The Hangman's Daughter (13 page)

His wife began to cry again. “I…I…didn’t want to believe it. I thought, if I didn’t think about it, it would go away…” She began to sob once more.

“You stupid woman! We might have saved her! We could have asked her what the sign means. Now it’s too late!”

Jakob Schreevogl rushed out of the room and disappeared, slamming the door. Simon ran after him. Standing on the stairs, he heard loud cries from below. “Let’s go!” someone cried. “We’ll get her!”

Simon changed his mind and ran downstairs. Outside he encountered a mob armed with torches, scythes, and pikes heading off toward Münzstrasse. He could even recognize some of the bailiffs. There was nothing to be seen of the court clerk and the other aldermen.

“What are you doing?” Simon screamed after the mob.

One of the rioters, the tanner Gabriel, turned round. He had told Simon about the accident with little Grimmer. “We’re going to get the witch before she takes any more of our children,” he said.

His face was twisted into a strange grimace in the reflected light of the torches and his teeth shone bright white in the darkness.

“But the Stechlin woman is in prison,” Simon said, trying to calm them down. “Anyway, they say it was a man who took little Clara.”

“It was the devil!” roared another. Simon recognized him as Anton Stecher, the eyewitness who claimed to have seen the abductor.

“He had a white hand of bone, and he was flying! That Stechlin hag brought him here by witchcraft!” he cried, as he hurried after the others.

“But that’s nonsense!” Simon shouted into the darkness, but nobody seemed to hear him anymore. Suddenly he was aware of noisy steps behind him. Jakob Schreevogl had hurried downstairs, a lantern in his right hand, his sword in the left. He seemed to have recovered his composure again.

“We must go after them and stop them before there’s a bloodbath,” he said. “They are completely out of control.” Simon watched as he headed into the Münzstrasse, then chased after him.

As he ran, he turned to the alderman and asked, “Then you don’t believe in witchcraft anymore?” he asked.

“I don’t believe in anything anymore,” panted Schreevogl, as they turned into the Weinstrasse. “Neither in the devil nor the Heavenly Father. And now let’s hurry, before they break open the door of the keep!”

The court clerk Johann Lechner was looking forward to a warm bath. He had instructed the servants to heat the boiler down in the court kitchen. In the meantime the wooden tub in his room had been lined with linen sheets and half-filled with hot water. Lechner opened his doublet and hose, laid his clothes neatly over the chair, and with a shudder of pleasure slid into the tub. It smelled of thyme and lavender. Brushwood and rushes were strewn on the floor. The clerk needed this bath urgently to think it all through.

Everything was happening so fast. There were now two dead children and a Stadel burnt to the ground. Lechner was still not quite sure there was any connection between the two events.

It was quite possible that the Augsburgers had set fire to the Stadel. The Schongauers’ transport monopoly had long been a thorn in their side. And hadn’t it happened once before, a long time ago? The clerk resolved to have a look at the records.

But it seemed too far-fetched to him that the Augsburg raftsmen would kill Schongau children. On the other hand…the Stadel fire, the horrible murders, and then the damned leper house being planned just outside town, only because the church had set its mind on it. There were certainly enough reasons to avoid Schongau at the present time and choose another route. So it was the Augsburgers who profited most from all the terrible events in the town. In his long years as clerk to the council Lechner had learned one thing above all else: if you want to know who is responsible for anything, ask who benefits from it.

Cui bono?

Lechner put his head under the water and enjoyed the warmth and silence that surrounded him. Peace at last, no boring discussions, no quarrelsome aldermen seeking only their own advantage, no intrigues. After a minute he ran out of air and had to surface, spluttering.

Whether or not there was a connection between the fire and the murders, there was one sure way to restore peace to the town. The Stechlin woman would have to confess. At the stake all the problems would go up in smoke. Tomorrow he would continue with the questioning, even if it was illegal without approval from Munich.

