Dancing in the Palm of His Hand (36 page)

The tall Jesuit stands before them, his wrists bound, as if he were dangerous. The men ask him questions about the woman and the child. What happened? Who helped them? What does he know?

What he knows, he says, is innocence. The woman and her daughter are innocent. Their escape was the will of God.

Will of God? The men pull at their beards. The old one twitches.

They ask their questions again. The executioner's palms itch. He desires to lay hands upon the Father Confessor, who knows the hearts of witches.

The Jesuit would answer them plainly and admit to what he has done. His own heart is at peace, but he is afraid for his friend, who no longer sits at the table.

The Holy Church says there are witches in the world, he tells the men, so there are witches in the world. But the woman and the child are not among them. Even if they were, their lives should be spared, for witchcraft is merely delusion induced by the Devil.

Or delusion induced by men, I shout. But no one hears me.

If witches truly have diabolical powers, he says, why are they always so poor, their lives so wretched and miserable? Why are they not rich and powerful?

The men cannot hear him. His words offend their ears.

The Jesuit looks from one man to the next. The Devil needs no help from mortal women to work evil in this world, he says.

In that, I know he is right. The men's fervent belief suffices.

Early this morning, before they came for him, the Jesuit completed his manuscript. Remembering well what he wrote only a
few hours ago, he repeats it for the men. You force them to name names, he says, names put into their mouths by your own tongues. And so it goes on...and on. Eventually, you who have clamoured most loudly to feed the flames will yourselves be accused, for you have failed to see that your turn will come. His voice resonates within the stone chamber, making the ropes quiver. Thus will heaven justly punish you who have created so many witches, he says, and sent so many innocents to the fires
.

He points his bound hands at the small Jesuit sitting at the table, the one who is scribbling feverishly. This, he proclaims, you should record in red ink: no one is safe, no matter what sex, fortune, condition, or dignity. No one.

The men recoil, assaulted by his words. Yet each wonders, remembering that two from among their number have already been taken. Accused.

The small priest jumps up, beads of sweat on his flushed and boyish face. You would be wise, he says, to realize how foolish and noxious it is to prefer the ravings of heretics to the judgement of the Holy Church.

The tall Jesuit looks to heaven and sighs. I would quote to you from a true man of God, he says. Johann Weyer.

The men gasp and touch the balls of wax at their throats.

When the tall priest speaks again, even the stones listen. I summon you before the tribunal of the Great Judge, Weyer has written, who shall decide between us, where the truth you have trampled under foot and buried shall arise and condemn you, demanding vengeance for your inhumanities.

The men murmur among themselves. They are now more worried about the Jesuit's heresy than about the woman and the child. How do they prosecute a man of God who has turned from God? A priest who is now an instrument in the Devil's hands?

Their own hands tremble, their knees shake, and their feet dance. They have erred. They recommended release for a girl possessed and
her mother, a witch. The Prince-Bishop was right. But now the woman and her daughter have escaped, with the help of the very men who were charged by God with prosecuting them. The same men who have sat at this table with them
.

They now have no doubt that they are surrounded on all sides by witches and their defenders. They must let no one escape just punishment. Or they will all be destroyed by the wrath of God.

The men are more afraid than they've ever been. And thus are they dangerous.

Heretic, shouts the boyish priest. He comes from behind the table and steps close to the tall Jesuit. He points his quill. You will no longer teach, he says. You will no longer speak your heresy to anyone. I will write the recantation myself, and then you will sign it. Publicly, in the marketplace, kneeling before the Prince-Bishop.

Or you will die a heretic's death.

Two Jesuits, face to face. Each believes he works for the greater glory of God, ad majorem Dei gloriam. One has chosen obedience to the Church, the other, obedience to his own heart.

Do not waste your precious ink, the tall one answers.

Lutz stared at the patch of blue sky beyond the high narrow window. He wished desperately to believe that God would protect him, that he would live and return home to Maria. Had she found his letter? Was she weeping for him even now, as he was weeping for her?

