The Witch of Cologne (23 page)

T
he swaying of the carriage
causes the hem of the midwife’s full skirt to rustle against the wooden edge of the leather-covered seat. It is a demure black dress made of bombazine, opened in the front with a cream lace petticoat showing. Ruth, unaccustomed to such elegant and feminine costume, wriggles uncomfortably. They are garments purchased by Detlef with the help of Groot’s landlady, at his insistence that Ruth cannot attend the prince dressed in her usual simple woollen cloak and plain hessian dress.

She has not worn anything as decorative or as womanly since Aaron’s bar mitzvah and she feels painfully conscious of both her physicality and sex. More than that, she is unbearably aware of the fact that she is not wearing the yellow circle that is the compulsory insignia for Jews. Although she lived and travelled in Holland in plainclothes, it was as Felix van Jos—a deceit so profound it was tolerable. But now, travelling through Germania in the guise of an aristocratic Christian woman, Ruth feels a fraud and a betrayer of her race.

At her feet sits her bag of medical equipment. Staring down she wonders whether she really has the training to cure the young prince. From the few facts she has been able to obtain she knows the aristocrat’s ailment is of an abdominal nature. She learnt much from Dirk Kerckrinck and has studied for herself Galen’s definitive text on anatomy, but with her life depending on the outcome she is suddenly besieged by doubt.

The coach jolts violently as the wheels hit a deep rut. The canon’s foot slips across the floor and touches her own. Startled, Ruth looks across. Detlef appears undisturbed, his carved profile in repose.

He has changed from his clerical attire into that of the aristocrat. It is the first time she has seen him in such a guise and initially she thought the powdered wig with its ribboned pigtail total foppery. But now as she stares at his heavy eyelids, the sweep of his patrician nose and the full mouth that betrays an innate sensuality, she feels a part of her, long buried, begin to shift. Embarrassed she looks down again, only to be distracted by the sight of Detlef’s shapely leg visible up to the thigh in hose. This time, shocked by her carnal thoughts, she closes her eyes and begins to quietly recite in Latin a particularly difficult passage of Ovid. Ovid! She has to concentrate to remember something a little less erotic, settling this time on Virgil, the most cerebral of the ancients. Thankful for the distraction, she relaxes into a stanza.

Feigning sleep, Detlef watches her through the stuttering gates of his eyelashes. Ever since Ruth reluctantly donned the clothes he purchased for her, the canon has been in a state of extraordinary confusion. The midwife has magically metamorphosed into a noblewoman of his own status, an individual he would in normal circumstances happily seduce across the crowded floor of some ballroom or even in the intimacy of a literary parlour. The fusion of these two
personas—the visionary who holds the key to knowledge he has until now only dreamt of, and the female—suddenly makes her obtainable. Overwhelmed by desire, Detlef has never been so profoundly disturbed in the presence of a woman.

And this is exactly how he finds himself, having gazed surreptitiously for over an hour at her slender waist, the skirt which blossoms over surprisingly full hips, her narrow ankles, the delicate white bone of her wrist, the lattice of veins beneath the translucent skin, the pulse of her blood that beats mercilessly in the hollow of her slender neck. And most torturous of all, the swelling of her two breasts, the curved milky contours of which he has already fantasised making love to a thousand times over. Even now, in this moment as his foot bumps innocently against her own, he finds himself imagining how it would feel to intertwine his naked toes with hers, to draw her into the curve of his own body, to taste what lies between those thighs.

Another jolt sends the coach swerving. Detlef’s long waistcoat, which has been concealing the growing bulge beneath his breeches, is flung up. Swiftly he tucks it back across himself then looks over at Ruth. Thankfully she still has her eyes closed tightly. He crosses his legs and stares out at the passing landscape in an effort to distract himself.

Judging by the short shadows of the passing trees, he estimates that it is mid morning. They left Cologne at dawn, partly to arrive at Das Grüntal as soon as possible, but also to leave before the city awoke.

