It was in this cage that the soldiers would escort the sorcerer back to Weilheim.
“Damn, Simon. You were right,” Kuisl growled, spitting directly at the feet of one of the many spectators nearby. The hangman was still wearing his monk’s robe, and some bystanders couldn’t help but gawk at his great size and sinister appearance. “They’ll make short work of Nepomuk,” he said angrily. “Why didn’t I go to speak with him again?”
After his expedition the night before, the hangman had spent some time alone in the forest. But this time, for once, no sudden inspiration came to him. Simon finally found him at the crack of dawn, sitting alongside a brook not far from the knacker’s house and smoking his pipe.
Now the medicus stood beside his father-in-law and Magdalena, trying to get a glimpse into the coach through the gaping crowd. Simon, two heads shorter than Kuisl, had trouble seeing anything at all of the people in the procession. To make matters worse, he was carrying Paul on his shoulders, who kept tugging at his hair. In the meantime, Peter, along with some other boys, was chasing a startled chicken. Only reluctantly did he finally let his mother hold his hand.
“It looks like the district judge has come personally,” Simon shouted over the voices of those standing around. “Who would ever have expected that?”
He pointed at the coach, where a pale, plump face with a Van Dyke beard now appeared at the window, waving graciously to the crowd with a wrinkled hand adorned with several glittering golden rings.
“What a vain dandy,” Simon continued, in a noticeably softer voice. “I once saw the count at a meeting with our secretary. The old man spends the entire year at royal hunting parties. But His Excellency naturally wouldn’t pass up a trial against a sorcerer. People will be talking about it for years to come.”
In fact, the Count von Casana und Colle spent most of his time in Munich, leaving the work in Weilheim to his administrator-a situation the citizens didn’t mind all that much. But today the people of Erling seemed eager for pomp and glory. Rarely did a high-placed nobleman, with his soldiers and retinue, pay a visit to the little town, much less for the purpose of arresting “the warlock of Andechs”-as the former apothecary was now being called.
“They’ll have a spectacular public festival in Weilheim on the day of the execution,” Magdalena murmured. “So many people.”
Her father looked disapprovingly at the noisy crowd. He’d never been able to explain why people were so elated at the prospect of someone’s execution-even though this was the way he made a living.
“Even if the Andechs abbot wanted to, he couldn’t stop the trial,” Kuisl finally growled. “Cases like these fall under the jurisdiction of Weilheim. The most they ever do in Erling is hang a few highway robbers on gallows hill down by Graetz.”
By now, the procession had almost taken on the character of a festival. Many pilgrims had joined the citizens of Erling in marching behind the three coaches, and the coachmen had trouble making their way through the crowd. One yard at a time the procession made its way up the mountain toward the monastery. Children and barking dogs ran ahead and everyone else pointed at the wooden crate, already imagining the fate that awaited the sorcerer.
“In Augsburg they once put a sorcerer into boiling water,” an old farmer mumbled in a conspiratorial voice. “He screamed for hours, then cursed to himself as he shot down to hell like a bolt of lightning.”
“If they confess first, they’re just burned alive,” replied one of the passing servants pompously, as if he witnessed a witch trial every day. “Sometimes the hangman strangles them first or wraps a sack of gunpowder around them, but only if he’s in a good mood.”
A little old woman giggled. “Then I’d say things really look bad for the warlock of Andechs. The Weilheim hangman is one mean guy, you know. He never in his entire life had a good day. When he’s got someone on the rack, the poor fellow screams so loud you can hear him all the way to the palace in Seefeld.”
The bystanders laughed while Simon felt sick to his stomach. On several occasions, he’d attended a public execution, most of them carried out by his father-in-law, but the upcoming one promised to be particularly gruesome. The medicus knew that sorcerers and magicians could expect the worst punishment. He’d heard of a case in Munich where the assumed heretic had first been pinched by burning tongs, then put on the wheel, and finally burned at the stake. Magicians were quartered, boiled, buried alive, and in earlier times, even impaled. Evidently, only the complete destruction of their bodies was enough to break their evil spells.
By now the procession had arrived at the church square. The soldiers jumped down from the coach and cleared a path so the Weilheim judge could make his way into the church without being mobbed. It seemed His Excellency wanted to attend mass before turning to the irksome task of picking up the prisoner. In dignified fashion, though trembling somewhat, the sixty-year-old Count von Casana und Colle descended from the coach on a little stepladder, his entire being exuding the power he’d been accruing for decades. His belly, bloated by red meat, beer, and wine, was wrapped in velvet trousers; around his neck he wore a stiff ruffle that made his chin stand out and lent him an imperious look. At the church portal, the old man was received by the considerably younger Wittelsbach Count Wartenberg and the prior. Brother Jeremias bowed and spoke a few words of greeting.
“Isn’t that actually the job of the abbot?” Magdalena asked. “Where is he, anyhow?”
Simon frowned. “Apparently the balance of power in the monastery changes faster than you can say a rosary. I’m anxious to find out whether the prior tells the judge about the hosts that have disappeared, or whether he just hopes the thief will be found before the festival. Look over there.” Simon pointed at three monks who exited the church and were bowing one by one before the two counts.
“Look. It’s the librarian, the novitiate master, and the cellarer,” Magdalena whispered. “Bosom pals. Now the whole council is here except for the abbot. If you ask me,” she continued, “at least one of them has something to hide. They’re all learned people, but evil doesn’t stop at the doorstep to the universities. On the contrary, the more learned they are, the more outrageous their behavior.”
Suddenly her father seemed to freeze beside her. Then he pounded his forehead with his fist. “What an idiot I am,” he groaned. “Why didn’t I think of that before? I’ve got to get to Nepomuk before it’s too late.”
“Now?” Simon stared at him, horrified. “But what about the soldiers from Weilheim? No doubt some of them are already down at the dairy. They’ll ask who you are, and then-”
“I have to,” the hangman interrupted curtly. “They’ll probably move Nepomuk to the dungeon in Weilheim today, and then no one will be able to help. I know the executioner there, and Master Hans makes everyone talk, even if he has nothing to say.”
“But what more do you want from Nepomuk?” Magdalena asked. “Are you just going to say goodbye?”
“Nonsense. I have something to ask him, and I pray to God he knows the answer. I should have asked him much earlier.”
Simon stared anxiously at his father-in-law. “Asked him what?” he demanded, tapping the hangman on the chest. “You say you know who stole the hosts. So who was it? For God’s sake, won’t you stop torturing us?”
Kuisl grinned, but there was a sad gleam in his eye. “Torturing is my specialty,” he replied softly. “If I need you, I’ll let you know in plenty of time. Until then, it’s best you know as little as possible, or you might do something stupid.”
Without another word, the hangman pushed a few pilgrims aside and turned to leave. Simon and Magdalena watched the huge man stride quickly away-bounding up and down like a ship being tossed about on a stormy sea-and then disappear into the crowd.
“Where’s Grandpa?” Peter asked, tugging his mother’s hand impatiently. “Why did he leave again so soon?”