The Witch of Cologne (18 page)

‘I shall be back in the city as of Tuesday morn and shall attend Sunday’s confession. I trust you will have returned to Cologne by then?’

‘Naturally.’

With a formal nod and an air of faint dismay she takes her leave.

Detlef watches her ride down the lane, the trees on either side bowing with the wind, her riding veil a scarlet streak against a panorama of cascading greys, and finally realises that his affection for her has started to wane.

C
arlos’s hand sweeps through the air
and lands a resounding slap against Juan’s cheek. The secretary stumbles slightly then stoically regains his balance. Knowing the inquisitor’s penchant for violence, he loathes being the bearer of bad news.

‘Illuminate me, Juan: you are trying to tell me that Herr Müller has been murdered before I had a chance to secure a confession and, more importantly, information for the emperor?’ the inquisitor murmurs, his soft voice a chilling contrast to his physical outburst.

Juan, trying to control the welling tears of pain, nods dumbly. Carlos, frustrated, kicks at his legs.

‘How dangerous of them to thwart the duty of the Inquisition. Do they not know with whom they are toying? First the midwife and now this: it is insulting.’

The clerk hobbles to the desk. ‘Do you wish me to compose a response?’

‘Our response shall be with the sword not the quill.’

Furious, Carlos bangs the case of his viola da gamba and immediately regrets it.

‘You are going to challenge von Fürstenberg to a duel?’ the secretary asks incredulously.

Carlos looks at him sharply. ‘What makes you think it was von Fürstenberg? Do you have information I don’t?’

‘I…I…’ Realising he has been caught out, Juan stutters over his reply. Carlos’s hand lands a blow on the other cheek.

‘I have heard rumours that Müller was working for von Fürstenberg,’ the clerk manages to squeak.

The inquisitor walks thoughtfully to the window and looks out at the neat orchard beyond the cloisters. He stares at a young peasant boy raking the grass, his mind a million miles away. His meditation is broken by the perilous journey of a small beetle across the inside of the glass window.

‘Excellent,’ he says softly, his whole demeanour shifting into cooler calculation. ‘So now we know more about our enemies. We shall bide our time, but I swear to you: when the moment comes I shall destroy the arrogance of this archbishop and with it his cousin.’

Carlos crushes the beetle with a sharp decisive pinch.

It might as well be a feast day, Maximilian Heinrich notes bitterly, watching the streams of palms and lilies being thrown from the windows of the houses lining the narrow lanes of Cologne. The archbishop, sombre in the purple ecclesiastical robe he adopts when in a judicial role, rides behind the open cart which carries the two prisoners. The bright spring sunlight seems to mock their shaven heads and bewildered faces. The white flowers fluttering down land in front of the rolling wheels to create a pathway of broken
stems and crushed blooms as the parade of mounted guards and walking priests passes over them.

Heinrich looks up through the cascading petals. Some of the women hanging from the balconies and open windows are dressed in festive clothing. All the world loves an execution, he concludes, disgusted. For an insane moment he wonders whether he should organise an execution for a feast day. At least it would bring out the masses. Demoralised, he straightens his posture and tries to concentrate on the adulation of his congregation who cheer as he rides past.

The auto-da-fé was a sobering procedure, especially after the gruesome business of Müller’s murder, an event the archbishop had neither sanctioned nor been a party to. Von Fürstenberg is out of control, Heinrich thinks gloomily as a welling sense of panic stirs in his vitals. He had instructed the minister to eradicate the problem but a mysterious escape to one of the far colonies would have sufficed, not murder. Really, Wilhelm is a brute.

The trial presses heavily on his conscience. It was a mockery of justice with himself as judge. The city’s magistrate also sat on the bench, along with his two sheriffs, and finally the jury: a small panel of bürgers, each carefully picked by Solitario himself. The archbishop was loath to admit it but the Dominican had excelled in the task, meticulously recruiting merchants who had a trading relationship with Spain or England and were vehemently anti-Dutch after being affected by the North Sea war. The inquisitor even had the audacity to enlist Voss’s arch-enemy, a rival silversmith who had everything to gain from the bürger’s demise.

Humiliated, Heinrich had sat sweating in the packed courtroom, enduring the confessions which Solitario, acting as prosecutor, had beaten out of his witnesses. The inquisitor
had even called the Dutchman’s mistress to the stand. A harmless harlot who went by the name of Frau Plum, she had tearfully confessed that one night van Dorf had levitated while lying upon her flesh. The poor woman, whose wrists bore some suspicious bruises, turned scarlet with embarrassment as the court howled with laughter. She could not bear to look her former lover in the eye as he stood tall in the dock, refusing to be humiliated, one bandaged foot missing several toes which had been ‘misplaced’ during his interrogation.

