Dancing in the Palm of His Hand

by Annamarie Beckel

  Hampelmann glanced at the man sitting to his right. Herr Doktor Franz Lutz: slovenly, of middling intelligence, and almost as twitchy as the judge. Constantly touching the ball of wax at his throat, Lutz sat nearest to the outside door, as if he hoped to be the first to flee should one of the witches or the Devil attack. His pale moon face was framed by shaggy white hair, shadowed by dark circles under his eyes. The man was obviously losing sleep. A simple contract lawyer, Lutz was, no doubt, spending hours poring through law books, terrified of making an error in such a weighty matter. Which was, of course, as it should be. And yet his simple-minded questions had led Hampelmann to wonder if it had been a mistake to recommend the councilman for the commission, if the man were too dense to grasp the enormity of the crimes they were there to investigate.

  Lutz raised a beefy hand. The long shadows cast by his outstretched fingers on the circular walls appeared to be reaching to enclose the men. “Another question, gentlemen. I have some concerns about corpus delicti. According to the Carolina Code, article 44, there must be evidence that a crime has been committed before a person can be arrested. What is the evidence, the corpus delicti, if you will, against the accused?”

  Judge Steinbach pointed his gavel at the ledger in Chancellor Brandt’s hands. “There, in the confessions of the witches who were just executed,” said the judge. “All three of them named the accused as accomplices.”

  “But those are only accusations, not evidence,” said Lutz. “Moreover, those accusations came from disreputable witnesses. What about that question, gentlemen, the admissibility of testimony from a disreputable witness? According to the Carolina Code, the testimony of a testes infamis is not admissible in court.”

  Hampelmann ran a thumbnail along a deep scar in the table. Despite Lutz’s obvious intellectual limitations and his irksome questions, Hampelmann found himself developing a grudging respect for the man. Where had the bumbling lawyer mustered the temerity to question the procedures of his betters: nobles and clerics who’d served on the commission a dozen times?

  Chancellor Brandt tipped back his head so that he looked down his narrow nose at Lutz. “I would remind you, Herr Lutz, of two very basic points, the first being that this is a preliminary inquisition, not a trial. We are here to gather and evaluate the evidence, to discover the truth, not to render a verdict. The strict legal requirements of a trial do not apply to these initial hearings. Secondly, witchcraft is a crimen exceptum, an exceptional crime. Strict rules of evidence do not apply. Therefore, the testimony of disreputable witnesses can be accepted.”

  “Witchcraft is the most secret of crimes,” added Father Streng, pointing the brown plume of his pen at Lutz. “How could we possibly know of its existence except through the testimony of the witches themselves? How could a God-fearing person know who has attended the sabbath?” He smirked at Lutz. “Or do you imagine that people who associate with witches are of good reputation?”

  “Because you are new to the commission, Herr Lutz, your errors in thinking are understandable,” said Chancellor Brandt. “It would be best if you merely observed for a while. Your questions will then be answered to your satisfaction...without delaying our deliberations this morning.”

  Lutz scanned the wall behind Freude, his gaze settling on the thumbscrews. “It is true that all of this is new to me, but ever since I was honoured by being appointed to the Commission of Inquisition, I have been thinking hard about such questions as these. I beg your indulgence, gentlemen. Bitte, just a few more questions.”

  Judge Steinbach gave a small reluctant nod.

  “While it may be true that for investigations of witchcraft we must accept the testimony of persons of bad reputation, it has struck me that there is a problem inherent in accusations made by condemned witches.” Lutz’s eyes were drawn back to the thumbscrews. “If these women are truly guilty of witchcraft, aren’t their accusations questionable precisely because they are witches? Obviously, they wish to harm innocent people. On the other hand, if they are not witches,” he raised his palms, “then, as Father Streng has pointed out, they cannot possibly name accomplices.”

  The priest laid a hand on his breviary. “Are you suggesting that the commission has condemned innocent people?”

  “Not at all. I’m just trying to sort out the problem of accepting as truth the testimony of witches.”

