“Doctor, Doctor, do something,” shouted Johann von Schönborn, standing petrified beside his colleague. “Whatever is wrong with this man, he urgently needs your help.”
“He doesn’t need any help-he’s a werewolf!” Rieneck shrieked. “Quick, Captain, get rid of him before he can destroy any others.”
In the meantime, Samuel had succeeded in getting to the howling suffragan bishop, but so had Martin Lebrecht. The captain of the guard raised his sword and was about to strike, but Samuel held him back.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Can’t you see he no longer poses any danger?”
In fact, Harsee’s convulsions had diminished. He struggled so hard to sit up one more time that Simon feared he might break his back-then he finally fell silent. The wound on his head, evidently caused by his fall, was no longer bleeding so hard.
“Is he dead?” Philipp Rieneck asked anxiously after a few moments.
Carefully, Samuel leaned down to the sick man and listened to his chest. He shook his head.
“It looks like he’s lost consciousness, though his eyes are wide open. So it could also be a spasm, and he’d be able to hear everything around him just as if he were fully awake.”
“What a dreadful thing,” Simon whispered.
In the meantime, the theater had emptied out, broken shards of glass and crockery lay all around, the curtain in front of the stage was torn, and the actors had all vanished. Through the broken windows, excited voices and the shouts of the city guards could be heard coming from the courtyard below.
Bishop Johann von Schönborn turned to Martin Lebrecht, who had put his sword back in its sheath.
“It appears you will no longer be needed here,” said the Würzburg bishop, who, in contrast to his colleagues, had settled down somewhat. “It would be best for you to go outside and calm people down.”
“At your command, Your Excellency.”
Lebrecht saluted, then withdrew with the two visibly relieved guards and headed down to the courtyard. Once all the men had left, Philipp Rieneck turned to his colleagues and addressed them in a trembling voice.
“For a long time now,” he began hesitantly, “I’ve had my doubts about these werewolf stories and thought it was about time for good Brother Sebastian to get hold of himself. I didn’t stop him because. . because. .” He fell silent.
Because you don’t give a damn about this city, Simon thought. The only thing you care about is your menagerie and your mistresses.
“But I must confess that Brother Sebastian was right,” Rieneck finally continued in a firm voice. “And what’s worse, this werewolf seems able to turn even honorable people into werewolves.” He shuddered with horror. “If he can take away my God-fearing suffragan bishop, he can even take me. . and. . you, too.”
He pointed at Johann Schönborn, who frowned and stepped back a pace, as if fearing that the pure terror that had seized his colleague might be contagious.
“I’ll admit I don’t have any explanation for this, myself,” said Schönborn, shaking his head and pointing at the paralyzed body of the suffragan bishop, whose wide-open eyes were still staring blankly into space. “Only the learned doctors can help us here. What do you think, Master Samuel?”
“It’s surely too early for a definitive diagnosis,” replied Samuel, still kneeling next to the sick bishop and checking his breathing and heartbeat. “But judging from the way the suffragan bishop was twitching and thrashing about, it could be epilepsy, or perhaps these spasms can be attributed to St. Vitus’s dance.”
“Do you think Harsee has caught St. Anthony’s fire?” Simon asked.
The medicus had seen that illness many years ago in Regensburg. A bluish mushroom that sometimes grew on grain could cause hallucinations, spasms, and sometimes paralysis that could lead to death. Simon looked down in horror at the contorted face of the suffragan bishop, who seemed to be staring back up at him.
“St. Vitus’s dance can have many causes,” Samuel explained, “including angel’s trumpet and other magical herbs. Sometimes people dance around in a religious ecstasy, but some people say the twitching comes from a spider bite, for example, from a tarantula-”
“The wound on his neck,” Simon interrupted excitedly. “Do you remember? Could that be a spider bite?”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Samuel pulled down Harsee’s robe at the collar and took another look at the wound with the red halo. “No doubt it’s a bite,” he said with a frown, “but for a spider it’s really too big, and besides, there are no tarantulas here. As far as I know, they are found much farther south, in southern Italy.”
“Aha, then he was no doubt bitten by a werewolf,” Rieneck cried out. “Did you see Brother Sebastian’s teeth? They were pointed and long. And foam was dripping from them onto the ground.”
“That can be caused by cramps,” Samuel assured him, “which distend facial skin, giving the impression that the victim has long teeth.” He stood up and wiped his hands on his jacket. “I can’t tell you any more now, but we should keep a close eye on him.” He shrugged and turned to Simon. “Can you help me take care of him?”
Simon had gone to fetch a jug of wine and a piece of fabric from the theater curtain to wash Harsee’s head wound and apply a temporary dressing. As he approached the sick man with the jug, something strange happened. Suddenly the suffragan bishop once again started quivering, tossing his head back and forth, and rearing up as if the very sight of the wine was painful to him.
“See! A sign,” Philipp Rieneck said. “He is terrified on seeing the blood of our Savior. Sprinkle him with holy water so he will lose his power. With witches that’s supposed to be a surefire method.”
Now Johann Schönborn also seemed uncertain. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he mumbled. “Perhaps we really ought to try using holy water.”
“Nonsense.” Samuel’s voice was so low that the bishops couldn’t hear him, but he turned to Simon, frowning.
“I must admit this is strange,” he said softly. “As I told you, he refused to drink anything yesterday.”
“Indeed.” Simon nodded, thinking. “He wouldn’t drink a thing, and for that reason I don’t believe he went into convulsions on account of the blood of our Savior. See for yourself.” He looked around until he found a half-filled jug of beer and approached the sick man, who once again started to quiver and writhe around. After a while, Simon put the jug down again and turned to the two astonished bishops.
“Since transubstantiation and communion has never taken place with beer, I can only assume that he’ll react that way toward any kind of liquid.” He smiled wryly. “It appears he would react that way even if it was apple juice.”
“But why?” asked Johann Schönborn, shaking his head. “This is all very mysterious.” He turned to Samuel and looked at him sternly.
“Before the performance, you said you had certain suspicions concerning this werewolf. I think it’s time for an explanation, my dear Doctor.”
Samuel took a deep breath. “Well, it seems that. .,” he began hesitantly, “some of the, uh. . literature suggests that-”
At that moment there was a loud clap of thunder and then shouts of terror from the crowd out in the courtyard. Prince-Bishop Philipp Voit von Rieneck fell to his knees and folded his hands in prayer.
“Holy Mother of God!” he wailed. “Now we’ve angered the heavens as well with your heretical scholarly words. Will this madness ever cease?”
Up in the old castle, three other guards experienced the worst nightmares of their lives that night.
Outside it was cold and damp, and the guards had decided to while away the hours of their shift in a friendly game of dice in the guardhouse. The captain was down below in Geyerswörth Castle, and the second in command had the job of guarding the bishop’s palace. So who was there to tell them they couldn’t enjoy one or two little games and a well-deserved beer?