Dancing in the Palm of His Hand (13 page)

He turned to the jailer's wife. “Go get different shifts. Those are stained.”

“I can't leave now. The commissioners say–”

“Go get the shifts, Frau Brugler! And find ones that are clean. And one that'll fit the girl. Take your time.”

“There...there's none that'll fit the girl.” The woman stood, her thin lips clamped tight.

“Go on, you old hag, or I'll have you locked up and shaved before sunrise.”

Frau Brugler picked up a lantern and scurried from the cell, locking the door behind her. The man turned to Eva. “Lay down,” he said.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. Mother of God, this couldn't be happening.

“Lay down.” He pointed toward the door. “Over there.”

Eva edged toward the door, then slumped down. She pulled her legs to her breasts and wrapped her arms around them. He came closer and stood above her, holding the razor loosely in his hand. He knelt down and leaned over her. His breath stank of sour red wine. He slid a gloved hand between her legs and tried to force them apart. Eva resisted. The razor sliced across her thigh, the lightest of touches. A thin line of blood welled.

Eva closed her eyes and hoped desperately that Katharina had turned her face to the wall.

“Spread your legs,” he said hoarsely, his voice low. He dipped his hand in the water, then rubbed the yellow soap over the hair between her thighs, sliding it front to back, front to back. He dropped the soap into the bowl and put his hand where he'd soaped her. Leaning closer, he pressed her against the door, caressing her. Moaning, he poked his thick fingers into her. His mouth over hers muffled her scream.

He rubbed his own crotch. Then, with one hand still holding the razor, he started untying his breeches, his gloved fingers fumbling with the laces. Eva turned away, but could hear the rasp of buckram. She saw the pale glow of candlelight at the barred window above her.

“Herr Freude?” Frau Brugler's voice was high and plaintive. “Herr Freude, where are you?”

The man scrambled to retie his breeches, and by the time Frau Brugler cracked open the door and peeked in, her lantern held before her, he'd pulled Eva away from the door and was kneeling beside her, shaving her. “I couldn't see you,” said the jailer's wife. “Gave me a bit of a start.”

Freude didn't answer. His eyes held the metallic glint of rage. He scraped Eva roughly, as if to inflict as much hurt and shame as
he could. Leaning close, he whispered into her ear, “You nearly had me, you bitch, with your witch's charms.”

Finally, when he'd finished and Eva was allowed to stand, the jailer's wife handed her a pale linen shift. Frau Brugler pointed at her thigh. “There's blood on her leg,” she said.

“A slip of the razor,” said Freude.

The woman's thin eyebrows came together, but she said nothing. She went to Katharina and undressed her, much more gently than she had Eva. The girl did not resist, but only stared straight ahead, unseeing. She looked small and fragile, easily crushed.

Eva gagged and nearly vomited when Freude ordered Katharina to lie down. Mother of God, she begged, please help us in our hour of need.

Katharina did not move. Frau Brugler took her small hand and coaxed her to the floor. “I always feel bad for the young ones,” she said.

Freude rolled his eyes, then stooped to examine Katharina. The woman stood near and watched him closely. “Nothing to shave,” he muttered.

The jailer's wife lifted Katharina to her feet, pulled a shift over her head, and smoothed it over her thin body. It dragged on the floor. She locked Eva's wrists in the shackles, then she and Freude searched the small cell, lifting the pail and the stool, kicking at the straw and the cut hair, and poking into every crevice. Frau Brugler gathered the discarded clothes.

“Wait,” said Eva. “My rosary. Please let me have my rosary.”

“Not allowed,” said Freude.

After they'd left, Katharina came to sit in her mother's lap, her frail body rigid beneath the thin shift. “That was him, Mama. The Devil. Did you see his red eyes? Why didn't the angels protect us?”

“I don't know,
Liebc
hen. I don't know.”

Eva wrapped her arms around her daughter and rocked. She felt the chill air on her scalp and a burning between her thighs where the man had scraped her skin raw. She tried to draw breath, but choked. The smell of lye soap was foul and hateful.

Holding up a glass lantern, Chancellor Brandt pushed open the heavy door. The men had to duck to follow him through the doorway into the lowest chamber of the Prisoners' Tower. As they filed in, each made the sign of the cross and whispered a prayer,
in nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti
.

