Father Herzeim stood and walked to the window. Raindrops trailed down the panes in crooked paths. He turned to Lutz and looked long into his face, as if trying to read his thoughts, or his heart. Finally he said, “I want you to read something.” He locked the office door, then went to a corner and moved a small table to one side. He lifted up a floorboard, pulled out a tattered book, and brought it to Lutz. It was Johann Weyer’s De Praestigiis Daemonum.
Lutz recoiled as if the book were a serpent. “My God, Father, you could be excommunicated.”
“Not just excommunicated. Executed. But just read it. There’s merit in what Weyer has to say. At the very least, it’s worth considering. And debating.” Father Herzeim opened the book. “Weyer claims that the Devil has far greater powers than we acknowledge and has no need for human accomplices. He also claims that women who believe they have satanic powers are deluded and that most women confess to witchcraft only to end the torture.”
Father Herzeim pointed to a page of bold type. “Here, just look at what he’s written.”
“Nein, I’ll not look.” Lutz could hear the tremor in his own voice.
The priest exhaled through clenched teeth. “I’ve had this book for nearly five years, and I haven’t been struck dead yet.” He held the open pages directly in front of Lutz’s face.
Lutz tried to keep his eyes averted, but his curiosity was too great. Almost against his will, his gaze went directly to where the priest pointed. Through malicious accusations or the mistaken suspicion of illiterate and ignorant peasants, old women deceived or possessed by the Devil are put by judges into the horrible dens of thieves and caves of wicked demons, and then turned over to be slaughtered with the most refined tortures that tyrants could invent, beyond human endurance. And this cruelty is continued until the most innocent are forced to confess themselves guilty. So it happens that the time comes when these bloodthirsty men force them to give their guiltless souls to God in the flames of the pyre rather than to suffer any longer the tortures inflicted on them by these tyrants.
“We are not bloodthirsty tyrants,” Lutz said in a hushed shout, “and these women are not guiltless souls. If they are truly innocent, they go free.”
“Read more.” Father Herzeim ran a finger down the page. Lutz’s eyes followed slavishly. But when the great searcher of hearts, from whom nothing is hidden, shall appear, your wicked deeds shall be revealed, you tyrants, sanguinary judges, butchers, torturers, and ferocious robbers, who have thrown out humanity and do not know mercy. So I summon you before the tribunal of the Great Judge, who shall decide between us, where the truth you have trampled under foot and buried shall arise and condemn you, demanding vengeance for your inhumanities.
Lutz jumped up and strode away from Father Herzeim – and the book. He spun to face the priest. “That’s precisely why that book is forbidden by the Church. It’s wicked heresy to claim that it’s the commissioners and not the witches who are evil. Do you really believe that all the popes of the past one hundred and fifty years have been wrong? God would never allow that to happen.”
“What I believe is that this heresy, as you choose to call it, is important enough to warrant debate in all the law schools in the Holy Roman Empire. This book, and writings like it, should not be forbidden. What harm can there be in debate, in searching for what is true?”
Lutz jabbed a forefinger into the air. “If it’s decided that the Church and the popes have been wrong about witchcraft, we will have to doubt everything else as well.”
“And what if Weyer is right? How then will you and I stand before the Great Judge?”
“Weyer can’t be right. He’s been condemned by the Church.”
Wearily, his shoulders slumped, Father Herzeim walked to the corner, placed the blasphemous book in its chamber, then carefully replaced the floorboard and table. He sat down at the desk. “I am writing my own book, using the arguments of Weyer, and Adam Tanner. I am also including a thorough legal critique of the way the hearings are conducted.”
“Nein, this cannot be true.”
“If the commission’s hearings were conducted like any other legal proceeding,” continued the priest, “almost none of the accused would be executed. Even Herr Hampelmann’s great favourite, Jean Bodin, admits to that: The proof of such crimes is so obscure and so difficult that not one witch in a million would be accused or punished if the procedure were governed by ordinary rules. But instead of seeing the problem of evidence as a reason to proceed cautiously, Bodin uses it to justify relaxing strict legal requirements.”
