Dancing in the Palm of His Hand

by Annamarie Beckel

  Lutz pulled a linen handkerchief from under his starched cuff and pressed it against his sweating forehead. He could admit, at least to himself, that he was not a brave man. Thoughts of the end-time scared him. Witches and their depraved deeds scared him. Even now he feared that if he met their eyes they would put a curse on him. He wanted to be nowhere near this place. Now, or later. The ghosts of those who died violently lingered in the place of their death, and if witches had done such vile things in life, what might they do in death? Were Lutz not a member of the Lower City Council and his attendance required, he’d never have come. Yet here he was, standing near the front of the raucous crowd so that Father Herzeim would have one welcoming face to walk toward.

  The executioner placed a thick wire around Frau Basser’s neck. She screamed. Once. He quickly twisted the iron rod to tighten the wire. Her face purpled, her eyes bulged. Her tongue protruded and her body convulsed.

  Lutz felt his head floating away. The bright sky closed in, then receded. The noise of the crowd faded away in echoes, and he could hear his own blood pulsing. He blinked hard, then lowered his head and took a deep breath. His wife Maria had fussed at him that morning to bring his pomander filled with hartshorn to keep himself from fainting, but Lutz, wanting to forget where he was going, managed to forget that as well. He regretted the oversight. It would be unseemly for a member of the Lower City Council to be seen swooning at an execution. He tried to calm himself. Over the bulge of his belly, he studied a small blue flower near the toe of his boot, wondering how it had escaped trampling. He counted the petals. Five, and a bright yellow centre. The strangling was a mercy really. The witches would not have to endure the horrendous pain of the fires, and he would not have to endure their screaming. He hated it when witches retracted their confessions and had to be burned alive, with green wood to prolong the suffering. The shrieks were unbearable.

  Lutz heard cheers, then smelled the smoke. His stomach roiled. His breakfast had worked its way up, lodging in his gullet. He could taste bitterness at the back of his throat. Maria had warned him not to eat.

  Lutz’s ears rang in the silence. His back and legs ached. He’d been standing for hours, but he knew Father Herzeim would not leave until the witches had been burned to ash, as prescribed by law. Even their bones were dangerous. The executioner would gather the ashes and throw them into the river to be carried far away from Würzburg.

  Lutz could risk looking up now. The flames had burned down and nearly everyone had left. Only a few ragged beggars patrolled the grounds for scraps of food. With a long pole, the executioner stirred the ash. A glowing ember flickered, then died, releasing a final smoky breath.

  Father Herzeim turned his face to the sky. Dark clouds had gathered overhead. “Why must they bring the children?” he said.

  “To instruct them,” said Lutz. “To show them the wages of sin.”

  A small muscle at the corner of the priest’s mouth twitched. “The wages of sin,” he said softly. He turned abruptly and strode toward the city gate, his black cassock flapping around his ankles.

  Lutz, his short legs pumping, hurried to keep pace. His closefitting doublet squeezed his chest and belly so tightly he could hardly draw breath. “Father,” he panted.

  “I must speak to the Prince-Bishop. At once.”

  “Not now, surely. It’s nearly time for evening prayers.”

  Father Herzeim slowed, waiting for Lutz to catch up. “There’s been a new opinion from the theologians at the University of Ingolstadt,” said the priest. “You’ve read it?”

  “I’m a contract lawyer, not a theologian,” Lutz huffed.

  “It’s important, Lutz. They argue that people should not be arrested for witchcraft on the basis of accusations made by condemned witches. There must be other evidence. I must inform the Prince-Bishop.”

  “Isn’t tomorrow soon enough?”

  Father Herzeim shook his head. “I must talk with His Grace before he sends out the bailiff to arrest the people who’ve been newly accused.”

  “The opinion directly concerns capital crimes, so the head of the Malefizamt will have read it. Herr Hampelmann will inform the Prince-Bishop.”

  “Of that, I am not so sure.” Father Herzeim laid a hand on Lutz’s arm. “Bitte, will you come with me? The Prince-Bishop is weary of my complaints, but if you, a member of the city council, are with me, he will be more likely to grant me an audience.”

