Father Herzeim’s dark eyes searched Lutz’s face. “It is not for my life that I fear, but for yours. I never should have advised you to raise those questions. I have placed you in terrible danger. I fear that if I help you now, I will be helping you directly into your grave.”
“Into my grave?” Lutz snorted. “Father, I’m far more likely to find myself in a grave if you don’t help me.”
The priest stared into the corner, at a small table, as if hoping to find an answer there. “I will agree to help you,” he said finally, his voice weary, “but only to protect you. And not from the dangers you imagine. You must understand that there is little you can do to affect the outcome of this inquisition.”
“But that’s precisely what a lawyer does – try to affect the outcome. And the evidence in these cases is remarkably flimsy, mostly hearsay and circumstantial.”
“Evidence will matter little.”
“Of course evidence matters,” said Lutz, stepping back from the desk. “Evidence always matters.”
Father Herzeim clenched his jaw. “Listen to me, Lutz. You must be very, very careful. You are legally obligated to defend the accused, but do not give them grounds to accuse you of being a defender of witches.”
“Give who grounds?”
“The commissioners.”
Lutz laughed uneasily. “But they have assigned me this task. Why would they accuse me of anything...except incompetence?”
“Because they are men who take the writings of the Jesuit, Martin Delrio, as seriously as scripture. Delrio says that it is an indicium of witchcraft to defend witches.”
“But Herr Hampelmann and Judge Steinbach know me,” Lutz protested. “Never could they imagine that I would choose to defend the accused because I am one of them.”
Father Herzeim tapped a slender forefinger on Montaigne’s Essais. “I am coming to believe that the commissioners can imagine nearly anything. You run a terrible risk in defending the accused.”
“Seems to me the risk lies in prosecuting them. I’ve been studying Der Hexenhammer. According to the Dominicans, the evils perpetrated by modern witches exceed all other sin that God has ever permitted.”
“Of that I am not so sure. I believe the Devil deludes witches into believing they have powers. Their real powers are limited.”
The logs in the hearth shifted. Red sparks flew upward. Father Herzeim’s face was sallow in the fading light. “The commissioners’ powers are not,” he said.
14
21 April 1626
Cradling Katharina in her lap, Eva felt a deep weariness of heart and soul. When the Angelus bells rang out for evening prayers, she laid a hand over her rosary and fingered the beads, but could not find within her the words, or even the will, to pray.
Everything around her was grey stone or brown wood, except the sliver of sky in the narrow window, which was pale blue tinged with pink. She concentrated on that sliver of sky and tried to bring to mind the flowers that would be blooming in the bakery courtyard: glossy yellow buttercups, sweetly perfumed lily-of-the-valley, dainty blue forget-me-nots with bright yellow centres, soft pink cherry blossoms.
The metal scrape of the key. So familiar now that Katharina didn’t even lift her head from Eva’s chest. Eva could see Father Herzeim’s dark eyes peering through the small barred window.
The door opened and the priest stepped into the cell, his half smile both sorrowful and hopeful. A stout man stood behind him. He craned his neck to look over Father Herzeim’s shoulder. Eva hugged Katharina to her chest, jangling the chains attached to her wrists. The stout man winced and made the sign of the cross, his eyes darting around the cell, to the window, the wooden stool, the pail, but not to Eva. He wrinkled his nose and reached for a small silver pomander hanging by a looped chain from a button on his doublet. Eva watched him bring the pomander to his nose and inhale deeply. She no longer had the energy to be embarrassed by the stench.
“This is Herr Doktor Franz Lutz,” said Father Herzeim. “He is to be your lawyer.”
The man tipped his broad-brimmed hat toward her. “I will be your defence lawyer for the preliminary hearings, Frau Rosen.”
“I don’t need a lawyer. The judge will see at once that a mistake has been made, and he will release us.”
“It may not be that simple,” said Father Herzeim. “It would be best if you allow a lawyer to help you.”
