The Poisoned Pilgrim: A Hangman's Daughter Tale (4 page)

Kuisl eyed his wife with concern. Recent years had left their mark on her. She was approaching fifty, and though she was still a beautiful woman, her face was deeply furrowed. Her black hair, once so shiny, had become dull and interspersed with strands of gray. With only her pale head sticking out from under the blankets, she reminded Jakob of a white rose beginning to wither after a long summer.

“Try to sleep a bit, Anna,” the hangman said gently. “Sleep is still the best medicine.”

“Sleep? How?” She laughed softly, but the laugh quickly turned into a coughing fit. “You run around shouting so much, it’s practically a sacrilege,” she gasped finally. “In the meantime, the two little ones knock our stoneware pots from the shelves if you’re not right there to keep an eye on them. Of course, the master of the house never sees that sort of thing.”

“What the devil—”

And in fact, little Peter had climbed up onto a bench by the stove while Kuisl wasn’t looking, and at that moment was pulling himself up on the rough pine shelves, reaching for a jar of last autumn’s preserves. The jar slipped from his hands and landed on the ground with a crash, spilling its contents all over the floor. The hangman’s house looked like the scene of a botched execution.

“Look, Grandpa, there’s blood.” Wide-eyed, Peter pointed to
the mess on the floor, then finally stuck his finger in it and sucked on it. “Good blood.”

Kuisl clapped his hands over his head and let out another curse. Then he grabbed the two loudly protesting troublemakers by the scruff of the neck and carried them out into the yard. Once the door slammed closed, the hangman started picking the cherries up from the floor, getting the gooey mess all over him in the process.

“Let’s hope they both fall in the well,” he grumbled. “Damned hoodlums.”

“You mustn’t say things like that,” his wife replied from the bed. “Magdalena and Simon would never forgive us if something happened to the little ones.”

“Magdalena and Simon,” Kuisl spat noisily into the reeds on the floor. “I don’t want to even hear about them. Why do the two of them have to hang around the Holy Mountain? For a whole week!” He shook his head and wiped his hands on his worn leather apron. “Two rosaries in the Altenstadt basilica would have been enough. One for each of the brats.”

“The Dear Lord meant only the best for us, and we should thank him,” his wife scolded. “It wouldn’t hurt you to go on a pilgrimage, either, what with all the blood on your hands from the people you’ve executed.”

“If it’s on my hands, then it’s also on the hands of every one of the goddamned Schongau aldermen,” Kuisl grumbled. “Until now I’ve always been good enough to hang the thieves and murderers.”

“You’ll have to clear that with your Savior.” Anna-Maria coughed again and closed her eyes wearily. “I don’t feel well enough today to fight with you.”

Suddenly, footsteps could be heard outside, and then a loud pounding on the door. Kuisl opened it and found the midwife Martha Stechlin standing there holding the whining children, one in each hand.

“Are you out of your mind, Kuisl? I found these two down by the moat…” she started to say. Then her gaze fell on the hangman’s spotted red shirt and she let out a scream. “My God,” she cried. “Are you killing people now in their own homes?”

“Nonsense.” Embarrassed, the hangman ran a hand through his black hair, which was just beginning to gray. “It’s just cherry juice. The two brats knocked the jar over, and I threw them out of the house.”

Martha laughed briefly, but then frowned. “You mustn’t leave the children outside alone,” she scolded. “Think of Huber’s boy who drowned in the Lech this spring. And little Hans, the Altenstadt tavernkeeper’s son, who broke all his bones recently when he was run over by a carriage. Why do you men always have to be so thickheaded? Idiots!”

Kuisl closed his eyes and groaned softly. Martha was, along with his wife and his daughter, the only person who could speak this way to the Schongau hangman. Usually the midwife brought the hangman a few herbs when she stopped by and, in return, took some crushed thornapple or a few ounces of human fat for her patients, or she leafed through Kuisl’s books of medicine. The hangman’s medical library and his expertise in healing were known far and wide.

“Is that the only reason you came?” Kuisl groused at Martha, with a furious look. “To holler at me like an old washerwoman?”

“Jackass! I’m here because of your wife, why else?” She pushed the two crying boys out of the room and took a worn leather pouch from her skirt. “I’ve brought along clubmoss, yarrow, and St. John’s wort to reduce her fever.”

“I have St. John’s wort myself,” the hangman said. “But, please, go ahead—help is always welcome.”

