Dancing in the Palm of His Hand (34 page)

He walked quickly, his lantern swinging in front of him, the candle burning low. As he passed Saint Stephan's, he was startled when the candlelight revealed two beggars huddled on the church steps, a skinny cur at their feet. Witches? Hampelmann's heart raced. The man and woman turned toward him, their faces deeply lined, their ancient eyes shadowed by the hoods of ragged cloaks. The cur snarled. Hampelmann saw the glint of metal in the old man's bony hand. A knife?

Hampelmann reached into the pouch in his breeches and tossed a handful of coins. “God bless you,” he yelled. “That's all that I have.”

He broke into a run down the dark street, slowing only when he was certain he could hear no footsteps behind him. He put a hand to his throat and gasped for air. His chest burned. The candle in the lantern flickered, then went out. He looked to his right, toward the dark forest beyond the city wall. The tops of the trees swayed in the wind. He heard a strange roaring then, as if it came from within his own ears. Then he saw them, shapes flying across the face of the moon, swirling around the white crescent, hundreds of them, capes straight out behind them:
wutenker
. The flying demons were screeching, hurtling curses, and barking like wild dogs. They were on their way to Fraw Rengberg, but Hampelmann knew they were also looking for him, a prosecutor of witches. Touching the ball of wax at his throat, he withdrew into an alley where he hid behind a huge pile of stinking offal, black rats scattering all around him.

He stayed there, praying, hardly daring to look up at the sky until long after the roaring had died away. He crept out from the alley then, crossed himself, and made his way home as quickly as
he could. He stole quietly into the house and went to the bedchamber, where he took off his silk doublet and breeches, and his linen shirt, which stank of offal. Even his skin stank.

He pulled on his nightshirt and slipped into bed beside Helena, beautiful Helena, her shoulder milky white in the sliver of moonlight. Her breathing was peaceful and even, just as it had been when he'd slipped away. He leaned closer to smell the clean scent of her skin, the fragrance of pears. He wanted desperately to press himself against her, wrap his arms around her, and pull her in to fill the hollowness he felt inside. But he dared not. Not now. Not when it meant succumbing to Saint Thomas' third deadly sin: lust. He would not be like his father.

Eva woke with a start. The door creaked open to grumbling complaint. “Holy Mother of God...decent people.” Frau Brugler crossed herself as Father Herzeim stepped in, his arms held stiffly at his sides. Lutz followed behind.

Eva sat up. She'd waited all day for them. Why had they come in the middle of the night?

Father Herzeim gently chided the jailer's wife. “You would stand in the way of sacramental confession?”

“But now, at this hour? On
Walpurgisnacht
?”

“God's forgiveness knows no hour or day.
Bitte
, leave us now. Go to your bed, Frau Brugler. We may be here some time. The guard can let us out.”

The jailer's wife nodded deferentially, then left.

When the door had been closed and locked, two dark cloaks and a thick wooden rod dropped from beneath the priest's cassock. Father Herzeim handed the rod to Lutz. “Let's pray she goes to bed soon,” said the priest.

Lutz raised his eyebrows. “There is still the guard just one floor above us.”

“May God be with us.” Father Herzeim stepped closer to Eva and Katharina.

Eva shook herself. Was she still sleeping, still dreaming? She could make no sense of what the men had said, no sense of the cloaks and rod.

Lutz placed the lantern safely away from the straw, then knelt in front of Eva. “We're taking you out of here,” he said quietly.

Eva recoiled. “They would torture me now?”

“
Nein
. We're trying to get you to somewhere safe.”

“Safe?” The word felt strange in her mouth, like a word from a language she did not know.

“Please, just do as we say. It's your only chance.” Lutz laid the rod across his thighs and sighed deeply. “And may God help us.”

As Father Herzeim talked to Katharina, who was now sitting up, wide awake, his voice was hushed but urgent. She followed his words and gestures intently.

“The plan,” said Lutz, “is that Katharina will pretend to be possessed–”

“
Nein
!”

“Just listen,” Lutz pleaded. “Katharina will pretend to be possessed, screeching and shrieking. And when the guard comes running, I'll knock him out. We're hoping he blames the demons.”

“Demons?”

“It is
Walpurgisnacht
.” Lutz shrugged sheepishly. “Then we'll take the guard's keys and get you and Katharina out of here. There's a wagon waiting to take you to Nuremberg.”

