if I’m not mistaken, we still have one more thing to get for my future sister-in-law. So come along.”

Jakob pulled himself away and stomped ahead, through the Bamberg Gate and down the little lane leading to the Fishermen’s Quarter north of the city hall on the left branch of the Regnitz. Magdalena and the children followed at a distance.

They had promised Katharina to ask the furrier about finding them a piece of fox fur for the hem of her wedding dress. Jakob’s sister-in-law had given them precise directions, but it was difficult to find the right house in the labyrinth of tiny, winding streets, many of which ended at the water’s edge. Water rushed past the dilapidated piers, where the boats bobbed up and down in the stream. Many of the half-timbered buildings had boat sheds opening onto the river, and the air was heavy with the smells of rotting fish and moldy nets spread out to dry between wooden poles on the docks and balconies.

Several of the fishermen eyed Jakob Kuisl cautiously as he stepped out of an alley leading straight to the piers. In front of a small half-timbered house on the left, a number of leather hides fluttered in the wind, slapping noisily against the wall of the building, where a bloody deer hide had been hung on a wooden frame to dry. Jakob turned around to Magdalena.

“This is probably the house,” he said. “It would be best for you to stay outside on the pier with the children, so they don’t fall in and drown. I’ll be right back.”

He knocked, and a small old man immediately opened the door. He had a wrinkled, unshaven face that was barely visible under his bearskin cap, and he gave off a moldy smell more familiar to Jakob than that of violets and pansies.

“What do you want?” growled the old man. “Did Johannes the leatherworker send you? Tell that greedy bastard I’m not finished with the tanning, but just the same I’m not going down one kreuzer on the price.”

“Katharina, the fiancée of the Bamberg executioner, has sent me,” Kuisl responded. “She needs a nice fox fur for her wedding.”

“Ah, the wedding of the executioner.” The man grinned, revealing his three remaining teeth. “There’s a lot of tongues wagging because the innkeeper of the Wild Man is letting the hangman celebrate in his place. But we all stink the same when the devil takes us away to the dance.” He giggled. “I would know-I’m the furrier, after all. Come in, big fellow.”

He motioned for Jakob to enter the cottage. The hangman had to duck to get through the low doorway. A magnificent bearskin hung over a chest, empty eye sockets staring at the hangman and, below them, a huge mouthful of sharp teeth. The furs of martens, weasels, and polecats lay on a table in the middle of the room next to some scraping knives, and a string of rabbits hung by their ears from a stick over the oven. There was a smell in the room of the wild, the hunt, and death.

“And are you sure Katharina doesn’t want badger fur?” the old furrier asked, rummaging through some furs on the table. Finally he pulled out a beautiful black piece and waved it in front of Kuisl’s face. “That’s much more impressive, while it’s still one of the furs that those in her social caste are allowed to wear.” He stopped and looked suspiciously at the Schongau hangman. “Who are you, anyway? I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Just a member of the family,” Kuisl replied curtly. Then he shrugged. “Katharina wants a fox fur, so that’s what I’ll bring her. What does it cost?”

The little old man waved him off. Putting the badger fur aside, he reached into a trunk containing some musty-smelling, rather shabby-looking remnants. “Keep your money, big fellow. It’s never a bad idea to stay on good terms with the future wife of the executioner, is it? Anyway, fox is not an expensive fur like ermine.” He handed Kuisl a reddish fur full of holes. “Here, take it. The creature got caught last week in one of my rabbit traps. It was foaming at the mouth and snapping in all directions before I killed it. If you ask me, the thing had rabies, a terrible sickness going around in the forests now. My brother-in-law’s nephew was bitten a few years ago by an infected fox, and now. .”

He paused when he saw Kuisl leaning over the trunk and pulling out another fur. The hangman held it in his hand, thinking. It was dark gray, with a long tail and sharp claws.

