The Witch of Cologne (5 page)

With his whole body trembling, the young man lowered her to the ground. Apologising profusely he begged her forgiveness, but Ruth, loins aching, silenced him with another kiss then ran.

Confused, she walked for hours through the crowded streets, along the canals, across the bridges. Turning the situation over and over in her mind, dissecting it like the small animals she had watched Dirk meticulously pull apart. It was as if she was searching for an imaginary organ that would somehow render a love between them possible. Rationally she knew there was no future in such an affection, but the overwhelming sensuality of the experience made her realise that she could no longer deny her gender or her sexuality. It was then that she decided to return to Deutz, to reunite with her father and serve her people with the medical knowledge she had acquired.

Three hours later she found herself standing outside Spinoza’s door. They talked until dawn, Ruth watching with relief as the philosopher eventually found within himself the possibility of continuing in his role as her mentor. Although
saddened by her decision to leave, Spinoza saw the logic of it and offered to continue their dialogue through correspondence. He confessed that although he regarded her as an aberration, he still respected her intelligence and philosophical ambition. He swore he would send her the latest treatises and pamphlets, thus ensuring she would not be intellectually isolated in Deutz.

They parted with an embrace, a rough gesture any man would give a youth. That night Ruth packed her belongings while Dirk was at a lecture and, after leaving a note, departed without seeing the young medical student again.

‘
All manner of man and creature are equal in the eyes of nature, and nature is God.
’ The memory of Benedict Spinoza’s soft resonant voice comforts Ruth as she stands shivering in the cold Deutz air. Taking moral responsibility for one’s actions—isn’t that what the philosopher advocates, and before him Descartes? If every man is equal in the eyes of God, and if God is nature and nature is God, then man is not a puppet acting out a preordained fortune but a free agent carving out his own destiny. She is living the life she has chosen and must learn to enjoy it, Ruth reminds herself, and pulls the wooden shutters closed.

In the candlelight she wearily peels off her clothes, damp with the night’s efforts and the dew of the morning. As she steps across the room towards the waiting bath, she catches herself in the broken fragment of a looking glass her mother gave her as a child. A pale oval face, pensive, with a mane of long black hair. Large eyes which appear as a streak of green in white, blurred by some distant grief as yet unlived. It is not a face Ruth associates with her own. She has no image of herself: she deliberately stopped
looking at her reflection many years before when, as a twelve year old, she no longer wanted to be thought of solely as beautiful. It was enough that she could feel with her own hands the health under her skin; nothing else mattered. She would not suffer to be defined by her physicality while she fought to be defined by her intellect.

Should a man ever want her, it must be her nature he embraces, not merely her form, she thinks as she steps into the warm water, one white foot breaking the surface before she submerges the rest of her body.

She lies there, in that unnatural light. In the distance are the faint sounds of the waking town: cockerels crowing; the soft bleating of goats, the growing clatter of their hooves as they are herded past the cottage; the remote peal of the church bells, Protestant bells; the laughter of children; the muted echo of a Hebrew chant; a skipping song she recognises from her own childhood. And gradually, as the sound expands into a vague medley of activity, an exquisite solitude settles upon her.

The young woman looks down at her body under the water, her breasts that float above the shimmering surface, her narrow hips with the bush of black hair curling up the belly as if it is an independent animal resting momentarily against her thigh, her long legs that are still slim like a girl’s. It promises none of the fertile roundness of her patients. A virgin body without the wear and tear of love marked across it. And as she looks it is as if the whole room, even time itself, takes a deep breath and holds it, catching the minute slivers of sunlight, the trembling water and Ruth’s pale flesh into one frozen dream. Then, just as suddenly, this second of potency crystallises and sinks itself like a tiny splinter into her memory.

Ruth, slipping beneath the water, believes the sensation must be happiness.

D
ear Benedict,
Thank you for Decartes’ writings, I have read most of Discours de la méethode and have found it most illuminating. How to apply such ambitions to this small town! This place is a thousand years from Franciscus van den Enden’s study, where ideas soared like angels with steel wings. Ideas of democracy, of a Republic where all would stand equal in politics as well as mind.