“Nuremberg,” Eva breathed. She had never travelled that far. Could she trust these men? Why were they taking this risk for her and Katharina? And yet, what choice did she have? If they caught them now, at least their deaths would be quick.

“It would help if you could scream and shriek as well,” Lutz added, “as if you're afraid of your own daughter. We must wait, though, until Frau Brugler has gone to bed. There's just one guard downstairs, and another upstairs, outside Frau Lamm's cell.”

Too bewildered to ask any more questions, Eva watched Father Herzeim instruct Katharina. He had positioned her in the middle of the cell and was showing her how to contort her limbs, how to open her eyes wide and stare without blinking, how to
hold her head at an odd angle. Katharina smiled, actually laughing once. The musical sound pierced Eva's heart.

The priest sat Katharina down and carefully taught her words of Latin and other languages Eva didn't recognize. He made the girl repeat the words again and again. Katharina mimicked the priest like a parrot, as if it were all an exciting new game.

Father Herzeim looked up at the window and pressed his lips together. The night sky was just beginning to pale. He turned to Lutz. “We can wait no longer.” He bowed his head and made the sign of the cross.

Lutz went to stand behind the door. The priest slumped against the wall opposite the door, pulled his cassock into disarray, and cocked his head at a seemingly impossible angle, as if his neck had been broken. “Now, Katharina,” he said.

The girl let out a horrifying, unearthly shriek, then wailed, “
Domino niger
!
Dieu noir
!
Pere mauvais
!” Eva and Father Herzeim screamed and shrieked with her, the chorus echoing off the walls. Lutz pounded on the door, then raised the rod, clutching it in both hands.

Glowing light, then a pair of eyes appeared in the barred window. “It's the priest!” shouted the guard. “He's been hurt.”

The key turned and the door burst open. Katharina tilted her head and bared her teeth. Hissing and growling, her wraith-like arms flung over her head, she gave the guard her most wild-eyed glare.

“Christ Almighty!” the man yelled before the birch rod came down and he fell to the floor. Frau Brugler stood behind him, hands to her mouth. She turned and looked at Lutz just before the rod cracked against her forehead.

Father Herzeim leaped up and unhooked the ring of keys from the leather belt at her waist. Lutz stood still, ready for the other guard.

Fumbling with one key after another, the priest finally found
the one that unlocked Eva's shackles. Careful of her hands, he helped her to her feet and draped a black cloak over her shoulders. He wrapped the second cloak around Katharina. It dragged the floor.

“Hurry,” said Lutz. “Before the other guard comes.” Holding fast to the rod, he picked up Katharina and settled her on one hip. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

Father Herzeim looked out into the stairway, putting his hand to his ear to listen. He picked up the lantern and, with an arm around Eva, guided her swiftly out the door and down the narrow steps, which seemed to go on forever in a winding spiral. The stone was cold and smooth beneath Eva's bare feet. Carrying Katharina, Lutz followed closely behind. They paused only a moment when they reached the door to the lowest chamber. They listened for footsteps coming behind them. Silence.

Father Herzeim blew out the candle in the lantern and crossed himself. “Pray that God has kept the jailer to his bed and that no one else has come.” His hand shaking, he slowly pushed on the door, which, in their haste, the guard and Frau Brugler had left unlocked. He scanned the chamber. Eva stood on tiptoe and peeked over his shoulder. The torches flickered. Cards lay scattered across the table, and shards of a goblet lay on the floor in a pool of dark beer. But there was no one in sight. Even so, Eva had to force herself to follow Father Herzeim into the chamber, that horrifying chamber. The smell of it made her gag.

Quickly, they crossed the cold stone floor. Father Herzeim unlocked the heavy door to the street and cracked it open. Tossing the keys to the floor, he peered out into the darkness. He waited for a pack of stray dogs to pass before he led them all out of the tower. They ran across the open space, then rested briefly within the shadows of a neighbouring building. The wind whipped their cloaks around them, but covered the sounds of their passing. Grass, Eva felt real grass under her feet.

They moved from shadow to shadow, Eva's thumbs protesting with every jerking movement. Finally, they turned a corner into a narrow alley where a horse and wagon waited. As if carved from granite, the driver didn't move or acknowledge them in any way. Lutz laid Katharina in the wagon bed and began covering her with armfuls of hay. Awkwardly, Father Herzeim smoothed the cloak over Eva's shoulders, then tied the ribbon under her chin, his fingers brushing her skin.