“Why are you interested in the wolf skin?” the old man grumbled. “I can’t believe Katharina wants to have the big, bad wolf decorating the hem of her wedding dress.” He waved him off, giggling. “That’s just something for poor people. I’m happy I was able to sell five of them all at once a few days ago. Otherwise, who knows how long they would have been rotting away here.”

“What did you do?” Kuisl stared at the furrier as if he’d just seen a ghost.

The little old man shrugged, not knowing quite how to answer. “Well, uh, I also found it a bit strange, because no one actually wants to have wolf skins. They say it brings misfortune. Especially now, when this werewolf is supposed to be prowling around the city. But if someone offers you a good price for these old, battered things, you don’t ask. I still have two of them, so if you want-”

“What did the man look like?” Jakob interrupted.

The old man pushed his fur cap back on his head and started thinking. “I can’t remember very well, which is funny, actually, because I usually have such a good memory for these things. Hm, wait. .” His face brightened. “Now I remember. He had a beard, and a kind of floppy hat, and he was wearing a broad cape. Exactly!”

Kuisl spat on the floor. “That describes about every other person you bump into on the street. Can’t you remember anything else?”

“Unfortunately not.” The old man frowned. “Why is it so important for you to know?”

“Thanks for the fox,” said the hangman without answering the question. Then he put down the wolf’s hide and headed toward the door with the mangy fox fur. Suddenly he turned around. “Oh, and if this man drops by again, get in touch with me over at the executioner’s house. As you said, it’s never a bad idea to stay on good terms with the hangman.”

“You still haven’t told me who you are,” the furrier replied, and his little eyes flashed suspiciously. “How do I know you’re not just some random punk that the executioner is about to string up on the nearest tree?”

“I’m the hangman’s brother, and I string up people myself-punks, and sometimes guys who are too curious.”

Then Jakob Kuisl turned away, stooping down to get through the doorway, like a giant leaving a dollhouse.

Outside, Magdalena had to watch the boys closely to make sure they didn’t push each other off the dock. For a while they’d been playing hide-and-seek among the skins and furs fluttering in the wind, but now they’d started tussling with one another alongside the rushing water. Though Paul was the younger of the boys, the two were about the same size, and as usual, Peter was losing. Soon his brother had dragged him toward the water and out onto the pier.

“Mama, Mama! Paul’s going to drown me like a witch,” Peter cried.

“For heaven’s sake, can’t the two of you ever play like. . like. .”

Magdalena was about to say girls but caught herself just in time. Sometimes, in her dreams or in moments of reflection, she could see herself telling stories to a little daughter sitting on her lap, as she once had with Barbara. Then the pain and sorrow at the loss of her child came back again, and even now she could feel a burning in her throat. She loved her boys with all her heart, but she still felt there was something in them she couldn’t know. Peter took after his father, and Paul. . Well, there were days when she almost feared his temper tantrums.

She ran after the boys and pulled them apart. Luckily, she still had some licorice left from the gardens around St. Gangolf, and she gave a stick to each of them. Soon they were busily sucking and the fight was forgotten.

Impatiently, Magdalena looked back at the furrier’s house. Why was her father staying so long? For a moment she regretted not going with Barbara to the theater performance that day, but Katharina had asked for her help. And she felt guilty for leaving the children with their aunt every day, even though Katharina clearly enjoyed having them. Surely she wished for some of her own. Why had it taken her so long to find a husband? She came from a good family, and though she was a bit overweight, she was always smiling and was an excellent cook. Magdalena knew that executioners had a hard time finding a suitable wife. Bartholomäus could count himself lucky that-

A creaking sound tore her from her reveries. Carefully she turned around and noticed a figure just two piers away, behind one of the fisherman’s nets that was hung out to dry.

