The Poisoned Pilgrim: A Hangman's Daughter Tale (7 page)

“I think the whole thing is just imaginations running wild,” Brother Johannes interrupted for the first time. “Believe me, Your Excellency, I’ve seen many corpses, and—”

“I know you’ve seen many corpses, my dear Brother,” the abbot interrupted. “
Too
many, if you ask me…” he added ominously. “In addition, you’ve been involved with some troubling things, Brother Johannes. The rumors concerning the lightning strike and your gluttonous behavior during the time of fasting, to say nothing of the eternal arguments with Brother Virgilius. Is it true, as I have heard, that there were harsh words between the two of you just today?”

“How do you know…” Brother Johannes burst out. Then his shoulders sank, and he continued in a meek voice. “Very well, it’s true. We argued, but it was a… scholarly dispute, technical really, and nothing serious.”

“Scholarly?” The abbot grinned. “Remember your place, Brother. You are our apothecary, nothing more. Heal the sick and make sure that no more of your patients die. That’s all I ask of you. Leave scholarly issues to the scholars.” He turned back to Simon. “And now to you, bathhouse surgeon. You seem to understand something about human anatomy, perhaps even more than Brother Johannes. And why wouldn’t you?” Maurus Rambeck rocked his head from side to side as if trying to decide what to do. Finally he nodded. “I’d be pleased if you’d write a short report about this incident. By tomorrow morning, let’s say? Cause of death, wounds, and so forth, something for our files if we actually have to call upon the judge from the district court. And naturally we will pay you for that.” He winked, and Simon thought he noticed a touch of mockery in his eyes. “And of course you should also pay a visit to this mysterious pond,” he continued. “Or whatever you wish to do—it’s up to you. After that, I’ll
decide how to proceed. And now, I wish you a good day.” Maurus Rambeck pointed at the tattered book in front of him. “This Hebrew manuscript about healing herbs in ancient Egypt is most enlightening. I’d like to prepare a translation of it today. In peace and quiet.” With a sigh, he looked out the window where the occasional pealing bells could still be heard. “And dear Brother Johannes, please find out why there’s all that nerve-racking ringing out there. It sounds almost as if the Swedes were at our gates again.”

“As you wish, Your Excellency,” Brother Johannes mumbled. “I will check at once to see that everything’s in order.” He bowed and took leave of the abbot, but not without first casting an angry glance at Simon.

The medicus swallowed hard. It looked as though his notorious curiosity had gotten him into a heap of trouble again.

T
HE
T
ANNERS
’ Q
UARTER
, S
CHONGAU
. T
HE MORNING OF
S
UNDAY
, J
UNE
13, 1666, AD.

J
AKOB KUISL CAUGHT
the men in the zimmerstadl warehouse not far from the river.

They were about a dozen young punks, pimply, broad-shouldered, and practically bursting with strength and cockiness. The hangman recognized two or three carpenter’s journeymen from Altenstadt and naturally the three Berchtholdt brothers. The oldest Berchtholdt boy was, as so often, the leader.

“Well, just look at that,” growled Hans Berchtholdt. “The hangman’s taking his little brats for a walk.” He straightened up and puffed out his chest, pointing to the two children Kuisl was carrying in his huge arms. The boys were sucking sleepily on their thumbs, eyeing the angry young men as if hoping for some candy or a shiny toy.

“Leave my grandkids out of this,” said Kuisl, glancing around furtively for a way to escape. But by now the youths had formed a circle around him.

The hangman had wanted to spend the morning with the children down at the river, whittling wooden boats and water-wheels. When he entered the narrow path behind the storage building, though, he noticed at once that one of the loading
hatches was open. A few men were sitting there on top of stolen sacks of grain with devious expressions on their faces, while others were climbing down from the hatch on a ladder they’d nailed to the side of the building. Two lookouts approached him from the front and back, each with a glint in his eyes that reminded the hangman of hungry wolves. Apparently, Kuisl’s last warning had had no effect. Berchtholdt and the others in the gang had broken into the warehouse again to steal grain.

“Just get out of here, and I won’t have seen a thing,” he grumbled. “I’m in a good mood today, and this time I’ll let you go.”

But a short look at Hans Berchtholdt told Kuisl things wouldn’t be so easy this time. The young man still had his hand with two broken fingers in a sling, and his lips quivered with anger and excitement.