Eva had never sought help from a lawyer, not even for the bakery, and the man before her did not inspire confidence. His round face was kindly but somewhat befuddled, his smile too tight, as if he were in pain. He swayed from one black boot to the other, and his fingers flitted from tugging on his white beard, to tapping the silver pomander, to touching the cord at his throat, to toying with the buttons on his dark doublet.
Father Herzeim pulled up the stool and sat down close to Eva. Lutz began to pace, all the while rolling the pomander in his palms. “There are, as yet, no formal charges against you,” the lawyer said. “There are only the accusations made by other witches and a few rumours. And, of course, the evidence found by the bailiff.”
“Evidence?” said Eva.
“Some feathers, a few odd rocks and pebbles, some carvings.” Katharina raised her head. “Did you bring my doll? Or the angel wings?”
Lutz turned abruptly, his blue eyes meeting Eva’s for the first time. “Angel wings?”
Eva looked at Father Herzeim, who nodded encouragement. “The white feathers,” she said softly.
Lutz coughed into his hand. “Nein, child, I did not.”
Katharina slumped against her mother.
“Am I to understand, Frau Rosen,” said the lawyer, “that these...this so-called evidence belongs to your daughter?”
Eva inhaled sharply. Was it more dangerous to say those things were Katharina’s? Or hers? She touched her rosary. She’d sworn to herself and to God that she would speak nothing but truth. That was the only way she could be sure the Holy Mother would help her in her hour of need. She would speak the truth. But no more truth than necessary.
Lutz looked at her expectantly.
She gave a small nod. “Ja.”
To her enormous relief, his hunched shoulders relaxed. “That’s what I thought,” he said. “What the bailiff calls evidence is merely a child’s playthings.” He studied the floor. With the toe of a scuffed boot, he pushed straw into a small pile. “Now, Frau Rosen, I must ask you a few more questions, and it is absolutely imperative that you tell me the truth.”
Lutz took another deep breath through the pomander. “The accusations made by the condemned witches are far more serious than the evidence. All three claimed to have seen you at the sabbath.”
“Lies. Never have I gone to a gathering of witches.”
Lutz’s gaze shifted to the priest. “Do not forget that your confessor sits at your side. You must tell us the truth.”
Father Herzeim laid his fingers on Eva’s shoulder, so lightly they seemed barely there, and yet, through the thin wool of her gown, they created a small circle of warmth. Eva breathed in the clean fragrance of his soap.
“For the sake of your eternal soul,” said the priest, “you must tell Herr Lutz the truth.”
“That is the truth. I swear it – upon my eternal soul. I know nothing of witchcraft.”
Lutz scratched his chin through his thick beard. “What is most puzzling, and damning, is that all three of the condemned witches, independently, named you as an accomplice. If you are not a witch, why would all three name you as such?”
“I don’t know,” said Eva. “Never have I – or my daughter – had anything to do with the Devil or with witches.”
Katharina started to lift her head. Eva pulled it back to her chest. “Please, you must believe me.”
“Did you know any of the condemned witches?” the lawyer asked.
Eva glanced at the priest. He gave her his sad half smile. “I knew Frau Basser, but only to sell her bread,” she said quickly. “I have thought and though
t about it, Herr Lutz, and I cannot think why any of them would accuse me except out of sheer malice and evil.”
“Do you know any of the others who were named with you?”
“The jailer’s wife told me a few names – a midwife and a law student, I think. But I know none of them. I swear.”
“The jailer’s wife told you?” said Lutz. “Damn that old crone and her wagging tongue! She’ll be locked up herself if the other commissioners hear of this.”
The truth. Eva hesitated before she spoke. “I do know of Frau Lamm, but only by her reputation as a skilled midwife. I have never consulted her.” The truth. But no more truth than necessary. There was no need to tell them that Frau Lamm was rumoured to provide remedies to frauleins who found themselves in trouble. That was malicious gossip, not truth.
“Have you done anything that someone might misinterpret as witchcraft?” said Lutz.
“Nothing.”
“Sold someone bread that made them ill? Said something that might be thought of as a curse?”
“Nein.”
“What about your husband? Didn’t he discipline you rather severely?”
Eva bowed her head. “Ja.”