  “It’s a moot point, Herr Lutz,” said Hampelmann, reaching across the table for the ledger held by Chancellor Brandt. “In searching their homes, the bailiff found plenty of evidence.” He brought the open ledger close to his face. “The most alarming was found in Frau Lamm’s quarters. There were more than two score plants and roots, most of unknown origin. Many were bundled together and hung to dry. There were both dried and fresh toadstools, three small pots of greasy ointments, one of which the bailiff recorded as having the colour and odour of human flesh. There were at least two dozen small leather or cloth bags marked with cryptic characters and filled with powders of various colours, as well as pots containing odd mixtures – most definitely not food. Hanging above the doorway was a large stone shaped like a human heart with a hole in the centre.”

  “But aren’t the plants and powders, the odd concoctions, just part of a midwife’s trade?” said Lutz.

  Lindner cleared his throat. “Precisely,” said the physician, “and those who use herbs for cures do so only through a pact with the Devil, either explicit or implicit.”

  “Surely, Herr Lutz,” snapped Father Streng, “you are familiar with what Der Hexenhammer has to say about midwives: No one does more harm to the Catholic faith than midwives. For when they do not kill children, they take them out of the room and, raising them up in the air, offer them to devils. And this particular midwife delivered Fraulein Spatz’s stillborn child.”

  The priest stroked the plume of the pen against his smooth chin. “I should correct myself. While both Frau Lamm and Fraulein Spatz claim the bastard child was stillborn, others claim they heard a child’s cries in the night.”

  “Fraulein Spatz has been in custody for several weeks now, awaiting trial on charges of infanticide,” said Hampelmann. “She was discovered trying to bury the unbaptized infant in consecrated ground.”

  Judge Steinbach sucked in his breath.

  “Indeed, gentlemen,” said Hampelmann, “though the bailiff found few suspicious items in Fraulein Spatz’s quarters – just several odd pebbles – I think we can agree that there is quite enough evidence against both Frau Lamm and Fraulein Spatz to proceed with the initial inquiry into the charges of witchcraft.”

  He leafed through the pages. “Now, with regard to Frau Bettler. As a beggar, she had no quarters to search, but when the bailiff questioned townspeople who live near to where she was known to ply her trade – Saint Kilian’s Cathedral and the town hall – four men and two women, of good reputation, Herr Lutz, testified that they’d heard the old woman muttering curses. Two of them claim that they became violently ill after refusing to give Frau Bettler more than a pfennig, and one woman reported that a child the beggar had touched on the shoulder became ill and died within three days. It’s possible that these reports are groundless – merely malicious gossip. But again, gentlemen, I believe there is sufficient evidence to proceed. Any objections?”

  “Nein,” squeaked Judge Steinbach, his voice barely audible.

  The men waited silently while Father Streng sharpened his quill. Hampelmann pulled his fur-lined cape more tightly around him. The pine torches gave off little heat, and he wished that Freude or the jailer had built a fire in the wire mesh basket used to heat the chamber for the guards who were there when the commissioners weren’t meeting.

  “The evidence against Herr Silberhans is more problematic,” said Hampelmann when Father Streng had finished. “He is accused of being a sceptic, even a defender of witches. Yet the bailiff found nothing suspicious in his quarters. They were, in fact, remarkably ascetic. A point in his favour, I think. And given the nature of the accusations agai
nst him, it is somewhat surprising that Herr Silberhans possessed neither books nor pamphlets of a questionable nature. Nothing, for example, on the Index of Prohibited Books.”

  Hampelmann pulled at his starched white ruff. “Albeit, I believe we would be remiss to release the young man. I propose that we bring him in and question him gently. He’s a law student at the university. His crime may be one of a dangerous foolishness in repeating aloud some nonsense he’s heard from one of his professors.”

  Freude paused mid-pinch, a wriggling louse trapped between his horny fingernails. “The boy must be shaved and examined for stigma diaboli. If he has a Devil’s mark –”

  “Of course,” said Father Streng. “That must be done.”