  Lutz cleared his throat. “Lower City Council, Father, only newly appointed.”

  “No matter. You’re still a member.”

  Lutz considered his friend’s earnest face. What the priest had told him did seem important: to arrest, or not to arrest, on the basis of witches’ accusations when there was no other evidence. If Lutz were to go to the Prince-Bishop with new and valuable legal clarifications in a matter as pressing as witchcraft, it would be a stroke in his favour. It could just win him an appointment to the Upper City Council. “All right,” he said.

  “Bless you.”

  Lutz shrugged his shoulders as if trying to throw off a burden. There were risks to this errand. He’d like to serve on the prestigious Upper City Council, but he was reluctant to come under the close scrutiny of the Prince-Bishop, or to annoy him. And there was the added danger that His Grace might assume Lutz was interested in prosecuting witches and appoint him to the Malefizamt, the office in charge of investigating capital crimes. Lutz knew almost nothing about capital crimes and didn’t particularly want to. He’d go with his friend, but speak as little as possible.

  Lutz and Father Herzeim stopped in front of the Sander Tower, the south gate into Würzburg, and waited for the watchman at the high narrow window to acknowledge them. Father Herzeim looked toward the Prisoners’ Tower in the distance. The circular tower was built into the inner city wall and stood at least five stories high, its conical roof pointing into the slate sky. Dark green ivy crept over the grey stone walls. The priest closed his eyes.

  He’s spent too much time within those walls, thought Lutz, far too much time.

  At the watchman’s nod, the men passed through the gate and into the city. They continued in silence, walking at a slower pace, much to Lutz’s relief. His feet hurt from standing all day, his stiff breeches had begun to chafe his thighs, and the lacings that held his breeches to his doublet were beginning to come loose.

  The Angelus bells rang out from Saint Kilian’s Cathedral just as they reached Domstrasse. Father Herzeim turned toward the cathedral, paused a moment to make the sign of the cross, then he and Lutz headed the opposite direction toward the bridge. Beggars hunched against the walls of the closed shops. Now and again, one called out, “A pfennig. Bitte, just a pfennig for bread.” When the petitioner was a child, Lutz reached into the pouch in the lining of his breeches and tossed a coin, then he and the priest hurried away before other beggars could pursue them.

  As they passed the Rosen Bakery, Father Herzeim gave a slight nod, then smiled, the first smile Lutz had seen from him in weeks. Lutz followed his friend’s gaze and caught a glimpse of a girl at the window. Then she was gone. The image behind the thick circles of glass was so fleeting, so pale, that Lutz would have thought the child, with her white-gold hair, a ghost, or an angel, but he’d often seen the odd little girl before, standing at the bakery window, watching.

  In front of the town hall, the priest stopped and made the sign of the cross on the very spot where the public trial had been conducted, just below the Green Tree of Justice painted on the outside wall of the imposing stone building. While listening to the lengthy shrift that morning, Lutz had committed to memory every line and shading of the painting, as if holding the image in his thoughts could protect him from witches and their crimes and the terrors of the end-time. A respected citizen and a beautiful young girl in league with the Devil? He’d been so shocked, his heart beating so fast, that he’d had to find a place to sit down. Lutz still found it hard to believe, even now, and would have liked to sit down again, but Father
Herzeim continued on.

  The two men climbed the slight incline to the stone bridge spanning the River Main. Halfway across the river, the priest stopped and adjusted the broad brim of his hat to shield his face from the mist that had begun to fall. “I am in need of courage,” he said, “before I face the Prince-Bishop.” He bowed his head and began to pray, too softly for Lutz to hear. The light wind off the river ruffled the cassock’s billowing sleeves. Blue-backed swallows twittered and dipped over the dark water.