Maximilian Heinrich, wary of condemnation by the Gaffeln which is still outraged at Voss and Müller’s executions, insisted that the departure be made in absolute secrecy. Having dealt with the inquisitor’s fury on discovering upon their return from Kloster Eberbach that the trial of the midwife had proceeded without him, Heinrich felt
overwhelmed by attacks from all fronts and wanted to avoid infuriating the Dominican further. At a secret meeting he promised Ruth that he would deliver her safely back to her father should her mission prove successful. The same day in a private audience with Detlef, Heinrich ordered the canon to watch the Jewess’s every move. If she should make a mistake and hasten the death of the Hapsburg prince it will prove disastrous for both Heinrich and his archbishopric. But if she should cure the prince, Leopold will be beholden to him and an indebted emperor is exactly what Heinrich needs in order to continue his covert relations with the French unhindered by Vienna.

Because she is a Hebrew, Ruth is banned from touching the prince directly. This is the law. With this understanding Detlef has assured Heinrich that he intends to uphold the decree and that while treating the young royal, the midwife’s instructions will be executed by the most competent of the count’s servants.

The coach rolls past a peat collector. Detlef watches the lone figure in his short smock and hose, his pointed cap pulled down over his freezing ears, slicing the sodden earth into small squares of black. In the near distance a solitary wisp of thin blue-grey smoke rises from the peasant’s ramshackle cottage, barely more than three crooked walls challenging the wind. In front a young child in rags plays on the frozen mud while a small pug chases its own tail. It is a scene that has not altered for hundreds of years and probably will not for a hundred more, Detlef thinks. His mind wanders to the peasants’ revolt of 1525, a bloody and shameful episode engraved on the German psyche, an event his grandfather used to recount as a victory of birthright over lower animal spirit. Glancing back at the pitiful man struggling against the elements, Detlef wonders whether he himself wouldn’t have picked up hoe and pick to rebel against a life of enslavement.

‘Are we on your family lands yet?’

Ruth’s voice pulls him back to the charged atmosphere of the carriage.

‘No, it will be a few more miles until we get to the von Tennen estate. Do you wish to stop and refresh yourself?’

‘No, thank you. The bones in my corset have managed to suspend all bodily functions including hunger.’

Detlef, unsure whether there is sarcasm in her voice, is at a loss. ‘Are you uncomfortable?’

‘I am not used to such attire. I am unconvinced by the sentiment that women should endure for beauty.’

‘The dress becomes you regardless of your convictions. I now see that you are first a woman, second a renegade.’

‘I would rather be a comfortable renegade than a suffering beauty.’

‘Perhaps one day you shall be both.’

‘I fear not; not in these times at least. Canon, if I should fail…’

‘You will not.’ His answer is direct, determined to curtail any burgeoning anxiety in her mind. ‘You cannot, for your sake and for mine.’

Again they lapse into silence.

Ruth watches the breeze bending the branches of the linden trees, rustling through the budding leaves like water streaming through river weed. What if she does not succeed? What if the prince cannot be cured, what then? One moment of doubt unleashes a multitude of others. Remembering Spinoza’s philosophy of applying intellectual discipline to rein in one’s passions, she tries to become as detached as possible. She will separate her emotions from her craft. She will approach the prince like any other patient. Images of the anatomy of the midriff float across her mind’s eye: the spiralling length of the bowel, the small intestine, the stomach, the spleen. It has to be the bowel, she concludes just as Detlef interrupts.

‘You know, in that dress you could be mistaken for a Bavarian princess.’

‘But why should I wish to be?’

‘I just meant—’

‘You meant that I no longer resemble a Hebrew?’

Detlef blushes for this is exactly what he meant. ‘I intend no offence.’

‘You are right, Canon, in these clothes I could pass for a dark-haired southerner or perhaps an Austrian. But as soon as I walked into a banquet hall or a court my bearing would give me away. I cannot picture what it is to travel and live freely, unencumbered by race. I cannot imagine what it is to be born a count or a lord or a countess, to believe in one’s innate superiority. My own father taught me to believe in intelligence, spiritual wisdom and the written word. But he also brought me up in a world where we are unwanted, mistrusted and must learn to become invisible to survive.’ She smiles ruefully. ‘I was a bad pupil. So you see, even in this dress I could not walk beside you without fear.’

Silently Detlef grapples with the reality of her world. Ruth, reading his stillness as acquiescence, continues.

