“Please excuse my appearance,” Hieronymus said as they climbed a narrow staircase up to the second floor. “Nowadays I spend almost all my time in my study in the attic. The council has ordered me to recopy a huge pile of old, barely legible financial records.” He sighed. “If there is a hell set aside for scribes, I can imagine what it looks like. Well, at least I can work at home.”
They entered a warm room decorated with colorful wall hangings. In one corner, a cheerful fire flickered on the hearth. Hieronymus offered Simon a stool upholstered in fur, then disappeared in the next room for a while before returning with a steaming pot and two small, dainty cups. Simon raised his eyebrows, knowing that these new drinking vessels were extremely expensive.
“Here, too, this devilish concoction is becoming more and more popular,” Hauser said as he made himself comfortable on another stool, took a slurp of the black brew, and let out a moan of satisfaction. “The suffragan bishop has banned it because it comes from unbelievers-it’s said to instill heretical thoughts. Fortunately, Sebastian Harsee is not yet able to look through the walls of your house.” He grinned. “The bigoted zealot would do that, too, if he could.”
“You were talking earlier about your time as a scribe during the witch trials,” Simon began cautiously. “So were you able to watch the trials yourself?”
Hieronymus nodded gloomily and, as if suddenly seized with a chill, wrapped his chubby hands around the tiny cup. “You could say that. At that time I was just a very young, simple apprentice, but they needed everyone they could get, since many members of the council had also been accused. A few times I even served as a scribe for that notorious Inquisition Commission that sat in judgment on the accused. I saw how some people were sent to the dungeon based only on the testimony of a jealous neighbor, and they were tortured and burned.”
“And there was nothing you could do about it?” Simon asked.
“What could I have done? Anyone who challenged the Inquisition Commission was found guilty of witchcraft himself. I was. . afraid. Besides, for God’s sake, I was only the scribe. I took the minutes, that’s all.” Hieronymus paused. His fat lips wobbled as he remembered.
“Sometimes it was hard to understand the defendants,” he finally said in a soft voice. “They. . they screamed and whimpered, and in the end all they did was moan. No one can describe this moan, much less write it down.”
Hieronymus had put down the cup of coffee. The conversation had clearly shaken him. His face was gray, and he seemed to have temporarily forgotten his visitor.
“I’m sorry, I’m not accusing you of anything,” Simon said, trying to console him. “It’s just sometimes hard to understand how. .” He struggled to find the right words, and an awkward silence followed.
Suddenly Simon had a thought. Hieronymus was probably just a lower-level scribe, but certainly he knew all about the influential people in town and their intrigues-then, as well as now. Maybe he had some thoughts about what the dead and missing people of the last few weeks had in common.
He cleared his throat. “My friend, the city physician Master Samuel, has an interesting assumption,” he began in a firm tone. “He thinks that perhaps there’s no werewolf out there at all, just someone who wants to do away with some of the council members, who are possible competitors. What do you think of that?”
Hieronymus seemed perplexed for a moment, though the surprising question seemed to have brought him back to his senses. Lost in thought, he rocked his massive head from side to side. “Hm, I admit I don’t really believe in a werewolf,” he replied finally. “No more than I believed in witches back then. But are you suggesting that all this is just a cold-blooded series of murders designed to get rid of some of the nobles? Let me think.” He stood up and walked back and forth in the room, holding his fat, unshaven chin in his hand.
“Thadäus Vasold and Klaus Schwarzkontz were powerful figures in the city council, to be sure, even if they were long past their primes. Their deaths did, in fact, make room for newcomers on the council. Egidius Gotzendörfer has been dead for a long time, but his widow certainly still had influence. But as to the others. .” Suddenly the scribe fell silent, his fat body stiffened, and Simon could see that his right hand was trembling slightly.
“No, no,” he finally said, almost a little too fast, continuing to stare thoughtfully into the fire. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to help you, Master Fronwieser, as much as I would like to.” He shuddered, as if to cast off a bad dream, then turned to his guest with a nervous smile. “And I have better things to do than get involved in such intrigues. That’s a risky business nowadays.” He stiffened and pointed toward the door. “I’m afraid we’ll have to continue our conversation some other time. I have to go to the city hall, where I have a lot of paperwork waiting for me that can’t be done at home.”
Confused, Simon got to his feet. “Well, that is a shame. If you see Magdalena-”
“I’ll tell her you were here.” Hieronymus held out his hand, which felt soft and flabby. “I’d be very grateful if your wife could try to cheer up my Katharina a bit. And now, farewell.”
Simon barely had time to finish his coffee and, moments later, was standing outside in front of the clerk’s house.
Up on the Michelsberg, Magdalena sat on a bench set out for pilgrims and looked down at the bustling life in the city below. Her children were playing hide-and-seek between the bushes above the vineyards. She took a deep breath and only now noticed how refreshing the air was up here. Down in the narrow streets, there was a strong stench of smoke, feces, and rotting vegetables, even now in the colder month of October, but up here a brisk and icy wind was blowing.
After Simon had left unexpectedly early this morning to attend the council meeting, she’d decided to take a walk with the children in the countryside. Since Katharina’s wedding had been postponed indefinitely, she didn’t need to help her aunt with the preparations in the wedding hall. For a while she strolled with the boys along the Regnitz, then on a whim decided to climb to the top of the Michelsberg to visit the grave of St. Otto and pray for Katharina. Before God all men were equal, and Magdalena was sure the Lord would make no distinctions between honorable and dishonorable people. He certainly would have no objection to a hangman celebrating in a middle-class wedding hall. But here on earth the ruler was not God but the church, which had once again shown her family that a hangman was considered nothing but dirt.
My children must have a better life than us, Magdalena thought as she watched Peter and Paul playing. No one must be allowed to forbid them from getting married just because they are considered dishonorable.
She sighed softly. Magdalena completely understood Simon’s wanting to get back home to Schongau. On the other hand, she couldn’t leave without Barbara, and it didn’t appear that her little sister was going to let anybody change her mind anytime soon. If there were only some way she could help Matheo. The prince-bishop’s decision to postpone the torture until after the theatrical competition gave them a little time. She earnestly hoped her father, and especially her uncle, would think of something by then. As the Bamberg executioner, Bartholomäus was probably the only one who, though he couldn’t spare Matheo’s life, could at least save him from the worst pain.
After a while she stood up, called for the boys, and together they walked back down the narrow pathway that wound its way through the vineyards. The little pilgrimage path ended at the Sand Gate near the river. Magdalena considered paying a visit to Katharina and her father, who didn’t live far from there, but then decided against it. It was already after noon, and the children at her side were hungry and fussy. Surely Simon would be waiting impatiently for them in the hangman’s house, and perhaps he’d have news from the city council meeting about Matheo and his trial.