It was no doubt a man, as he was wearing a floppy hat and a wide cloak; she thought she could also make out a beard. At first Magdalena figured he was just one of the many fishermen from that part of town, but then she noticed that he wasn’t working on the nets but just standing there, clearly observing her and the boys. Was he, perhaps, a robber waiting for dusk to fall so he could attack her in a dark alley? The man seemed strangely familiar to her. She looked up anxiously at the sky. The sun was a glowing ball of fire setting behind the Michelsberg hill to the west, and shadows were already falling over the city. She wondered where her father was.

She was about to walk over to the furrier’s house when the door swung open and out came Jakob Kuisl, holding a fox fur that looked like a dirty rag in his hand. He had a pensive look on his face.

Magdalena took a deep breath of relief and slowly started walking over to him, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

“Do you see the man with the floppy hat over there behind the nets?” she said in a soft voice. “I think he’s watching us.”

Jakob Kuisl squinted and finally nodded.

“Yes, I see him, and I’d like to have a little talk with him, man to man, if you know what I’m saying,” he added with a growl. He turned in the man’s direction, but Magdalena held him back.

“Father, whatever you have in mind, just remember you’re not as young as you used to be, and I’m worried that you-”

“Damn it,” he interrupted angrily. “The day my daughter starts worrying about my age is the day I’ll willingly go to my grave. But first I have a few questions I want to ask that fellow over there. You wait here.”

Silently, he disappeared behind a frame holding a large beaver pelt. For a brief moment she could hear the sounds of his receding steps, but then all fell silent. Magdalena sighed and shook her head.

“Your grandfather is as stubborn as a mule, and an idiot, do you know that?” she said to the children, who were still peacefully sucking on their licorice sticks, their legs dangling from the pier.

“You say the same thing about Georg,” Peter replied, “and about Dad, as well. . and about the wagon drivers in Schongau who are always playing cards and getting drunk down at Semer’s tavern. Are all men stubborn mules and idiots, Mama?”

Despite her annoyance, she couldn’t help smiling. “Well, most of them, but your grandfather much more than the rest. I hope he doesn’t hurt himself.”

Hiding behind the drying racks, Jakob Kuisl disappeared behind the furrier’s house, then slunk down a cluttered alleyway parallel to the river, and from there back to the other piers. Some children playing in the street looked up anxiously as the grim giant hurried past them in his flowing cloak.

Kuisl’s thoughts were racing. Ever since he’d seen the wolf’s pelt in the furrier’s trunk, he had an odd suspicion-so odd it just might be correct. Especially after learning that a stranger, just a short time ago, had bought a whole bunch of wolf pelts from the furrier.

Could it be possible?

He wanted to get to the bottom of this as fast as possible. If the man hiding behind the nets turned out to be the stranger the furrier had mentioned, that would explain a lot of things.

But if it is him, why did he come back?

A muddy path led from the lane down to the pier where the man had just been standing. Kuisl stayed close to the wall of the house. From the corner of his eye he could see a few fishermen watching him suspiciously from their boats out on the river, but he couldn’t let them distract him now. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out into the open.

The stranger was still standing behind the frame holding the fishnets, but in the gathering darkness it was hard for Kuisl to see more than the vague outline of a man wearing a floppy hat and an overcoat. Slowly, the hangman walked along the path-the only access to the pier, so the man wouldn’t be able to escape. Unless he decided to fight. But Jakob had been in many fights, more than most people.

“Hey, you,” the hangman said, addressing the stranger. “Stop, I need to have a word with you.”

When the man saw he’d been discovered, he froze like a cornered animal. And then he did something Kuisl never would have expected.

He jumped.

It was a full three yards to the next pier, almost ten feet, but the man landed safely on the creaking planks. For a moment it seemed like he might fall backward, but then he got his balance again and ran down the pier toward the shore. Kuisl was startled to see that the stranger had a slight limp. He knew only one person in Bamberg who limped-and that was his own brother.

That’s impossible, he thought. Or is it?

