The Witch of Cologne (15 page)

The music builds in intensity, swirling arabesques and waterfalls of arpeggios, before sliding into a haunting, teasing love song. It is extraordinarily beautiful, a stark contrast to the grotesquery of the naked old man making love to his instrument.

‘Come, my woman, come to me,’ Carlos murmurs softly in Aramaic, a language he studied in the monastery of Villanueva de Gállego during the desolate years after Sara’s flight to Amsterdam. A language which opened him to mystical studies and illustrated texts that existed beyond the kabbala, for he too, in a desperate attempt to draw himself closer to his obsession and nemesis, had become a scholar of the Zohar.

The gleaming haunches of a naked woman appear through the smoke: Lilith. Hips undulating, she dances seductively to the music, long veils trailing from her brow to the ground. Incandescent they float through the air, revealing tantalising glimpses of the glorious body beneath. Carlos opens his eyes. Transfixed, he paces his rhythm to her movements, his erection hardening with each newly revealed part of her body.

The demon stands tall, some three yards in height; her breasts are high, like those of the Moorish slave girls he has seen dancing in such a fashion, her flesh generous, rounded and luscious, with a bloom like ripe fruit. Her face is ridiculously young and the deceptively innocent eyes, huge and black, are a travesty of shyness above the swaying flesh. It is a paradox he knows he will always succumb to.

‘My mistress, my downfall, I appeal to you. Join forces with me and help me destroy the midwife.’

The demon swirls, her nude sex glistening for a moment in the dim light of the glowing embers. Her hissing voice fills the friar’s head like a maddening perfume he cannot escape. ‘This I shall do; but know that to dance with Lilith is to surrender more than just your seed.’ Her reply is not of the voice but of the senses, as if her tone is a blade that cuts through Carlos’s very body.

Before he can answer her soft burning hands are reaching for his penis. Trembling with blinding pleasure Carlos lets his bow fall to the ground.

Outside the door of the cell stretches a line of curious Jesuit novices, their young faces flushed with intrigue, their eyes eager for information. They strain to hear more of the Dominican’s marvellous music which has been floating down the shadowy passage, drawing them from their monastic cells. In the ensuing silence the Spaniard’s loud moan of pleasure is clearly audible, but from their side of the door it sounds like pain.

‘The good Spanish friar must be wrestling with Satan himself,’ whispers one awed novice, scarcely more than fourteen. His companions nod wisely and cross themselves fervently.

M
üller lies on his back
counting the drops of moisture crawling down the stone wall of his cell. He has made a pledge to himself that when the fiftieth droplet, pregnant with gathered grime, plummets to the granite floor he will call out to the guard again.

They should be here by now, he thinks. Von Fürstenberg promised him; surely twenty years of service means something. He is more than just an employee: he is a confidant; the cathedral minister has trusted him with his very life and now Müller must trust him in return. Von Fürstenberg had explained how his arrest was a mistake, a clumsy attempt by the emperor to frighten the archbishop. He had promised to organise everything—by dawn this day an unlocked cell and a secret passage direct to Paris and his sons. His beautiful boys. So why had no one arrived yet?

Müller’s reverie is broken by the rattle of keys. He sits up and tries to brush the straw out of his hair and tidy the torn clothes he has been wearing for over a week.

‘Herr von Fürstenberg?’ he calls out to the darkened corridor beyond his cell. His words echo back unanswered but still the footsteps approach.

A man, his smiling face lit by the lantern he carries, emerges from the shadows. ‘We’ll have you out of here in no time,’ he says cheerfully and placing the lantern on the floor unlocks the cell door.

Müller, his gratitude on his lips, steps out. A moment later his head is jerked back and his throat professionally and swiftly slit.

One hand lies in her lap, the other rests on the arm of the plain wooden chair. Eyes half-open, Ruth stares into the fire burning in the small hearth.

Detlef is at the barred window; he looks out at the night sky. It has been four days since he pulled the midwife’s broken body from the freezing water, four long days during which he has not been able to banish her image from his mind. Now here he is, standing before her. While his thoughts gather themselves, he returns his focus to the panorama outside: the empty town square through the poplar trees, beyond it the windows flickering yellow and gold with candlelight. It is past evensong and many are preparing for bed: the kitchen table is being cleared, the hearth dampened, the quilts pulled back, each family wrapping itself tight against the frosty winter. A woman with a babe in arms walks across one of the windows. Smiling, she turns back into the room—to whom? A man? Her husband?

Staring out, Detlef wonders what he has sacrificed: this unexamined rhythm of life, the security of being loved without question, the instinctive urge of reproduction—the
basic tenets of life which, in this moment, are utterly appealing.

The sound of Ruth coughing makes him swing around. Fully conscious now, she clutches at the robe the canon sent to clothe her. Detlef is gripped by a paroxysm of shyness as he realises how little he knows about the creature in the chair before him. He moves towards her. But she cringes, fearing some new attack.

