The Council of Twelve Read online

She left Hans Weininger where he was, took Peter by the hand, and stomped down Münzgasse Lane until they were out of sight. She was seething with fury, and not only because she’d once again had to experience firsthand what it meant to be the daughter of the town’s executioner. This city was one big rumor mill! Evidently, all of Schongau already knew that the Kuisls were going to travel to Munich.

  One month ago, Jakob Kuisl had received a very important invitation: he had been elected to the so-called Council of Twelve, the supreme body of the Bavarian executioners’ guild. Next week, over Candlemas, Bavaria’s most influential hangmen would meet in Munich, and Jakob Kuisl had been asked to introduce his family. Magdalena hadn’t been sure at first whether she should even go. Little Sophia, her youngest, had only just turned one, and it was ice cold, some of the rivers frozen. But she knew she couldn’t turn down her father’s invitation—it had been more like an order, anyway.

  And who knows, it might be his final journey, Magdalena thought. Involuntarily, she tightened her grip on Peter’s small hand.

  Her father was old, nearly sixty. He was still a feared hangman, his last execution only a few weeks back—a thieving vagabond whose remains now swayed in the breeze on the Schongau gallows. But even though Kuisl was as strong as an ox and clever as a fox, his movements had become slower lately, more erratic. His tired eyes showed the toll of decades gone by, the burden of the Great War and all the humiliation he’d had to experience since as an executioner. Magdalena suspected the invitation to Munich was also partly a redress for years of living in the contempt of others. She and the rest of the family would have to accompany their father, whether they wanted to or not.

  To take her mind off these gloomy thoughts, Magdalena stopped and dabbed the blood and snot from Peter’s face with a handkerchief. A thin stream of blood was still running from his nose and reminded her of the injustice her son had suffered. He was even paler than usual, his right eye was slowly turning black, and one leg of his expensive trousers was torn and would have to be mended.

  “Why don’t you fight back?” Magdalena bitterly asked her skinny eldest son, who was shivering under his threadbare shirt. “This would never have happened to your brother. Paul is a whole year younger than you, but even the ten-year-olds run away from him. Why can’t you defend yourself?” She was sorry the moment the words were out, but it was too late. Peter turned away from her, his thin body stiffening.

  “There were five of them,” he said quietly. “Not even Paul would have held them off.”

  “Who was it? Tell me! That mangy Berchtholdt? Fat little Seiler? I’ll give them a good talking-to. I’ll go to their parents and—”

  Peter shook his head and Magdalena stopped abruptly.

  “You’ll only make it worse,” he whispered. “They’re just dumb. All they have is their fists.” He attempted a smile. “When they hit me, I simply close my eyes and think of something beautiful. Of the painting in Altenstadt Church, for example, or a poem by Ovid.”

  Magdalena sighed. When she and Simon had decided to send their elder son to the Schongau Latin School, they had known that it wouldn’t be easy for Peter. Previously, he had attended school at nearby Oberammergau, but that hadn’t lasted long. As the son of the town physician, Peter had the right to attend the local Latin school, and besides, he was intelligent, sensitive, and talented. His drawings and anatomical sketches showed great promise.

  But he was also the grandson of the Schongau hangman.

  “What do you think about paying your father a visit?” Magdalena asked with a wink. She knew Peter loved nothing better than to be with his father at his treatment room. He probably learned more in an hour there than in a week with doddery old Weininger. But sometimes the never-ending stream of questions from his eldest son became too much for Simon, and twice already the boy had ruined valuable anatomical sketches by adding his own drawings—much to his father’s dismay.

  Peter nodded enthusiastically and wiped the remaining snot from his face. Hand in hand they hurried up the icy lane to the Hof Gate Quarter near the old castle, where Simon’s office was part of their family home.

  When Magdalena saw the freshly whitewashed half-timbered building with the lean-to stables and the garden out back, she was once again filled with secret pride. Not long ago, she, Simon, and her children had still lived down at the stinking Tanners’ Quarter in her father’s house. Now they lived not only in town, but in the prestigious Hof Gate Quarter, where the wealthy citizens and patricians had their houses.

