The Werewolf of Bamberg (44 page)

“Once I unlock the door,” Bartholomäus warned his two companions in a low voice, “you’ll have to work fast. The guardhouse is over on the right, behind the gate, and it’s quite possible the guards are still around. The next building on the street is the Chapel of St. Thomas, and that’s where we have to enter. Are you ready?”

Magdalena and her father nodded, and Bartholomäus silently entered through the small gate.

Sebastian Harsee’s fingers dug like claws into Simon’s arms, and his face was only a hand’s breadth away. With madness in his eyes, he glowered at Simon as the spittle dripped in long strings from his teeth. Simon struggled to keep his distance from the crazed bishop. Was he mistaken, or were Harsee’s teeth in fact longer than before? Perhaps it was just that the muscles in his face were in spasm and his lips contorted in a horrible grin.

That must be it,
Simon thought.
There must be some logical explanation. Or is this perhaps a nightmare? Was Barbara’s appearance on the stage just a hallucination?

Once more the suffragan bishop let out a ghastly howl. He seemed to be trying to seize Simon, who finally managed to pull himself free of the quivering creature, gasping, as what almost looked like a magical circle formed around them. Behind Simon, people were shouting and screaming, frantically trying to escape through the narrow entranceway into the courtyard, and somewhere there was the sound of a window breaking. He grabbed hold of one of the chairs, stood up, and tried to catch his breath.

Not until then was Simon able to think through everything that had happened. Until just a short while ago, he’d been standing up in the gallery of the Geyerswörth dance hall with Samuel, staring in disbelief at his fifteen-year-old sister-in-law in her debut performance as an actress. He had to admit that Barbara was excellent in her role, though they could never allow her father to hear about this activity. And right in the middle of the thunderous applause, the suffragan bishop had collapsed. Simon had rushed forward with Samuel to help, and then his worst fears were realized. Sebastian Harsee had turned into a werewolf!

“My God, who would ever have thought this possible?” asked Philipp Rieneck, pointing with a trembling finger at Harsee, who was still convulsing on the floor. “Dear Brother Sebastian is himself a werewolf. Holy Mary, help! Who else in Bamberg has the devil taken away?”

He looked around in a panic as half-crazed citizens, clerics, and courtiers ran screaming past him.

“Guards, guards, over here!” Rieneck shouted shrilly. “Help your monarch!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon could see his friend Samuel stuck in the crowd, desperately trying to make his way to him. Further behind, Martin Lebrecht, captain of the city guards, appeared with sword drawn, accompanied by two anxious-looking guards.

“Here is the werewolf!” Rieneck shouted. “Come here, quickly! Kill him!”

At the same moment, Sebastian Harsee began to howl again and froth at the mouth, which made his lips look more and more like those of a wild beast. He tried to stand up but couldn’t. Panting and twitching, the suffragan bishop lay on the floor, groaning like a dying animal.

“Doctor, Doctor, do something,” shouted Johann von Schönborn, standing petrified beside his colleague. “Whatever is wrong with this man, he urgently needs your help.”

“He doesn’t need any help—he’s a werewolf!” Rieneck shrieked. “Quick, Captain, get rid of him before he can destroy any others.”

In the meantime, Samuel had succeeded in getting to the howling suffragan bishop, but so had Martin Lebrecht. The captain of the guard raised his sword and was about to strike, but Samuel held him back.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Can’t you see he no longer poses any danger?”

In fact, Harsee’s convulsions had diminished. He struggled so hard to sit up one more time that Simon feared he might break his back—then he finally fell silent. The wound on his head, evidently caused by his fall, was no longer bleeding so hard.

“Is he dead?” Philipp Rieneck asked anxiously after a few moments.

Carefully, Samuel leaned down to the sick man and listened to his chest. He shook his head.

“It looks like he’s lost consciousness, though his eyes are wide open. So it could also be a spasm, and he’d be able to hear everything around him just as if he were fully awake.”

“What a dreadful thing,” Simon whispered.

In the meantime, the theater had emptied out, broken shards of glass and crockery lay all around, the curtain in front of the stage was torn, and the actors had all vanished. Through the broken windows, excited voices and the shouts of the city guards could be heard coming from the courtyard below.

Bishop Johann von Schönborn turned to Martin Lebrecht, who had put his sword back in its sheath.

“It appears you will no longer be needed here,” said the Würzburg bishop, who, in contrast to his colleagues, had settled down somewhat. “It would be best for you to go outside and calm people down.”

“At your command, Your Excellency.”

Lebrecht saluted, then withdrew with the two visibly relieved guards and headed down to the courtyard. Once all the men had left, Philipp Rieneck turned to his colleagues and addressed them in a trembling voice.

“For a long time now,” he began hesitantly, “I’ve had my doubts about these werewolf stories and thought it was about time for good Brother Sebastian to get hold of himself. I didn’t stop him because . . . because . . .” He fell silent.

Because you don’t give a damn about this city,
Simon thought.
The only thing you care about is your menagerie and your mistresses.

“But I must confess that Brother Sebastian was right,” Rieneck finally continued in a firm voice. “And what’s worse, this werewolf seems able to turn even honorable people into werewolves.” He shuddered with horror. “If he can take away my God-fearing suffragan bishop, he can even take me . . . and . . . you, too.”

He pointed at Johann Schönborn, who frowned and stepped back a pace, as if fearing that the pure terror that had seized his colleague might be contagious.