Kneeling, he adopts the gentlest tone he can muster. ‘Have no more terror. You are safe with me.’

Awkwardly he waits for her response. Her voice, broken by the torture, comes out in a harsh whisper.

‘Why did you save me—only to torment me again?’

‘There are more humane methods of interrogation, Fräulein Saul.’

Ruth has become so unused to the formal address that for a moment she wonders whom he is talking to. She looks down at the clean shift and wonders whether he has seen her naked. She has no memory of emerging from the water; all she can recall is the icy cold and the terrible pain. Shivering, she wraps the simple nightgown more tightly around herself and looks about the room. Although a prison cell, it is more like a room in a tavern with its small hearth and old rug, two utilitarian chairs and a straw pallet in the corner. There is even a wooden crucifix hanging above the mantelpiece. It is so much more comfortable than her previous quarters that she cannot help speculating on the motives of the man in front of her.

‘Where is Monsignor Solitario?’

‘His role in your prosecution is suspended.’

‘But my prosecution is not?’

‘No. I have taken on the duty of inquisitor.’

There is a knock at the door. Detlef opens it and a serving boy hands him a bowl of steaming soup.

‘Here, you must eat.’

‘When Ruth tries to pick up the wooden spoon she realises her fingers are still too bruised and stiff to function. Grasping the dish clumsily with both hands, she lifts it and drinks directly. It is her first real nourishment for over a week. The heat of the liquid runs through her, sweeping the notion of life back into her numbed flesh.

The canon sits down opposite her. ‘The inquisitor would have you burnt, regardless of the truth. But the archbishop and I are truth-seekers. We do not wish to sacrifice innocence for a vendetta, be it religious or political.’

Her hunger is so raw it reminds him of other appetites. Fearful that she might read his thoughts he looks down at her naked feet instead: one slim foot curls around the other, the toes long and childlike. Usually unabashed about his carnal desires, he finds himself strangely ashamed and this reticence both amuses and perplexes him. Smiling slightly, he ponders on the wisdom of exorcising this desire with his mistress later that evening.

Ruth misinterprets the source of his amusement. ‘So I am to be sport for you.’

‘You doubt my motives?’

‘I suspect that you conceal the truth,’ the midwife replies, a drip of barley soup running down her chin. ‘You, I do not know, but I have observed the behaviour of his highness Maximilian Heinrich. He has sacrificed many souls through his actions or lack of action. Therefore the cathedral must have an ulterior motive. As I am quite convinced I am bound for either the gallows or the pyre, you might as well confess now and then you and I can both die with a clear conscience.’

Her audacity takes him by surprise. He cannot remember ever having been addressed so directly by a woman. Disappointed that she should be ungrateful to him for saving her life, he is also deeply intrigued.

‘You do my master a disservice, Fräulein. Neither his loyalties nor his ambitions are that simple. Besides, the case against you is as yet unproven. We merely wish to keep you alive for as long as it takes to prove your innocence or your guilt; evidently this was not Monsignor Solitario’s intention.’

‘Tell me, Canon, do you believe in the existence of witches?’

‘I believe in the existence of evil.’

‘But do you believe in the existence of Satan, Hell and eternal damnation?’

‘Naturally. I am a Catholic: my faith embraces all of these concepts.’

‘But where is your evidence?’

‘I have seen hellish things inflicted by man upon man on the battlefield. I have seen cattle struck down by curses, and commonplace evils such as envy, jealousy, greed and power corrupt a man’s soul. I cannot aspire to a higher existence without believing that our actions are judged both in this life and the next.’

‘Why can we not live this life and take moral responsibility in this life solely? Why cling to the belief that redemption is possible only in the afterlife? Do you not see that all this belief leads to is the surrender of the dispossessed, the poor and the peasants, who are taught that they should suffer now so they may enter the kingdom of Heaven later?’

‘You are truly a heretic to speak so baldly of a Godless universe.’

‘Not a Godless universe but one in which men strive for equality of spirit and ambition.’

‘A heretic, a Republican and a witch, Ruth bas Elazar Saul—your discourse only adds weight to the charges against you.’

Would you wish me to lie for my life? The last charge is false. Grant you, there are many things that are unexplained:
the magic of nature, what drives a man, how the faith of many can change the life of one. There may even be witches, Canon, but I am not one, I promise you.’

Outside, hail suddenly rains down against the slate roof. A coal rolls out of the grate and onto the floor, dangerously close to Ruth’s bare feet. Detlef kicks it back into the hearth. He does not know how to answer her; there have been many occasions which have left him marvelling at the nature of faith and how it may transform the way men perceive events.

