The Poisoned Pilgrim: A Hangman's Daughter Tale Read Online Free PDF Page A

leave your grandchildren outside by themselves,” Martha finally said. “Down by the pond, I saw two of Berchtholdt’s boys hanging around. If I were you, I’d be a bit more careful.”
    Sullenly resuming his work, Kuisl pushed the heavy pestle into the mortar. “What do you mean by that?”
    “What do I mean?” Martha chuckled. “You know only too well. Ever since you caught the eldest Berchtholdt boy with the sacks of grain at the Stadl warehouse a few weeks ago, they’ve sworn bloody revenge.”
    “I only told him that wasn’t his grain and to please keep his hands off it.”
    “And for that you had to break two of his fingers?”
    The hangman grinned. “That will help the little bastard remember it, at least. If I’d told the city council, the aldermen would have had him whipped and made him wear the shrew’s fiddle. Basically, by doing what I did, I missed my chance to collect a reward.”
    Martha sighed. “All right, then. But in any case, you should watch out, at least for the children’s sake.” She looked at him very seriously. “I’ve looked these fellows in the eye, Jakob, and they’re as evil as Lucifer.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake.” The hangman pounded the mortar so hard with his pestle that his two grandchildren, who were playing, looked up in shock. They knew their grandfather, and knew he could get loud and angry. Now that he seemed especially irritated, it would be best for them to keep quiet.
    “Bastards, all of them, these Berchtholdts,” Kuisl said. “Just because their father sat on the city council as the master baker until he died, they think they can do anything they want. People like us have to haul the garbage from the streets and be nice and keep our mouths shut. If I catch that Berchtholdt punk down in the Stadl again, I’ll break not just two fingers but both hands. And if he touches my grandkids…” His voice faltered. The hangman clenched his hands into fists and cracked his knuckles while his grandchildren stared up at him silently.
    “If the Berchtholdts even harm a hair on the head of my grandkids,” he continued, his voice as sharp as a razorblade, “then, as sure as my name’s Jakob Kuisl, I’ll smash their bones on my wheel one at a time, slit open their bellies, and hang their guts out the window of the Schongau Tower.”
    When he noticed the wide, anxious eyes of the two boys, a kind smile spread over his face. “And which of you scaredy cats wants to play piggyback now with his grandfather?”
    Simon was awakened by coughing alongside him. When he turned around on the prickly, flea-infested bed of straw, he saw Magdalena wiping her pale face with the back of her hand.
    “Damned bellyache,” the hangman’s daughter groaned. “My stomach has been queasy for days.” She tried to get up but collapsed again, moaning, on the bench by the stove. “And I feel a bit dizzy, too.”
    “That’s no surprise with all the smoke in here.” Simon coughed and squinted at the door. It was ajar, and black clouds of smoke were coming through the cracks. “Your lousy cousin can’t even afford a decent tile stove. Why do we have to spend the night with this miserable horse butcher? Just because he happens to be a cousin of your father?”
    “Shh!” Magdalena put her finger to her lips as Michael Graetz entered the room. The Erling knacker was a skinny, consumptive man whom no one would suspect was even remotely related to the robust hangman of Schongau. His shirt was torn and stained with soot, his beard unkempt, and his teeth shone in his cadaverous face like pieces of black coal. Only his eyes sparkled genially as he held out two steaming bowls to his guests.
    “Here, eat,” he mumbled, venturing a wry smile. “Barley porridge sweetened with honey and dried pears. We have it only on holidays and when my dear aunt comes to visit.”
    “Thank you, Michael. But I don’t think I can get any food into me this early in the morning.” Shivering, Magdalena took