“I’m afraid we can’t let you off so easily,” Berchtholdt snarled. “It was a really stupid idea of yours to come by at this moment. Who’s to say you won’t report us to the council?”

“You have my word.”

“The word of a hangman? To hell with that.”

Laughter broke out, and the baker looked around confidently at his companions.

“So whaddya want? Maybe a sack of grain from the warehouse for your little brats, Kuisl?” Berchtholdt sneered, pointing at the grandchildren. “So maybe someday they’ll become fat, filthy executioners just like their grandfather?”

“You mean so they can one day string up thieves and hoodlums like you and watch them dangle on gallows hill?” Kuisl replied calmly. “This is the second time I’ve caught you stealing, Berchtholdt. That’s a hanging offense. Go home, all of you, or there’s going to be big trouble. If the secretary learns of this, he’ll make short work of you.”

Hans Berchtholdt bit his lip. This wasn’t the answer he expected. Clearly, this old goat was being insolent.

“And who would testify against us, eh?” he growled. “Maybe you, hangman?” His laughter sounded like a bleating goat. “A dishonorable man testifying before the city council? Do you really think the secretary would believe you? Or the whining, babbling little brats?” Again he started bleating as the other men joined in. “Where is their lousy mother, huh?” he continued in a hoarse voice. “She and that quack doctor. Shouldn’t they be minding their brats themselves so that nothing happens to them? Where are they?”

“You know exactly where they are,” Kuisl murmured. “So now let me through, and—”

“The whole city was against a dishonorable person going on a pilgrimage,” screeched the second oldest of the Berchtholdts. At nineteen, he was bigger than most of the others and his angry red face shot forward like that of a snake. “A hangman’s daughter on a pilgrimage with honorable citizens to the Holy Mountain. That’s unheard of! Now look what the Lord God sent us as punishment: rain and hail and destroyed fields. And mice that eat up our seed corn.”

“That doesn’t give you any right to break into the warehouse and steal the grain.”

“The grain belonging to those rich moneybags in Augsburg? The devil take them all. By all the fourteen saints, we’re only taking what belongs to us anyway.”

Kuisl sighed softly. Josef Berchtholdt had learned such narrow-mindedness from his late father. It was true that in recent days bad storms had swept over Schongau and mice had become a real plague. The vermin had practically stripped bare many of the fields. The hangman had warned his daughter about going on a pilgrimage with the other citizens—he knew it would be the subject of gossip. But as so often, she didn’t want to listen. Now Kuisl was standing down here on the Lech with his grandsons, facing a mob that would have liked nothing better than to start a fight.

“Where is your hangman’s sword, Kuisl?” one of the boys taunted. “Did you forget and leave it at home? Or are you going to carve yourself one here?” Again this was followed by loud, gloating laughter. Mumbling and hissing, the mob moved toward the hangman, who stood with his back to the warehouse.

“I would never have thought you’d get involved with a group like this, Berchtholdt,” Kuisl growled. “Your father would turn over in his grave.”

“Shut up, hangman,” the baker’s son shouted. “If my father were still alive he’d whip the whole Kuisl gang and drive them out of town.”

“I’m the one here who whips people and drives them out of town, Berchtholdt. Don’t forget that.”

The hangman tried to size up the group of young men blocking his path. Kuisl was fifty-four now, no longer a spring chicken, but people still feared his anger and strength. They’d seen how he broke the bones of a bandit chief, one by one, and how he cut off the heads of condemned murderers with a single blow. Kuisl had a bloody reputation all over the region; nevertheless he could sense that his authority was beginning to crumble. Today loud words or a quick blow would no longer suffice to drive away this mob.

Especially not with two babbling, thumb-sucking kids on his arm.

“Let me tell you, Kuisl,” Hans Berchtholdt hissed as a mean smile spread across his lips. “You bow your head and ask humbly for forgiveness for your daughter, that good-for-nothing hangman’s girl, and we’ll let the three of you go.”

As raucous laughter broke out, little Peter began to cry, and it wasn’t long before his younger brother joined in. Kuisl closed his eyes and tried to breathe calmly. They wanted to anger him, but he couldn’t endanger the children. What could he do? He didn’t want to risk a brawl because of his grandsons. Should he call for help? It was a long way up to town, and the rushing water
would no doubt drown out any sound. Should he accept Berchtholdt’s demand?