During his childhood the gamekeeper, a surly Italian who had served the von Tennen family for over thirty years, visited the viscountess to complain that all the rabbits had been bewitched and were dying outside their burrows. He charged a local widow with the deaths, claiming she was a sorceress who transformed herself into a fox at night. The woman had lived in the grounds of the manor for as long as Detlef could remember; in truth her meagre abode was in the direct path of the seasonal hunt and was considered by the gamekeeper to be an obstruction to the blood sport. Determined to solve the mystery, the viscountess rode out one early morning accompanied by the eight-year-old Detlef. In the hush of that glistening dawn they went from burrow to burrow examining the tiny corpses caught by death in the gentlest of postures: some still wrapped around each other, others with babes still suckling at the teat, but all showing traces of having consumed the same weed. The viscountess ordered the deceptively harmless-looking plant to be pulled from every patch of wild ground and the rabbits stopped dying, but the gamekeeper had never been persuaded that the widow was not a witch. That such circumstantial coincidence can be woven into vindictive accusation is an aspect of life Detlef witnesses every day, and as the spiritual confidant of his community is expected to suspend his disbelief.

‘How do you explain your use of the kabbala, Fräulein? I am not ignorant of its associations.’

‘The kabbala is a system of mystical mathematics, meanings imposed on the Hebrew alphabet by some of our ancient scholars. It is a set of instructions on how to live your life. No more and no less.’

‘If it has no power, why then do you use it in your midwifery?’

Ruth turns to the window, her aquiline profile a chiselled silhouette against her black hair. ‘It is a wild, beautiful night. Nature is enchanting, is it not?’

Detlef waits in silence. The stillness deepens then abruptly weaves the air between them into an erotic ambience. He finds himself studying the curve of her slender neck, marvelling at the fragility of her bone structure, the narrowness of her skull, her high cheekbones, all tantalisingly exotic to him. To distract himself he averts his gaze; it falls upon a small patch of skin on the inside of her wrist. As he stares, its whiteness becomes translucent and suddenly he can see the blue veins beneath, the blood pumping, in microscopic detail—a vibrant life force he fought to save.

Ruth notices his confusion but is unable to interpret its cause. The intensity of her gaze embarrasses him and he cannot shake the sensation that of the two of them she is the stronger. He coughs and turns away, struggling to maintain his authority.

‘The kabbala,’ he demands.

‘Both you and I know the superstition of the uneducated man, his drive to create meaning as a way of refuting the powerlessness of his situation.’

‘You employ a belief system in which you have no faith?’

‘I did not say I had no faith in it. Besides, I am a pragmatist, Canon von Tennen.’

Detlef is amazed to find his heart stumbling as he realises she has remembered his name. He stares at those green eyes, startlingly light against the blackness of her eyelashes and brows.

‘If you were such a pragmatist you would not be in the situation you are in now, Fräulein.’

‘Perhaps, but then again there is a certain pragmatism to martyrdom—even Jesus Christ would agree to that,’ she replies with a smile.

The smile instantly transforms her naturally pensive features. Again, Detlef sees a radiance which lies not in the classical beauty of his Birgit, but in the gesture, the movement of Ruth’s expression.

‘Is it true you have studied with Benedict Spinoza?’

‘What of it?’

He swallows and wonders whether he can trust her. If he reveals himself to her, will she reciprocate? Surely she must, he tries to reassure himself, for he has saved her life.

‘I have an interest in matters west of the border. Some say there is a great change coming,’ he replies carefully, masking a youthful enthusiasm in his voice.

Ruth pauses. The being before her has unexpectedly transformed from a cleric to a man: he has become an individual she can both recognise and appreciate, his intelligence now glimmering through the arrogance. Thus exposed, his certainty strikes her as a false confidence that covers profound—and far more interesting—vulnerabilities.

She becomes aware of another scent in the air: the faint musk of his masculinity. The awareness is a sudden awakening. There is only one other time she can remember being so affected: in a small attic room near the Kalverstraat. Dirk Kerkrinck. Being held in his arms. It is a perfume that utterly disarms her. A slow blush creeps up her neck and
spreads across her cheeks, sending peachy tendrils right to her earlobes. Its heat forces her to adopt a fiercer exterior.

‘It would be wise for any enlightened man to look to the Lowlands. There is to be found the intellectual freedom to soar philosophically; to believe in a God who cannot be bribed, who can exist side by side with knowledge; to dream of other ways of civilising a nation, to yearn for a democracy in which slave and master no longer exist—’

‘Hush, even bricks have ears…and wagging tongues.’

Detlef leans forward and the brush of his breath on her skin launches Ruth into further excitement.

‘In that case I shall whisper also.’

‘Or speak softly in Latin. It is a tongue you know, I believe?’

‘A tongue I know and love,’ she murmurs in that language.

‘Was it to study such ideas that you abandoned your mother country for Holland?’

‘It was a natural curiosity.’

‘Really? I have always been taught that in a woman the desire for knowledge is not natural, that the female role is confined to that of nurturer, and sometimes to commerce—but perhaps my teachers were wrong.’

‘Evidently. For I am a woman and yet I have complete comprehension of many of the new philosophers.’