He moved to the side so Martha could enter the bedroom where Anna-Maria was laid out with closed eyes. Evidently she had fallen asleep again. While the midwife cooled her patient’s
fevered face, she turned to Jakob. “Where are your two older children? Barbara at least could watch her nephews.”

Grumbling, the hangman sat back down at the table and continued crushing the herbs in the mortar. His movements were smooth and even. “I sent Barbara to the forest to gather some melissa,” he said. “Good Lord, my wife is not the only one in town with the fever. People are pestering me to death. And Georg is out cleaning the wagon used for carrying the prisoners to the gallows. It’s filthy and covered with blood.” Kuisl rubbed a few dry herbs between his callused fingers and dropped them carefully into the mortar. “In any case, that’s what he’s supposed to be doing. If I catch the kid hanging around down by the Lech again, there’ll be a whipping he won’t forget for a long time.”

Martha smiled serenely. “Oh, Jakob,” she replied. “The lad is thirteen; at that age he has other things on his mind than sweeping and polishing. Think back on when you were a child. What did you do when you were thirteen?”

“I went to war and slit open the bellies of Swedish soldiers. I had no time for nonsense.”

There was an awkward pause in which no one said anything.

“Even so, you really shouldn’t leave your grandchildren outside by themselves,” Martha finally said. “Down by the pond, I saw two of Berchtholdt’s boys hanging around. If I were you, I’d be a bit more careful.”

Sullenly resuming his work, Kuisl pushed the heavy pestle into the mortar. “What do you mean by that?”

“What do I mean?” Martha chuckled. “You know only too well. Ever since you caught the eldest Berchtholdt boy with the sacks of grain at the Stadl warehouse a few weeks ago, they’ve sworn bloody revenge.”

“I only told him that wasn’t his grain and to please keep his hands off it.”

“And for that you had to break two of his fingers?”

The hangman grinned. “That will help the little bastard remember it, at least. If I’d told the city council, the aldermen would have had him whipped and made him wear the shrew’s fiddle. Basically, by doing what I did, I missed my chance to collect a reward.”

Martha sighed. “All right, then. But in any case, you should watch out, at least for the children’s sake.” She looked at him very seriously. “I’ve looked these fellows in the eye, Jakob, and they’re as evil as Lucifer.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” The hangman pounded the mortar so hard with his pestle that his two grandchildren, who were playing, looked up in shock. They knew their grandfather, and knew he could get loud and angry. Now that he seemed especially irritated, it would be best for them to keep quiet.

“Bastards, all of them, these Berchtholdts,” Kuisl said. “Just because their father sat on the city council as the master baker until he died, they think they can do anything they want. People like us have to haul the garbage from the streets and be nice and keep our mouths shut. If I catch that Berchtholdt punk down in the Stadl again, I’ll break not just two fingers but both hands. And if he touches my grandkids…” His voice faltered. The hangman clenched his hands into fists and cracked his knuckles while his grandchildren stared up at him silently.

“If the Berchtholdts even harm a hair on the head of my grandkids,” he continued, his voice as sharp as a razorblade, “then, as sure as my name’s Jakob Kuisl, I’ll smash their bones on my wheel one at a time, slit open their bellies, and hang their guts out the window of the Schongau Tower.”

When he noticed the wide, anxious eyes of the two boys, a kind smile spread over his face. “And which of you scaredy cats wants to play piggyback now with his grandfather?”

Simon was awakened by coughing alongside him. When he turned around on the prickly, flea-infested bed of straw, he saw Magdalena wiping her pale face with the back of her hand.

“Damned bellyache,” the hangman’s daughter groaned. “My stomach has been queasy for days.” She tried to get up but collapsed again, moaning, on the bench by the stove. “And I feel a bit dizzy, too.”

“That’s no surprise with all the smoke in here.” Simon coughed and squinted at the door. It was ajar, and black clouds of smoke were coming through the cracks. “Your lousy cousin can’t even afford a decent tile stove. Why do we have to spend the night with this miserable horse butcher? Just because he happens to be a cousin of your father?”

“Shh!” Magdalena put her finger to her lips as Michael Graetz entered the room. The Erling knacker was a skinny, consumptive man whom no one would suspect was even remotely related to the robust hangman of Schongau. His shirt was torn and stained with soot, his beard unkempt, and his teeth shone in his cadaverous face like pieces of black coal. Only his eyes sparkled genially as he held out two steaming bowls to his guests.

“Here, eat,” he mumbled, venturing a wry smile. “Barley porridge sweetened with honey and dried pears. We have it only on holidays and when my dear aunt comes to visit.”