Lutz felt light-headed, as if he were floating near the ceiling. “Hampelmann is right to be suspicious,” he whispered.
“Nein, I do not doubt the existence of witches. Nor do I defend them. I simply believe the hearings should be conducted in the same way as any other legal proceeding. I defend the innocent, Lutz, not witches.” He closed his eyes; his head bent forward. “I feel the weight of every innocent soul who’s gone to the stake.”
Father Herzeim flipped through his breviary, as if searching for something. He pressed the book open, so that it lay flat before him. “Today is Saint Georg’s feast day. Would that I had the courage to slay a dragon.” He snapped the breviary closed. “I am a coward, Lutz. I will write my manuscript secretly, publish it anonymously...rather than speak out publicly.”
“You would be tried for heresy, Father. And executed.” Lutz choked on his own words. “Perhaps rightfully so.”
“But then I could stand before the Great Judge, unashamed, a man of courage who worked to protect the innocent.” Father Herzeim’s restless hands picked up another quill. He ran a fingertip over the nib. “I sometimes wonder why Saint Thomas Aquinas didn’t list cowardice among the seven deadly sins. It seems far worse than sloth or gluttony.”
He stroked the quill against his dark beard, making a soft rustling like satin skirts, or ghosts. “Will you visit the women yet today?”
“As their lawyer, I must, whether I want to or not.”
“I would like to come with you. They will be in need of comfort. I can yet find the courage for that at least.”
21
23 April 1626
“He was here, Mama. Right over there.” Katharina pointed at the opposite wall. “He sat in a fancy chair. The arms were carved like the heads of serpents with their mouths wide open.”
Eva tried to pull her daughter closer. “Shush. It was only a bad dream.”
Katharina leaped away, just out of Eva’s reach. “Nein, Mama. Let me tell you about it. An angel came to rescue me.” The girl’s bright green eyes flickered with copper lights, though there were no candles, no torches, only the narrow shaft of grey dawn admitted by the small window.
“The Devil smiled and crooked his finger at me.” Katharina crooked her own finger, beckoning. “There was a long table set with goblets and plates of silver and gold. The table was piled high with food: dark loaves and jam, honeycakes, tarts, and sweet spiced apples.” She spread her arms to show how big the table was, how high the food was piled. She licked her lips.
A child’s fancy, thought Eva. A dream. Even so, her heart quickened. Katharina’s dreams had become more and more eerie, and frightening. Eva made the girl recite Bible verses every day, as well as the Pater Noster and Ave Maria. And still, nearly every night Katharina saw the Devil and his red glowing eyes. Eva had begun to blame herself for the girl’s malevolent dreams. She’d not thought long enough or hard enough when she’d chosen her name: Katharina. Eva had only thought the name beautiful and had not considered that she was naming her daughter after Saint Katharina of Siena, a mystic who’d begun having visions at the age of six. The saint had also had diabolical dreams.
“I was scared, but I crept closer anyway.” Katharina bowed her head, her eyes shifting from side to side. “I’m sorry, Mama. I was just so hungry.” She looked up, her face bright now. “But an angel came. He was wearing a white gown with a red cross on the front.” She waved her arms in a wide arc
, as if to show how big the wings had been. “He carried a long shiny sword. Just like Saint Georg. And there was a white dog at his feet. The dog rushed at me, her teeth like this.” The girl bared her teeth and growled. “She kept me away from the Devil.”
Eva put her hands to her ears. “Stop.” She could not listen any longer. Was it more than a nightmare? Had the Devil really been there, right in their cell, tempting Katharina with food?
“And then, suddenly, the Devil turned into a huge serpent blowing fire from his mouth.” Katharina opened her mouth wide and blew. “The angel raised his sword, and the Devil disappeared in a cloud of black smoke. And then the angel was gone, too.” She grinned. “But the dog stayed. She lay near me and kept me warm. And even though the food was gone, I wasn’t so hungry anymore.”
Katharina sat down against the wall, relaxed and smiling. She stretched out a hand, as if to stroke a dog’s head.
