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

the bowl to warm her hands. It was just after sunrise, and outside the opened shutters fog was rising from the forest floor. Somewhere nearby a goat was bleating. Though summer had arrived, the hangman’s daughter was quivering.
    “This is the coldest damn June I can remember,” she complained.
    Her cousin eyed her anxiously. “It may be cold, but from the way you look, I’d say the cold comes from inside.” He quicklycrossed himself. “Let’s hope you haven’t caught that damned fever that’s plaguing this area now. The Grim Reaper already took two Erling farmers and a maid from Machtlfing this summer.”
    “Oh, come now,” Simon scolded. “Magdalena has a stomachache, nothing more. A little anise and silverweed will get her back on her feet again.”
    The medicus glanced furtively at his wife, who had crawled back under the thin, torn blanket. The three had slept together in the same room—the horse butcher on the hard bench, Magdalena and Simon on the rickety couch in the niche by the stove. Lost in thought, Simon dished out a spoonful of the steaming porridge and sent a silent prayer to heaven. Michael Graetz was right. Magdalena had looked pale for days, and she had dark rings under her eyes. He could only hope she wasn’t really coming down with a fever. The medicus knew from his own experience that people who complained of a simple cold in the morning could be near death by nightfall.
    “I’ll make something for you to drink,” Simon said, partially to reassure himself as he took another spoonful of the porridge. It tasted amazingly good, as sweet and rich as an expensive dessert for pampered councilors. “Some medicine from anise, camomile, and perhaps a bit of bloodroot…” he mumbled. He looked around the room that occupied almost the entire first floor of the house. There was a rickety table, two stools, a bed, an old trunk, and a crooked homemade cross in the corner.
    “I assume you don’t have those herbs here in the house, do you?” Simon asked hesitantly. “Dried perhaps, or crushed into powder?”
    Michael Graetz shook his head. “I have some chamomile growing in my garden, but the rest…” He shrugged. “Ever since my wife and my two dear children died of the Plague three years ago, I’ve been all alone in the house. I skin the dead cows and horses and take the hides to the tanner down inHerrsching on Lake Ammer. It’s a long, steep way, and I don’t have time to plant more than a few carrots and cabbages behind the house.”
    “Don’t worry,” Magdalena said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll sit outside on the bench in the sun and—”
    “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Simon interrupted. “You’ll stay right here in bed while I go and get some herbs. The only question is…” His face brightened. “Of course, that ugly monk we saw last night. Didn’t he say he was out gathering herbs? I’ll go over to the monastery and ask him. I need a few other herbs, in any case. Andre Losch has a bad cough, and Lukas in Altenstadt can’t get his hand to heal.” He took another quick spoonful of the tasty porridge. Then, smoothing his rumpled clothing, he headed for the door.
    “Just don’t try to get up.” Simon raised his finger with feigned severity. “You can come over to the monastery later. Just be glad you have a bathhouse surgeon caring for you free of charge.”
    “All right, fine, Mr. Bathhouse Surgeon.” Magdalena lay back down on the bed, exhausted. “And while you’re out, bring a little rosemary and some fresh reeds for the floor. This room stinks like the inside of a dead horse. It’s no wonder I feel ill.”
    The sun was just rising over the forest in Kien Valley as Simon left the knacker’s house. Dew was rising on the meadows around Erling, and the day promised to be pleasantly warm. In the fields, farmers with scythes were harvesting the meager winter barley.
    Simon buttoned his vest and trudged along the narrow path, still muddy from last night’s