“Why was the woman roaming about in the forest at night?” a younger councilor hissed under his breath. “She was probably gathering magic herbs there. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she was somehow working with the werewolf and up to no good.”
The apothecary wheeled around. “What did you just say?”
“What did I just say, Master Rinswieser?” the other man replied, looking around for support from the others. He was wearing the fancy clothing of a nouveau-riche dandy and seemed quite sure of himself. “Well, your Adelheid watered down those tinctures. Word gets around.”
“How dare you, Master Steinhofer?” He stormed across the room to the younger man. “If only Adelheid’s father could hear that. He and your own father were once members of the council, they were friends, and now you denounce his daughter as a witch, you. . you. .”
“Don’t forget that my beloved Johanna has also disappeared,” his opponent interrupted, stroking his goatee. “And that was just after she’d bought some strange tincture from your wife.”
“And I heard she ran pell-mell away from you after an argument in which even chairs went flying through the air,” the apothecary shot back. “No doubt she couldn’t stand being around you anymore. By the way, you don’t seem too concerned that your young fiancée has simply vanished into thin air. Did you marry her only for the dowry?”
“That’s slander!”
The two men were about to come to blows when the bishop’s chancellor suddenly stood up and spread his arms, trying to calm them down. With his enormous rolls of fat, he looked more like a tavern keeper than one of the highest dignitaries in Bamberg.
“My dear colleagues,” he began jovially, “we must not quarrel. I think I have a solution. Even if His Excellency, the venerable Prince-Bishop Philipp Rieneck, is not among us, I believe we can speak on his behalf. We, uh. . should think about setting up an inquisition.”
“An inquisition?” Master Samuel frowned. “Why do we need that? Don’t we already have this Werewolf Commission?”
“I believe the honorable chancellor is completely right.” Sebastian Harsee smiled, and it seemed to Simon that the suffragan bishop was quite happy with the direction the meeting had taken. A quick glance at the chancellor even made him suspect that this move had been prearranged.
“Forty years ago, at the time of the Bamberg witch trials,” Harsee continued, “quick action was called for in order to get control of the many suspects, so an inquisition composed of only a few members was set up, with the task of deciding who had to be tortured. Their conclusions were presented to the prince-bishop, who signed the death sentences.”
“Only a handful of people are to make the life-or-death decisions?” Master Samuel shook his head in dismay. “But what, then, is the purpose of this commission-”
“I suggest a vote,” the suffragan bishop interrupted. He looked slowly around the table, his gaze resting on one attendee after another. “All those present are naturally above all suspicion. None of the accusations made here will be considered-we are concerned only with the strangers in the city. The actors, for example-but also gypsies and other itinerant people. I will personally appoint the members of this commission if necessary-naturally only with the blessing of His Excellency, the prince-bishop. Are all in agreement?”
For a while, silence prevailed. The bishop’s chancellor was the first to raise his hand, followed by the young dandy with the goatee, and finally all the others. Only Samuel and Simon sat there motionless.
“I see there are only two objections,” the suffragan bishop finally concluded, taking out a silk handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his bald head. “Well, that’s more than enough, especially since one of the two objectors is not even from this town,” he added smugly. He turned to the chancellor. “I ask you to please inform His Excellency the Prince-Bishop of our decision. I’m certain he will approve.”
The chancellor nodded. “I believe you are right, Your Excellency.” He reached for his glass of wine and offered a toast to the others. “Here’s to our city!”
“To our city!” the others replied, raising their glasses as well.
While the councilors and scholars drank deeply from their wineglasses, Simon felt as if a rope was slowly tightening around his neck.
Though she was trudging ankle-deep through the garbage in the streets, Barbara felt like she was walking on a cloud. Together with Matheo she strolled through a narrow, muddy lane that ran from the Green Market to the Lange Gasse. There was an odor of hops and smoked meat in the air, freshly washed clothing hung from the windows, and in a doorway, children were playing with a top.
Since it was Sunday, Sir Malcolm had given his actors time off after the performance, and for an hour the two young people had been walking through Bamberg like a husband and wife on a Sunday-afternoon stroll. Matheo had stopped now and then at one of the many market stalls, bought a few little things, and, like a gallant gentleman from a good family, had given the delighted Barbara some tasty tidbits to eat.
As casually as possible, Barbara reached out for Matheo’s hand and let him help her jump over a large puddle in the street. The day was certainly the finest she’d ever had. Beside her walked the first boy she really loved-not one of those uncouth Schongau farm boys who thought it was a sign of affection to run after her reciting one of their obscene poems, nor the feebleminded knacker’s son from the neighboring town of Peiting, who had only three teeth left in his mouth, stank like a barrel of tannic acid, and actually hoped to marry soon. No, this boy was like something out of one of those wonderful storybooks that Magdalena had always read to her at bedtime. Matheo was muscular and tanned like a Turkish prince, with mysterious, sparkling eyes and a healthy set of white teeth that gleamed when he laughed. And he was smart and funny. Just then he took another playful bow, mimicking a dandy at the royal court.
“My dear lady, allow me to guide you safely through this dubious part of town,” he said in an artificially pompous tone, pointing to the left where the lane opened into a broader avenue.
“Dear lady?” Barbara grinned. “No doubt you have forgotten the family I come from. Or are we still playacting?”
“Isn’t all the world a stage?” he replied with a wink.
Their act that morning in the wedding house had been a great success. Actually, it was Matheo’s act-Barbara had only tossed some balls and hoops to him from time to time. But the performance was well received, the audience laughed, and at least for a short while they’d forgotten their fears. In her excitement, Barbara had hardly given a thought to the werewolf that was once again wandering the streets of Bamberg during the night. While the crowd was applauding at the end of the piece, Matheo had called her up onto the stage, and she’d bowed to the audience, whose applause washed over her like a pleasant summer rain.
Now Barbara started dreaming of becoming an artist someday, too. Even as a very small girl she’d enjoyed clowning around and getting dressed up. Was this perhaps the chance she’d yearned for to escape the dreary, predestined life of a hangman’s daughter? She would rumble through the country in a wagon and make people laugh or cry. Weren’t actors just as dishonorable as knackers and hangmen? So, in fact, she’d remain true to her class. But what she didn’t know was how to break this news to her family. She suspected that her father would not be excited about these plans.
“Another prune?”
Matheo handed her the small, shriveled fruit, interrupting her thoughts. They were just passing the barred windows of the city prison on the Hellergasse, and Barbara couldn’t help noting that her uncle occasionally whipped convicts here before dragging them off to the gallows or wherever they were to be beheaded. Matheo seemed to have noticed her worried look.
“Does your father ever have nightmares from all the executions?” he asked, lifting his crumpled hat back over his neck. He had a southern accent but spoke German extremely well. “I can imagine he also has to torture or hang people sometimes. He must feel sorry for some of them, doesn’t he?”