This morning I was midwife to the young spouse of a bürger within Cologne itself. It seemed barbaric to be so conscious of being a trespasser. I have forgotten the habit of humility and I am loath to adopt it anew.

You would not recognise your little Felix, she has grown her hair and is forced to cover her head. I am a woman. I wear the yellow circle upon my breast like an obscene stigma. All this I tolerate. For I believe that maybe, through my meagre practice, I can spawn reform. I am careful, for unlike you I wish to stay within my community, for all that they label me witch. In the dark hours I have often found myself lying in fear—of what? God’s reprimand?
Only of their God, a jealous God which is not my own. But still I have hung the kabbalistic tree of life with its ten Sefirot over my bed and a pouch of garlic at the back door. And the women still demand that I take these talismans to their birthings to ward off the demon Lilith and other horrors. The practice fortifies them and makes them believe in my skill. Am I a charlatan to exploit such tawdry magic? Faith saves lives and dignifies death; surely that is justification alone. I hear you chastising me already, Benedict. I remember your philosophy on the kabbalists as clearly as if the words were etched on my own skin: ‘Triflers whose insanity provokes my unceasing astonishment, such arrogance to believe that they alone may be held to possess the secrets of God.’

Forgive me, master, but here in Deutz it is still twilight. Enlightenment is yet to reach these battered walls. Let my people dream. It is one of the only things they have left.

Tell Dirk Kerckrinck he is to be congratulated on his promotion to chief medic (pity his poor patients!).

Please write back, there is a Dutch ship nearly every week and your wisdom would be of great encouragement to me. Always yours, ‘Felix van Jos’

‘I am sorry to see that his royal highness the archbishop does not grace me with his majestic presence but instead sends a servant.’

Carlos Vicente Solitario, inquisitor, Dominican friar and advisor to the great emperor Leopold I, listens intently as Juan, his secretary, translates the sentence from Spanish into bad German. Both parties have refused to speak Latin; it is an unspoken signal that their discourse is of a political not spiritual nature.

Carlos, a short bald man in his sixties whose Mediterranean constitution has begun to suffer the bite of the northern
winter, stands in the spartan room the Jesuits have given him and shivers. The confidence and magnetism of the canon Archbishop Maximilian Heinrich has sent makes the inquisitor nervous. There is an arrogance to Detlef’s blond beauty, a supercilious intelligence behind the eyes that the Dominican finds untrustworthy.

Solitario has visited Germany before, but in the far east, in Breslau. There he discovered that the phlegmatic nature of the Prussians gave them a strategic advantage over his own Latin emotiveness: in matters of diplomacy they could deceive where he could not. This time the inquisitor is determined not to compromise one degree of his mission. He leans forward and deliberately adopts a grin of utter naivety.

Unperturbed the young canon smiles blandly back. Stalemate.

Gesturing, Detlef gives permission to his assistant to speak for him. Clearing his throat pompously Groot begins.

‘Canon Detlef von Tennen is not a servant. He is a Wittelsbach prince, cousin to the archbishop himself. Therefore it is an honour that the archbishop has sent a member of his family to receive Monsignor Solitario.’

‘Especially as the aristocracy wields such power in Cologne,’ Carlos replies cynically in perfect German.

Groot is startled by the inquisitor’s deliberate insult at choosing not to speak German until now, but also by the Spaniard’s knowledge that the local aristocrats, once hugely powerful within Cologne, are now to their great chagrin barely tolerated by the bürgers. Groot swings around to Detlef to determine his reaction, but the canon’s cool mien is unaffected.

Behind the inquisitor a hood suddenly falls down from a black robe hanging next to a travelling chest in the corner of the whitewashed cell. Beside it stands a viola da gamba. The unfolded cowl heralds a scent of ambergris which floats through the room.

‘I have friends in Breslau. They send their regards and regret that it would be unsafe for them to cross Saxony to welcome you,’ Detlef replies in good Spanish. They are the first words he has uttered since entering the chamber.

A faint expression of anxiety crosses the inquisitor’s face. It is his turn to be worried; the envoy speaks his native tongue fluently and appears to know his background. Detlef has deliberately reminded him of the mortification he faced in that inhospitable eastern city and his enforced exodus. He has also reminded him of the fall of Saxony to the Lutherans, a conquest that still chafes Rome.

