Dancing in the Palm of His Hand

by Annamarie Beckel

  Knocked out by the girl? Lutz nervously twisted a tuft of beard. Had Frau Brugler said nothing about Father Herzeim or him?

  “What did the guard report?” said Chancellor Brandt.

  “He was knocked silly. Doesn’t remember much at all.”

  “What about the guard outside Frau Lamm’s cell?”

  “Herr Klingen heard the commotion, sir, but he had orders not to leave his post except to prevent Frau Lamm from escaping. And he reported that she never moved at all, sir.”

  “And where were you?”

  Brugler looked down at his feet. “Sleeping, sir. I didn’t hear a thing.” He hunched one shoulder and pointed to the left side of his head. “I’m deaf in this ear.”

  The chancellor’s face had turned nearly purple. “Herr Freude, go get Frau Brugler. We need to hear an explanation directly from her.”

  The jailer scrambled to follow Freude from the chamber. “Herr Brugler,” said Chancellor Brandt, “you will remain here.”

  Lutz bowed his head. This was it. Frau Brugler would tell them what had happened, and then he would be arrested.

  The jailer’s wife soon appeared at the door, as if she’d been waiting on the stairs. There was a large dark bruise on her forehead. She stepped into the chamber, her hand covering the mole on her cheek.

  “What happened last night, Frau Brugler?” said Chancellor Brandt.

  Her lower lip quivered. “W-well, it was Walpurgisnacht.”

  “What happened!”

  Her whole body shaking, the woman glanced toward Lutz. “H-herr Lutz and F-father Herzeim came to see Frau Rosen. To offer sacramental confession, the priest said.”

  Lutz closed his eyes. Dear God, don’t let her blame Father Herzeim.

  “What happened then?”

  “Sometime later, I heard screaming and shrieking – in tongues. And thumping, too. It being Walpurgisnacht and all, I was scared out of my wits. All kinds of strange things happen on Walpurgisnacht. Demons and ghosts about. Witches, too.”

  “Get on with it!”

  “Well, like I was saying, there was this horrible commotion. The guard and I rushed up the stairs to see what was happening. He looked in the cell and saw Father Herzeim knocked against the wall. When the guard opened the door, the poor girl’s demons got him right away, then I felt a blow to my head so powerful I knew that only a demon could’ve done it.” She looked directly at Lutz and rubbed the bruise on her forehead.

  “And where was Herr Lutz?”

  “Oh, he’d been knocked out, too.”

  Lutz felt faint. God bless her. He didn’t know why she’d lied, but God bless her for it.

  “Could it be,” Hampelmann said thoughtfully, “that it was an angel rather than a demon who assaulted all of you and then freed Frau Rosen and her daughter? God has, after all, given us a sign that the woman is innocent.”

  Frau Brugler pulled at her apron. “I-I’ve never seen an angel, sir. It seemed like demons to me, what with the voices and all.”

  “What happened then?” persisted Chancellor Brandt.

  “When I came to, Father Herzeim and Herr Lutz were bending over me, but the guard was still knocked flat. He took such a knock on the head, he doesn’t remember a thing.” Her eyes flashed back to Lutz.

  “And where were Frau Rosen and her daughter?”

  Frau Brugler raised her hands, palms up. “Gone! Just gone. The three of us searched everywhere, sir. When we didn’t find them, I told Father Herzeim and Herr Lutz to go on home, being that the morning bells had started to ring.” She dipped her head toward Brugler. “I told them I’d send the husband to tell the bailiff that Frau Rosen had escaped. Then I went to tend to the poor knocked-out guard.”

  Chancellor Brandt gripped the gavel. “And what do you know of all this, Herr Lutz?”

  “Well...the Rosen girl seemed all right when Father Herzeim and I first got there, but then she began acting strangely. Suddenly, I saw the priest knocked against the wall, then I felt a terrific blow to the back of my head.” He rubbed his head. “I don’t remember a thing until after I woke up, then it was just as Frau Brugler has said. We searched, but Frau Rosen and her daughter were gone.”