  Lutz dutifully recited his own evening prayers. Finishing long before the priest, he leaned against the thick stone wall and studied his friend’s sharp profile. He’d known Father Herzeim since the Jesuit first came to Würzburg eight years ago, but they’d become intimately acquainted only recently. Last fall, Lutz had gone to the university to seek advice on a complex contract between two merchants, one in Augsburg and one in Würzburg. At the university, he was directed to Father Herzeim, who impressed Lutz with his quickness of mind and breadth of knowledge. The consultation ranged far beyond mere contract law, and at the end of two hours, the priest invited Lutz to return.

  Father Herzeim’s lips continued to move. Shivering, Lutz pulled his hat lower to keep the drizzle off the back of his neck. Just a few months ago, their friendship deepened when they discovered that they shared a secret dislike for the work of the poet Martin Opitz, who’d just been crowned poet laureate by Emperor Ferdinand. Too stilted and cold. No passion, no feeling, they’d agreed, then quoted to each other lines written by Walter von der Vogelweide. Father Herzeim even recited a poem he’d composed himself. Emboldened, Lutz had asked the priest his Christian name. Lutz never used it, of course, even in private, but he knew it: Friedrich.

  Lutz scanned the grey clouds, so low they seemed to merge with the dark river. A barge loaded with wine casks approached, then passed through a granite archway under the bridge. The Prince-Bishop’s castle, Marienberg, as stern and forbidding as His Grace’s perpetual scowl, stood across the river, high on the mountain overlooking the city. Lutz lifted his hat and ran a hand through his shaggy hair, then jammed the hat back on his head. He should tidy himself before he met with the Prince-Bishop. He examined his white cuffs. Smudged. Nothing he could do about that now. He reached down to pull up his sagging hose, then retied some of the loose lacings between his breeches and doublet.

  “Dei glorium, amen,” said Father Herzeim. His dark eyes searched the misty twilight to one side, the other, then behind him. No one, not even a beggar was near to them on the bridge. “There is more to this errand, Lutz, than just the new opinion from Ingolstadt,” he said quietly. “On the way to the fires, Frau Basser pleaded with me to speak to the Prince-Bishop. She was terrified of having innocent blood on her immortal soul.”

  “Innocent blood?”

  “She claims that none of the five she accused is guilty, that she accused them only to end the torture.”

  “Did the other two witches accuse the same five people?”

  The priest nodded.

  “Then it’s simple,” said Lutz. “The witch was lying to save her accomplices, so they could continue their evil work.”

  “I am not so sure.”

  “Why, then, did all three witches give the commissioners the very same names? If they wanted only to end the torture, they’d give the first names that came into their heads.”

  “Frau Basser said those names were suggested to her.”

  Lutz took a step back. “Suggested to her! By whom?”

  “I cannot tell you that.”

  “It can’t possibly be true. She’s lying.”

  “And her final confession,” the priest whispered. “I can say nothing of it, except that it leads me to believe that Frau Basser was innocent.”

  “Innocent!” Lutz crossed his arms over his chest. “The men who serve on the commission are learned jurists. They’d never commit such a grievous error. Nor would God allow it.”

  He leaned closer and peered into Father Herzeim’s pallid face. “I’m concerned about you, Father. Bitte, ask His Grace to relieve you of this appointment.”

  4

  14 April 1626

  Herr Doktor Wilhelm Hampelmann raised the silver goblet to his lips and sipped clear white wine. He stared out the open window, at the wisps of grey smoke curling and twisting over the tile roofs. The heavy clouds held the smoke low, close to the earth. It was only right and good that the smoke should not ascend to the heavens. It vexed him, though, that he could still smell the stink of burning flesh. The odour clung to his nostrils. Hexen gestank. Witches’ stench. How had the smoke crept all the way up to Marienberg? He brought his pomander to his nose. Inhaling the pungent fragrance of lavender, he turned to the Prince-Bishop, who sat behind a broad oak desk studying an open ledger.

  The Prince-Bishop plucked a grey quill from its stand and dipped the nib into black ink. The pen’s scritching filled the room, a counterpoint to the insistent piping of the canaries flitting about in the silver cage that hung beside the desk. He blotted the ink, then heaved himself up. He held out the ledger. “These filthy vermin infest all of Würzburg. Read this and verify that Chancellor Brandt has recorded them all.”