Perhaps, too, the questioning of the combative Schongauer Georg Riegg and that insolent Augsburger would somehow resolve itself. One of the Fuggers’ raftsmen! As if anything like that would impress him, Lechner! And just for his arrogant behavior alone he would keep him under arrest for a few days in the Ballenhaus.

There was a knock at the door, and a servant entered with another steaming bucket. Lechner nodded his thanks, and a deluge of hot water poured over the court clerk’s tense back. When the servant left, Lechner reached for the scrub brush. There was a second knock. Irritated, he let the brush sink.

“What is it?” he growled toward the door.

The servant’s voice sounded nervous. “Sir, excuse the disturbance…”

“Just tell me what the matter is!”

“Something else has happened. They say that…the devil has flown away with little Clara Schreevogl, and now the people are running to the keep and want to see the Stechlin woman burned at the stake. They have pikes and lances and torches…”

Cursing, the clerk threw the brush into the water and reached for a dry towel. For a moment he considered letting things simply take their course. The sooner the Stechlin woman was put to the stake, the better. But then it occurred to him that he still represented the law in Schongau.

Hastily he pulled his shirt on. The Stechlin woman would burn all right. But only when he ordered it.

When the hangman saw the mob he knew at once where they wanted to go. He turned and ran the few yards back to the keep and stood resolutely at the front entrance. The huge tower had only one way in. Anyone wanting to get to the Stechlin woman would have to get past him. With a determined gaze and folded arms he waited for the group, which had now grown to two dozen men. In the light of the torches Kuisl recognized the usual troublemakers. The baker Michael Berchtholdt was marching at the head of the group. But some of the aldermen’s sons were there also. He could recognize the youngest offspring of Semer, the burgomaster. Many in the mob were armed with pikes and scythe blades. When they saw the hangman, they stopped and started to murmur. Then Berchtholdt, eager to please the crowd, addressed him with a broad grin.

“We’ve come for the witch!” he shouted. “Hand over the key, Kuisl, or there’ll be trouble.”

Shouts of support were heard from the mob, and out of the darkness a stone was thrown at him, which bounced off his chest. The hangman didn’t yield an inch but looked at Berchtholdt with a cold stare.

“Is this the elected witness to this morning’s inquisition speaking, or a rabble-rouser whom I shall have to string up on the nearest tree this very night?”

The grin on the master baker’s face disappeared. Then he regained his composure.

“You must not have heard what’s happened, Kuisl,” he said. “The Stechlin woman called upon the devil, and he’s flown away with the little Schreevogl girl.”

He looked around at a few of his companions. “If we don’t hurry, he’ll fly away with the witch too. Perhaps she’s gone already.”

The mob growled and pushed nearer to the heavy iron door, which the hangman defended with his broad shoulders.

“I know only this: that the law still applies here,” said Jakob Kuisl, “and not a few stupid peasants running through the town with scythes and threshing flails to frighten peaceful burghers.”

“You watch it, Kuisl,” Stecher chimed in. “There are many of us, and you don’t even have a cudgel. We’ll kill you before you know it, and then we’ll burn you and the witch together!”

The hangman smiled and raised his right arm. “This is my cudgel,” he said. “Would anyone like to feel it on his back? Nobody?”

The crowd fell silent. Jakob Kuisl was famous for his strength, and anyone who had ever seen how he hauled up a thief with the noose around his neck or raised the six-foot execution sword to strike a blow at his hapless victim certainly had no wish to start a quarrel with him. Fifteen years earlier he had taken over his father’s office, and before that he had been in the Great War. They said that back then he had killed more people than would fit in the old Schongau cemetery.

The mob moved back several feet. There was silence. The hangman stood there rooted to the spot.

Suddenly Anton Stecher charged forward. He had a flail in his hand, which he brandished at Kuisl.

“Down with the witch!” he shouted.

The hangman turned away, avoiding the flail, seized it by the handle and pulled Stecher toward him. Then he punched him in the nose and tossed him effortlessly back into the crowd. The men withdrew, and Stecher fell to the ground, a stream of blood pouring onto the cobblestones.

The peasant, whimpering, crept back out of sight.

