In Altenstadt, he could hear music coming from the only tavern in town. The windows of Strasser’s Tavern cast a warm glow, and laughter, the stamping of feet, and the sound of an out-of-tune fiddle could be heard. Jakob Kuisl approached, peeking inside through a slit in one of the windows.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
On a table in the middle of the room, a few young men were dancing and singing a crude peasant song in raucous voices. A circle of onlookers gathered around with glasses raised, laughing and cheering them on. Among the young men on the table, a girl was dancing and stretching her arms up in a suggestive pose. Then she tilted her head far back while one of the men poured beer into her mouth from a huge beer stein.
It was Magdalena.
Her eyes were rolling wildly while one fellow reached out lustily toward her skirt and another pulled on the strings of her bodice.
Jakob Kuisl kicked the door and it swung inward with a loud bang. Then he stormed in and headed for the group. He grabbed one of the young men, yanked him off the table, and flung him in the direction of the onlookers, where he landed headfirst against a stool that splintered on impact. A second fellow hit the hangman hard over the head with his mug of beer. That was a serious mistake, as he found out only too soon. Kuisl grabbed him by the arm, pulled him down off the table, slapped him hard, and tossed him backward into two other men, all of whom landed in a tangle of arms and legs on the floor. The mug shattered, and a pool of beer spread across the floor at the feet of the astonished spectators.
Jakob Kuisl picked up his daughter like a sack of flour and threw her over his shoulder. She fought back and screamed as if she had lost her mind, but his grip was as solid as a vise.
“Would anyone else like a good thrashing?” he growled, looking around expectantly. The young men rubbed their aching heads and glanced at one another nervously.
“If anyone touches my daughter again, I’ll break every bone in their body. Do you hear?” he said softly, but firmly now. “She may be a hangman’s girl, but she’s off-limits.”
“But she said herself she wanted to dance,” one of the carpenter’s journeymen said sheepishly. “She probably had a little too much to drink…”
One look from the hangman silenced him. Then Kuisl tossed a few coins at the tavern owner, who had retreated against a wall, along with a few respectful others.
“Here you are, Strasser. For the mug and a new stool. If there’s anything left, treat the boys to a few beers. Now, good-bye.”
The door slammed behind him. What remained was a group of young men who felt as if they were awakening from a dream. After Jakob Kuisl had disappeared around the corner with Magdalena, the men started to whisper to one another, and then general laughter broke out.
“Are you crazy, Father?” Magdalena shouted. By now the two had arrived at the main street. She was still draped over her father’s shoulder like a sack. She spoke with a slight slur. “Stop…Put me down at once!”
The hangman flung his daughter in a wide arc into a snowdrift. Then he came plodding after her and rubbed snow in her face until it glowed bright red. Finally, he took out a vial and poured a bitter liquid down her throat until she started to spit and cough.
“For God’s sake, what is that?” she groaned, wiping her mouth. She was still dazed, but she could at least think somewhat clearly again.
“Ephedra, enzian, and a broth made from those brown beans Simon has,” her father grumbled. “Actually, I wanted to take the tonic to Hans Kohlberger because his wife is always so tired and just sits around staring out the window. But it will do for you, too.”
Magdalena shuddered. “It tastes horrible, but it helps.”
She made a face at first, but then suddenly turned serious. What was the matter with her? She could just barely remember sitting down at the table and drinking a beer. She had felt more and more lightheaded. Then she joined the workers dancing, but at this point, her memory blurred. Was it possible that someone poured something into her beer? Or had she just had too much to drink? She didn’t want to worry her father, so she remained silent and just put up with his lecture, which was now reaching its climax.
“It was disgraceful, shameless, the way you behaved in there, you hussy! What are people to think? You… you…” He took a deep breath, trying to calm down a bit.
“Oh, people…” she muttered. “Let the people talk. I’m just the hangman’s daughter; they’ll talk about me, anyway.”
“And Simon?” he growled. “What do you think Simon will have to say about that?”
“Oh, you can just stop with Simon!” she replied, turning her head aside.
The hangman grinned. “Aha, I see that’s what this is all about. Well, you won’t get your Simon back acting like that.”
He didn’t want to tell her he had lent his horse to Simon for the trip to Steingaden with Benedikta, so he switched the topic. “Did you learn anything about the church?”
Magdalena nodded and told him what she had heard from Balthasar Hemerle and the tavern keeper Strasser.
The hangman seemed to mull this over. “I think I have seen one of those monks already…”
“Where?” Magdalena asked, curious.
Her father turned away suddenly and started marching off in the direction of Schongau. “What does it matter?” he grumbled. “What does it matter to us who killed Koppmeyer? Your mother was right when she said that’s no business of ours. Let’s go home and eat.”
Magdalena ran after him and seized him by the shoulders.
“No, you don’t!” she shouted. “I want to know what happened there. Koppmeyer was poisoned! There’s a dusty old grave in the crypt and some strangers prowling around the area, speaking in Latin or some other secret language. What does it all mean? You can’t just go home and put your feet up by the fire.”
“Oh yes I can,” Jakob Kuisl said, marching forward.
Suddenly, Magdalena’s voice became soft and cold. “And suppose they pick up some innocent man for Koppmeyer’s murder and throw him in the dungeon? Just like they did back then with Stechlin?” Magdalena knew this was a sore spot for her father. “It was really poison that killed the priest, wasn’t it?” she added. “So it’s quite possible they’ll have you torture someone, just like the midwife the last time, only because she knew something about poison. Is that what you want?”
The hangman stopped in his tracks. For a while, the only sound that could be heard was the cawing of a crow.
“Very well,” he said finally. “We’ll have another look around the Saint Lawrence Church. Right away. Only so you’ll be able to sleep soundly again.”
The stranger watched the two as they walked down the main street toward the St. Lawrence Church. He struggled to calm himself by reciting the Lord’s Prayer. His plan had failed. He was dying to pry information out of the hangman’s girl about what her father had found in the crypt.
A distant memory flashed through his mind, then vanished.
He shook his head. He would have to talk again with this clerk. After all, he had paid good money to make sure the hangman stayed out of their way. It certainly appeared now that this stinking butcher from Schongau could do as he pleased.
Under his black coat and white tunic, the man fingered a golden cross that hung directly over his heart. He would need strength. His brotherhood had never approved of the common folk learning to read-you could see what that led to. The people became rebellious and didn’t do what they were supposed to. He had learned in the tavern that the hangman, despite his origins, was smart and educated, and that made him dangerous. More dangerous, in any case, than that nosey little doctor’s assistant who kept running after his master like a little poodle.
The stranger kissed the cross and put it back under his tunic. He had made a decision: He couldn’t rely on the clerk; he would have to act himself. They would get rid of the hangman at once. The danger that he would meddle in their affairs was too great. Now the man would have to tell the others.
The sound of his steps was muffled by the soft, powdery snow.
The hangman and his daughter walked toward the St. Lawrence Church, its wind-battered tower almost obscured by rising clouds of fog in the gathering darkness. Though there was no wind, it was bitter cold. Magdalena