For a second Carlos wonders what this man would look like under torture, whether his face would retain the same luminous quality. The thought excites him—the execution of power always does—and his sense of inferiority fades.

‘As we both speak the same languages, it is safe to assume that we have good grounds for a diplomatic relationship,’ Carlos offers.

‘Sharing the tongue is not the same as sharing the heart.’

‘Archbishop Maximilian Heinrich can ill afford either tongue or heart.’

‘I am no judge of my master.’

‘But there is a master over your master, and he must answer to the Holy Roman Emperor himself—not France.’

‘Is Leopold unhappy?’

‘We are concerned about the archbishop’s allegiance, but would be happy to feign ignorance if he were prepared to expedite a request of our own.’

‘What evidence does the papal council have that the archbishop may have French tendencies?’

‘Trust me, Canon von Tennen, our spies are as efficient as your own.’

Carlos nods to his young secretary, who pulls a scroll from under his copious scarlet robe. He unfurls it and stretches it
across the bare wooden table before them. Detlef does not have to lean towards it to recognise the flowery calligraphy which is the mark of the archbishop. Nor does he have to confirm authorship: the imprint of Maximilian Heinrich’s seal pressed next to the stamp of King Louis XIV is evidence enough. Inwardly cursing the archbishop’s carelessness he swings back around to the inquisitor.

‘What is your request?’

‘There are two citizens of Cologne and two of its surrounds whose activities have been brought to the attention of both Leopold and the Grand Inquisitional Council. Activities which are not only unCatholic but speak of devilry.’

‘Monsignor Solitario, be warned that the bürgers of Cologne are not renowned for their tolerance of outside interference, even from Leopold himself. They are particularly resistant to any meddling which would come in the way of their bartering. A more cynical man might think that commerce was the God in these parts.’

‘A more cynical man would be wise to value his life over his opinions.’

‘I value both.’

‘Good, in that case we might reach a compromise.’

‘Who are the citizens?’

Detlef can already see the excitement in the inquisitor’s eyes, the spittle forming at the corner of his mouth. God pity the accused, the canon thinks, knowing that he himself oscillates between believing in the physical manifestation of evil as opposed to the sheer culpability of human neglect. But how powerful is faith when men imbue it with superstition, he ponders, remembering how he has seen a peasant wished to death and the fields of a hated man suddenly blighted by witchcraft. The terrified face of a female merchant who was executed as a witch years before comes to his mind. Detlef’s father, determined to strengthen the sensitive five year old’s
moral backbone, took him to the burning. The voyeuristic hysteria that filled the faces of the onlookers engraved itself on the child’s memory. As did the horror which shook his whole body as he perceived the agony of the convulsing woman as her skin blackened.

Frustrated fanatics are the most dangerous of men, he observes again now. Here is a man who smells of hate and so the Inquisitional Council of Aragon will have its way. The canon shifts his gaze from the inquisitor, whose innocently smiling demeanour is betrayed only by a slight twitch beneath one eye, and reluctantly nods to Groot, who lifts his quill ready for dictation.

The inquisitor’s cleric steps forward and begins reciting the names from memory.

‘Hermann Müller, cloth merchant of Cologne. Secret Lutheran and wizard.

‘Matthias Voss of Cologne, silversmith. Secret Lutheran and wizard.’

The feather’s nib scratching against the parchment sounds like a death sentence to Detlef.

‘And the individuals outside of the city?’ he asks.

‘Jan van Dorf of Mülheim, spice merchant. Charges of consorting with the devil to improve his trade. And the Jewess Ruth bas Elazar Saul.’

‘What is her charge?’

‘Witchcraft.’

‘And the evidence?’

Solitario pushes Juan aside and speaks directly to the canon. ‘Do you doubt the sources of the Inquisitional Council itself?’

‘It is not my place to doubt. I merely wondered whether there were actual witnesses.’

‘My order has many eyes.’

‘They say her mother was Spanish, from your own province of Aragon.’

‘What of it?’

‘I have a fascination with coincidence. The woman you accuse is one of the most respected midwives in the Rhineland. There are many who would defend her practice.’