“Anyone else?” asked Kuisl.

The men looked at one another uncertainly, whispering nervously. Everything had happened so quickly. At the back of the group some started to put out their lanterns and scurry home.

Suddenly a rhythmic tread could be heard in the distance. Jakob Kuisl pricked up his ears. Marching feet were approaching from the castle. At last, followed by a squad of soldiers, Lechner and the presiding burgomaster appeared.

At the same moment Simon and Jakob Schreevogl arrived from the market square. When the young alderman saw the court clerk, he put his sword back in its sheath. “Thank God,” he panted. “It isn’t too late. They can say what they like about Lechner, but he has the town under control.”

Simon watched the soldiers approach the mob with their lances poised. In just a few seconds the rioters had thrown down their weapons and were looking about fearfully.

“It’s all over!” Lechner cried out. “Go home! Nothing will happen to anyone who goes now.”

One after the other they disappeared into the narrow alleys of the town. Young Semer ran to his father, who gave him a rap on the head and sent him home. Simon shook his head. The boy had almost committed a murder, and the presiding burgomaster sent him home to have supper…Martha Stechlin’s life was not worth a penny.

Only now did burgomaster Semer see the hangman, who was still on guard by the door of the keep. “You did well!” he called to him. “After all, the council rules here and not the man on the street.” He turned to the court clerk and continued. “Although one can understand the people. Two dead children and a girl kidnapped…Most of us have families ourselves. It’s time to put a stop to all this.”

The clerk nodded. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow we shall know more.”

The devil limped through the streets and held his nose into the wind, as if he could smell his victim. He paused at dark corners and listened carefully; he looked under every oxcart, he poked at every dung heap. She couldn’t be far away. It was impossible that she had escaped him.

He heard a noise, and above him someone opened a window. The devil pressed against the wall of the house. In his black coat he was almost invisible in the night. A stream of urine poured into the street close by, then the window shut again. The devil pulled his coat closer around him and continued his search.

In the distance shouts could be heard, but they did not concern him. They were all about the woman they had put in prison. He heard they believed that the woman had summoned him. He couldn’t help smiling. What a thing to imagine. What did the witch look like? Well, he’d get to see her soon, no doubt. First he had to make sure that he got his money. He was hoping that the others had been doing good work out there while he was tidying up here. He spat. Again they had left the dirty work to him. Or had he wished for it himself? Shadows appeared in his field of vision, bloody shapes, terrible images…Screaming women with gaping holes where breasts should have been, babies dashed to pieces like toys on the burnt remains of walls, headless priests in bloodstained cassocks.

He brushed away the images with his hand and put his cool bony fingers on his brow. That did him good. The images vanished. The devil marched on.

Up on top of the Küh Gate he saw the guard dozing. He was leaning on his lance and staring out into the night. He could hear a soft, snoring sound.

Then he saw the neglected garden near the Küh Gate. The fence had collapsed, the building behind was a ruin left over from the last days of the war. In the garden ivy and knotweed crept up the town wall. There, almost hidden by the leaves, a ladder was leaning. The devil jumped over the remains of the fence and looked at the ground beneath the wall. It was just past the full moon and there was sufficient light to see prints in the damp earth. Children’s footprints. The devil bent down and inhaled the scent of the earth.

She had gotten away from him.

Though the ladder was not well attached, he was able to climb it nimbly, like a cat. At the top, a ledge, an arm’s length wide, ran along the town wall. He looked to the left, from where the snoring of the night watchman could still be heard. He turned to the right and ran along the ledge, where battlements with arrow slits appeared at regular intervals. After about a hundred yards he suddenly stopped and then went back a few paces. He was not mistaken.

Next to one of the arrow slits some of the stones in the wall had been broken out, so that the hole was three times as big as before.

Big enough for a child.

On the other side, the branch of an oak tree stretched out to the wall. One or two of the twigs had been freshly broken off. The devil put his head through the hole, sniffing the cool April air.

He would seek her and find her. Perhaps then the pictures in his mind would go away.