“Did you ever curse him for that, wish him ill, or even dead?”
Eva studied the pattern of cracks in the wood floor. She knew them by heart, could see them even when she closed her eyes. It was true, she’d feared and hated Jacob, but she hadn’t wished him dead. Or had she?
“I never wished him ill, or dead.” She felt Katharina shiver. Had her daughter?
The lawyer stood with his back to her now, his face tilted up toward the window. “Never?”
“Never.” Surely that was the truth. She might have wished to be free of him, but she never could have wished for his death. Nor could Katharina. That would be evil. She and her daughter were sinful, but they were not evil.
Lutz spun to face her. “Herr Rosen died quite suddenly. Of what?”
“I-I don’t know. He was all right in the morning when we rose from our bed. The journeymen said that when Jacob was unloading sacks of flour he gasped and fell to his knees. And died. Just like that. I wasn’t there, and no one could tell me why he’d died, not even the physician who examined him. Jacob was old, Herr Lutz, and cruel, but I did not wish him dead.”
“But you haven’t remarried, though I understand there have been suitors.”
“None has been suitable,” Eva mumbled. Did everyone think it a sin that she hadn’t remarried?
“Have you consulted a sorcerer or diviner to find a suitable match? Or used a love charm?”
“Nein.”
Lutz flicked his blunt fingers against the pomander. “We know that the Devil comes to those who are desperate. Has he ever come to you or approached you in any way?”
Eva held Katharina tightly. “Never. I put my faith in God and pray to the Holy Mother.”
Lutz leaned closer. The brim of his hat nearly touched her forehead. Close up, his clear blue eyes looked younger than the web of lines around them. She caught the sharp scent of sweet marjoram from his pomander.
“You must tell me the truth,” he said. “I cannot help you unless you speak the truth.”
She held his gaze. “I speak the truth. I swear it.” Katharina’s dreams and visions were a child’s fantasies. Nothing more.
He stepped back. “Then you must insist on that to the commissioners. The first hearing is tomorrow morning.”
Finally, after six days and six nights in this horrid place, she would talk to the men in charge, the commissioners. They would see the error at once, and free her and Katharina. She and her daughter would go home. Home to the scent of baking bread, freshly laundered linens, and the flowers in her courtyard.
Eva reached out a shackled hand. “Bitte, might I have your pomander for just one moment?”
Lutz jumped back. “Nein! I cannot give you anything, or accept anything from you. Until it is proven that you are not a witch.”
The key in the lock. Eva jerked awake, limbs stiff, eyes gritty. The jailer’s wife shuffled in. She carried a large stoneware bowl and a mound of coarse cloths slung over one shoulder. A candle enclosed in a square glass lantern swung from her wrist. She set the bowl beside Eva. A cake of yellow soap floated in the steaming water. Eva nudged Katharina awake, then leaned forward and inhaled the fragrance of the soap. Thanks be to God. A bath.
A burly man strode into the cell. His face was scarred and pockmarked. In one black-gloved hand, he carried both scissors and a razor, in the other, a lantern. He set down the lantern and crossed himself, his fingers lingering at the cord around his throat. He handed the razor to the jailer’s wife and stepped close to Eva. Katharina shrank away.
The man yanked the widow’s cap from Eva’s head.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked.
Without a word, he grabbed her hair and began cutting. Eva kicked at his legs. He laid down the scissors, drew back his arm, and slapped her across the face so hard her head hit the stone wall.
“No use to fight it,” said the jailer’s wife. “Has to be done. It’s the law.”
The man pulled Eva upright, picked up the scissors, and resumed cutting. Stunned, Eva watched thick chestnut clumps fall in a ring around her. Katharina crouched against the opposite wall, fist to her mouth.
“This is a mistake,” Eva whimpered. “We are to be released tomorrow.”
The rasp of the scissors stopped. The man laughed harshly. “Where did you get that foolish notion? You’re to be questioned tomorrow. Not released.”