He'd been foolish to come to Hampelmann's defence. Likely, the man would die anyway. All of them would die. Horribly. Yet he knew he could not have remained silent and let another man be condemned for what he had done.

The rasp of the key. Lutz wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, rattling the chains on his shackles.

Carrying a wooden bowl, Frau Brugler came in, the bruise on her forehead a dark purple. She gave an exasperated shake of her head. “Just couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you?”

“Why did you lie?”

The woman sucked her teeth, considering. “I'm telling you this just once, Herr Lutz. From then on, it's the demons...or Herr Hampelmann.”

“Why did you accuse an innocent man instead of me?”

“Herr Hampelmann? Innocent?” She laughed bitterly. “It's the good Father who's innocent. I was trying to protect him. And if you care about him, you'll stick with my story.”

She handed Lutz the bowl and spoon. “The good Father doesn't know I've said anything about Herr Hampelmann. And if it's up to me, he'll never know. Cause I know what he'd do. Same as you, you damn fool.”

Frau Brugler rubbed her forehead. “You didn't have to whack me so hard, Herr Lutz. But what you did – it was a good thing. That woman and her little girl aren't witches. Any
dummkopf
can see that. And no matter what you say, I'll stick to my story and say that you've been deranged by
Walpurgisnacht
demons. Even if they torture me, that's the story they're getting.”

Lutz gagged at the rancid smell of the greasy broth. He set the bowl aside.

“Listen to me,” she said. “The good Father'll not say a word that'll damn you. So don't you be saying anything that'll damn him. Leave it alone, Herr Lutz. You'll only make things worse for him if you claim it was you who helped Frau Rosen.”

Lutz pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. What now? It was one thing to condemn himself, quite another to condemn Father Herzeim. When the commissioners questioned him again, he'd have to find a way to claim that both Father Herzeim and Hampelmann were innocent. Only he was guilty.

“The only evidence the commissioners have,” she continued, “is the professors claiming he's a defender of witches. So I'm thinking the good Father – and you – will be like Herr Silberhans. They arrested him for being a defender of witches, then let him go, with just a warning.”

Lutz wished he could believe that, but he doubted that either he or Father Herzeim would be as fortunate as the young law student. The Prince-Bishop's bailiff and his men would search the priest's office and find the book by Johann Weyer. And Father Herzeim's own manuscript. That would be more than damning.

His throat tightened. “How is Father Herzeim?”

“He's strong. A true man of God, that one. Believe me, I've seen it. He's done more good for more souls than any of the high and mighty commissioners sitting at that table. You're both innocent of doing anything wrong. They'll have to let you go.” Frau Brugler patted the ring of keys at her waist. “And if they
don't...well, I still got the keys, don't I? I'm willing to help God help the innocent.”

Lutz was sorely tempted to grasp at the hope she offered. He guessed, however, that Frau Brugler would be removed from her position, and perhaps even arrested, before she ever got a chance to help another prisoner.

She wagged a gnarled finger at him. “Eat that broth. You'll be needing your strength. And remember, Herr Lutz, from now on, it was the demons.”

Every jolt and bump of the wooden wheels over the rutted road caused pain, but it was an exquisitely welcome pain. She was here, not there. Hay still covered her, but Eva had cleared a small circle around her eyes so she could study the sky, the beautiful blue sky, so wide above her. There were still moments of terror, especially when she heard riders coming behind them. She prayed then to the Holy Mother to shield them from the Prince-Bishop's bailiff and his men, and if she could not, to at least give Eva the means, and the courage, to kill herself and Katharina before they could take them back to Würzburg.

This morning, though, Eva was not afraid. She could hear cathedral bells ringing, calling people to mass. Neustadt, the driver had muttered when she asked. They were passing through Neustadt. She had never been so far from home, and she longed to sit up and gawk at everything. But she dared not.