CHAPTER
7

F
RIDAY
A
PRIL
27,
A.D
. 1659
F
IVE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

I
T WAS A COLD MORNING, AND A THIN LAYER OF
hoarfrost covered the meadows around the town. Dense fog was billowing from the river. The matins bell was sounding from the Church of the Assumption. Though it was still early, some peasants were already working the brown fields that lay above town in a checkerboard pattern. Bending low, they dragged their plows and harrows across the soil, which was still half frozen. Small clouds of white vapor were expelled from their mouths at every breath. Several of the peasants had hitched oxen to their carts and were prodding them along, swearing loudly. Some merchants had arrived early and were moving toward the Lech and Küh gates with their carts, which were piled with crates containing honking geese and squealing piglets. Tired wagon drivers were fastening a dozen barrels on a raft down near the bridge. It was five o’clock, the gates to the city were open again, and the town was slowly coming to life.

Jakob Kuisl was standing in front of his house outside the town walls, watching the hustle and bustle of the morning. He was swaying slightly, and his throat was on fire. One more time he lifted the tankard to his parched lips, only to notice again that it was empty. Swearing softly, he hurled it onto the dung heap so that the chickens fluttered up in a panic, cackling despite the early hour.

With heavy feet the hangman plodded the thirty yards down to the pond. On the edge of the rushes, he stripped off his hose and doublet. Standing at the water’s edge shivering, he took a short breath, then jumped off the wooden pier without further hesitation. The cold pricked him like needles. For a moment he was entirely numb. But at the same time it made him think clearly again. After a few vigorous strokes, the numb feeling in his head subsided, and the tiredness gave way to a refreshed and clear sensation. He knew that this sensation would be short-lived and soon followed by a leaden tiredness, but it could be counteracted with further drinking.

Jakob Kuisl had been drinking heavily all night. He had started off on wine and beer, then in the wee hours had moved on to brandy. Several times his head had dropped onto the table, but time and again he had straightened up and raised the mug to his lips. Occasionally, Anna Maria Kuisl had peeked into the smoke-filled kitchen, but she knew that she couldn’t help her husband. These excesses occurred at regular intervals. Complaining was pointless: it would only have made him angrier and prodded him to drink even more heavily. So she let him have his way, as she knew that it too would pass. As the hangman always drank alone, most burghers weren’t even aware of his periodic drunkenness. Anna Maria Kuisl, however, could predict with some accuracy when it would happen again. It was worst when an execution or a torturing was coming up. Then he sometimes screamed deliriously and his fingernails clawed the table, while his brain was swept by nightmares.

Jakob Kuisl was tall, and so he could hold his drink rather well. Yet this time there seemed to be no way of getting rid of the alcohol. As he swam across the small duck pond once again, he realized how his fear was getting the better of him. He pulled himself up on the wooden pier, hurriedly put on his clothes, and headed for his house.

In the kitchen, he searched the cupboards for something to drink. When he found nothing there, he went to his apothecary cabinet in the room next door. On the top left shelf of the six-foot cupboard he discovered a vial that held a shining, bilious green liquid. Kuisl grinned. He knew that for the most part his cough syrup consisted of alcohol. The added herbs could only help him in his present state. The opium poppy in particular would have a soothing effect. The hangman tipped his head backward and let the liquid drip onto his tongue. He wanted to taste every drop of the potent brew.

When he heard the creaking of the kitchen door, he froze. His wife was standing there, sleepily rubbing her eyes.

“Drinking again?” she asked. “Wouldn’t you rather stop now—”

“Leave me alone, woman. I’ll need it.”

He lifted the little bottle again and emptied it in one swig.

Then he wiped his mouth and stepped out into the kitchen. He reached for the heel of bread on the table. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday noon.

“You have to go to see the Stechlin woman?” asked Anna Maria, who was well aware of the hard task that her husband faced.

The hangman shook his head. “Not yet,” he said with his mouth full. “Not before noon. First the bigwigs have to discuss what to do on account of what happened to the Stadel. You see, there are others to be interrogated now too.”

