Oliver Pötzsch - The Werewolf of Bamberg

The fat man roared with laughter. “Right you are. After a few more performances like this, my cellars will be empty. But I must congratulate you, Malcolm. People say the devil was really here in person at the wedding house.”

“Speaking of weddings. .” Malcolm pointed at Magdalena and Barbara, who were standing off to one side. “These two young ladies want to talk to you about their uncle’s wedding. He’s, uh-”

“Bartholomäus Kuisl,” Magdalena interrupted, trying to sound casual. “The Bamberg executioner.”

Markus Salter gasped, and for a moment both Sir Malcolm and Matheo were speechless. Until then, Magdalena hadn’t mentioned her uncle’s vocation, but now she saw no reason not to. They could just go ahead and gossip-she was accustomed to it.

The innkeeper’s resounding laugh finally broke the awkward silence.

“Ha, ha! You see, young lady,” he said, extending his huge hand and vigorously shaking Magdalena’s, “some people are more afraid of an executioner than of the devil. My name is Berthold Lamprecht. I’m the innkeeper of the Wild Man, right next door to the wedding house. I’ve known your uncle for a long time. It’s an honor for me to host his wedding to the beautiful Katharina.”

“An honor?” Magdalena looked at him, puzzled. “Excuse me, but that word sounds unusual to someone in a hangman’s family.”

“I don’t care what other people say,” replied Lamprecht, waving his hand dismissively. “Your uncle has a hard job, and it’s said he does it very well. Why, then, shouldn’t he marry just like other people?”

“That’s very kind of you.” Magdalena smiled. Perhaps her brother was right, after all, and this city was the promised land for families of executioners.

“I’m here to make some requests for my aunt,” she said finally. “She’d like wine, beer, sausages, sauerkraut and bread, and some pastries, as well.”

Lamprecht nodded. “Of course. But first I have a message for the actors-an unsettling bit of news.” His face darkened. “I’ve been told that another group of actors arrived in town this morning and have taken lodging in the Grapevine Inn.”

“A second group of actors?” Sir Malcolm’s jaw dropped. “But the bishop assured me. .”

Lamprecht shrugged. “The bishop changes his mind as often as he uses the chamber pot. It seems to be a French troupe directed by a certain Guiscard Brolet. Do you know him, by chance?”

“Guiscard!” Malcolm’s face suddenly turned as white as chalk. “That old snake in the grass. He steals and copies whatever material he can get his hands on. A charlatan! He probably thinks he can settle down here for the winter and spy on us. But he’s mistaken.”

“I can’t imagine that the bishop in this city wants to put up two troupes of actors,” Markus Salter said. “He has enough trouble already with his suffragan bishop, who considers our work blasphemous.” He turned to Sir Malcolm. “Remember our performance for His Excellency a few months ago, when he suggested a possible permission for us to spend the winter here? The suffragan bishop shot us a look that could kill.”

“Naturally there can be only one acting troupe in Bamberg, and we are the ones.” Malcolm stiffened like a soldier at attention. “I will ask today for another audience, and then the prince-bishop will have this swindler whipped and chased out of town.” He turned to Magdalena and declared in a theatrical voice: “Tell your uncle, the executioner, that he’ll soon have some work to do.”

“I’d be happy if we were just allowed to stay in the city,” Matheo murmured. “Just imagine what it would be like to have to wander through the countryside in the winter.” He shuddered. “It’s all the more important, then, that the performance tomorrow goes well and that the people like us.”

The innkeeper nodded. “I agree.” With a smile, he turned to Magdalena and Barbara. “But now let’s give our attention instead to the beautiful ladies. After all, a wedding ceremony is something very special, isn’t it? Particularly when it’s the hangman who is getting married.” He turned around, looking for someone.

“Jeremias!” he bellowed. “There’s work for you. Come here, you lazy fellow. Did you fall asleep while you were scrubbing the floor?”

A stooped figure came shuffling out of a corner of the room, with a little dog jumping at his feet. It was the old man Magdalena had observed cleaning up earlier. As he approached, Magdalena shuddered instinctively. The man was completely bald, and his head and face were heavily scarred and covered with scabs. All that was left of his two ears were tiny stumps, giving the poor fellow the appearance of a smooth egg-but in the midst of all these horrible wounds were two sparkling, friendly eyes.

“Don’t be afraid,” Berthold Lamprecht said. “Jeremias comes from a family of charcoal burners. When he was a child he fell into a pit of burning lime, which explains his appearance. Many people are superstitious and don’t want anything to do with him-they think he’s a monster. But with me he has a job.”

“You can go ahead and call me a monster, if you like,” Jeremias told Magdalena and Barbara with a smile. His voice sounded soft and pleasant. “I’m used to it. Just please don’t call me meat loaf, even if Biff here thinks that’s what I am.” The little dog jumped up and licked the man’s hands. Not until then did Magdalena notice that the dog had a misshapen paw. He was a cripple, just like his master.

“Jeremias is the good soul of this house,” Lamprecht continued. “Cleans, picks up after us, and above all, takes care of our books.” The innkeeper grinned. “For that alone, he’s earned his pay. You can go over to the tavern with him, and he’ll carefully note down what you need.”

Jeremias nodded enthusiastically, and Magdalena and Barbara followed him hesitantly down the stairs into the Wild Man tavern. The dog limped along, barking happily. A small but solid door next to the main entrance led into a large room where several notebooks lay on a table. A large birdcage hung from the ceiling, and inside it, a few sparrows were chirping merrily, while on a narrow bed an old cat dozed, apparently not disturbed by either the birds or the barking dog.

“My kingdom,” Jeremias said proudly, spreading his arms. “It’s small, but at least no one disturbs me here.” He shrugged. “The children in the streets outside can be very annoying with their mean words. I’m happy to have found peace and quiet here.” The old man groaned as he bent down over a notebook and dipped his quill pen into an inkwell. “So, what exactly do you wish to order?”

Magdalena listed the individual items just as Katharina had asked, while Barbara bent over to pet the little dog, which whined and panted happily. When she looked up again, she noticed a few books in a rickety bookcase alongside some bottles and jars.

“William Shakes. . Shakespeare,” she said, looking puzzled as she deciphered the writing. Then her face brightened. “Ah, Shakespeare! Is that the fellow Malcolm’s playwright Markus thought so highly of? Do you read plays?”

The old man smiled. “I actually bought a few of them just last year from a traveling book salesman. They are especially popular translations into German, published here for the first time under the name William Shakespeare. This Shakespeare is a celebrity in England, though all that anyone knows about him here are his plays. But I’m afraid they don’t appeal to me-there’s too much blood and heartache, and no numbers or balance sheets at all. You’re welcome to visit me and have a look. .” He hesitated and regarded Barbara, puzzled. “But can you read-I mean more than just a few letters?”