  “We are agreed then in how to proceed with Herr Silberhans?” said Hampelmann. He waited a moment, ignoring Lutz’s raised hand, then continued. “And now, finally, we come to Frau Rosen.”

  Freude pounded a fist on the table. “She and her daughter are together in one cell. A violation of procedures.”

  Hampelmann avoided looking at the man’s stained and broken teeth. “Nein,” he said slowly, “it is not a violation. The daughter has been detained only for questioning. She, herself, has not been accused. It would be a violation of the law to hold a mere witness, and a child at that, in solitary confinement.”

  “I don’t like it,” said the executioner. “Mother and daughter should not be held together.”

  “What can it hurt?” said Lutz. “The girl is young, only ten or eleven.”

  “Humph! I’ve seen witches as young as five,” said Freude. “What say you, Judge Steinbach?”

  The judge’s eyes slid to Chancellor Brandt, then to Hampelmann. “We’ll leave things as they are,” he said softly.

  Hampelmann nodded, then referred back to the report. “In searching Frau Rosen’s premises – her bakery and living quarters – the bailiff found more than a dozen white feathers and nearly ten oddly shaped stones, as well as carvings, one of which had been made into the likeness of a woman.”

  Lutz raised his hands so quickly a torch flared, making Judge Steinbach jump. “Items any child might collect,” he said.

  “My daughter collects nothing of the sort,” said Hampelmann. “She would be admonished severely for doing so. Items such as these are an invitation to the Devil.”

  “Surely,” Lutz protested, “you can’t take these few items as evidence of witchcraft.”

  “These few items, as you choose to call them, are not the only evidence. Have you forgotten that Frau Rosen’s husband died suddenly, with no warning or explanation? And Herr Kaiser became ill and nearly died after registering his complaint against her with the Lower City Council.”

  “Moreover,” added Father Streng, “her daughter was born crippled – almost surely a sign of the sinfulness of the mother.”

  Lindner uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “And then there is the bad weather for two years running. Hexenwetter, witches’ weather. The poor harvests have left many people starving.”

  “The mere occurrence of hexenwetter,” said Lutz, “hardly indicates that Frau Rosen is responsible. That could have been the work of the witches just executed.”

  Chancellor Brandt flicked a finger against Hampelmann’s ledger. “Since Herr Lutz seems so eager to explain away the evidence and to defend the accused, I propose, Judge Steinbach, that he be appointed their lawyer.”

  Lutz’s mouth dropped open. “But...but I was only raising questions.”

  Hampelmann twisted his gold ring. Dare he contravene Chancellor Brandt? The words of Jean Bodin came immediately to mind: avarice, ambition, cruelty, or thirst for revenge could render a judge vulnerable to spells. The chancellor’s motive was revenge, a desire to punish Lutz. Hampelmann had to speak up. Duty demanded it.

  “With all due respect to Chancellor Brandt,” he said carefully, “I’m not sure that such an appointment would be fair to either Herr Lutz or the accused. The man has little experience with witches. Perhaps he should be permitted to observe and learn from these initial hearings before he is assigned such a demanding and dangerous responsibility.”

  Judge Steinbach folded his gnarled hands and laid them gingerly on the table. “It is a difficult question.”

  Chancellor Brandt’s hooded gaze went around the table, meeting the eyes of each man in turn, Hampelmann’s last. “Are we all agreed then?”

  A trio of jas sounded: Father Streng, Freude, and Lindner. The chancellor gave Hampelmann a tight smile. “Ja,” he said.

  Looking as if he might faint, Lutz gripped the table.

  Judge Steinbach picked up the gavel and tapped it once. “It is done then.”

  13

  20 April 1626

  Standing outside the Prisoners’ Tower, Lutz looked up at the narrow windows. He would have to talk directly to witches now and visit them in their cells. Alone. His stomach clenched like a fist, his throat burned.

