The citizens didn’t seem convinced, but they permitted the captain to divide them up into groups.
“Turmeier and Schwendner, you’ll go over to the Ostner Quarter,” he began in a voice accustomed to giving orders. “Poeverlein and Bergmuller, you’ll take the Wittwanger Quarter. The rest of you…”
Magdalena stopped paying attention now and turned to Simon, who had listened to the captain’s speech with his mouth as wide open as hers.
“Thanks be to the saints above! Father actually managed to escape!” the hangman’s daughter whispered. “But now they want to charge him with two more murders!”
Simon frowned. “And if he really…? I mean maybe this master baker got in his way, or-”
“And he slaughtered the bathhouse mistress for good measure?” Magdalena snorted. “Sometimes I believe you really think my father is some kind of monster. I don’t believe a single word of what that pompous guard said! As long as my father’s here in this city, they’ll accuse him of practically anything!” Lowering her voice, she added, “He’s probably hiding in a shed or a vacant lot somewhere. It’s very likely he’s injured. We’ve got to help him at once!”
“And how do you intend to do that?” Simon replied quietly. “We don’t know where he’s hiding any more than the guards do. Do you plan to run around calling for him by name?”
Magdalena thought for a moment; then her face lit up with a smile.
“That’s not such a bad idea,” she said. “Listen, this is how we’ll do it.” In a hasty whisper she explained her plan.
Jakob Kuisl sat against the low, crumbling wall, trying to fight off an impending blackout. The fresh air had revived him, but he’d reached the end of his strength. His escape from Peter’s Gate had required every last ounce of it, but he’d shaken his pursuers, at least for the moment. The men had run right past him. Among their voices he heard that of the third inquisitor and for a brief moment considered jumping up and strangling him with the one good hand he had left. Thank God he was too weak to try.
Now he was crouched in an overgrown lot somewhere in Regensburg, trying to pull himself together. All was not lost. He could still go to Teuber’s house if only this damned dizziness would pass!
When the alarm bells sounded, Kuisl knew at once they were for him. Bailiffs in every quarter would be alerted and in no time would be after him like dogs after a young fox. He tried to stand up but collapsed again immediately. On the third try he finally managed to pull himself halfway upright and set off, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.
Kuisl climbed over the lowlying wall overgrown with rosebushes and tried to orient himself. He knew that Peter’s Gate, which rose into view over the rooftops, was in the southern part of the city, and that Teuber’s house therefore had to be to the north, in the Henkersgasschen, or Hangman’s Lane. Beyond this he knew nothing. Until now he hadn’t given a single thought to how he might find the hangman’s house. He could hardly ask someone for directions, and there were no street signs in this damned city. The only option he had was to wander the streets in the hope that his nose would lead him there.
What a bloody ridiculous plan!
Kuisl cursed his own stupidity. Why hadn’t he questioned Teuber more closely about the location of his house? All Kuisl could do was hope he might run into a shady character like himself in the middle of the night who might take pity on him and help him out.
And turn me over to the bailiffs at the first opportunity…
Hunched over and peering in every direction as he went, the hangman slunk through the part of town neighboring Peter’s Gate. The houses here were small and low, the gardens untended, and he came upon house after house that had been reduced to ashes-evidence of the Great War and the last Plague, a few years ago. When the inhabitants went off to the former-or succumbed to the latter-their homes had fallen to ruin. From where he was he could hear the alarm bells still ringing and far-off shouts that signaled pursuit.
They were hot on his trail; he didn’t have much time left.
Just as Kuisl was seeking a hiding place next to a nearby house, two guards turned a corner and headed toward him. The men, armed with halberds, seemed just as surprised by him as he was by them. The younger of the two was so taken aback that his helmet fell off; the other reached nervously for an ancient wheel-lock pistol with a patina of verdigris that hung from his belt. Kuisl could only hope the weapon wasn’t loaded.
“Over here! Over here!” the younger one shouted, “We got him! The monster is right here!”
The older man fumbled with his pistol, which had snagged on his belt. When a shot rang out, the man shouted and fell to the ground, clutching his right boot and wailing. He’d shot himself in the foot.
Kuisl took advantage of the general confusion to run back out into the street, but he didn’t get very far before two more bailiffs appeared from the other direction. One shouldered a crossbow at eye level. A moment later a bolt whizzed by, just a hair’s breadth from Kuisl’s right ear.
The hangman decided to risk it alclass="underline" shouting at the top of his lungs, he ran toward the two newly arrived guards in the blind hope that the second man had neither a loaded crossbow nor a pistol. The bailiffs awaited him with their pikes pointed straight ahead, and Kuisl detected a mixture of fear and bloodlust in their eyes.
“Everyone to the Pfaffengasse!” one shouted. “He’s in the Pfaffengasse! Over here! He’s-”
Kuisl gathered all his strength and, with a single leap, soared headlong over the pikes, landing a punch in the face of the screaming guard that knocked the man down like a felled tree. The other dropped his spear and pulled out a large hunting knife. He lunged for the hangman, but Kuisl bucked like a wild horse. With a kick to the gut, the man collapsed, moaning.
The hangman turned to discover more and more guards streaming into the lane. Panicked, he spotted a low archway on his left that seemed to lead off into a narrow path. Without a moment’s hesitation, he fled through the archway and down the path, arriving soon at an interior courtyard surrounded on three sides by tall buildings.
A dead end.
Turning around, Kuisl saw three or four bailiffs approaching through the archway with their halberds raised. Cold smiles played across their lips, and their eyes gleamed. They were clearly now in no hurry. They had cornered their prey at last, and now they’d finish him off.
Someone tossed a torch into the middle of the courtyard, casting a larger-than-life shadow of Kuisl on the wall behind him. In the flickering light the hangman made an easy target.
A crossbow bolt splintered on the plaster wall behind him, then another. Out of the corner of his eye the hangman looked all around for a way out. There wasn’t a single door in sight; the windows were all on the second story and therefore out of reach, with no trellises or trees to climb. In one corner of the yard a two-wheeled oxcart was parked and loaded with hay. The cart had a heavy, waist-high shaft with iron fittings. The hangman hesitated. Then an idea hit him.
The hay…
Doubled over, he ran toward the wagon as arrows rained down around him like hailstones. With his good right arm he grabbed the wagon shaft and turned the vehicle so that the rear was now facing the soldiers. Kuisl knew his strength was about to give out; this was his only chance.
Taking a deep breath, he ran to the middle of the courtyard, grabbed the burning torch from the ground, and threw it at the cart. In a flash the dry hay was ablaze, and the wagon an enormous fireball. Disregarding the brutal heat, Kuisl picked up the shaft again with his good arm and pushed with all his might. The burning wagon rolled backward toward the guards-the only way out. The bailiffs screamed and leaped aside, but burning hay bales fell on them, setting their hats and jackets on fire.
The wagon now began to gain speed. At last Kuisl reached the archway and headed straight for the narrow exit.