  Hampelmann reached for the ledger, then brought the pages close to his face, squinting to bring the writing into focus.

  First execution, 14 January 1625, two persons: Frau Bayer, a widow and beggar. A woman, a stranger.

  Second execution, 3 March 1625, four persons: Frau Immler, a midwife. Fraulein Bayer, a prostitute, daughter of Frau Bayer. Old Hof-Schmidt, a beggar. Her daughter, also a beggar.

  Third execution, 11 April 1625, five persons: Fraulein Ritter, a maidservant. Three women, strangers. An old peddler named Schwan.

  Hampelmann ran a hand through his pale hair. It was exhausting, these never-ending trials. Over the past three years, he’d participated in at least a score of inquisitions – a repugnant dangerous undertaking. The depravity of witches knew no bounds, and they were especially intent on harming those who dared to prosecute them. Yet, as head of the Malefizamt and a member of both the Upper and Lower City Councils, he felt it was his duty, not only to the people of Würzburg and the Prince-Bishop, but to God himself, to investigate every case of suspected witchcraft. There could be no greater offence to God than to renounce him and make a pact with the Devil.

  The Prince-Bishop turned to the noisy birds, thrust a thick finger between the silver wires, and cooed. A bright yellow canary flew to the fleshy perch, but at the clanging of the Angelus bells, the Prince-Bishop withdrew his finger and reached for the gold and crystal reliquary on his desk. Clutching it awkwardly to his chest with one hand and dangling a bejewelled rosary in the other, he knelt before the wooden crucifix mounted on the stone wall and began murmuring his evening prayers.

  Hampelmann remained respectfully silent, preferring the Jesuit practice of meditation to the Dominicans’ recitation of set prayers. As the Jesuits recommended, he went to confession weekly and examined his conscience daily. In that meticulous soul-searching, he’d discovered that his own personal defect was pride, Saint Thomas Aquinas’ first deadly sin.

  He twisted the gold ring on his right hand, the Hampelmann family crest. How could he not be proud of his noble lineage, his quickness of mind, his achievements by the age of forty-one: head of the Malefizamt, first burgomaster of the Lower City Council, second burgomaster of the Upper City Council, favoured advisor to the Prince-Bishop? It was a bitter struggle to humble himself, and every morning he went to mass at Saint Kilian’s Cathedral, then to meditation in the Lusam Garden at Neumunster. There, beside the grave of the poet Walter von der Vogelweide, he laboured to compose his own verses about his Lord’s suffering. Hampelmann knew he was not a skilled poet; his poetry served to provoke him to humility.

  At the moment, Hampelmann was also struggling with covetousness, Saint Thomas’ second deadly sin. He realised, with chagrin, that he coveted the Prince-Bishop’s relic. The precious reliquary His Grace held close to h
is heart contained a thorn from the true crown. The Prince-Bishop had paid dearly for the thorn, but in these dangerous times it was worth every pfennig. It protected him. Hampelmann touched the ball of wax fastened to the narrow cord at his throat, wax from the cathedral candles that contained consecrated salt and herbs. That was what the Jesuits had prescribed for his protection. Would it truly protect him from the Devil’s wrath?

  He bowed his head, ashamed of his fear and the weakness of his faith. He was doing God’s work. Of course, God would protect him. He crossed himself and thought of the great French lawyer, Jean Bodin, whose words so reassured him that Hampelmann had committed them to memory: It is a wonderful secret of God’s and one which judges ought to ponder well, that God keeps them under his protection both against earthly powers and against the power of evil spirits. This is why we read in the law of God “when ye judge fear no one, for judgement is God’s.” Bodin’s words, however, always brought to mind those of the Jesuit scholar, Martin Delrio, who claimed that avarice, ambition, cruelty, or thirst for revenge could render a judge vulnerable to spells; only those who put God before their eyes and carried out their duties piously would be inviolate. During his morning meditations, Hampelmann regularly examined his motives, determined to keep God before his eyes.