  He turned away from the tower, toward the warmth and light of the sun. It hung low in the sky above Marienberg, giving the Prince-Bishop’s castle a rosy celestial glow. From his castle on the mountain, the Prince-Bishop watched over Würzburg the way God on high watched over Würzburg. God would protect Lutz because he was doing God’s work. Hampelmann had assured him of that. Those encouraging words had done little to hearten him, though. Did he lack faith as well as courage?

  Lutz pulled his handkerchief from under his cuff and dabbed his forehead, then tucked it away and set out for the university, only a few minutes’ walk from the tower. His long shadow trailed him, just off to the right. He wished that he really were that tall. Instead, he felt small, a timid mouse wanting nothing more than to hide in some protected crevice.

  He entered the inner court of the university and proceeded to Father Herzeim’s office. Lutz knocked, then waited for the soft ja before opening the door. He blinked at the evening light pouring in through the window. It fell like a golden mantle across the narrow desk where Father Herzeim sat. The priest looked up from the books and ledgers that lay scattered before him. “It’s good –”

  “The Commission of Inquisition has appointed me to defend the accused witches.”

  “Nein,” the priest breathed.

  “It was Chancellor Brandt’s doing.” Lutz shook his head, disgusted with himself. “I was stupid, a dummkopf. Asked too many questions and did not see how annoyed they were getting until it was too late.”

  Father Herzeim’s hand closed over his cedar cross. “I never should have encouraged you to ask those questions.”

  “That hardly matters now. It’s done, and I need your help. I’m a practical man, Father, not a mystic. I need something more than just prayer and faith and a bit of wax to protect me.” Lutz touched the ball of wax Maria had tied around his neck that morning. It seemed small and inconsequential, hardly the shield he needed.

  “There is nothing greater than prayer and faith,” the priest said quietly.

  “That may well be, but I need something more.” Hands clasped behind his back, Lutz started to pace. “I want you to come with me when I go into their cells. With you there, they’ll be reluctant to speak falsely to me, and I’ll know whether they’re guilty or not.”

  Lutz stopped in front of the desk. “I am not a brave man, Father. I’ll admit that I’m scared to death of meeting witches face to face.” He looked down at the floor, at the pattern of scuff marks on the dark wood, ashamed that he’d had to make such a cowardly admission to his friend. “With a Jesuit there, I would be less afraid. Of them and the Devil. Please, will you come with me?”

  Father Herzeim’s mouth twisted oddly, almost a smile, but not. “I’ve visited the accused,” he said. “I am convinced that most of them are innocent. But if my presence brings comfort and courage, I will go with you.”

  “Danke.” Lutz picked up a poker and stabbed at the small fire in the hearth. “I also need your help in preparing their defence.”

  “That I will not do.”


  Lutz whirled to face the priest. “What! It’s your damned questions that got me into this mess.” He saw the priest flinch and immediately regretted the accusation. He set the poker back in its stand, then sat down in the rickety chair opposite the desk. “Ach, I’m not blaming you. But, Father, you’re the one who knows these laws, the one who’s always telling me how concerned you are that innocent people might be condemned. You must help me.”

  Father Herzeim quietly closed the book that lay open on his desk: Essais by Michel Montaigne. Lutz recognized it as a work his friend often quoted in their debates. “Nein,” the priest whispered. “I have my students to attend to.”

  “Your students!”

  “If I become any more involved in these inquisitions, I’ll be neglecting my duties at the university.”

  Lutz jumped up and leaned across the desk. “One of the accused, Herr Silberhans, is a student of yours. What about your responsibility to him?” He jabbed his finger at the book. “Wasn’t it just last week that you quoted to me from your precious book? Tell me again what Montaigne has to say about witch trials.”

  Father Herzeim took a deep breath. “It is putting a very high price on one’s conjectures to have a man roasted alive for them,” he quoted mechanically.

  “I’m just asking for a little help,” pleaded Lutz. “I’m a contract lawyer, not an expert on witchcraft.” He laid his hand on the book so that it lay beside Father Herzeim’s. The priest’s hand was trembling.

  “Remember your own question to me just a few days ago?” said Lutz. “You would allow innocent people to be condemned because you are afraid?”