He smooths out a new scroll with a ritualistic flourish, savouring the scent of fresh parchment that wafts up, then reaches for the quill still sitting in the prince’s gilded monogrammed inkpot.
To Samuel Oppenheimer, the Great and Honourable Court Jew of Vienna: I, your brother in blood and right hand in stealth, salute you and send you this lyrical stanza upon which the life of another—the nephew of the great Emperor himself, namely the good Prince Ferdinand Hapsburg—and his recovery from a mysterious and sudden ailment depends.
A Rebecca [he chooses the name as homage to Ferdinand’s nickname for himself] of the lower Rhinelands, a deliverer of many, is rumoured to have a golden touch—to be a Midas of the Midriff. Deliver her quick I would say, for my Prince suffers mightily, but alas our Rebecca in the armoury languishes, for her magic has Christian eyes offended and I fear she will be ashes before my Prince is mended. Can the Lion of Judah save the fledgling of the double-headed Eagle?
Signed: Alphonso de Lorenzo.
Alphonso smiles proudly then tenderly rolls up the scroll. Very carefully he seals it with a blob of red wax and presses the prince’s gold seal into the cooling liquid then his own ring upon that.
Later that day, after making sure the scroll is clearly marked ‘Samuel Oppenheimer, the Royal Court Jew of Vienna’, Alphonso secretly arranges for a loyal nobleman and childhood companion of Ferdinand’s, the only one of the prince’s chevaliers he trusts, to carry it to Vienna.
Dear Benedict,
It has been two weeks since I last wrote to you and much has come to pass. The conditions of my imprisonment are improved greatly. For this I have to thank one Detlef von Tennen, a canon of the cathedral here and a Wittelsbach aristocrat. An unusual ally indeed and I am yet to discern his motives. Suffice to say that he has expressed an interest in the ‘heretic’ philosophies west of the border and has even confessed to having read your writings. Should I trust such an enthusiast? I fear not. However, he has taken upon himself (with no small risk) the role of my inquisitor, thus preserving me, for a small time only, from the Dominican. Therefore I live longer, in greater comfort, but in greater confusion. I cannot judge the good canon except to say that he disturbs me profoundly so vast are the incongruities that churn within him.
He is a young man—that is to say, older than myself but yet neither elderly nor of middle years. A second son who has followed the custom of these parts by adopting the cloth, he nevertheless has taken the spirituality of his vows to heart, and with it, I believe, a genuine dedication to the betterment of man. It is out of this devotion that he seeks philosophical enlightenment. But Benedict, I sense that firstly he is a man and as much as I look to the sombreness of his robes, I fear there is less purity beneath the linen than I would like to believe.
Will he be my saviour? I know not. A week ago they burnt the two other poor souls who were arrested with me. The third was suspiciously murdered in his own cell. The pageant passed beneath the window of my new prison and was fearful to behold. By evensong the sky was filled with two pillars of smoke and although I prayed for the integration of their souls with the very aether itself, I am ashamed to say that I was paralysed with fear for my own fate.
Death strips all men of dignity and it is a lie to think otherwise. Execution imposed is one hundredfold a humiliation. When my time comes I would rather die by my own hand by hemlock than wait for the hangman’s knock.
‘Fräulein?’
Detlef stands at the door, his hand hesitant upon the handle. Under his arm he carries scrolls and a small leather pouch containing several quills and inkpots. Ruth is sitting with her back to him, dressed in a pale blue smock made of serge, her long black hair flowing down to her waist. Upon seeing him she is infused with a secret elation.
‘Forgive my absence, I had left for my country retreat. I have taken the time to design a strategy.’
‘A strategy?’
In lieu of a reply he rolls out the scrolls on the wooden floor.
‘I have examined the evidence. Of all the women who have testified to the inquisitor the most promising for our defence is Abigail Brassant.’
‘Meister Brassant’s young wife?’
