“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.
3
THE TANNERS’ QUARTER, SCHONGAU. THE MORNING OF SUNDAY, JUNE 13, 1666, AD.
Jakob 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?