He finished cutting her hair and stepped to the side. While the jailer’s wife lathered the wet soap over what was left of Eva’s hair, the man scratched at his crotch, then took the glove off his right hand and combed his fingers through his greasy beard. Finding a louse, he pinched it between his fingernails, thumb and middle finger. His forefinger was missing. He pulled the glove back on, then stepped toward Eva, waving the razor. “Move, and it might slip to your throat. Or take off an ear.” He braced her head against his thigh. The razor scraped against her scalp, making her skin burn.
Katharina screamed when the man came toward her, his shadow huge on the wall. He grabbed her hair. The muscles of his hand and forearm worked, but the scissors could not sever the thick braid. He cursed, snatched the razor from the woman’s hand, and sawed, then tossed the white-gold braid to the floor.
Eva’s hands explored her smooth bare scalp and the tenderness at the back of her head. “Why are you doing this?”
“To look for Devil’s marks,” said the jailer’s wife, “and so’s you can’t hide no charms.”
“Shut up, old woman, or I’ll soon be doing the same to you.” The man grinned a mouthful of stained and broken teeth. “With that ugly face of yours, and that gossiping tongue, I’ve often thought you might be a witch yourself.”
The woman covered the dark mole on her cheek with a soapy hand.
“Unlock the shackles,” he ordered.
The jailer’s wife moved quickly to do his bidding. Eva rubbed her raw and swollen wrists, free for the first time in six days.
“Take off your clothes,” he growled.
“Nein!”
“You heard him,” said the woman. “Take off your clothes.”
“Nein!”
The man jerked his chin toward the jailer’s wife. “Do it for her.”
Without bothering to undo laces or ties, the woman ripped the gown and chemise from Eva’s body, pulled the shoes and stockings from her feet, and tossed the clothes aside. Frantic, Eva tried to cover herself with her hands and arms. She huddled against the wall and watched the man shave Katharina’s head, each pull of the razor revealing the delicate outlines of her daughter’s skull. Katharina stared, her eyes the flat green of a stagnant pool.
He turned to the jailer’s wife. “Go get different shifts. Those are stained.”
“I can’t leave now. The commissioners say–”
“Go get the shif
ts, Frau Brugler! And find ones that are clean. And one that’ll fit the girl. Take your time.”
“There...there’s none that’ll fit the girl.” The woman stood, her thin lips clamped tight.
“Go on, you old hag, or I’ll have you locked up and shaved before sunrise.”
Frau Brugler picked up a lantern and scurried from the cell, locking the door behind her. The man turned to Eva. “Lay down,” he said.
She swallowed hard, her throat dry. Mother of God, this couldn’t be happening.
“Lay down.” He pointed toward the door. “Over there.”
Eva edged toward the door, then slumped down. She pulled her legs to her breasts and wrapped her arms around them. He came closer and stood above her, holding the razor loosely in his hand. He knelt down and leaned over her. His breath stank of sour red wine. He slid a gloved hand between her legs and tried to force them apart. Eva resisted. The razor sliced across her thigh, the lightest of touches. A thin line of blood welled.
Eva closed her eyes and hoped desperately that Katharina had turned her face to the wall.
“Spread your legs,” he said hoarsely, his voice low. He dipped his hand in the water, then rubbed the yellow soap over the hair between her thighs, sliding it front to back, front to back. He dropped the soap into the bowl and put his hand where he’d soaped her. Leaning closer, he pressed her against the door, caressing her. Moaning, he poked his thick fingers into her. His mouth over hers muffled her scream.
He rubbed his own crotch. Then, with one hand still holding the razor, he started untying his breeches, his gloved fingers fumbling with the laces. Eva turned away, but could hear the rasp of buckram. She saw the pale glow of candlelight at the barred window above her.
“Herr Freude?” Frau Brugler’s voice was high and plaintive. “Herr Freude, where are you?”
The man scrambled to retie his breeches, and by the time Frau Brugler cracked open the door and peeked in, her lantern held before her, he’d pulled Eva away from the door and was kneeling beside her, shaving her. “I couldn’t see you,” said the jailer’s wife. “Gave me a bit of a start.”
Dancing in the Palm of His Hand Page 9