  The chancellor’s dark eyebrows came together in an expression that was clearly sceptical. “Once in a great while, prisoners do escape. But demons and angels aside, never before has a prisoner escaped by herself, without the assistance of a guard – or of someone else who had access to her cell. You and Father Herzeim are the only ones who visited Frau Rosen.”

  “There was someone else,” Frau Brugler said softly.

  “Oh?”

  She jerked her bony chin toward Hampelmann. “That one there. He visited.”

  Chancellor Brandt tilted his head toward her. “Go on.”

  The woman’s mouth worked. “Herr Hampelmann came to Frau Rosen at least three times,” she said finally. “Late at night. And he always ordered me or the guard to leave them alone. He came again last night.”

  Lutz saw Hampelmann’s hands clench. Could that be true? Why had Frau Rosen never told him about Hampelmann’s visits?

  “Herr Hampelmann, why did you visit Frau Rosen last night?” asked Chancellor Brandt.

  “To inform her of the Prince-Bishop’s decision.”

  “That’s Herr Lutz’s responsibility, not yours. Were you alone with her?”

  “Ja,” said Frau Brugler. “Like I’m running a brothel.”

  “A serious breach of procedure,” said Father Streng, his grey eyes wide behind his spectacles.

  “And why, Frau Brugler,” said Chancellor Brandt, purpling yet again, “against all orders, did you leave Herr Hampelmann alone with Frau Rosen?”

  “He ordered me to. I couldn’t very well disobey the head of the Malefizamt, could I?”

  “Why were you there, Herr Hampelmann? The truth this time.”

  There was a prolonged silence. Hampelmann twisted the gold ring around his finger. “Because–”

  “Cause he lusts after her,” blurted Frau Brugler.

  “That’s not true!” yelled Hampelmann.

  As one, the commissioners turned toward him.

  Emboldened by the effect of her words, Frau Brugler continued, “And by the looks of the girl, I’d say he’s been lusting after Frau Rosen for quite some time.”

  Father Streng’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement.

  She flicked a hand toward Hampelmann. “Any fool can see that the Rosen girl looks just like him.”

  In the shocked silence, Lutz studied Hampelmann’s face. Why had he never seen it before? The same pale skin and colourless lashes, the same white-gold hair, the same chin and nose.

  “She’s lying,” shouted Hampelmann. “Question her under torture and you’ll get the truth.”

  “Torture?” said Lindner. “Frau Brugler hasn’t even been accused of anything. Not yet anyway.”

  “I swear by Almighty God, Katharina Rosen is not my daughter.” Hampelmann set his jaw, defiant. “And if I have any love at all for Eva Rosen, it is a chaste love, the same kind of love one has for a saint who is pure and holy.”

  The jailer’s wife snorted. “Chaste love don’t make for bastard children.”

  “I wonder, gentlemen,” said Father Streng, “if we have here before us evidence of an unholy – and lascivious – alliance among the Devil, Frau Rosen and her daughter, and Herr Hampelmann and his wife? The midwife did, after all, name Frau Hampelmann as an accomplice.”

  “That’s outrageous!” said Hampelmann.

  “Is it?” Father Streng regarded him with contempt. “And it would appear to be an alliance of quite long standing. Isn’t it true, Herr Hampelmann, that Eva Rosen worked as a maidservant in your father’s household for several years before either she or you were married?”

  “Ja, but Katharina is not–”

  The priest cut him off. “Moreover, Herr Hampelmann has argued adamantly for Frau Rosen’s innocence, even claiming to have seen a sign from God – a sign no one e
lse saw. Even now he would argue that it was an angel, not demons, who freed Frau Rosen and her daughter.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “Could it be that Herr Hampelmann freed them so they could all go together to Fraw Rengberg for the Walpurgisnacht festival?”

  “How can you possibly believe such idiocy? I am head of the Malefizamt.”

  “The perfect place for a protector and defender of witches,” said Chancellor Brandt. He brought his pomander to his nose as if he smelled something foul. “Herr Freude, escort Herr Hampelmann to a cell. If he is in league with the Devil, he must not be here to intimidate the other witnesses when we question them.”

  “But I am innocent.”

  Freude smirked. “That’s what they all say.”