“And those you’re also going to have to—”

He laughed dryly. “I don’t really think they’ll put the branding iron to one of the Fugger wagoners. And as for Georg Riegg—everyone knows him here, and he has his cronies.”

Anna Maria sighed. “Yes, it’s always the poor people who suffer.”

Angrily, the hangman slammed his fist on the table, so that the beer tankards and the wineglasses tottered dangerously. “It’s the wrong people that suffer, not the poor. The wrong ones!”

His wife stepped behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. “You can’t change it, Jakob. Just let it be,” she said.

He pushed Anna Maria’s arms off and began to pace back and forth in the narrow room. He had been racking his brains all night about how he might avoid the inevitable. But nothing had occurred to him. The alcohol had made his thoughts slow and clumsy. There was no way out; after the twelve o’clock bell he’d have to start torturing Martha Stechlin. If he didn’t go, he would be relieved of his office and banned from the town along with his family. He’d have to earn his living as an itinerant barber, or a beggar.

On the other hand…Martha Stechlin had brought his children into the world, and he was convinced that she was innocent. How could he torture this woman?

He finally stopped pacing in front of his apothecary’s cupboard. The chest next to it, where he kept his most valuable books, was open. On the very top there lay a yellowed, worn copy of the book about herbs by the Greek physician Dioscorides, an ancient work, which, however, was still useful. On a sudden impulse, he reached for the book and began leafing through it. As so often, he felt admiration for the exact drawings and precise descriptions of many hundreds of plants. Each leaf and stem was perfectly described.

Suddenly, as his fingers scanned a few lines, he stopped, mumbled to himself, then finally a grin passed over his face. Grabbing his overcoat, hat, and knapsack, he hurried out.

“Where are you going?” his wife called as he left. “At least take a piece of bread with you!”

“I can’t right now,” he called back from the yard. “Time is pressing! Stoke the fire; I’ll be back soon.”

“But Jakob…”

Yet her husband didn’t seem to hear her. At this very moment Magdalena was coming down the stairs with the twins. Barbara and Georg were yawning. Their father’s shouting and banging about had awakened them and now they were hungry.

“Where is Father going?” Magdalena asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Anna Maria Kuisl shook her head. “I don’t know. I really don’t know,” she said, pouring milk for the small children into a saucepan on the fire. “He was looking through his book on herbs, and then he ran off like he’d been stung by a bee. It’s got to have something to do with the Stechlin woman.”

“With the Stechlin woman?” Suddenly Magdalena was wide awake. She watched as her father disappeared behind the willows down by the pond, then snatched the last heel of bread from the table and ran after him.

“Magdalena, stay here!” her mother called. But when she saw her daughter running full speed toward the pond, she just shook her head and went back in, to the children.

“Just like her father,” she mumbled. “I hope it won’t all end in disaster…”

Simon was awakened by a knock at his bedroom door. Something had been bothering him all night and now, opening his eyes, he realized that it was no dream, but reality. He turned to the window and could see that outside dawn was breaking. Drowsily, he rubbed his eyes. Usually he slept at least until the eight o’clock bell and wasn’t used to being awakened that early.

“What’s the matter?” he grumbled, turning to the door.

“It’s me, your father! Open the door; we’ve got to talk.”

Simon sighed. Once his father had set his mind on something, it was difficult to stop him.

“Just a moment!” he shouted. He sat up on the edge of the bed, brushed the strands of hair from his face, and tried to gather his thoughts.

After yesterday’s riot he had walked home with Jakob Schreevogl. The young alderman had needed someone to comfort him and listen to him. Well into the wee hours he’d been telling Simon about Clara, about her kind, affectionate nature, and how she was so attentive and eager to learn, much more so than her often lazy foster siblings. Simon had almost gotten the impression that Jakob Schreevogl was fonder of his ward Clara than of his own biological children.

Maria Schreevogl had been given a strong sleeping potion and a large dose of brandy by the young physician, and she had soon gone to bed. Simon had assured her that Clara was certain to return soon.