  The same patricians whose children beat up my son, she thought, and her happiness vanished like snow in the sun. Just like the Berchtholdts used to beat up me and my brother, Georg. Will it never end?

  She opened the front door and saw immediately that Simon was going to have a long day. More than half a dozen men and women were seated on the bench in the dark hallway, with dripping noses, wheezing coughs, and feverish eyes. It smelled of sweat, smoke, and burned herbs. The end of January was high season for the flu and colds. People sometimes knocked on their door in the middle of the night, asking for a little thyme or hogweed to soothe their cough. A fever was going around at the moment and had already claimed two children and several elderly.

  Magdalena greeted the patients with a nod and walked past the door to the family’s living room with the tiled stove. The treatment room—also heated—was on the left, and a well-worn staircase led up to their bedrooms.

  From the corner of her eye, she noticed two elderly women on the bench whispering and pointing at Peter. She guessed they were gossiping viciously about the dirty hangman’s brat with his ripped trousers.

  But they still seek out his father the medicus, the backstabbing snakes.

  Without giving the women a second glance, Magdalena stepped into the treatment room with her son. In her anger over the whispering old biddies, she completely forgot to knock.

  She recoiled at the sight of the man in the room cluttered with cupboards and trunks.

  His trousers down around his ankles, alderman and cloth merchant Josef Seiler was bent over the table in the middle of the room. A massive red boil gleamed on his buttock, shining like a star in the night. Simon stood beside him with his scalpel raised, ready to make his cut.

  Magdalena struggled to suppress a laugh. Portly old Seiler was puffing like an old boar, and clearly he hadn’t noticed that someone had entered the room. Magdalena thought it was highly likely that Josef Seiler’s boy had been among those who beat up her son, and now the father was standing here, pants down and bare assed, as if waiting for a good hiding.

  Simon looked with surprise at his wife, who stood with one hand pressed to her mouth.

  “Um, please excuse me for one moment,” he said to Seiler.

  He put down the scalpel and walked to the door. “Are you crazy?” Simon hissed at Magdalena. “How many times do I have to tell you not to disturb—”

  “It’s about your son,” Magdalena said softly and gestured at Peter. “You may have noticed he’s bleeding.”

  Simon glanced at Peter, who was studying the red boil on Seiler’s backside with interest. Irritated, the medicus shrugged. “What’s a brawl among boys? I don’t see anything serious about it. Nothing that can’t wait, anyway.”

  “Your son is bleeding,” Magdalena replied a little louder. “How about Herr Doktor takes a proper look? Or is Seiler’s ass more important to you than your firstborn’s nose?”

  “Are we done yet?” Josef Seiler asked from behind them. He was still bent over the table and evidently hadn’t overheard their quiet conversation. “I didn’t feel anything.”

  “Uh, I’m just looking for a salve to ease your pain,” Simon said. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He pushed Magdalena and Peter out into the hallway, where the waiting patients stared at them as if they’d grown horns.

  “Can’t you see that I’m busy?” Simon whispered.

  “Is it too much to ask to take a quick look at your son?”

  Simon sighe
d, then leaned down to Peter and briefly studied his nose. “It’s not broken, that’s the main thing. Stick some shepherd’s purse up his nostrils, that’ll stop the bleeding.” He straightened and looked around searchingly. “Where’s Sophia?” His eyes darkened. “Don’t tell me you left her with her grandfather again?”

  Magdalena shrugged. “What did you want me to do? Old Weininger sent two boys to fetch me. It’s freezing outside. I couldn’t take her in a hurry.”

  “Then let’s pray your father doesn’t do anything stupid. You know what he’s like as a nursemaid—especially when Paul is with him. Who knows what that boy could do to Sophia.” Simon raised a finger. “Remember the sled ride down Peitinger Castle Hill last week?”

  Magdalena rolled her eyes. Simon’s constant fretting about their daughter’s safety got on her nerves sometimes. She guessed her husband worried so much because they had once before lost a little girl after only a few months. That had been five years ago; it had taken a long time for Magdalena to fall pregnant again. And Sophia was the apple of her father’s eye.