Chancellor Brandt set the lantern on the curved table, and the men took their places along one side, sitting nearly shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, hat brim to hat brim. Judge Steinbach sat at the centre, Chancellor Brandt to his left, Father Streng to his right. The windowless chamber was less than eight paces across, and the table opposite the door where the accused would enter was hardly large enough to accommodate all seven men. All but the judge took off their hats and hung them on pegs behind them.

Freude lifted the pine torches from their iron holders on the wall, lit each in the sputtering fire in the wire basket set off to the side, then carefully placed the burning torches back in the holders. A black rat scrabbled away from the light, its pointed teeth clamped on a pale scrap of food. It slipped into a crevice between the grey stones.

Father Streng carried his breviary, a large wooden cross, a ledger, several quills, and a pot of black ink. He set the cross and breviary to the side, opened the ledger, dipped a quill into the ink, and recorded their names: Judge Lorenz Steinbach, Chancellor Johann Brandt, Herr Doktor Wilhelm Hampelmann, Herr Doktor Hans Lindner, Herr Georg Freude, and Father Rudolf Streng.

The priest, who sat on Hampelmann's left, glanced pointedly at the vacancy to Hampelmann's right. Hampelmann hunched his shoulders. He had no idea where Lutz was. Perhaps his courage had failed him. It had happened before. Many men lacked the strength of character and the faith needed to serve on the commission. The Prince-Bishop would have to appoint another man, a braver man, to take Lutz's place.

Judge Steinbach laid out a gold watch in a wavering pool of candlelight. “Another few minutes,” he said, his face sour, “and then we'll begin without him.”

Hampelmann coughed, the acrid wood smoke an irritant in his throat, and thought wistfully of the sweetness of cherry blossoms in the Lusam Garden. He'd gone there for meditation early that morning, the sun warming his back, the blackbirds warbling while he prayed, then laboured to compose verses. Concern about the morning's hearing intruded, however, and he'd managed only one passable line.

The tallow candle burned high in the lantern, dripping pale yellow globs into the grease pan beneath. It stank of burning fat. Hampelmann almost wished that another man would take his place at the table, at least for a while. It was an onerous duty to study the evidence, question the accused, and then tease from them the truth. It was sordid, and frightening, to hear about the depraved and filthy things they'd done. And the commissioners had to be so attentive to detail, so terribly careful. There could, after all, be an innocent among the accused. And if God gave a sign, Hampelmann didn't want to miss it for lack of paying attention. He rubbed his eyes. Tired, he was so tired. But God had called him to this work. It was his cross to bear.

The outside door creaked open. Lutz stepped in, a sheepish smile on his face. He clutched a ledger to his chest. He crossed himself, then took his place at the end of the table near Hampelmann. He removed his hat and hung it behind him.
Chancellor Brandt picked up the judge's watch and made a conspicuous show of examining it while Father Streng recorded the last name: Herr Doktor Franz Lutz.

Judge Steinbach tapped the gavel. “We may now begin. We must first decide who should be questioned first.” He nodded stiffly at Lutz and then at Freude, who sat at the end of the table opposite Lutz. “Can you tell us which one you believe to be the most timid and feeble?” asked the judge.

“I don't know about timid and feeble,” said Lutz, “but all of them claim, quite sincerely, to be innocent of the charges against them.”

Freude laughed. “I've yet to meet a witch who didn't claim to be innocent. At first, that is.” He clapped his grimy hands. “But then, that's my job. To make them reveal the truth. Bring in the child first. She'll confess right away.”

“The child has not been accused,” said Lutz. “She cannot be questioned except as a witness.”

“A formality,” muttered the executioner.

The torchlight cast Freude's repugnant face in shadow. The man might be skilled at his profession, thought Hampelmann, but he failed, again and again, to comprehend the importance of following the letter of the law. God would protect them only if they carried out their duties meticulously and piously.

“In Würzburg,” Hampelmann said loudly, “we do not depart from the law, Herr Freude. The girl has not been accused. Moreover, we must always be mindful that there may be an innocent among the defendants. And that person must be protected. As Jean Bodin has written:
It cannot be denied that witches occasionally conspire maliciously to accuse a totally innocent person of complicity in their crimes
.”