‘He also tried to teach me to be a good Jewish wife, to never ask questions, to watch hidden above the men at prayer. Pointlessly he wrestled with me in an attempt to convince me to respect the confines of my sex and finally, when he betrothed me, I fled.’

‘You are an unusual creature. I have not yet met a woman like you.’

‘I am surprised that a man of the cloth should have many female acquaintances, unless of course they are also in service.’

‘Fräulein Saul, my dedication is to the piety of the soul not to the purity of the body.’

He stares directly at her with candour, his desire obvious. Suddenly Ruth knows with absolute certainty that he wants her. Trembling, she waits.

Leaning forward Detlef takes her hand, and turning it palm up begins to unbutton the row of seed pearls that fasten the kid glove. The tips of his fingers draw small circles of ecstasy across her skin, stroking the centre of her palm so softly it is as if he has guessed the intelligence of her pleasure, every caress sending ripples throughout her whole body while he maintains his steady gaze, a knowing smile playing across his lips.

It is the smile of a connoisseur, of one who delights in his craft, Ruth thinks, shivering at the thought of what those hands so skilfully promise. After an eternity he reaches her naked wrist, where he pauses for permission. Bewildered, she pulls away, struggling to rebutton what he has undone.

‘Of the soul I know something.’ She tries to cover the rawness of her confusion with words. ‘Of the body nothing, except in the landscape of the medic. Perhaps I shall die this way. I cannot see myself as a wife.’

‘If there is a man who can fire your imagination, he will deserve your hand.’

‘Perhaps.’

Blushing, she turns away.

The coach begins to climb. Ruth watches as the thick forest thins out to mountainous scrubland with a sparse cover of spruce trees and pine saplings. A herd of rugged-looking goats grazing amid the undergrowth comes into view as the coach continues up the broken muddy track. Finally the land opens out to a windy plain. Here icy banks lie thawing while spring growth breaks the stained snow with shoots of bright green.

Detlef knocks against the roof of the coach with his cane. The coachman shouts out to the horses in a guttural dialect; their gallop slows to a canter and then pulls to a halt.

‘Forgive me. I am, alas, all too human under my breeches.’ And with that Detlef climbs out.

Ruth gives him a moment then follows. The fresh alpine air sears her lungs and blows away the mustiness of the coach. A few feet away Detlef makes water while Ruth casts her eyes over the panorama.

One side of the road is the mountain climbing upwards, while below lies a valley with a broad river snaking a path along the bottom of it. Ruth watches a band of sunlight travel across the sloping tracts of forest, transforming the trees from dark olive to a luminous emerald as the light catches their waving tops.

‘See yonder?’ Detlef points down. The glistening roofs of a small settlement cradled in a curve of the river are just visible. ‘That is my brother’s land. I grew up riding through the lanes of that village. Das Grüntal, the hunting lodge, is beyond the next valley. The forest is good for boar in winter and pheasant in spring. My brother is uncommonly fond of the hunt. If only he had such a love for his serfs.’

‘Do you have no jurisdiction?’

‘Fräulein, I am the second son. Naturally the only path which promised influence was the church.’

‘Perhaps it is a blessing. At least you will have the joys of being an uncle.’

‘The possibility of my brother begetting an heir is remote. His marriage is a childless sham and shall remain so. No, I’m afraid the property will go to my cousin upon the count’s death.’

‘Would you wish it to be otherwise?’

‘I should wish it only that I might instigate changes.’

Detlef points again and Ruth, squinting against the sun, can see a patchwork of fields, most of which appear fallow.

‘The count has neglected his duty as farmer for too long. Not since before the war has this land been run properly.
There is much disease and poverty amongst our peasants yet my brother does little to relieve their misery.’

‘If I have time, and with the count’s permission, I shall visit the women myself. There could be tasks I can do to make their burden easier.’

‘Be warned: my brother is a creature of politics, he has no sensibility of the needs of others.’

Behind them one of the horses snorts impatiently. Ruth glances around; the coachman sits on the box chewing a wad of tobacco. He peers down suspiciously but is unable to meet Ruth’s eye. She turns to Detlef.

‘You have endangered your position bringing me here. Even the coachman suspects that I have you under a spell.’