Unable to watch, Eva looked away. Her fear for her daughter was a stone in her chest. Katharina had dreams – or visions – of the Devil, and now no longer feared him. Had he twined himself into her soul? And yet the girl also saw visions of angels and saints. Was Katharina possessed? Or a mystic?
Like skulking crows, they hovered over her, both of them wearing dark broad-brimmed hats that dripped water onto the floor. Their faces glowed yellow in the candlelight from the lantern.
What would she give, Eva wondered, to be far away from here, outside in the soft spring rain, smelling the damp earth and linden and cherry blossoms, the cold rain cooling her face, which burned with shame? She could not put from her mind that this lawyer looming over her had seen her naked, had watched while the horrid Herr Freude searched her body in the most private of places. She brought her hands together so that her arms covered her breasts.
The priest clutched the wooden cross hanging from his neck. His dark gaze was far away, as if he were deep in thought, or prayer. The stout lawyer swayed from one foot to the other, flicking the copper buttons on his doublet.
“Will they torture me tomorrow?” Eva repeated.
“The Carolina Code specifically forbids examination under torture unless there is evidence that a crime has been committed,” said Lutz. “And while your husband’s death cannot be adequately explained and the timing of Herr Kaiser’s illness is unfortunate, there is no real evidence you’ve committed a crime.”
“But will they torture me?”
Lutz looked away. Father Herzeim closed his eyes. That was her answer.
Why was God testing her so? “Bring me a Bible,” she said to Lutz. “I need to read the story of Job.”
“He cannot do that,” said Father Herzeim, kneeling down beside her, his face too eager. “But I can tell you that story if you want.”
Eva ran her fingers over the stubble on her shaved head. The chains on her shackles clanked. Tears gathered. “What I want is to go home.” She glanced at Katharina, huddled against the wall. “And to take my daughter with me. We are not witches.”
Father Herzeim put a hand under her chin and lifted her face. He wiped a tear with his thumb, but there was no comfort in his touch. Eva caught the hateful scent of lye soap.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” he said, “you must insist on your innocence. If you admit to anything, they’ll claim you confessed, and use that as evidence to justify torturing you again. You must be strong. You are innocent. God will help you.”
He spoke so fiercely that Eva shrank away from him. For a long moment, he looked at his extended hand, no longer cupping her chin, then, finally, dropped his arm to his side and stood.
Lutz cleared his throat. “Ja, well...what we can’t figure out, Frau Rosen, is why, if you are truly innocent, three condemned witches named you as an accomplice. I know we’ve been through this before, but I must ask again. Do you know of anyone, besides Herr Kaiser of course, who might have reported you to the Malefizamt? Anyone who might have made a false accusation out of spite or jealousy, or sheer malice?”
Eva shook her head. Should she tell them about Wilhelm? It was clear that he hated her, but still, he would never accuse her of witchcraft. Besides, she didn’t want to tell that story. It shamed her to remember all that had happened in the Hampelmann household. “I can think of no one,” she said.
“Truth,” said Father Herzeim. “We can help you only if you speak the truth.”
Could this sombre priest see directly into her heart?
“Wilhelm Hampelmann was angry with me once,” she said quickly. “A very long time ago.”
The lawyer and priest gaped, at her, and then at each other. Lutz leaned closer. “You know Herr Doktor Hampelmann?”
“Years ago, before I was married, I was a maidservant in his father’s house. But Wilhelm would never accuse me. He knows me. He knows I am not a witch.”
“But you said he was angry with you,” said Father Herzeim. “Why?”
“It was nothing.”
“But you remember it.”
“He made advances...I refused him.”
Lutz coughed into his hand. “Did he...did he force–”
“Nein!”
“He was just angry about being refused?”
Eva nodded.
Lutz lifted his hat, ran a hand through his white hair, then pulled the hat back onto his head. “And this was what? Ten, twelve years ago?” He shrugged. “Men make advances; virtuous women refuse them. Herr Doktor Hampelmann’s an honourable man. He’d not make an accusation of witchcraft and have you arrested for some long ago...embarrassment.”
“I believe it’s not possible to know what Herr Hampelmann would do,” Father Herzeim said sharply.