“I’ll admit I don’t have any explanation for this, myself,” said Schönborn, shaking his head and pointing at the paralyzed body of the suffragan bishop, whose wide-open eyes were still staring blankly into space. “Only the learned doctors can help us here. What do you think, Master Samuel?”

“It’s surely too early for a definitive diagnosis,” replied Samuel, still kneeling next to the sick bishop and checking his breathing and heartbeat. “But judging from the way the suffragan bishop was twitching and thrashing about, it could be epilepsy, or perhaps these spasms can be attributed to St. Vitus’s dance.”

“Do you think Harsee has caught St. Anthony’s fire?” Simon asked.

The medicus had seen that illness many years ago in Regensburg. A bluish mushroom that sometimes grew on grain could cause hallucinations, spasms, and sometimes paralysis that could lead to death. Simon looked down in horror at the contorted face of the suffragan bishop, who seemed to be staring back up at him.

“St. Vitus’s dance can have many causes,” Samuel explained, “including angel’s trumpet and other magical herbs. Sometimes people dance around in a religious ecstasy, but some people say the twitching comes from a spider bite, for example, from a tarantula—”

“The wound on his neck,” Simon interrupted excitedly. “Do you remember? Could that be a spider bite?”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Samuel pulled down Harsee’s robe at the collar and took another look at the wound with the red halo. “No doubt it’s a bite,” he said with a frown, “but for a spider it’s really too big, and besides, there are no tarantulas here. As far as I know, they are found much farther south, in southern Italy.”

“Aha, then he was no doubt bitten by a werewolf,” Rieneck cried out. “Did you see Brother Sebastian’s teeth? They were pointed and long. And foam was dripping from them onto the ground.”

“That can be caused by cramps,” Samuel assured him, “which distend facial skin, giving the impression that the victim has long teeth.” He stood up and wiped his hands on his jacket. “I can’t tell you any more now, but we should keep a close eye on him.” He shrugged and turned to Simon. “Can you help me take care of him?”

Simon had gone to fetch a jug of wine and a piece of fabric from the theater curtain to wash Harsee’s head wound and apply a temporary dressing. As he approached the sick man with the jug, something strange happened. Suddenly the suffragan bishop once again started quivering, tossing his head back and forth, and rearing up as if the very sight of the wine was painful to him.

“See! A sign,” Philipp Rieneck said. “He is terrified on seeing the blood of our Savior. Sprinkle him with holy water so he will lose his power. With witches that’s supposed to be a surefire method.”

Now Johann Schönborn also seemed uncertain. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he mumbled. “Perhaps we really ought to try using holy water.”

“Nonsense.” Samuel’s voice was so low that the bishops couldn’t hear him, but he turned to Simon, frowning.

“I must admit this is strange,” he said softly. “As I told you, he refused to drink anything yesterday.”

“Indeed.” Simon nodded, thinking. “He wouldn’t drink a thing, and for that reason I don’t believe he went into convulsions on account of the blood of our Savior. See for yourself.” He looked around until he found a half-filled jug of beer and approached the sick man, who once again started to quiver and writhe around. After a while, Simon put the jug down again and turned to the two astonished bishops.

“Since transubstantiation and communion has never taken place with beer, I can only assume that he’ll react that way toward any kind of liquid.” He smiled wryly. “It appears he would react that way even if it was apple juice.”

“But why?” asked Johann Schönborn, shaking his head. “This is all very mysterious.” He turned to Samuel and looked at him sternly.

“Before the performance, you said you had certain suspicions concerning this werewolf. I think it’s time for an explanation, my dear Doctor.”

Samuel took a deep breath. “Well, it seems that . . . ,” he began hesitantly, “some of the, uh . . . literature suggests that—”

At that moment there was a loud clap of thunder and then shouts of terror from the crowd out in the courtyard. Prince-Bishop Philipp Voit von Rieneck fell to his knees and folded his hands in prayer.

“Holy Mother of God!” he wailed. “Now we’ve angered the heavens as well with your heretical scholarly words. Will this madness ever cease?”

Up in the old castle, three other guards experienced the worst nightmares of their lives that night.

Outside it was cold and damp, and the guards had decided to while away the hours of their shift in a friendly game of dice in the guardhouse. The captain was down below in Geyerswörth Castle, and the second in command had the job of guarding the bishop’s palace. So who was there to tell them they couldn’t enjoy one or two little games and a well-deserved beer?

“Here’s to fat Jonas and the kid, freezing their asses off out at the gate,” said red-haired Josef with a grin, lifting his mug. Earlier, he’d been able to get hold of a keg of strong, malt-flavored Märzen beer. “Brrr, on a night like this I’m glad at least I didn’t pull guard duty down in the cathedral square.”

“Do you think there’s really a werewolf prowling around out there?” asked the second guard, a pale, pasty-faced fellow whose eyes kept flitting anxiously back and forth.

“Hah, I’ll bet you’re shitting in your pants, Eberhard.” With a loud laugh, Josef wiped the beer foam from his lips. “Haven’t you heard? We have the werewolf in custody, and he won’t attack anyone now.” He lowered his voice. “But just between us, if you ask me, this fellow in St. Thomas’s is no werewolf. Just look at him—such a wimp, crying his eyes out and praying to all the saints. And you think that’s a werewolf? I’ll eat my dick if—”

He stopped short on hearing a sharp knock at the door.

“I hope to hell that isn’t the captain checking things out,” grumbled Manfred, who, as the eldest, was in charge. A former mercenary in the Great War, Manfred had known some tough taskmasters, and Captain Martin Lebrecht, though considered very cordial, was known to be a snoop. He had this special unit you could be assigned to at any time . . .