On this rare morning, Katharina sat up beside the driver. She wore a chemise and gown they'd found tucked in the corner of the wagon. A bright kerchief covered her shaved head. She chattered away excitedly, talking to the horse and describing people, buildings, and other sights, so that her mother could hear. The driver answered the girl's questions with guttural grunts.

A wary man, he rarely spoke. He'd not even told them his name, nor asked theirs. He wasn't old, but deep lines of worry creased the ruddy skin around his mouth and eyes. Eva could see that he was suspicious of her, never laying a hand upon her, even to help her into and out of the wagon.

When they'd stop on the road to eat and rest, the driver's eyes would dart all around. He was especially watchful when they stopped in the forest, alert for the bailiff and his men, as well as for brigands hiding among the trees. While he watched for danger, Katharina would gather herbs and roots and set them to boil, then bathe Eva's hands in the cooled broth. She would make a poultice of comfrey leaves, all the while telling Eva about comfrey and hellebore, about the bark of willow and elm.

How did Katharina know all that? Who had taught her that wisdom?

When Eva was afraid, Katharina would comfort her, telling her, in her childish certainty, that no one could hurt them. The white dog was with them. Eva wanted to believe Katharina, to believe that the white dog her daughter saw was a good thing.

Eva was no longer sure what she believed. But she still prayed. Not to God, but to the Mother of God.

The bells rang out, lovely and clear, a chiming through the morning sky. Eva lay still and tried to imagine herself at mass. Safe. Her lips could hardly form the word. Had she ever been safe? No one was safe, not any longer. Even now, they might be torturing Herr Lutz and Father Herzeim. Friedrich. A fresh grief stabbed at her heart.

She folded her damaged hands on her chest. Mother of God, she prayed, please protect them. Please reward the goodness of their hearts.

Lutz turned the shackles to ease the rawness on his wrists. He'd been there three days, three long nights, and it was more dreadful than he'd ever imagined: the stink and filth, the black rats, the same dull grey stone, the rancid broth, the loneliness. And the terrible grief for Maria. And fear.

Why hadn't they questioned him again? Why hadn't Freude come to strip and shave him?

He could hear commotion outside the tower: voices calling out, horses snorting, monks chanting that the end of the world was near. He'd heard a dozen swift footsteps pass on the stairs outside the door.

Lutz turned toward the sound of metal scraping on metal. The door opened, and as he expected, it was the new jailer's wife, hefty and gruff, and as silent as Frau Brugler had been talkative. For two days now, she'd brought his food, emptied the slop bucket, changed his straw, and hardly said three words. Lutz had begun to wonder if the woman was deaf.

She carried a broom and a basket in her beefy arms. Setting down the basket, she gestured for him to stand, then, with wide strokes of the broom, began sweeping up the soiled straw.

“Any news of Frau Rosen?” said Lutz.

Silence.

“Have they found her?”

Her coarse face darkened. “Why ask about witches?”

“Please, just tell me. Have they found her?”

“Leave me alone,” she muttered, her round chin trembling. “I can't talk to you.”

“Just a word,” he pleaded.

She kept her head down and continued sweeping. “
Nein
,” she whispered.

“
Nein
what?”

“They haven't.”

Was it possible they'd made it safely to Nuremberg? Oh God, let it be so. Lutz opened his mouth to thank the woman, then clamped it shut. It wouldn't be good to seem pleased that Frau Rosen had escaped. “That's terrible,” he said. “Chancellor Brandt and the other commissioners must be furious.”

She bobbed her head, but said nothing more. She quickly swept the straw into the basket and left. Never once had she actually looked at him.

Lutz sat down on the bare wood floor. She was afraid, he thought. Of me. What have they told her?

The clamour outside the window quieted. There was only the murmur of the monks' chanting. Suddenly, loud shrieks broke the silence. The midwife. Where had the woman found the strength? She'd been close to death when Lutz saw her last.

Her screaming denials rang out through the clear morning air.