“Nonsense. It has to be something – or someone – else.” The lawyer glanced at Katharina, who was so quiet Eva hoped they’d forgotten her. “What about her?” said Lutz. “She’s a bit...odd. Could someone have reported your daughter to the Malefizamt?”
“But then it would be Katharina who was accused,” said the priest. “Not Frau Rosen.”
“Perhaps someone considered the daughter’s strangeness evidence of her mother’s crimes.”
Eva cringed to hear the lawyer speak her own suspicions aloud. It felt like the worst betrayal she could imagine, to believe, even for a moment, that it might be her own daughter who was to blame for their plight.
“People have been kind to Katharina,” she said. “Children have teased her now and again, but no one would think her a witch. Or the daughter of a witch.”
The priest and the lawyer stood side by side now, arguing quietly with each other, their backs to Eva.
Eva looked down at her torn and ragged fingernails. Katharina’s dreams. She couldn’t speak of those to the lawyer or the priest. It was all nonsense anyway. A child’s fantasies. How could she have considered, even for a moment, that the Devil had been right there in their cell, that her own daughter was possessed?
Father Herzeim stooped down in front of Eva. “You must prepare her,” he whispered, nodding toward Katharina. “They may call her to testify against you.”
“Not my daughter,” Eva gasped. “How can they?”
“By law, they cannot torture her. She has not been accused. But they’ll use tricks of language to get her to implicate you. You must instruct her to listen very closely to the questions they ask and to think carefully before she answers. Katharina must deny – over and over again, if necessary – that either of you has ever had anything to do with the Devil or with witchcraft.”
“Then she need only speak the truth,” said Eva, her throat so tight the words came out in a hoarse whisper.
Father Herzeim turned to Katharina. The girl reached out a hand and smiled at the floor. He turned back to Eva, his dark eyes questioning.
Mother of God, Eva prayed, please protect her, protect us. She must not speak of her strange dreams.
“Pray with me, Father.”
22
24 April 1626
Stifling a yawn, Lutz took his place at the end of the tab
le beside Hampelmann, who barely glanced up from his ledger even when Lutz’s knee bumped his. Lutz felt as if his head were stuffed with wool. He’d lain awake all night, fretting, unable to put Johann Weyer’s words, or Father Herzeim’s, from his mind. Now and again, he’d been able to convince himself of the lack of merit in Weyer’s ideas. The man had been a Calvinist after all, an apostate. Father Herzeim, however, was a man of God, a man of the true faith. Yet, as hard as Lutz tried, he could not find a way to square the priest’s words with what he’d read in Der Hexenhammer, which Pope Innocent VIII had declared to be true. Even so, Lutz could not bring himself to believe that his friend was a sceptic and a defender of witches. Surely Father Herzeim’s concern was only for the protection of the innocent.
When Father Streng had finished recording their names, Judge Steinbach tapped the gavel. “The Commission of Inquisition for the Würzburg Court will now come to order,” said the judge. The priest laid the speckled quill beside his breviary and a vial of holy water and stood. As the others rose, their wooden chairs scraped loudly against the stone floor. The men made the sign of the cross and bowed their heads.
“Dearest Father in heaven.” Father Streng’s boyish voice rang off the walls, creating a buzz in Lutz’s wool-filled ears so that he hardly heard the words. At the “Amen,” the men crossed themselves again, then sat.
Judge Steinbach picked up a document bearing the Prince-Bishop’s wax seal. It shook so much in his palsied hands the parchment rattled. “Prince-Bishop Philipp Adolf has approved our recommendation to release Herr Christoph Silberhans and to expel him from Würzburg.” He glanced nervously at the chancellor.
Chancellor Brandt tugged at the bottom of his silk doublet, pulling it smooth. The flickering candlelight from the lantern danced on the polished silver buttons. He inserted two fingers into the white ruff at his neck and pulled as if to loosen it. “The jailer sent a guard early this morning to inform His Grace that Frau Bettler is dead,” he said. “Apparently she died during the night.”
Dancing in the Palm of His Hand Page 16