“
Danke
,” she said. “For everything.” She put a bandaged hand to his cheek. “What is your name?”

Startled, Father Herzeim blinked. “Friedrich,” he said. He reached out and pulled her close. And for one brief moment Eva accepted the comfort he offered.

“Hurry,” said Lutz.

Father Herzeim helped Eva onto the wagon, then he and Lutz arranged the cloak to cover her and piled hay on top of her. Katharina snuggled in close. “The white dog wants to come with us, Mama. Is that all right?”

“Of course,
Liebchen
.” Ravenously, Eva breathed in the sweet scent of hay. She cleared away the hay covering her eyes. The sky above her was a rich, dark blue dotted with stars. How long since she'd seen stars?

“Go with them, Father,” said Lutz. “Stay there, in Nuremberg.”

“
Nein
, I have work to do here.”

“What work? You'll be arrested soon.”

“It's you who should go. Frau Brugler saw you. She knows it wasn't demons.”

“And leave Maria? Never. You go. If you stay here, you're a dead man.”

“If I go, I'm a dead man. Dead to eternal life. Remember what you said to me?
I must. Or I am damned for all eternity.”

The sound of a blacksmith's hammer rang out.

“Whoever's going,” growled the driver, “we need to leave. Now!” He snapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward.

Eva's heart lurched with it. She wanted them both to come with her. She loved them for what they'd risked for her and Katharina.

She called out through the hay. “May the Holy Mother be with you.”

Father Herzeim's voice was soft, but clear. “And with you...Eva.”

Lutz watched Maria sleep. Should he wake her and flee before they came to arrest him? He scrubbed his face with his hands. He should have gone with Frau Rosen. And left Maria? They'd come for her then. Why hadn't he thought of that last night, and brought her with him? All of them could be on their way to Nuremberg right now.

He reached out and touched the back of her hand. She pulled it under the coverlet. She'd never have gone, just as she'd not go now. And she'd never understand why he'd helped an accused witch to escape. That was his fault. Thinking to spare her, he'd never shared with her his deepest doubts and fears.

Lutz studied his wife's face, every beloved line and wrinkle, then leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead. He rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers, thumbs crossed. If he wasn't going to flee, should he go to the hearing? Or just sit here and wait for the Prince-Bishop's bailiff?

Sitting up in the chair, he thrust out his chin, defiant. He was not ashamed of what he'd done. He would not cower and hide, and wait for them to come for him. He would not force Maria to watch them bind his wrists and drag him away. He would change his rumpled doublet and breeches, don a clean white collar and cuffs, and face them with whatever courage he could muster. He'd conceal a razor in his doublet, though. And no matter how much they tortured him, he'd give them no names. No more names. He'd slit his own throat before he'd give them more names.

He rose and walked from room to room then. In the pale light
of dawn, he considered the furniture, the paintings, the dishes, the tapestries – everything he and Maria had collected over twenty-four years. He stepped out into Maria's garden and watched the interplay of colour and shadow in the angled golden light. He inhaled deeply and tried to impress upon his memory the fragrance of earth dampened by dew, of lily-of-the-valley, lilac, and linden. These were the last beautiful scents he would know, the last beautiful colours he would see. He felt tears wetting his cheeks and beard.

How could he explain it all to Maria? She'd never understand why he'd had to do it, never understand his one act of courage, that he did it because he loved her.

Lutz went to his library, sat down at his broad rosewood desk, and picked up a grey quill. He dipped the sharpened nib into a pot of black ink.

Dear Maria,

Whatever anyone tells you, whatever they make me say, know that I am guilty only of freeing an innocent woman and her daughter. The Church says there are witches in this world, so there are witches in this world. But know that neither they, nor I, are among them. Nor am I a defender of witches. I am a defender of the innocent. If I am guilty of any sin, it is only that I did not defend the innocent well enough. Not nearly well enough. I do not regret what I have done. I regret only that I did not have the courage to do more to protect them. And I regret that I will be taken from you. Do not grieve. We have lived and loved well, you and I. Perhaps God will protect me in this life. If he does not, surely, with your prayers, he will welcome me into the next. And as surely as there is a God in heaven, I will be waiting for you there. God be with you.