“Oh, come now.” The woman made a dismissive gesture. “In this part of town, you can speak openly. Every other woman here has gotten something from your father to keep from having a kid, or a love potion he brewed up.” She giggled, revealing a few black stumps of teeth between her dry lips. “Only the fat cats can afford the fancy physician, or those who flirt with him. But I don’t need to tell you that…”
“What do you want from me?” Magdalena asked. “I have no time for your silly talk.”
The woman’s face suddenly turned dark.
“My little Lisbeth is sick. I think she has this fever. But we don’t have any money for the doctor. Perhaps you’d like to come in and have a look.”
She gestured for Magdalena to enter and at the same time curtsied clumsily. Her scornful look had completely vanished, and all that remained was a despairing mother who feared for the life of her child.
Magdalena shrugged. “I can have a look at her, but I can’t promise anything.”
Entering the smoke-filled house, she found a kettle standing on a rusty tripod over an open fire and emitting thick, acrid steam. The smoke was so thick that it wasn’t possible to see much more of the cabin. Magdalena could make out a wobbly table, a churn of rancid butter, a stool, and a few sacks filled with straw in a corner. This was the same corner the whining was coming from. Moving closer, Magdalena caught sight of a little child on the ground, a girl perhaps ten years old, with a pale face and sunken cheeks. Rings like black half-moons circled her eyes, which flitted around anxiously. She was coughing, shaking, and spitting up red mucus. The hangman’s daughter realized at once that it was the same fever that had killed so many Schongauers in recent weeks. She bent down over the girl and stroked her hot forehead.
“Everything will be all right,” she murmured. The child’s eyes closed, and her breathing became more regular.
“Give me some hot water,” Magdalena called out over her shoulder, and the anxious dyer woman hurried away, then returned with a steaming cup. The hangman’s daughter pulled out a leather purse from a deep pocket in her skirt and shook a gray powder into the cup.
“Have her drink one swallow of this mornings and evenings for three days,” she said, “but three swallows right now. It’s arnica, evergreen, St. John’s wort, and a few herbs that you don’t know. It will help her sleep and forget the cough. That’s all I can do,” she said with a shrug.
The dyer woman clutched the cup and looked at Magdalena anxiously. “Will she recover? She’s all I have left. My husband, Josef, died last summer when tanning fumes burned his insides. He was spitting blood at the end, just like Lisbeth now.”
“Don’t you have any other children?” Magdalena asked sympathetically.
“Smallpox took every last one, and Lisbeth is the last…”
The woman’s eyes filled with tears. She pressed her lips together tightly and stared fixedly into space. The girl seemed to be sleeping now, but with every breath her frail chest rattled.
In a moment of inspiration, Magdalena reached for a chain around her neck decorated with amulets attached at regular intervals: a wolf’s tooth in a tin setting, a bloodstone, a silver arrow like the one that pierced St. Sebastian, a mole’s paw, a rock crystal, a tiny cloth pouch that had been blessed…It was a so-called “Fraisen chain,” a charm necklace meant to ward off evil spirits and black magic. The hangman’s daughter tore the wolf’s tooth off the chain, bent down to the girl, and pressed it into her limp hand. The little girl’s hand closed in her sleep.
“What is it…?” the mother asked anxiously.
“It will protect her,” Magdalena said, trying to console her. “My father cast some powerful charms on it.”
That was not really true, but the hangman’s daughter knew that faith, love, and hope could often do more than the strongest medicine. Her father had given her the charm necklace when she was still a child, and whenever she was afraid or felt threatened, she would clutch it tightly in her hand. It gave her strength, and she hoped that some of this strength would be transferred to the little girl now.
“I will never be able to pay you,” the woman objected. “I am a poor dyer woman.”
Magdalena stopped her with a wave of her hand. “It’s the wolf my father shot last year. We have enough teeth in our house for all of Schongau.” She winked at her conspiratorially. “The important thing is the magic charm it possesses. You won’t betray me, will you?”
The woman shook her head, still speechless over the gift from the hangman’s girl. Then something occurred to her, and her face brightened. “Though I have no money,” she said, “perhaps I can help you. Your father was over in Altenstadt because of the dead priest, wasn’t he?”
Magdalena pricked up her ears. “How do you know…?”
The woman shrugged. “People talk. They say he was poisoned. Now listen…”
She looked around carefully and lowered her voice.
“I went to see Koppmeyer a few days ago-had to give him some dyed fabric for the mass. I’m standing there in front of the rectory and see a man talking with the priest inside. A monk it was, with a black cowl, and under the cowl was a fine, white cloth, not the sort of rags that people like us wear.”
“Please continue,” Magdalena urged her.
“The monk was speaking softly, but very intensely with the priest. I could see that Koppmeyer was really afraid. His eyes were bulging as if they might almost fall out of their sockets. Then the man shouted at him and went outside for his horse. I hurried over to hide behind the woodpile.”
“What did he look like?” Magdalena asked.
“There wasn’t much to see because of his hood and the robe…” The woman hesitated. “But one thing was very strange.”
“What? Tell me!”
“He had to bend forward as he mounted his horse, and underneath his robe I saw a golden chain dangling down with a big, beautiful cross. But it looked different from the crosses we have in church.”
The excitement practically took Magdalena’s breath away. “What…what did it look like?”
“Well, it didn’t have just one crossbeam, it had two; the upper one was shorter, and the whole cross was made of gold. I have never seen one like that before.”
Magdalena thought for a moment but couldn’t remember ever seeing a cross like that, either.
“What happened then?” she finally asked.
The dyer woman shrugged. “I took the cloth to Koppmeyer. He was still pretty upset. He handed me two pennies too much and sent me on my way. I’ve never in my life seen the fat priest so frightened. I mean, the man was as strong as a bear!”
Magdalena nodded. “You have helped me a lot, and I am grateful.” She headed toward the door, deep in thought. “Don’t forget the potion for your daughter,” she said as she left. “If she doesn’t get better in three days, come over and see us at the hangman’s house.” She grinned. “If you dare…But my father kills only people who have done something to deserve it.”
The dyer woman watched as Magdalena vanished into the next alleyway. The girl started to cough again. Praying quietly to herself, the mother returned to the house and to her daughter.
Simon was sitting alongside Benedikta at a table in the back of the tavern at the Goldener Stern Inn, sipping on a mug of mulled wine. His nose had finally stopped bleeding, but he could feel it swelling by the minute. He was probably already completely disfigured. He glanced around at the other guests. Now, as evening set in, the tavern was filling slowly with merchants, wealthy craftsmen, and a few aldermen who would overnight there. The tavern belonged to Karl Semer, the city’s presiding burgomaster. It was the best place in town and thus attracted a wealthy clientele. A fire was burning in the large stone fireplace in the corner, lending a cozy atmosphere to the room, and a chandelier bathed the low, wood-paneled room in a subdued light. The aroma of cinnamon, cloves, and stew hung in the air.