Simon grabbed the nearly unconscious hangman by the shoulder and led him quickly behind the barrels.
“The bishop’s palace,” he whispered to Magdalena, who knelt down next to him. “We have to go there and ask the church for asylum. That’s our only chance! We certainly won’t make it out of town tonight.”
“And do you really think the bishop will grant asylum to a suspected murderer?” Magdalena asked skeptically.
Simon nodded enthusiastically. “Asylum in the church has been sacred since time immemorial! Only the bishop has the power to make and enforce laws on lands belonging to the church, so once your father makes it there, the city guards are powerless.”
“Isn’t that just wonderful!” Magdalena rolled her eyes. “The bishop himself, rather than the city, will have the personal privilege of breaking my father on the wheel. What a relief!”
“At least we’ll gain some time,” Simon replied. “I’m sure once we know what your uncle’s alchemical experiments were all about, we’ll get a better handle on what the big secret is. Then maybe we can start to prove your father’s innocence.”
“And if not, then all this will have been for naught!” Magdalena shook her head. “Out of the question! My father’s free now. Why would I put him right back in danger again?”
“Just look at him!” Simon pointed at Kuisl, who crouched behind a wine barrel, his head hanging down to his chest, breathing heavily. “We’ll be lucky if we can even make it to the bishop’s palace. But if we do, at least your father will get the care he obviously needs.”
All of a sudden the voices of the guards sounded very close, their footsteps pounding on the hard-packed clay soil. Magdalena watched as two of them charged around the corner and into the narrow lane. She held her breath; she could feel her exhausted father leaning hard against the barrel, and the barrel itself was now threatening to topple under his weight. Mustering all her might, she hugged her father close, hoping to keep both him and the barrel upright. The bailiffs raced past and soon disappeared in the darkness.
“Very well,” Magdalena whispered. “We’ll do as you say. But if they harm so much as a single hair on my father’s head, you’ll be sleeping alone for many years to come!”
Simon smiled. “Believe me, that’s the last thing on my mind at this point. Come on, now; let’s wake the sleeping giant.”
They gave Jakob Kuisl a few brisk slaps in the face until he came at least partway to, then each took an arm and led him away.
“We’ll get you to the cathedral square as fast as we can,” Simon whispered. “I hope the people will just figure we’re lugging a drunk friend home.”
“Get… your… hands… off me,” the hangman growled. “I can… walk by myself.”
“Don’t make such a fuss, Father,” Magdalena said. “It’ll do you some good if you let your daughter help you out a bit from time to time. You’re not a young fellow anymore.”
“Snotty little… bitch.” Kuisl gave up, collapsing into Simon’s and Magdalena’s arms. The hangman’s daughter doubted he had any idea what they planned to do with him.
“Let’s go now!” Simon urged. “Before the guards show up again.”
He and Magdalena stumbled through the dark city, shouldering the hangman’s dead weight between them. Kuisl collapsed again and again, forcing them to stop each time. Twice they encountered guards too busy to be bothered by a trio of revelers as they frantically poked their torches into every last nook and cranny in search of their convict. They had better things to do tonight than be distracted by a handful of drunks.
After an anxious quarter-hour Simon and Magdalena finally came to the deserted Krauterermarkt Square, where the entrance to the bishop’s palace was located. They were disappointed to find that the doors, nearly fifteen feet high, were locked.
“Damn!” Magdalena said. “We might have expected something like this.”
From a distance the heavy, iron-studded portal seemed about as inviting as the gates to hell. It rose above them darkly, ending at the top in a pointed arch and alcove displaying several coats of arms. In the left wing of the door they spotted a small porthole, also shut tight.
“How do you intend to get in?” Magdalena asked. “Just knock?”
“You forget I have an invitation from the bishop’s brewmaster.”
“Yes, for yourself. But does it include permission for a hangman’s daughter and a fugitive murderer?”
Simon rolled his eyes. “Must you always be so petulant? Before, we followed
“So, then, what is it exactly you intend to do, smart aleck?”
“Let’s put your father down somewhere first. My arms feel like they’re about to fall off.”
They carefully led Kuisl to a little recessed area between two houses where he would be invisible to most passersby. The hangman’s face was ashen, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, but he was somehow able to keep more or less upright against the wall.
“Do you think you can walk a little ways by yourself?” Simon asked.
Kuisl nodded, teeth clenched, as the medicus quietly explained the plan. Then Simon approached the portal and gave a few loud knocks.
It was a while before they heard shuffling steps on the other side. With a creak, the porthole opened on the pinched, unshaven face of a bishop’s guard.
“There’d better be a good reason for knocking on my door at this godforsaken hour,” the guard growled, “or you just may be living out the rest of the summer in our modest little dungeon. Without water.”
Gravely Simon produced his invitation from the brewmaster. “His Excellency Brother Hubertus has summoned me here,” he said, without batting an eye. “He’s expecting me right away.”
“Now?” The soldier scratched his lice-ridden scalp. “After midnight?”
“I’m Simon Fronwieser from the Spital Brewery,” the medicus improvised. “Your brewmaster is having problems with the fermentation of the wheat beer, and if we don’t do something about it right away, the beer will taste like horse piss by tomorrow and your bishop will be high and dry.”
The guard frowned. The thought of being held in any way responsible for the irascible bishop’s thirst made him queasy.
“Hey, Rupert!” he shouted to someone behind him. “Wake that fat monk in the brewery. He has a visitor.”
Suddenly they heard hundreds of boots marching toward them from the direction of the cathedral square. A large contingent of guards was returning to their quarters. Simon could only imagine what might happen were they to discover him here.
“Ah, would you mind opening the door?” the medicus asked. “It’s drafty out here, and I could stand to get off my feet.”
“Hold it,” the soldier barked. “The monk will be here in a moment.”
They could now hear distinct voices approaching from the south. Simon turned his head to see at least a dozen bailiffs armed with pikes advancing toward them from the cathedral square.
“What difference does it make if I wait out here or wait inside?” He offered a strained smile. “Besides, I have a stomachache. The mashed peas I had for lunch must have been a bit rotten, so just open the door and-”
“Silence, I said!” the guard interrupted. “First we’ll see if the brewmaster in fact knows you. Many others have made their way here before you, hoping for asylum.”
Now the city guards were no more than thirty paces from Simon.
“I’d really like to know what in hell is going on out there,” the guard said, poking his head out the porthole for a better look. “All that shouting and the bells clanging-as if the Turks were at the city gates. Well, we’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.”
Now some bailiffs were in fact approaching the bishop’s palace. One soldier pointed his long pike at Simon and shouted something to the others. The men seemed to be moving more quickly now in his direction. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Should he run? If he did, he’d have squandered his last chance.
“Hey, you there!” cried one soldier, hurrying toward him. “What are you doing there by that door?”
Just then a familiar voice boomed out from inside the palace. “Simon Fronwieser! Have you come to make