  Mouth gaping in disbelief, Hampelmann did not resist as Freude bound his wrists. “Freed Eva?” he murmured to himself. “Both of us, we are innocent.”

  Lutz’s throat burned, and his chest ached. He could not remain silent and let another man die for what he had done. “Chancellor Brandt,” he gasped.

  “Herr Lutz, I haven’t the patience for your objections. Not this morning.”

  “But–”

  “Silence!”

  “Gentlemen,” Lutz persisted. “There is no alliance among Frau Rosen, the Devil, and Herr Hampelmann. She is innocent, and he is innocent.”

  “What? You’ve seen a sign from God?” Father Streng’s words dripped with sarcasm.

  Lutz took a deep breath. “I know he did not help Frau Rosen to escape. It is I who helped her, not him.”

  “Nein,” shouted Frau Brugler. “The blow to his head has addled him.”

  Hampelmann’s head jerked up, his icy blue eyes furious. “You freed Eva?”

  Lutz shrank from the intensity of his anger. “I cannot let an innocent man die for what I have done.”

  Chancellor Brandt spread his hands, his face weary and strained. “First, it was demons that freed her. Then it was Herr Hampelmann. Now it’s Herr Lutz.” His shoulders slumped, as if his duties were too much to bear. “Herr Freude, find a cell for Herr Lutz.” He glanced at the judge’s watch. “We will adjourn, then return to this chamber in two hours to determine how to proceed. There are the guards yet to be questioned. And Father Herzeim, who is already in custody on other charges. We will find out who is responsible.”

  40

  The tall Jesuit stands before them, his wrists bound, as if he were dangerous. The men ask him questions about the woman and the child. What happened? Who helped them? What does he know?

  What he knows, he says, is innocence. The woman and her daughter are innocent. Their escape was the will of God.

  Will of God? The men pull at their beards. The old one twitches.

  They ask their questions again. The executioner’s palms itch. He desires to lay hands upon the Father Confessor, who knows the hearts of witches.

  The Jesuit would answer them plainly and admit to what he has done. His own heart is at peace, but he is afraid for his friend, who no longer sits at the table.

  The Holy Church says there are witches in the world, he tells the men, so there are witches in the world. But the woman and the child are not among them. Even if they were, their lives should be spared, for witchcraft is merely delusion induced by the Devil.

  Or delusion induced by men, I shout. But no one hears me.

  If witches truly have diabolical powers, he says, why are they always so poor, their lives so wretched and miserable? Why are they not rich and powerful?

  The men cannot hear him. His words offend their ears.

  The Jesuit looks from one man to the next. The Devil needs no help from mortal women to work evil in this world, he says.

  In that, I know he is right. The men’s fervent belief suffices.

  Early this morning, before they came for him, the Jesuit completed his manuscript. Remembering well what he wrote only a few hours ago, he repeats it for the men. You force them to name names, he says, names put into their mouths by your own tongues. And so it goes on...and on. Eventually, you who have clamoured most loudly to feed the flames will yourselves be accused, for you have failed to see that your turn will come. His voice resonates within the stone chamber, making the ropes quiver. Thus will heaven justly punish you who have created so many witches, he says, and sent so many innocents to the fires.

  He points his bound hands at the small Jesuit sitting at the table, the one who is scribbling feverishly. This, he proclaims, you should record in red ink: no one is safe, no matter what sex, fortune, condition, or dignity. No one.

  The men recoil, assaulted by his words. Yet each wonders, remembering that two from among their number have already been taken. Accused.

  The small priest jumps up, beads of sweat on his flushed and boyish face. You would be wise, he says, to realize how foolish and noxious it is to prefer the ravings of heretics to the judgement of the Holy Church.

  The tall Jesuit looks to heaven and sighs. I would quote to you from a true man of God, he says. Johann Weyer.

  The men gasp and touch the balls of wax at their throats.

  When the tall priest speaks again, even the stones listen. I summon you before the tribunal of the Great Judge, Weyer has written, 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.

  The men murmur among themselves. They are now more worried about the Jesuit’s heresy than about the woman and the child. How do they prosecute a man of God who has turned from God? A priest who is now an instrument in the Devil’s hands?