  She looked at the patients, all old men and women who were clearly looking forward to a continuation of the marital spat.

  “Perhaps you didn’t take Sophia because you didn’t want people talking about her,” Simon said in a strained voice. “Because you’re embarrassed.”

  “That’s . . . that’s utter nonsense.” Magdalena flared up. “Are you serious?” She no longer cared if people heard her. The two women started to whisper again.

  “Go to hell, all of you,” she hissed. She turned to the cracked-open door of the treatment room and called out: “I bid you a good day, Herr Alderman! Give my regards to your bully of a son. Next time I see him, I’ll pull down his pants just like my husband did with yours.”

  She grabbed Peter’s hand and turned around, leaving Simon gaping after her.

  Magdalena regretted her harsh words even as she hurried past the surprised patients. She could practically feel the people’s eyes on her back. Why did she always have to be so hot tempered? She had inherited her father’s temper, and it got her into trouble almost as frequently as it did him. But she couldn’t take back her outburst now. Chances were Simon had lost a wealthy patient because of her—and just when the patricians were beginning to accept him as town physician.

  Each month they struggled to pay the rent. She could have slapped herself. On the other hand—how dare Simon suggest she didn’t want to be seen with their daughter? With the child she loved more than anything?

  The cold air outside helped to clear Magdalena’s head. When she looked around, the town she knew so well suddenly seemed awfully small and cramped. Once upon a time, Schongau had been a flourishing place with large numbers of merchants and travelers continually passing through, but since the end of the Great War, more than twenty years ago, the town had become a sleepy little place. The old castle had fallen to ruin, and plaster and paint were crumbling off the formerly picture-perfect houses along the market square. Magdalena noticed only now that her own house, which she’d admired proudly a few moments ago, was also in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. The houses in the Bavarian capital of Munich would certainly be much grander.

  Just like the minds of the people of Munich—unlike the boarded-up Schongau numbskulls, Magdalena thought.

  The parish church bells chimed the third hour of the afternoon and reminded her that she had indeed left Sophia alone with her father and Paul for too long.

  “You heard what your father said,” Magdalena said to Peter and stroked his head. “Let’s go see your grandfather and Sophia.” She gave a thin smile. “Grandpa knows more about bloody noses than your wiseacre of a father, anyhow.”

  “Faster, Grandpa, faster!”

  Puffing like an old horse, Jakob Kuisl pulled his grandson Paul across the frozen pond behind the executioner’s house. Sharp skates made from deer bones were strapped to the boy’s feet, plowing through the thin layer of snow atop the ice. Kuisl was pulling on a thin hemp rope tied around Paul’s waist. From time to time the ice creaked and groaned beneath their feet, but Kuisl knew it would hold despite his considerable weight. He used to skate across the ice every winter as a child, and now, at the end of January, the temperatures were so low that small icicles adorned his impressive beard. What worried him, however, was the fact that Paul was dragging a small bundle of fur along behind him that swerved merrily from left to right.

  Inside the bundle, tightly wrapped, lay Kuisl’s youngest grandchild, Sophia.

  She seemed to enjoy the ride across the ice, because she giggled and cooed happily. But something told Jakob Kuisl that Sophia’s mother would never have agreed to Paul’s idea.

  Panting, he paused, and Paul immediately complained: “Keep going, Grandpa! Don’t stop!”

  At eight years, Paul was already taller and stronger than his older brother, and he had clearly inherited his grandfather’s stature. Kuisl sometimes wished Paul were a little less boisterous and rowdy, but he could also see already that Paul would one day make a worthy successor. Executions were his everything. He had already watched two beheadings close-up and, just two weeks ago, helped his grandfather prepare the ropes for the hanging.

  Kuisl wiped cold sweat from his forehead. “Your grandfather is an old warhorse, not a young colt,” he grumbled, then gave his grandson a conspiratorial wink. “You need to give your horse a break. And then I’ll tell you about all the people we’re going to meet in Munich next week.”

  Paul’s eyes brightened. “Lots of hangmen, right? Are they stronger than you?”

