Magdalena sighed. “Your grandfather is a stubborn fellow. Once he’s got his mind set on something, not even the pope himself could stop him.” She bent down and ran her hand through his hair. “Do me a favor, will you? Don’t be so stubborn when you grow up.” But she couldn’t keep from smiling. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid it runs in the family.”
As Kuisl ran past the many spectators and pilgrims, he cursed softly to himself. Finally he’d figured out what had been irritating him so much the night before in the watchmaker’s house. He could only hope it wasn’t too late.
When he finally arrived breathless at the dairy, he was disappointed to see that some of the soldiers from Weilheim had already taken up their posts. The big fellows, in their uniforms and armed with halberds and muskets, seemed far more daunting than the Andechs hunters who’d been guarding the apothecary until just a short while ago. Just the same, Kuisl had to try to get to Nepomuk. He pondered briefly what to do-then decided on the most outrageous option.
Mumbling Latin prayers, the hangman pulled his hood down over his face and approached the four soldiers, who eyed him suspiciously.
“Hey, you! In the black robe,” one of them shouted. Wearing a silver-coated cuirass, this one appeared to be the leader of the guards. “What’s your business here?”
“I’m looking for Brother Johannes, also called the warlock of Andechs. Is he in this dungeon?” Kuisl tried to sound as much as possible like someone accustomed to giving orders. He stood up straight, eyeing each of the soldiers severely.
“Uh… who wants to know?” the captain replied, a bit uncertain.
“Henricus Insistoris from the Augsburg convent of St. Magdalena. The bishop instructed me to examine this case on behalf of the church.”
It was such a bald-faced lie that Kuisl could only hope his self-confident manner alone would hoodwink the captain. Dominicans actually wore white tunics under their black robes, and the hangman took the name from an inquisitor he once knew. To fend off any objection, he stomped boldly over to the dungeon entrance.
“What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Are you deaf or has the sorcerer already cast a spell to make your ears disappear?”
“But… but… the judge…” the captain ventured, hesitating.
“He knows about this. Don’t worry; the church will serve only to advise the high court, and everything else…” Abruptly the hangman stopped, studying a huge mole on the soldier’s unshaven cheek. “This mole…” Kuisl inquired, seeming greatly concerned. “How long have you had it?”
The captain blanched, nervously running his hand over the mole as his three colleagues looked at him curiously and whispered among themselves. “Well… since my childhood; that is, you could say… uh, forever.”
Kuisl slowly traced the outline of the mole with his finger. “It reminds you of a raven, doesn’t it? I once knew a witch who had a mole just like that. We burned her at the stake a few years ago in Landsberg.”
The captain’s face turned white. “My God, do you believe…” he stammered, but Kuisl was already squeezing past him.
“Leave faith out of it when you’re talking of the devil’s work,” he said casually. “And now open this door. I’d like to begin questioning this suspect. Or shall I question you first?”
In a fraction of a second, the captain had pushed the bolt aside and opened the door to the dungeon. Kuisl entered, blinking as his eyes got accustomed to the dim light inside. Finally he could make out the form of the ugly Nepomuk cowering against the wall in back. When the monk recognized his friend, he sat up, groaning.
“Jakob,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I thought you had forgotten-”
“Shhh,” said Kuisl, holding his finger to his lips. He turned around and called toward the door: “I will call you if I need a strong hand to help with my questioning. Until then, leave the two of us alone.”
Only too gladly, the soldiers closed the door. Murmuring could be heard out front, then a soft command from the captain to keep quiet. The hangman grinned.
“I’ve always wanted to do that-to carry on like a wise-ass scholar,” he said softly. “Not so hard, nothing but fancy drivel, yet people fall for it just the same.” He pulled down his hood, grinned, and wiped his face. “Now the four of them outside have plenty of time to check out the moles on their faces. I just hope none of them is smart enough to go and check with the judge.”
Nepomuk looked at his friend, horrified. “The judge? Do you mean the soldiers outside were sent by the judge?”
Kuisl suddenly turned dead serious. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Nepomuk. They want to take you to Weilheim today. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to stop it.”
Gasping, Nepomuk collapsed and buried his face in his hands. “Then I’m finished,” he whispered. “The Weilheim executioner will torture me. Oh God, Jakob, I’m so afraid. Not of death, but of the pain. We both know what comes next-the rack, the glowing tongs, the fire and sulfur-”
“Just be quiet and listen to me,” the Schongau hangman interrupted harshly. “What are you? The son of an executioner or a mouse?” He pulled his friend to his feet and looked him in the eye. “Remember the war, Nepomuk. Remember Breitenfeld. There’s always hope.”
Nepomuk nodded, staring off into space. He remembered. Back then, at the Battle of Breitenfeld, almost all of Tilly’s army had been wiped out by the Swedes; barely six hundred soldiers remained of forty thousand. Kuisl and Nepomuk had survived by hiding underneath a pile of corpses, where they listened to the screams of wounded soldiers being slaughtered by the enemy nearby.
“You survived Breitenfeld,” Kuisl murmured. “And you’ll survive this, as well. We hangmen were baptized personally by the devil, and it takes a lot more than cheap magic tricks to send us to hell.”
Then he told Nepomuk about the theft of the hosts from the holy chapel and the conversation he’d overheard between the monks. The apothecary listened to him in astonishment.
“If the district judge has even a spark of intelligence, he’ll realize there’s a connection between the murders and the theft,” Kuisl continued. “And you couldn’t have stolen the hosts-you would have had to fly out of here through the barred windows.”
Nepomuk nodded grimly. “That’s just what they’ll say I did.”
For a while, neither said a thing, and the buzzing flies and the muted conversations of soldiers out in the corridor were the only sounds. They both knew that Nepomuk was right, having seen all too often what an insignificant role reason and logic played in witch trials.
“Do you understand, Jakob?” the apothecary whispered. “This isn’t war; this is worse. The war was fought according to bloody rules, but faith is like a mad beast-once it’s broken out, it can no longer be controlled.”
Again both fell silent. Then the hangman finally let out a curse and kicked a basket of cheese so hard that the soldiers outside temporarily stopped their chatter.
“Just the same, you can’t let it get you down, do you understand?” Kuisl finally whispered after making sure none of the soldiers had become suspicious. “At least for a few days. First they’re going to show you the instruments of torture, and then they’ll gradually increase the pressure. You know how it goes-whatever you do, just don’t confess. Once you confess, you’re finished.”
Nepomuk laughed nervously. “And how are you going to get me out? With a little sleight of hand?”
“Of course not. I’ll turn over the real sorcerer to the district judge, but to do that I need to find out a few things, and you can help me with that.”
The monk’s already prominent eyes grew even larger. “Do you know who the sorcerer is?” he gasped.
“I think I at least know who stole the hosts.”
Kuisl led his friend to one of the wooden crates along the wall, sat down beside him, and told him briefly what he’d learned. When he was finished, Nepomuk nodded thoughtfully.