Voss and van Dorf had both pleaded for their cases to be taken to the Hochgericht, the high court, or failing that the Blutgericht, claiming that as taxpayers they came under the jurisdiction of local legislation as well as the broader ordinances of the empire. The prosecution had counterattacked by claiming that because the accuseds’ sorcery had affected the local citizens of Cologne, the merchants’ trial should remain under the jurisdiction of the Landrecht, the local imperial estate. It was an argument which appealed to the patriotic spirit of the bürgers but also to their anti-imperial sentiments: a reaction Monsignor Solitario had been astute enough to count on.

By the time the trial concluded, the screw, the rack and the ducking stool had served to encourage condemning statements by the accused and the inquisitor’s prosecution was complete.

The prisoners stand chained together, rocking against the sides of the cart as it trundles over the uneven ground, suffering the howls and mockery of the crowd as they pass by. Six guards from the cathedral follow on foot, behind them rides the archbishop. Flanked by the two von Fürstenberg brothers, the prelate feels hemmed in. Wilhelm, disturbed by the mob’s behaviour and fearing that his own
French sentiments might be exposed by a careless insult, holds his portly form stiffly above his horse. He’s shitting himself, the archbishop notes with a certain satisfaction. Serves him right for encouraging me to get involved in the infernal mess to begin with.

Heinrich turns his attention back to the prisoners. Voss is just an old man who, like many others, has made some enemies along the way. This can be the only explanation for his arrest. It is unlikely the emperor would even be aware of Voss’s existence, although it was rumoured he had once passed poor silk to the empress without realising. The old merchant clings to the bars of the cart, trying to dodge the rotten tomatoes and turnips being thrown by the crowd. His face, now tongueless, is a decrepit landscape of smashed flesh and livid bruises. Sinking to his knees he clasps his hands above his head in prayer. His wife, her hair a wild grey thatch around a face swollen red with weeping, tears at her clothes as she stumbles after the cart.

Next to Voss, the Dutchman appears strangely resigned to his fate. Van Dorf probably believes this is his preordained destiny, the archbishop thinks, finding the man’s pragmatic attitude predictably Calvinist. A living example of their absurd belief that man is born with his destiny etched upon his soul. Heinrich deplores the philosophy. With a certain amount of pleasurable spite he wonders whether the Dutchman will be so dignified when he is hoisted up onto the pyre. A pox on both Luther and Calvin, the archbishop thinks as he waves benevolently to a row of cheering milliners.

Carlos canters up on a white mule.

‘God has sent us the blessing of fine weather, your highness,’ the inquisitor shouts above the mob—students, journeymen and drunken youths—running alongside the procession.

‘Indeed, but I fear that heralding in the spring with the burning of souls will not prove auspicious for the future.’

‘Ahhh, but the cleansing of vermin is always good. It prepares the house for Lent.’

The inquisitor is determined to engage Heinrich in conversation for as long as possible, conscious that his presence at the archbishop’s side can only improve his status with the populace.

‘But where is your cousin?’ he continues. ‘I would have thought it fitting that he attend as a novice inquisitor.’

Heinrich, gingerly resting his gout-ridden leg against the bouncing flank of his horse, frowns irritably.

‘Canon von Tennen vanished two days ago. I suspect he has retreated to his country residence to ponder the various techniques available to him as an inquisitor—although, with all due respect, I doubt he will be following in the Spanish tradition. Naturally, if you had not insisted on the executions taking place so soon, he would have been in attendance.’

‘Pity. He’ll miss a good burning,’ the friar replies with a relish that disgusts the archbishop.

The procession passes the town hall then the cathedral. Turning a corner it winds alongside the old Roman wall that marks the perimeter of the ancient city towards the armoury. Next to the armoury stands a tall narrow building, an old warehouse which serves as an annexe. Heinrich cannot help himself: he glances up and sees the midwife at a barred window on the second floor, her face a pale oval topped by a black streak of hair. Despite the callousness that comes with power Heinrich cannot help but feel pity.

‘Isn’t that the tavern where you have rehoused the Jewish witch?’ sneers the inquisitor, interrupting his furtive thought.