‘Are you one of them? I have heard rumour that the ranks of the German clergy are rotten with secret Satan-worshippers.’

The warning does not go unheeded. Furious, Detlef struggles to maintain a veneer of diplomacy.

‘I bow to your greater knowledge of devilry and marvel at the paths of God that have led you to such extraordinary insights. I prefer to find faith in the goodness of man, this inspires me infinitely more than pursuing evil. In the meantime, I suggest you visit the sumptuous chambers of both Voss and Müller. They are two of the most successful merchants in this fair city.’

‘Indeed, I suspect that the papal guards and myself will be paying our respects to both men shortly.’

‘But what of the others? You are aware that Cologne has no jurisdiction over the lands across the Rhine? The domain belongs to the Hohenzollerns, it is Protestant. And the midwife is Jewish.’

‘I have evidence that she was baptised.’

Detlef looks up sharply. The notion that the daughter of the chief rabbi of Deutz could have been baptised seems outrageous, but the forced baptism of Jewish children was not a completely uncommon phenomenon.

The friar smiles sardonically at the canon’s surprise. ‘Her mother was Spanish and originally a
converso.
It appears that when the Jewess was a babe her mother had a sudden change of heart. The baptism was executed in secrecy; I suspect the rabbi has no idea it ever occurred.’

‘This evidence is indisputable?’

‘I have a sworn affidavit from the priest himself. And as she is baptised, it is within the Inquisition’s rights to arrest her. As
for the Dutchman, the Hohenzollerns have been informed and are prepared to turn a blind eye; after all, the man is just an itinerant squatter.’

Detlef looks thoughtfully at the diminutive man before him. Abandoning all pretence at diplomacy, he switches from the florid Spanish to the plain German that he knows will make his point clearer.

‘The archbishop will not fight for the Jewess or the Dutchman, but the two merchants are both on the Gaffeln, the town council, and liked by the bürgers. Believe me, there is one thing the archbishop seeks more than anything: popularity.’

‘Surely with Vienna as well as Cologne?’

‘I will convey your orders to his highness.’

‘And Canon von Tennen, let us agree that it would be etiquette for the archbishop to act swiftly. Etiquette is a French word, is it not?’

Detlef recognises the veiled threat but retains his mask-like countenance. Again, Solitario finds himself wondering whether pain, applied correctly, would break the German’s impenetrable beauty. Falling into a short reverie he imagines how dark the canon’s blood would look against that impossibly fair skin. Then shaking himself out of his lapse of concentration, he gestures to Juan who reaches into a leather sack and pulls out a dark green wine bottle.

‘In demonstration of our good faith and knowing that the archbishop has a palate for such things, I have brought this wine from the Benedictine monastery in Najera, centre of the Rioja country. It is a sweet red and a vintage I can personally recommend. I hope the archbishop will appreciate the gift.’

‘The archbishop is a connoisseur of both wine and human nature and as such you can be confident of his appraisal.’

The inquisitor, bowing slightly, dismisses the canon and his cleric.

Detlef responds with the smallest of nods and sweeps angrily out of the room. Once outside he swings around to Groot. ‘Have the wine tasted, I trust that man as I would Lucifer.’

Carlos listens to the receding footsteps then sends his secretary away. Once alone his demeanour implodes: the shoulders crumple, the pretence drops from the stoically impassive face to reveal a lacework of anxiety that weighs upon the heavy eyebrows, the sagging cheeks, the globular nose. The distinctive scar that runs down his face from the corner of one eye reddens with anger.

Sighing heavily the priest walks over to the travelling chest and with a grunt swings open the lid. On top of several Bibles and bound manuscripts sits a small black wooden box with two Hebrew characters inscribed on the lid. The scent of cedar, almost overpowering, radiates out from the casket.

Carlos breathes in deeply. It is as if the bouquet is the young Spanish woman herself, the object of his obsession. His Holy Grail that has sent him careering from one corner of the continent to another these past two decades. Reaching for the casket, he lets his hands rest upon its lid for a second, his eyes closed. He is so close, he thinks. It might be too late to destroy the mother, but it is not too late to obliterate the daughter and the whole demonic bloodline of the Navarros.