Cursing, he turned and ran back through the little alleys full of rotted rowboats up on jacks, handcarts, and barrels of fish. The man with the floppy hat had a lead of at least twenty paces, and Kuisl had to remember what his daughter Magdalena had said earlier: he wasn’t so young anymore. In a fight he could count on his experience, but in running, younger was better. Nevertheless, he’d already gained a few yards on the stranger when suddenly he made a sharp right and ran back down to one of the four piers.

“Now I’ve got you,” Kuisl panted.

He ran toward the pier as fast as he could and only at the last moment saw what the other was planning to do. A small rowboat was tied to one of the posts with the oars tossed carelessly into the stern. In one fluid move, the man jumped in, pulled out a knife, and quickly cut the rope. Just as Kuisl reached the end of the pier, the boat cast off and started floating down the river with the current. The distance between them grew from one second to the next.

There was no time for Jakob to reflect. He just kept running and, with a final sprint, jumped off the pier toward the boat, and-

Missed.

He hit the cold water with a loud splash, the waves closed over him, and in the next moment his clothes filled with water and threatened to pull him under. As he thrashed about wildly, Kuisl pulled off his heavy coat. Only then, and with powerful strokes, could he make his way back to the surface. Breathing hard and paddling to keep afloat, he looked around in all directions.

The boat was drifting slowly down the river, already some distance away. Jakob watched as the stranger put the oars in the oarlocks and pulled vigorously.

Then the boat disappeared around the river’s next bend.

The man with the floppy hat was breathing heavily as the small, half-timbered houses in the Fishermen’s Quarter, with their balconies and piers, slowly receded. Night was falling over Bamberg, but the shadows did not fill him with happy expectations, as usual, but something approaching fear. His foot hurt, and his whole body shivered. To add to his misery, he’d evidently sprained his ankle jumping off the pier. That was nothing critical, but it showed him he was not invulnerable.

For the first time, he’d been not the hunter but the hunted.

He cursed himself under his breath for returning to see the furrier, but on his most recent visit he’d taken a liking to the beautiful furs, and so he planned to buy the last two pieces in order to continue his search for prey. For now, he enjoyed the musky odor and softness of the furs. When he wrapped them around him, he felt like someone else. The first time, it was the apothecary’s wife who had given him the furs to try on. They were like a second skin wrapped around him, protecting him, and turning him into some sort of monster.

Something that inspired fear in people-as much fear as he had once known, long ago.

But then he’d made an unforgivable mistake. It had given him a feeling of power to observe unnoticed, practically invisible, a potential victim, and this thrill had almost caused his ruin. He bit his lip nervously. His coat, floppy hat, and fake beard might conceal his true features-but he’d still have to be very careful.

The buildings along the river were thinning out-just a few more sheds and an old mill. Then the beginning of the forest, the wilderness, the realm of the beasts-a realm where, more and more, he was beginning to feel at home.

Old Schwarzkontz had broken down faster than any of them, and he was the first to die. The first woman also confessed quickly-her heart stopped beating from the fright, and he disposed of the corpse in the usual way. But he learned quickly. The young woman who was his next victim had survived four questionings before she, too, finally died.

For the first time, he felt pity, a feeling that he immediately suppressed. Pity was weak, and he could never show weakness. Just the same, he kept putting off the torture of his next victim, the apothecary’s wife. Each time he looked into the woman’s eyes, a shudder came over him, and he felt disgusted with himself.

Fortunately, though, he had come across Thadäus Vasold the night before.

The old fool had fallen into his trap in just the right place. It warmed his heart to see that wrinkled face frozen in horror. The feeling of revenge had been so sweet, like thick, golden honey. Now the old man was all tied up in the house, awaiting his next interrogation.

Confess, witch, confess.

The old man had been the fifth.

But his greatest satisfaction was yet to come. For a long time he’d been waiting to carry out his boldest plan. It couldn’t be much longer.

Just three. .

The man listened intently and could hear a long howling coming from the forest across the river. It was like a greeting of closeness, of intimacy-of home. Something he’d never experienced before.

The wolves were accepting the man as one of their own.