  Their own hands tremble, their knees shake, and their feet dance. They have erred. They recommended release for a girl possessed and her mother, a witch. The Prince-Bishop was right. But now the woman and her daughter have escaped, with the help of the very men who were charged by God with prosecuting them. The same men who have sat at this table with them.

  They now have no doubt that they are surrounded on all sides by witches and their defenders. They must let no one escape just punishment. Or they will all be destroyed by the wrath of God.

  The men are more afraid than they’ve ever been. And thus are they dangerous.

  Heretic, shouts the boyish priest. He comes from behind the table and steps close to the tall Jesuit. He points his quill. You will no longer teach, he says. You will no longer speak your heresy to anyone. I will write the recantation myself, and then you will sign it. Publicly, in the marketplace, kneeling before the Prince-Bishop.

  Or you will die a heretic’s death.

  Two Jesuits, face to face. Each believes he works for the greater glory of God, ad majorem Dei gloriam. One has chosen obedience to the Church, the other, obedience to his own heart.

  Do not waste your precious ink, the tall one answers.

  41

  1 May 1626

  Lutz stared at the patch of blue sky beyond the high narrow window. He wished desperately to believe that God would protect him, that he would live and return home to Maria. Had she found his letter? Was she weeping for him even now, as he was weeping for her?

  He’d been foolish to come to Hampelmann’s defence. Likely, the man would die anyway. All of them would die. Horribly. Yet he knew he could not have remained silent and let another man be condemned for what he had done.

  The rasp of the key. Lutz wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, rattling the chains on his shackles.

  Carrying a wooden bowl, Frau Brugler came in, the bruise on her forehead a dark purple. She gave an exasperated shake of her head. “Just couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you?”

  “Why did you lie?”

  The woman sucked her teeth, considering. “I’m telling you this just once, Herr Lutz. From then on, it’s the demons...or Herr Hampelmann.”

  “Why did you accuse an innocent man instead of me?”

  “Herr Hampelmann? Innocent?” She laughed bitterly. “It’s the good Father who’s innocent. I was trying to protect him. And if you c
are about him, you’ll stick with my story.”

  She handed Lutz the bowl and spoon. “The good Father doesn’t know I’ve said anything about Herr Hampelmann. And if it’s up to me, he’ll never know. Cause I know what he’d do. Same as you, you damn fool.”

  Frau Brugler rubbed her forehead. “You didn’t have to whack me so hard, Herr Lutz. But what you did – it was a good thing. That woman and her little girl aren’t witches. Any dummkopf can see that. And no matter what you say, I’ll stick to my story and say that you’ve been deranged by Walpurgisnacht demons. Even if they torture me, that’s the story they’re getting.”

  Lutz gagged at the rancid smell of the greasy broth. He set the bowl aside.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “The good Father’ll not say a word that’ll damn you. So don’t you be saying anything that’ll damn him. Leave it alone, Herr Lutz. You’ll only make things worse for him if you claim it was you who helped Frau Rosen.”

  Lutz pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. What now? It was one thing to condemn himself, quite another to condemn Father Herzeim. When the commissioners questioned him again, he’d have to find a way to claim that both Father Herzeim and Hampelmann were innocent. Only he was guilty.

  “The only evidence the commissioners have,” she continued, “is the professors claiming he’s a defender of witches. So I’m thinking the good Father – and you – will be like Herr Silberhans. They arrested him for being a defender of witches, then let him go, with just a warning.”

  Lutz wished he could believe that, but he doubted that either he or Father Herzeim would be as fortunate as the young law student. The Prince-Bishop’s bailiff and his men would search the priest’s office and find the book by Johann Weyer. And Father Herzeim’s own manuscript. That would be more than damning.

  His throat tightened. “How is Father Herzeim?”

  “He’s strong. A true man of God, that one. Believe me, I’ve seen it. He’s done more good for more souls than any of the high and mighty commissioners sitting at that table. You’re both innocent of doing anything wrong. They’ll have to let you go.” Frau Brugler patted the ring of keys at her waist. “And if they don’t...well, I still got the keys, don’t I? I’m willing to help God help the innocent.”