Oliver Pötzsch - The Werewolf of Bamberg

Matheo had already pulled himself up on some protruding stones and offered his arm to help her. She climbed over the wall, and after just a few steps it seemed they were far from the street. A few sparrows chirped in the branches, a light wind was blowing, but otherwise all was quiet. Matheo was still holding her hand.

“A beautiful spot,” she said hesitantly, looking over at the larger building, the back of which was only a stone’s throw away. A second wall separated the wild area from a well-tended garden that evidently belonged to the stately property. “So peaceful, yet in the middle of the city.”

“It was probably not always this beautiful here,” Matheo answered softly. “Our playwright Markus Salter told me about it during our last visit to Bamberg. The people who live here call this place the druid’s garden. Even just forty years ago, there was a building, right where we are now standing, in which alleged witches were examined and tortured. The so-called House of the Inquisition. Did you ever hear about it?”

Barbara shook her head silently, and Matheo continued.

“It all started when the son of the burgomaster was found with a book about Doctor Faustus. The book was confiscated.”

“The same Doctor Faustus that Markus Salter played on the stage?” Barbara asked.

“Yes.” Matheo nodded. “The fourteen-year-old boy thought it was a genuine book of magic and started randomly accusing people of witchcraft. Soon a wave of arrests began, to which the boy himself fell victim. Evidently there were so many suspicious people then that the dungeons in Bamberg couldn’t house them all, so they had to build this accursed house here.” He pointed at the overgrown garden. “There were cells, torture chambers, stalls, a courtroom, even a chapel to hear confessions. But everything was hidden from view, so that no one knew about it. The Bambergers had no idea what was going on here. Shortly before the Swedish invasion, they released the last prisoner and very quickly tore down the building, probably because it reminded them of their own guilt.”

Matheo sat down on an old tree stump. “By then, hundreds had already died. In the neighboring town of Zeil they even built a huge oven in order to burn all the alleged witches. Isn’t that dreadful?”

Barbara looked around anxiously. A cloud had passed over the sun, casting a dark shadow on the garden. Between the violet heather and the apple trees she could make out the remains of the building’s foundation and a few individual rectangular rooms; here and there, she saw rusty nails and rotten beams eaten away by the ravages of time. Suddenly, the garden no longer seemed so beautiful.

“It’s good that those days are gone forever,” she finally said.

Matheo nodded grimly. “Let’s hope they don’t return. But if this hysteria about the werewolf keeps up, then perhaps we’ll soon need such an inquisition.” He shuddered as if trying to drive away the evil thought. Then he beckoned for Barbara to come over and take a seat next to him.

“I think we’re good partners,” Matheo began hesitantly, after she’d taken a seat on the tree stump. He laughed with embarrassment. “I. . I mean in the theater, naturally. I think you really have talent. The people look wide-eyed when they see you, and you have a natural charisma.”

“A natural charisma?” Barbara moved a bit closer to Matheo. “What does that mean?”

“Well, it means-”

At that moment the angry voices of two or three men were heard coming from the well-kept garden behind them. Matheo stopped and frowned.

“I’ll eat my hat if that isn’t the voice of Sir Malcolm,” he mumbled. “What’s he doing here?” Quickly he stood up and ran back to the rear wall.

Barbara sighed and followed him. She didn’t know what would have happened if she’d sat with him a bit longer under the apple tree, but she really wanted to find out.

Meanwhile, Matheo had discovered a chink in the wall where he could look through and observe without being discovered. Excitedly he beckoned to Barbara.

“It really is Malcolm,” he whispered. “Along with a few other men. Unfortunately, one of them is this Guiscard that our innkeeper was telling us about. This garden belongs to an inn-probably the one where the accursed Frenchman is staying.”

Barbara had also found a crack in the wall to peer through. She saw a pretty little orchard with tables and chairs scattered around, though in late October none of them were occupied. Underneath the trees stood the English producer surrounded by three men Barbara didn’t know. Two of them, dressed in rather shabby-looking clothes, were pointing their swords threateningly at Sir Malcolm. The third man was wearing a wig, like Sir Malcolm, and a bright red jacket covered with gleaming copper buttons. Judging from his stiff lace collar and a hat jauntily pulled down over his face, he was a nobleman. When she looked again, Barbara noticed the many wine stains on his clothing and poorly mended rips in his shirt and stockings.

“ Tout de suite! Take back those words at once!” he shouted at Sir Malcolm. He spoke with an artificial-sounding French accent that made him sound affected and feminine. Barbara could now see, too, that he was lightly made-up.

“Il y va de mon honneur,” the Frenchman continued loudly, pounding his chest dramatically. “Have you not understood me? If you lie like that again, I’ll order my men to punch you full of holes like an old wine pouch.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try,” Sir Malcolm snarled back. “You are a bad man and a thief, Guiscard. Unfortunately the theft of plays is not punishable by law, or you’d have long ago been sent to the gallows.” The English producer puffed himself up. “ The Doge of Venice belongs to my troupe. It was written personally for us by the great playwright Markus Salter, and now you are peddling it on the road like a door-to-door salesman. You’ve barely even tried to disguise the title. The Dome of Venice. ” He laughed maliciously. “What nonsense. As if the dome in this piece played any major role.”

Guiscard waved him off. “It sounds good-that’s the main thing. Besides, you know yourself that with a few chases, sword fights, and broken hearts, the story could take place anywhere.”

“Then you admit you stole the piece from us?”

The Frenchman smiled. “Didn’t you just say there’s no law against taking plays? As soon as they’re written down, anyone can use them. And now, excusez-moi. ” He tried to push his way past Malcolm. “We will be having one more rehearsal, and I’m certain that The Dome of Venice ,” he said, emphasizing every word and adding a smug pause, “well, this performance in the Grapevine Inn will be a great success, followed by many others. The bishop has invited us to spend the entire winter in Bamberg.”

“He signed a document giving us the exclusive right. . you frog eaters.” The gaunt Sir Malcolm stood more than a head taller than Guiscard. Like a scarecrow that had just sprung to life, he pushed his archenemy to the ground.

“Murder! Murder!” Guiscard cried out theatrically, clutching his chest as if in the throes of great pain. “Men, save me from this cowardly assassin.”

Now the two huge men took up their swords and attacked the English producer, who fought back, darting from one table to the next.

“We must help Sir Malcolm,” Matheo whispered, “or they’ll skewer him alive.”

“But how-” Barbara started to say, but Matheo had already climbed over the wall, and his hat went flying off. On the other side he picked up a heavy branch and attacked the men. Approaching from behind, he struck one of the huge men, who screamed and fell to the ground. The other turned away from Sir Malcolm and looked at Matheo in astonishment.