11
BAMBERG, NOON, NOVEMBER 1, 1668 AD
The Bishop of Würzburg arrived the following afternoon with a large entourage.
Since early morning, people had been standing at the wooden bridge by the town gate to welcome and show homage to His Excellency the elector. This display was not completely selfless. Johann Philipp von Schönborn was a good-natured and, above all, generous leader who liked to throw coins and small gifts to the crowds who came to meet him on his trips. Accordingly, the crowd was large at the bridge and everyone wanted to be standing in the first row.
Magdalena stood off to one side with the children. The boys had climbed a scraggly willow tree with a good view of the proceedings. Though they had no idea who or what a bishop was, they were clearly enjoying the excitement as well as the fragrance of chestnuts and candied apples that street vendors were roasting over glowing coals and hawking to the crowd. Magdalena, too, couldn’t help smiling. The fear of the werewolf, the paralyzing horror that lay over Bamberg like a dark cloud, seemed to have lifted, at least for a while.
Magdalena had wanted to help her father and uncle prepare the tincture for the sleep sponge, but Peter and Paul kept grabbing the henbane and hemlock from the table and throwing it around, and Jakob was getting angrier and angrier. After little Paul had almost taken a sip of the opium juice, the hangman lost his temper and Magdalena hastily left the house with the children. Now she was standing near the busy bridge, each of the children was holding a slice of apple in his hand, and she could reflect in peace on the plans they’d made.
At first, the plan sounded so far-fetched that she couldn’t decide if the idea was crazy or a stroke of genius. Tonight they’d actually create a werewolf, a fiendish monster on which the people of Bamberg could vent their anger.
The tense mood in the city was evident here, as well, among the people in the waiting crowd. Two young journeymen in front of her kept whispering and turning around cautiously to make sure no one was listening.
“. . and early this morning they came to arrest Jäckel Riemer, that drunk tower guard in the church,” one of them whispered. He was wearing the kind of hat traditionally worn by raftsmen on the river. “They say that the sexton at St. Martin’s Church saw him at night in the cemetery, digging up corpses to eat.”
“Bah!” the other journeyman replied with disgust, shaking his head. “You just have to hope this will all be cleared up before the whole city goes mad.”
“What are you trying to say?” the raftsman asked suspiciously. “You mean to tell me you don’t believe in the werewolf?”
“Oh, I do,” his acquaintance assured him. “It’s just that. .”
He was struggling for the right words when suddenly there was the sound of a trumpet on the bridge. A wave of applause followed, and the journeyman was clearly relieved that instead of replying to his friend, he could acknowledge the bishop’s arrival. “Look, the noble visitor has finally arrived. What gorgeous horses. We haven’t seen anything like this for a long time.”
At that moment they indeed heard the clatter of hooves and, shortly thereafter, saw the team of six horses crossing the bridge. The two lead horses were wearing plumes, and their silver harnesses glittered in the noonday autumn sun.
“Mama, Mama!” Peter shouted. “Look, here comes the kaiser!”
Magdalena smiled. “Not exactly the kaiser, Peter, but someone who’s almost as rich and powerful. He’s the bishop of Würzburg-a real, living elector, who takes part in naming the king of the Reich.”
“I want to see the elector, too,” Paul said, sitting on the branch below so that the crowd blocked his view. He climbed a bit higher as Magdalena watched with trepidation, but then she turned back to the sight before them.
They’re growing up, she thought. I’ll have to get used to it.
Royal guards with gleaming breastplates rode before and behind the coach, and one was holding up the flag of the Würzburg bishop. Behind them came a line of smaller coaches, no doubt conveying lesser clerics and courtiers. When the coach, with its six-horse team, passed Magdalena, she briefly caught sight of an older, bearded man inside with long, gray hair, smiling benignly and waving out the window.
The applause and cheers grew louder as the soldiers took out leather pouches containing small coins and threw them into the crowd. The journeymen in front of Magdalena caught a few of them.
“Three cheers for the Würzburg elector!” the raftsman shouted. “Three cheers for the elector!” But after the coach had passed, he turned crossly to his neighbor. “He’s getting stingier and stingier. The last time there were a few guilders among the coins, and now look at this. Only a few piddling kreuzers.”
“The guilders and ducats are for our Bamberg bishop,” his friend responded with a grin. “So he can finally finish building his residence up on the cathedral mount. The word is that Johann Philipp von Schönborn isn’t here just for fun. He’ll no doubt have to lend his colleague a big sum of money again.”
The other raftsman bit his kreuzer to check it. “But they’ll also have time for amusement. Have you heard? Two troupes of actors will be performing tonight. It will be a long night.”
“If the werewolf doesn’t come first and run off with two fat bishops.”
The two sauntered off, laughing, and Magdalena suddenly felt her good mood dissipating. The conversation had reminded her again of their scheme for that night, and she felt a lump in her throat. Would the sleep sponge work? And how far along was her father in preparing the gunpowder? Simon had gone off to visit his friend Samuel that morning to get the rest of the ingredients. No doubt he was still in the executioner’s house with the two Kuisls stirring the highly explosive mixture, and the three men would certainly have no need for a couple of rowdy boys.
On the spur of the moment, Magdalena decided to visit Katharina and offer her some consolation. Simon had said she had gone to her father’s house to grieve the cancellation of the wedding reception.
“Shall we go and visit Aunt Katharina?” she suggested to the two boys with a wink. “Who knows, maybe she’ll make you porridge again with lots of honey.”
She didn’t have to ask twice. Peter and Paul were wild about the motherly Katharina, and especially her cooking. As quick as two little squirrels, they scurried down from the willow and pushed their way with their mother through the crowd, which was starting to break up now that the Würzburg bishop had passed on his way to the cathedral mount-though the cheering could still be heard in the distance.
After a while, they crossed the City Hall Bridge and soon were standing in front of the Hausers’. It was Katharina herself who answered the door after a few knocks. Her eyes were red from crying, but the sight of the children brought a smile to her face.
“Peter! Paul! How glad I am to see you. Come in, I’ve just taken some buttered apple fritters out of the oven. I think you’ll like them.”
In fact, there was a heavenly aroma of warm apples and hot butter throughout the house, and the children stormed, hooting and cheering, into the kitchen, where Katharina served them a whole tower of the sweet pastry. While the boys sat at the table eating happily, Magdalena had the chance to have a quiet conversation with Katharina.
“When I’m unhappy, I often stay in the kitchen,” Katharina said with a faint smile. “Cooking is still the best way for me to forget my cares. You should feel free to come and visit me more often.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the wedding,” Magdalena replied, holding Katharina’s hand. “In any case, we’ll stay a while longer in Bamberg, and if necessary, we’ll just have a smaller party.”
Katharina nodded. “I’m so grateful for that. Thank you.” She stared off into space, and there was a pause during which the only sound was the children’s chewing and smacking their lips.