The rest of the brandy had found its way into the throats of Simon and Jakob Schreevogl. In the end, the alderman had told him everything about himself, about his worries over his wife, who was often silent and bitter, and about his fear that he wouldn’t be able to profitably continue the business of his father, who had recently died. Old Schreevogl had been known as an odd bird but also as a thrifty and shrewd man who had had his men well in line. It was never easy to step into the shoes of such a father, especially when one was barely thirty years old. Old Schreevogl had worked his way up from rags to riches. The other members of the stovemakers’ guild had always envied him for his rapid success. Now they were closely watching his son. One mistake, and they’d swoop down on him like vultures.

Just before the old man’s sudden death—he had died of a fever—Jakob had had a falling-out with his father. It had been over a trifle, a cartload of tiles that had been burned, but the quarrel had been so intense that Ferdinand Schreevogl had changed his will and given his property on the Hohenfurch Road, where Schreevogl junior had already planned to build a second kiln, to the church. On his deathbed, the old man had wanted to whisper something into his ear. But the mumbling had turned into a final cough. A cough or a laugh.

Jakob Schreevogl still wasn’t sure what his father’s final words were to this world.

Memories of the previous night were circling in Simon’s head, which was painfully throbbing from the alcohol. He was going to need a cup of coffee, and soon. The question was, would his father give him time for that?

Right now he was knocking again.

“Coming!” shouted Simon, slipping into his hose and buttoning his doublet. Hurrying to the door he stumbled over the full chamber pot, spilling its contents over the floorboards. Swearing and with soaked toes, he pulled back the latch. The door flew open and hit him on the head.

“At last! Why on earth did you lock the door?” his father said, rushing into Simon’s room. His gaze fell on the books on the desk.

“Where did you get these?”

Simon held his aching head. Then he sat down on the bed to put on his boots. “You don’t really want to know,” he muttered.

He knew that in his father’s eyes all those works that he borrowed from the hangman were considered to be the work of the devil. It didn’t help at all that the author of the book lying open on top of the stack was a Jesuit. Athanasius Kirchner was as unknown to Bonifaz Fronwieser as were Sanctorius and Ambroise Paré. Even here in Schongau the old man remained a field surgeon whose knowledge was based only upon his experience with those injured in the war. Simon remembered how his father used to pour boiling oil into gunshot wounds and administered a bottle of brandy to relieve the pain. The screams of the soldiers had followed him through his entire childhood—the screams and the rigid bodies that Simon Fronwieser dragged from the tent the next day and covered with lime for burial.

Without paying further attention to his father, Simon hastened downstairs to the kitchen. Hastily he reached for the pot by the fireplace, which still held some cold coffee from the previous day. The first sip revived him. Simon couldn’t imagine how he used to cope without coffee. A glorious brew, a true devil’s nectar, he thought. Bitter and invigorating. He had heard from travelers that across the Alps, in Venice and in elegant Paris, certain inns already served coffee. Simon sighed. It would take centuries for Schongau to get that far.

His father stomped down the stairs.

“We have to talk,” he exclaimed. “Lechner was here yesterday.”

“The clerk?”

Simon set down the clay beaker and looked at his father with interest. “Whatever did he want?”

“He has noticed that you’re meeting with the young Schreevogl. And that you dig up things that are none of your business. He says stay away from that. It won’t do any good.”

“You don’t say.” Simon sipped his coffee.

His father wouldn’t let up.

“It was the Stechlin woman, and that’s that, Lechner says.”

Old Fronwieser sat down beside him on the bench in front of the fireplace. The cinders were cold. Simon could smell his father’s foul breath.

“Listen,” said Bonifaz Fronwieser. “I’ll be honest with you. You know that we are not respected burghers in this town. We aren’t even really welcome here. We are tolerated, and that’s only because the last physician died during the plague and the academic quacks prefer to stay far off in Munich and Augsburg. Lechner can kick us out on a whim. He can and he will, unless you shut up. You and the hangman. Don’t put your livelihood at stake on account of a witch!”