much to do around here. I’m always happy for the company. Besides”-he winked-“didn’t you yourself say that it’s a week until your examination? So don’t be so impatient. I’m a thorough person-and not just in brewing beer.”
Simon sighed. “All right, I’ll wait, just not here. You do promise to tell me as soon as possible, don’t you?”
Brother Hubertus grinned broadly. “You have the word of the bishop’s brewmaster.”
He opened a drawer in the table and extracted a stained piece of paper, ink, and a goose-quill pen.
“I’ll prepare something in writing for you, so that the next time you come to visit you can get past the guards. We don’t want those dolts to leave you standing there.” Brother Hubertus scribbled a few words on the paper, placed the bishop’s seal on it, then rolled it up and handed it to Simon.
“Anyone who falls out of favor with me also falls out with the bishop. Those fools have figured out that much at least. Without his beer His Excellency grows irritable. But now let’s have ourselves a taste of those boiled sausages.”
He went over to a steaming kettle, opened it, and pulled out a chain of plump pink sausages. As steam enveloped the monk, he looked as if he were standing on a cloud.
“A brewer’s kettles are good for all sorts of things, aren’t they?” Hubertus inhaled the scent of tightly packed sheep intestines. “So tell me, what do you think of this fashionable new rascal Descartes?”
Jakob Kuisl woke to the sound of pebbles crunching. He sat up, in pain, with no idea at first where he was. Except for a small crack of light that grew brighter and brighter on the other side of the room, everything around him was black.
With the pain, memories came flooding back. He’d escaped; the Regensburg executioner had brought him to this dungeon under the brothel at Peter’s Gate. Were bailiffs standing just outside, ready to carry him back to his former cell? Had that woman Dorothea betrayed him?
A stooped figure entered the little room. It was Philipp Teuber, who set a large sack down in a corner, groaning.
“Everything’s still calm out there,” he said. “No doubt they’re keeping your escape a secret for now and accusing one another for the slip-up.” Teuber laughed softly. “An escape from the city hall dungeon! That hasn’t happened for hundreds of years! But the shock will pass quickly, and the big manhunt will no doubt begin today, so it’s best for you to stay here the next few days and lie low.”
“I’ve got to find Magdalena…” Kuisl whispered, trying to stand, but the pain in his legs was so crippling he slid down the wall with a moan.
“First you’ve got to get better,” Teuber said, rummaging through his bag, then pulled out a knuckle of pork, some bread, a piece of cheese, and a corked jug of wine. “This will help you get your strength back. Let’s have a look at your leg.”
While the Regensburg executioner rubbed Kuisl’s lower thigh with salve, Kuisl bit into the pork knuckle, letting the fat run down into his beard. After days of watery soup and moldy bread, the tough meat seemed like manna from heaven. He could already feel strength returning to his abused body.
“My son found your daughter and gave her the letter,” Teuber said as he rubbed Kuisl’s legs.
Kuisl stopped chewing. “How is she?” he asked. “Is she in trouble?”
Teuber laughed. “It’s funny you ask.” He shook his head with a grin. “Things are evidently going very well for her. My son met her in the company of a medicus and several beggars down by the burned-out bathhouse. It seems they’ve discovered something.”
“And where is she now?”
The Regensburg executioner shrugged. “I don’t know, but if she’s in with the beggars, I’ll learn of it. I’ve thrown my fair share of them into the stocks, then either burned them or beaten them and driven them out of the city. But I’ve also let a few of those poor bastards escape, and they owe me.”
“Damn! What the devil did you put in this ointment?” Kuisl asked, turning up his nose. “It stinks like bear fat that’s sat out for three years.”
“A family recipe,” Teuber replied. “If you think I’m going to reveal the ingredients, think again.”
The Schongau hangman tried to grin despite his pain. “I’d rather drink dandelion soup for a year than try out your recipe, you old knacker. In Schongau I don’t even rub down cattle with stuff like that.”
“I’ve already figured out that of the two of us, you’re the bigger smart aleck,” Teuber grumbled. “Now turn over so I can have a look at your arm. Does it hurt bad?”
Kuisl took a long swig of red wine before answering. “What a stupid question! You wrenched it from the socket! Now, horse doctor, show me that you can at least do something useful and shove it back into place.”
“If I were you, I’d take another swig first, so the guards down at Jakob’s Gate won’t hear you scream.”
“Not necessary.” Kuisl bit his lip.
“Or perhaps wedge a piece of wood between your teeth?”
“You son of a bitch,” Kuisl cursed. “Just do it.”
The Regensburg executioner grabbed Kuisl’s left arm and pulled hard. It crunched and cracked like a tree branch snapping. Kuisl grimaced and ground his teeth a moment, but otherwise an almost eerie silence prevailed. Finally, Kuisl rolled his shoulder cautiously, then nodded approvingly. With just one strong tug, Teuber had set the arm back in its socket.
“Good job, Teuber,” Kuisl whispered, blanching as he leaned against the wall and beads of sweat ran down his face. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”
“You’ll have to go easy on the arm for a few days,” his colleague reminded him. “I’ll leave the ointment here for you. Be sure to rub some of it on every day…”
“Yes, yes, fine.” Kuisl turned aside and took a deep breath. “I myself know what I have to do. I always have.”
As silence spread through the room, only the Schongau hangman’s deep breathing was audible.
“Do you still believe someone set you up?” Teuber asked at last.
Kuisl nodded, staring at the wall in front of him. “Some bastard from years ago. He covered the walls of the cell with the names of old battlefields, so this must go all the way back to the war. He knows every battle I fought, and he knows my wife.” He pounded the wall with his good arm. “How the hell does this devil know my wife?”
“You were a mercenary?” Teuber asked. “Why didn’t you stay a hangman? I’ve heard about you Kuisls. You’re a tough breed. A whole tribe of executioners all over Bavaria bears your name. Why didn’t you just stick with what your father taught you?”
Kuisl was silent a long time. Not until the Regensburg executioner stood up and made ready to leave did he begin to speak.
“My father is dead,” he said. “They killed him when I was fourteen. They stoned him to death because he showed up drunk to perform an execution one time too many.” Kuisl stared off into space. “It was the third time he was unable to handle his sword and turned the scaffold into a bloodbath. His drinking before every execution finally did him in.”
A shadow passed over his face.
“Hey, are you still in your right mind?” Teuber grabbed the Schongau hangman, who appeared to be drifting into unconsciousness. Like a wet dog, Kuisl shook his head vigorously, trying to drive away bad thoughts.
“I’m all right. Just need a little sleep.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “The damned war. I just can’t get it out of my head.”
Teuber looked at him, lost in thought. “Kuisl, Kuisl,” he said at last. “Whoever is behind this affair has been more successful than he can imagine. There is an agony in your eyes greater than any rack could inflict.” He sighed as he rose to his feet. “I’m going to leave you alone now. Try to sleep, and tomorrow I’ll bring you some food and drink.”
Stooping, he left the little room and rolled the barrel in front of the entry behind him, where Kuisl still lay in darkness.
Though he could see nothing, his eyes were wide open.