“Thank you, Michael. But I don’t think I can get any food into me this early in the morning.” Shivering, Magdalena took the bowl to warm her hands. It was just after sunrise, and outside the opened shutters fog was rising from the forest floor. Somewhere nearby a goat was bleating. Though summer had arrived, the hangman’s daughter was quivering.

“This is the coldest damn June I can remember,” she complained.

Her cousin eyed her anxiously. “It may be cold, but from the way you look, I’d say the cold comes from inside.” He quickly
crossed himself. “Let’s hope you haven’t caught that damned fever that’s plaguing this area now. The Grim Reaper already took two Erling farmers and a maid from Machtlfing this summer.”

“Oh, come now,” Simon scolded. “Magdalena has a stomachache, nothing more. A little anise and silverweed will get her back on her feet again.”

The medicus glanced furtively at his wife, who had crawled back under the thin, torn blanket. The three had slept together in the same room—the horse butcher on the hard bench, Magdalena and Simon on the rickety couch in the niche by the stove. Lost in thought, Simon dished out a spoonful of the steaming porridge and sent a silent prayer to heaven. Michael Graetz was right. Magdalena had looked pale for days, and she had dark rings under her eyes. He could only hope she wasn’t really coming down with a fever. The medicus knew from his own experience that people who complained of a simple cold in the morning could be near death by nightfall.

“I’ll make something for you to drink,” Simon said, partially to reassure himself as he took another spoonful of the porridge. It tasted amazingly good, as sweet and rich as an expensive dessert for pampered councilors. “Some medicine from anise, camomile, and perhaps a bit of bloodroot…” he mumbled. He looked around the room that occupied almost the entire first floor of the house. There was a rickety table, two stools, a bed, an old trunk, and a crooked homemade cross in the corner.

“I assume you don’t have those herbs here in the house, do you?” Simon asked hesitantly. “Dried perhaps, or crushed into powder?”

Michael Graetz shook his head. “I have some chamomile growing in my garden, but the rest…” He shrugged. “Ever since my wife and my two dear children died of the Plague three years ago, I’ve been all alone in the house. I skin the dead cows and horses and take the hides to the tanner down in
Herrsching on Lake Ammer. It’s a long, steep way, and I don’t have time to plant more than a few carrots and cabbages behind the house.”

“Don’t worry,” Magdalena said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll sit outside on the bench in the sun and—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Simon interrupted. “You’ll stay right here in bed while I go and get some herbs. The only question is…” His face brightened. “Of course, that ugly monk we saw last night. Didn’t he say he was out gathering herbs? I’ll go over to the monastery and ask him. I need a few other herbs, in any case. Andre Losch has a bad cough, and Lukas in Altenstadt can’t get his hand to heal.” He took another quick spoonful of the tasty porridge. Then, smoothing his rumpled clothing, he headed for the door.

“Just don’t try to get up.” Simon raised his finger with feigned severity. “You can come over to the monastery later. Just be glad you have a bathhouse surgeon caring for you free of charge.”

“All right, fine, Mr. Bathhouse Surgeon.” Magdalena lay back down on the bed, exhausted. “And while you’re out, bring a little rosemary and some fresh reeds for the floor. This room stinks like the inside of a dead horse. It’s no wonder I feel ill.”

The sun was just rising over the forest in Kien Valley as Simon left the knacker’s house. Dew was rising on the meadows around Erling, and the day promised to be pleasantly warm. In the fields, farmers with scythes were harvesting the meager winter barley.

Simon buttoned his vest and trudged along the narrow path, still muddy from last night’s rain, that led from the forest to the village. So far, the year had been much too cold; there had been frost as late as May. In the last few weeks, a number of storms brought torrential rain and hail across the Alpine foothills, flattening what little grain remained. Men prayed to God for drier
weather in the coming months. Only those whose granaries were filled could expect to survive the coming winter.

The path passed behind a barn by the edge of town and then ascended steeply to the monastery. Behind a low wall was a huge complex of all kinds of buildings. On the right, some granaries were surrounded by apple and plum trees, while on the other side of the wide, muddy street were some low wooden houses with thick white smoke billowing out of their chimneys. In an open shed nearby, a blacksmith hammered loudly on an anvil. Beyond that were a low-lying bakery that smelled of fresh bread, a whitewashed tavern, and a large, multistoried stone building—until finally the walls of the inner monastery appeared: a labyrinth of nooks and crannies with the church towering up in the center.