Oliver Pötzsch - The Werewolf of Bamberg

The procession turned left into the lane along the moat and soon reached the tumbledown home of the executioner.

Katharina had gone to lots of trouble to decorate it as festively as possible, with mistletoe and ivy branches over the front door; fragrant, dry flowers along the walls; and fresh reeds on the floors. There was a fragrance of braised meat, onions, and dumplings in the air. Hungrily, the guests helped themselves to the food. Laughter was heard in the house, and quarreling; the boys raced whooping through the rooms; and somewhere there was the sound of a glass breaking. Magdalena cut into a steaming dumpling, smiling inwardly. It was like every other family party, and a chance visitor would never suspect he was in the house of an executioner.

He’d find a mix of guests gathered around the large table. In a back corner sat the ragpicker Answin-who in honor of this festive day had actually taken a bath-and Berthold Lamprecht, the tavern keeper of the Wild Man, who appeared to be enjoying an animated conversation with him. When Lamprecht had heard the news of Jeremias’s death, he paid a decent sum to assure a respectable burial for his old custodian. The former Bamberg hangman now rested in the city cemetery next to St. Martin’s, not far from the gravestone marking the spot where his former fiancée was buried.

At the far end of the table sat the hangman’s servant, Aloysius, silent as always, enjoying Katharina’s roast. And even the old furrier arrived and was once again telling the story of how Jakob had bought the fox skin from him for Katharina’s wedding dress.

“Believe me, I would have advised badger fur,” he announced to everyone, though no one seemed to be listening. “By God, the badger fur makes you look like a king. But no, he said it had to be fox. And then Georg came later and bought all those stinking hides from me. God knows why the boy wanted them.” He shook his head, then took a spoon and, smacking his lips, spread caraway seeds on his spicy sausage.

Magdalena had to grin, watching how her father’s face flushed with anger and shame on hearing the furrier’s story. Jakob still hadn’t completely gotten over how the actor Markus Salter, disguised in a beard and a floppy hat, had gotten away from him while he himself foolishly fell into the river.

Next to the furrier sat Georg, talking to his twin sister. At that moment she laughed out loud. Apparently she had recovered well and, except for a few scars, would have little lasting damage from the horrors in the old hunting lodge. The burn blisters would heal, and her beautiful black hair would grow back. In the meantime she was wearing a trim head scarf. Georg, however, appeared grimmer than ever, though perhaps older and more mature. The wolf trap had injured him more than they’d first thought, and he would probably always limp a bit, making him look astonishingly like his uncle. Just the same, Georg had decided to return to Schongau after one more year as an apprentice in Bamberg, in order to one day take his father’s position.

Magdalena wanted to speak with Simon about that, but he was talking shop with his friend Samuel about some new theory of blood circulation, which practically put Magdalena to sleep. Not until the discussion turned to the Bamberg suffragan bishop did she sit up and take notice again.

“Harsee is still as stiff as a board,” Samuel was saying. “But his eyes look at you full of hate. It’s really strange. Perhaps he’s not really conscious anymore. I hope he isn’t, for his sake; that would be hell for him.” He sighed. “I give him some water from time to time, but his body shrivels up more and more every day. I think he has only a few days left, and the Bamberg bishop is already planning his funeral.”

Simon shook his head sadly. “It’s really terrible there’s no cure for rabies. I hope very much that the learned doctors will find one someday.”

“Let’s not give up hope,” Samuel replied. “After all, it took Harvey a long time to gain acceptance of his theories on the circulation of blood. Even good old Galen. .”

The conversation turned once again to veins and arteries, and Magdalena turned to her father, on her left, who was chewing sullenly on his meat patty.

“I’d really like to have a good pipe now,” he grumbled between bites. “With lots of smoke so I’d no longer see this bunch of blabbering people.”

“Don’t forget you promised Katharina not to smoke in her house today,” Magdalena admonished him. “And that tobacco really smells bad. It’s enough that you stink up everything at home in Schongau.”

Kuisl grinned and picked his teeth. “You sound just like my Anna, God bless her soul. Do you know that?”

Magdalena changed the topic. “What ever became of Bartholomäus’s other two dogs?” she asked. “He certainly can’t keep the alaunts now that people think Brutus was a werewolf.”

“Aloysius thinks Bartl found a buyer for the beasts, some nobleman in Franconia with a large dog kennel.” Kuisl shrugged. “My brother will certainly get a pile of money for the animals, and perhaps then he can buy himself an even bigger house-or his citizenship, the old show-off.”

Magdalena sighed. “Now enough of that, Father. Anyway, you wanted to have a beer together and talk, you and Bartholomäus. You promised me you would.” She looked at him, pleading. “So how about it?”

Jakob poked sheepishly at the dumpling on the plate in front of him. “Hm. . well. . we had a big fight about the venue for the wedding party, then we both went our separate ways and got drunk. I doubt Bartholomäus and I will be getting together anytime in this life.”

“Oh, don’t talk such nonsense. You don’t have to hug each other every day, but it isn’t asking too much for you to make peace with one another. Even if it’s just for Katharina’s sake.” Magdalena nodded toward her aunt, sitting proudly alongside her bridegroom, looking out over all her illustrious wedding guests. On her left, her cousin, who was just as fat, was taking one of Bartholomäus’s veterinary books from Peter’s greasy little fingers. “She doesn’t want any quarreling in the family,” Magdalena said softly. “So pull yourself together and have a talk with him before we finally leave town tomorrow.”

“I don’t know. .,” Jakob grumbled.

“You’ll do that, by God, or I swear I’ll clean up the living room and move the furniture around every day.”

Jakob groaned. “Now you’re really just like my Anna. All right, I promise, but leave me alone now.”

Grinning, Magdalena turned to her two boys, who were begging for some more doughnuts spread with honey. Just as she was leaning down to them, there was a knock on the door.

“Well? Who could that be?” said Katharina with surprise. “I’m not expecting any more guests.”

“Perhaps it’s the bishop himself,” Berthold said with a laugh. “I think he owes all of you here a big thank-you.”

Shaking her head, Katharina got up, and when she opened the door she let out a loud shriek of delight.

“Good Lord-Matheo! And your esteemed director himself, if I’m not mistaken. Isn’t this a surprise!”

Barbara, blushing, quickly jumped from her seat, wiping the gravy from around her mouth.

In the doorway stood Sir Malcolm, who, with his tall, haggard stature, had to stoop in order to enter the low-ceilinged room. He was followed by the delicate, diminutive Matheo, who still looked rather battered after the beatings in the Old Residence, though the welts on his face would no doubt heal in the weeks and months to follow. Just the same, he smiled brightly.

Sir Malcolm had used powder on his own face to try to cover the many bruises that he’d suffered in the dungeon, and with his wig he looked like a sad image of a decadent Parisian courtier, carrying a bouquet of dried autumn crocuses, which he handed to Katharina with a deep bow.