For a second Heinrich contemplates rearing his horse into the side of Carlos’s diminutive mule, can almost see the
Dominican crashing to the cobbled street. Instead he sets his jaw and silently recites a prayer of redemption for his murderous thoughts, determined to play diplomat for his own advantage.

‘It is not an inn, it is the armoury, and I might remind you that my cousin acts with the blessing of my jurisdiction, Monsignor Solitario.’

‘I have sent a messenger to Vienna. It will be fascinating to see what the emperor thinks of
your
intervention.’

‘I sincerely hope that your messenger finds the roads this side of the border less treacherous than my own courier. On a more pleasant note, I have arranged for you and your secretary to accompany me on a trip to the famous Kloster Eberbach vineyard. It is my thanks to you for presenting me with that superb bottle from Najera: what it lacked in age it made up for in character. Kloster Eberbach boasts an outstanding cellar that should meet with your approval.’

And with a swift kick of his stirrups, the archbishop gallops forward. Carlos watches him go then turns back towards the armoury. Gazing up, he catches Ruth’s eye. He bows mockingly to her.

If there is such a thing as manifest evil, then you, Monsignor Solitario, are it, Ruth thinks. Locking eyes with her persecutor she feels a bolt of pure fear, as if his mere proximity can cause her body to remember the pain inflicted upon it.

It has been two weeks since Detlef’s visit. Since then she has seen only the youth who brings her food and collects her chamber pot. At first she lay on her pallet, allowing her body to mend as much as it could. She had even persuaded the boy to bring her some arnica weed to heal her bruising. But as the flesh revives, so the spirit is resurrected. To Ruth’s amazement, her desire to survive burns even brighter than
before and with it comes the realisation that her fears and desires are as human as those of the women she treats. Now, confronting the prospect of martyrdom, she finds herself yearning to be something she would never have believed her nature could permit: a simple soul with hut, hearth and husband.

The inquisitor rides out of view and Ruth forces herself to look at the prisoners. Voss cowers against the bars. The midwife, remembering his kindness during the arrests, is horrified to see his massive frame now shrunken, the skin falling off him in folds, the blackened hole in his baffled face that was once his mouth. The Dutchman, however, remains stoic, hands locked to the wooden railings, shoulders hunched against the barrage of mouldy vegetables.

That will be me in my final hours, she thinks, standing there in the swaying cart, absorbing every image, brain and eyes drinking in the last moments of the world: the horizon, the sun and the cosmos.

Suddenly a rotten apple smashes against the bars, sending pieces of putrid fruit into the room. Ruth ducks then fearfully looks back out. Below a crowd of students and beggars stare up at her.

‘Jewish witch, your time will come!’ shouts a tall youth in the cheap black garb of a law student, leering at her. Another, a boy with a deformed leg, scrapes up some horse manure and hurls it upwards, his face a grimace of hatred.

Overwhelmed, Ruth sinks onto the straw pallet and covers her head with the thin blanket.

The hanging hill outside Mülheim is a desolate place populated by rats and stray dogs who live by day in tiny caves in the bank of the Rhine and feed by night on the putrefying
flesh of the executed left to rot on rope or pyre. Above are the ever-present crows, circling in a clamorous medley, vying for a better position to swoop down and pluck a milky-blue eye from a green cheek, a purple sinew from a twisted leg, an intestine from a drawn and quartered torso. It is a graveyard of carnage, lacking the eccentric order of the battlefield, or even the plague-yards where child is laid beside mother, grandson next to grandfather. A macabre showground, each gallows, chopping block and smoking pyramid a different sideshow.

Here a murderess dangles, blackened buttocks swaying beneath the decaying skirt, her blonde hair a ghoulish remnant of femininity on her sunken skull. There a man who failed to pay his taxes, his headless torso protruding from a shallow grave, half-eaten by dogs, his head, its mouth cavernous, tossed casually a few feet away. Beyond is the burning field with its outlandish crop, each wooden stake bursting out of the ashes like a deathly sapling with its black fruit of charred bones and smouldering flesh.

It is here that the two new pyres have been erected, posts cut from sweet green birch with the flag of the city fluttering in the breeze atop them.

Already the crowd is gathering. Some come from Mülheim, dressed in the sombre clothes of the Protestant. Others are from Deutz, the Jewish elders with tumbling forelocks and chest-length beards clutching the hands of their young disciples whose wide black eyes roll nervously beneath the tall hats. Others are families bringing their children to teach them a living lesson in mortality.