  “Bah! You know very well no one is stronger than your grandfather.” Kuisl smiled grimly and picked up Sophia, who had started to cry in her bundle of furs. It seemed she wanted to be dragged across the ice again. The hangman gave her a wet rag to suck on and placed her gently beside the snowman he and Paul had built earlier. Then he turned back to his grandson.

  “The most famous and best hangmen from all over Bavaria meet in Munich next week,” he began in his deep voice. “From Regensburg, Passau, even all the way from Nuremberg. And your old grandfather from Schongau as well. It’s a great honor, you know.”

  Kuisl was indeed very proud to be elected to the Council of Twelve—although he made sure not to show it. He’d been considered a good executioner for a long time, perhaps even one of the best in Bavaria, plus he was an excellent healer. But his quick temper, his sharp wits, and his stubbornness were almost equally famous. And some of his colleagues thought him too lenient. There were certain forces on the council that had always managed to keep him out of the innermost circle. Only once, more than ten years ago, Kuisl had received an invitation to a meeting in Nuremberg, but he had never made it onto the Council of Twelve before.

  “For a long time, the elector of Bavaria forbade the hangmen to meet,” Kuisl explained, sitting down in the snow beside Paul. “Because we’re dishonorable. But all guilds must gather from time to time to discuss things, even us executioners.”

  “I want to be a good hangman, too, one day,” Paul said solemnly. “Like you and Great-Uncle Bartholomäus. And Georg.” He gave Kuisl a pleading look. “Georg is coming to Munich, too, isn’t he?”

  Kuisl nodded gloomily. “Yes, your uncle will be there. And your great-uncle.”

  For years, the fact that his younger brother was on the Council of Twelve and he wasn’t had bugged Jakob. Bartholomäus and he had never been the best of friends, not even as children. Jakob’s brother had moved to Bamberg and become the city’s executioner many years ago. Kuisl’s son, Georg, was completing his journeyman years there and was likely to remain in Bamberg. Jakob Kuisl had never fully recovered from this blow. At least he would see his eldest son in Munich—a reunion he’d been looking forward to for months, even though he’d never admit to it.

  “I bet Georg won’t mind teaching me how to behead,” Paul said cheerfully. “Maybe we can practice on turnips or dead goats. They have the toughest neck bones—you said so yourself.�
�

  “Um, we’ll see,” Kuisl replied. “You know, we hangmen have a lot to talk about in Munich. There are new laws, and we haven’t met up in a long time—”

  “I’m really quite good at beheading already,” Paul interrupted. “Watch!” He picked up an icy stick and, with one clean stroke, separated the snowman’s head from its round body. The ball of snow rolled down to the pond and came to rest with its crooked grin. But Paul wasn’t done. He kept thrashing the snowman with his stick until it was nothing but mud and lumps of ice.

  Kuisl winced involuntarily. Sometimes his grandson’s bloodlust scared him a little. He himself had always viewed the executioner’s task as a necessary evil, never as something fun. On the contrary, the older he got, the more often he felt disgust at his job.

  But someone has to do it, he thought. And I’d rather it was me than some unscrupulous monster . . .

  Thoughtfully, he watched Paul, who was dancing atop the mound of snow, singing some nursery rhyme. The snowman’s nose—a rotten turnip—lay trampled on the ground.

  “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you three.”

  Jakob Kuisl glanced up and saw Magdalena walking toward them at a brisk pace from the executioner’s house.

  The hangman got to his feet and brushed the snow off his coat. “I went outside with Sophia and Paul. The stove isn’t drawing properly and smoked the house out. The fresh air is good for the children.”

  He shot Paul a warning glance. They had agreed to keep silent about dragging little Sophia across the ice. He could only hope his grandson remembered, or else he’d be in trouble.

  “I hope you wrapped Sophia up properly,” Magdalena said threateningly.

  Kuisl pointed at the fur bundle beside the mound of snow. Magdalena was the only person in the world who could speak to him thus. Magdalena and his beloved wife, Anna-Maria, when she was still alive.

  Magdalena bent down to pick up Sophia, who had started to whimper softly. She lifted her daughter lovingly and held her to her chest. Suddenly she wrinkled her nose. “You didn’t . . .”