Remorsefully, Kuisl bowed his head. “I plead—” he began softly.

Hans Berchtholdt grinned, his eyes glistening like two pieces of ice. “Humbly,” he snarled. “You plead
humbly.
”

“I plead humbly,” the hangman continued. He paused, then he continued in a monotone: “I plead humbly that God will give me the strength to endure such a big mob of stupid, blockheaded, low-down bastards like this without bashing their heads in. Now for the sake of the Holy Virgin let me through before I smash the nose of the first one of you.”

A horrified silence ensued. It seemed the young journeymen couldn’t believe what they’d just heard. Finally Hans Berchtholdt got control of himself again. “You’ll… you’ll regret that,” he said softly. “There are a dozen of us, and you’re an old man with two children in his arms. Now the little bastards will learn how their grandfather can put up with—”

He stopped suddenly, screamed, and put his hand to his forehead where blood was pouring out. Now other boys were howling and wailing as they sought refuge behind carts and barrels while a hail of stones fell down on them. Kuisl looked around, puzzled. Finally, up on the roof of the warehouse he spied a crowd of children and young people tossing stones and clumps of dirt down on the gang.

At the crest of the ridge up front stood Kuisl’s thirteen-year-old son, Georg, with a slingshot in hand.

The hangman was shocked. What was that snotty little brat doing down here? Wasn’t he supposed to be cleaning the knacker’s wagon in the barn? Wasn’t it enough for the two grandchildren to be in danger?

Kuisl was about to give the boy a good tongue-lashing when he realized the possibility that his son might just have saved his
life. Again he looked up at the roof. Georg Kuisl looked very big for his age; everything about him seemed to have been hewn out of solid rock. A little fuzz was starting to form around his lips and his shirt and trousers looked much too small for his hefty body.

Just like me once
, Kuisl thought.
He’s almost as old as I was then in the war. My God, now my own boy has to get me out of this jam. Jakob, you’re getting old
…

“Run, Father,” Georg shouted. “Now!”

Jakob shook off his gloomy thoughts, clasped his grandchildren, and ran off. All around him the stones were still raining down. When he saw a shadowy form lunge at him, he picked up his foot and kicked his attacker, a young carpenter’s journeyman, with full force in the groin. The man collapsed, groaning, just as another attacker raced toward Kuisl. The two young children in his arms were screaming now like stuck pigs. Kuisl hugged them tightly, bent down, and butted the journeyman right in the stomach; then he stood up again and ran. Behind him Hans Berchtholdt shouted as he was struck by another stone. “You’ll pay for that, Kuisl,” Berchtholdt shouted furiously. “You and your whole clan! Just one word to the city council, and I’ll take care of your two snotty little brats.”

In just a few minutes the hangman had left the dock area and arrived at the Lech Bridge, where two unsuspecting Schongau guards were standing, halberds in hand. They turned to watch the fast-approaching hangman; it appeared they had no idea of the fight going on behind the warehouse.

“My God, Kuisl,” one of them cried. “You’re running like the devil is on your heels.”

“Not the devil, just the Berchtholdt gang,” the hangman panted. “You’d better have a quick look at what’s going on behind the warehouse, before the Augsburgers start asking where their wheat is.”

Then and there, Kuisl decided not to let his grandchildren out of his sight again.

As Simon left the Andechs Monastery, he remembered with a start the herbs for Magdalena. He fumbled for the full leather pouch on his belt with the medicinal plants inside, then he hurried as fast as he could down to the village. He only hoped Magdalena hadn’t notice how long he’d been away or he could no doubt expect trouble.

When he got to the knacker’s house, he was surprised to find it empty. Only a few ragged goats were grazing in the little yard in front of the cabin, and the door stood wide open. Neither Michael Graetz, his helper, nor Magdalena was anywhere in sight.

“And I told her three times to lie down and rest,” Simon muttered, perplexed. “Stubborn woman.” Inwardly he prepared for a strong tongue-lashing.

After hesitating briefly, he decided to go back up to the monastery, where he might find Magdalena in the church or at the building site. Looking up, he saw a new group of pilgrims just arriving at the gate, where they were greeted by one of the monks and given a blessing. Singing and praying loudly, the pilgrims slowly made their way up to the monastery with their candles, where they no doubt planned to visit the church first. Because the Festival of the Three Hosts was only a week away, some people had already arrived and were crowding the narrow roadway.