“An excellent point, Herr Hampelmann,” said Lutz. “All of the accused spoke to me in the presence of their confessor. Certainly they'd have been reluctant to lie while Father Herzeim was there.”

Hampelmann stared at Lutz's bland amiable face. The man's ignorance and naiveté were nothing short of astounding. Surely he didn't believe that the accused were innocent simply because they'd said so in the presence of their Jesuit confessor.

Willing himself to be patient, he took a deep breath. “Herr Lutz, witches are very, very clever in feigning innocence. It may take time, but as this inquiry proceeds, you will come to see that. And since you seem somewhat...” Hampelmann searched for a word less offensive than ignorant “...unfamiliar with the ways of witches, I suggest that you take the utmost precautions. They are far more dangerous than they appear.”

“And the more innocent they seem, the more dangerous they are,” said Judge Steinbach, touching the ball of wax at his throat.

Freude pulled on his black gloves. “If we can't bring in the child, then I say either the maidservant or the beggar. They're both scared out of their wits, especially the old hag. She's feeble, easy to break.”

“What say you, Herr Lutz?” said Judge Steinbach.

“I could make no sense of anything Frau Bettler said. I believe the old woman is demented.”

“Or possessed?” said Lindner, who sat to the right of the executioner. The fringe of hair around the physician's bald head looked like a bristling copper halo that had slipped.

“I don't think so,” said Lutz, opening his ledger. “She exhibited no strange contortions. When I visited her cell, she knelt before Father Herzeim and wept. When I tried to question her, her answers were incoherent, but she did not speak in voices or threaten us in any way.”

“Bring her in,” said Judge Steinbach. Freude left the chamber through the low doorway that led to the cells above them.

Father Streng stood, and the other men rose and bowed their heads. “Almighty God,” said the priest, “guide us, your humble servants, in the execution of our duties. Help us to be discerning,
yet merciful, as you, yourself, are the font of all mercy. And in the carrying out of your work, Lord, protect us, your dutiful servants, from Satan's evil.
In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti
, amen.”

The men sat down and waited. Father Streng sharpened his quills. Judge Steinbach slid the gavel from one trembling hand to the other, the white plume on his hat quivering. Lutz flipped through his ledger. Chancellor Brandt straightened the lace on his broad white cuffs. Lindner clicked a thumbnail on his front teeth, a noise irritating to Hampelmann, who brought his pomander to his nose and inhaled deeply of the pungent and faintly repellent mixture of lavender and hellebore: lavender for his recurrent headaches and fatigue, hellebore to reduce the excess of black bile that caused his ever more frequent bouts of melancholy.

The door swung open and an old woman entered, shuffling backwards on bare feet. A web of blue veins criss-crossed her shaved scalp. Freude prodded her with a birch rod and turned her to face the commissioners. She wore only a coarse linen shift laced loosely at the neck. Her gaunt face looked like a skull. Parts of her nose were missing and her mouth gaped; her lips had sunk back over her toothless gums. She swayed and nearly toppled over, but Freude grabbed the rope binding her wrists and held her upright. He pulled a heavy wooden chair into the centre of the chamber, then placed her hands on the back of the chair.

Father Streng came forward and held up the large wooden crucifix. “By the belief that you have in God and in the expectation of paradise, and being aware of the peril of your soul's eternal damnation, do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is true, such that you are willing to exchange heaven for hell should you tell a lie?”

The woman's milky eyes stared straight ahead.

The priest spoke sharply. “Do you swear?”

Lutz stepped toward her. “Truth,” he said slowly. “Frau Bettler, the commissioners want you to swear to speak the truth.”

Her whole body shook. “
Ja
,” she mouthed.

Returning to his seat between the judge and Hampelmann, Father Streng recorded her answer. “State your name and age,” he demanded.

The woman's mouth moved. She licked her cracked lips.

“State your name and age,” Chancellor Brandt repeated. “I don't think she understands,” said Lutz. “Her name is Old Frau Bettler. I've asked around, but no one can tell me her age. Most likely about sixty or so. It's hard to tell. She lives as a beggar.”