‘She claims that the child was born dead, but then you cast a spell and revived it.’
‘During the birth I discovered the umbilical cord to be wrapped around the child’s neck—I had to cut in such a fashion that would save both babe and mother. After the baby was pulled free its nose and mouth were blocked. I merely sucked the mucus from these passages, thus forcing it to breathe.’
‘If I am able to prove that it is medical knowledge not witchcraft which makes you a good midwife, we may be able to secure your freedom.’
‘But how can this be shown without delivering a child in front of the court itself?’
Detlef opens the leather pouch and sets out the quills and ink. ‘Would you be able to illustrate your methods?’
‘I can but try.’
‘Good. It is the best argument we have. There has been no sighting of levitation, devil worship or the raising of the dead. It is merely the unorthodoxy of your techniques which has caused superstition.’
‘Fired by the zeal of the inquisitor. Tell me, Canon, why does he not arrange my murder as he obviously arranged Müller’s?’ She tries to hide the fear in her voice with anger.
Detlef looks at her sharply. ‘Who told you about Müller’s death?’
‘Your serving boy. Do not be angry with him, he is a sweet lad and I have a gift for extracting information.’
Indeed, Detlef thinks, wondering whether he can trust her.
‘I do not believe the inquisitor was responsible for Müller’s murder.’
‘Who then?’
The canon’s silence answers Ruth’s worst fear.
‘The archbishop? Then why should he not sacrifice me to his politics also? And why should I trust you? You are in his service.’
‘I give you my word. That is the best I can pledge. Please, Fräulein, I am your only hope.’
She stares at him wide-eyed, wondering whether she, like Müller, will receive an unwanted visitor at the dead of night.
‘I do not have a choice. But Canon, why should my case be more valuable than the others? And if I am proved innocent, what political purpose will that serve the archbishop, or even yourself?’
What can he say to her? Why has he troubled to take up her cause when there have been so many who have gone before her, many equally innocent? Is he so repelled by the moral compromises, the reduction of his faith, or is it that Ruth bas Elazar Saul embodies a nobler morality towards which he yearns himself? Or is there a more carnal impulse he is struggling to deny?
‘Why have I fought to defend you? I cannot answer that myself. But do not deceive yourself: I have enemies also. Monsignor Solitario waited until he knew I had left Cologne to hasten the executions. The two condemned were a warning from Leopold to Maximilian to stop his fraternising with the French.’
‘Innocent men sacrificed for petty affairs of state.’
‘This is the world we live in, Fräulein.’
‘So enlighten me: what am I, a mere Jew of no consequence, to the inquisitor?’
‘Emperor Leopold’s gift for being such a good lap dog,’ he says brutally, then immediately regrets his honesty.
Frightened that he should see her weaken Ruth turns to the wall.
‘It is not that your case is entirely without prospect, Fräulein. I can exploit the sentiments of the Gaffeln. Meister Voss was one of their own and highly respected. His execution has been seen as a direct intervention by Leopold, and as you know the Cologners are loath to be dictated to by anyone from outside. Even the Holy Emperor himself. You have delivered many Christian babies safely within these city walls—Jewish or not Jewish, witch or no witch, you are not without your supporters. Meister Brassant himself has told me, in private and with no small risk, that he will anonymously finance any evidence that will prove your innocence.’
‘There is something else you should know for your argument.’
‘Pray tell?’
‘There is a woman in my town, a mother who has not yet forgiven me for the travesty God fostered upon her and her child. The babe, who I delivered with my own hands, has failed to speak at all for some two years. And the mother, in her grief, has taken it upon herself to speak of sorcery. She is convinced I summoned the she-demon Lilith to the birthing.’
‘And did you?’
‘Canon, it is always my practice to hang amulets against Satan’s grandmother, but I swear I did not invoke the demon. In truth, the woman’s child does not speak for he cannot hear.’
Perplexed by the strange mix of Ruth’s practical knowledge of scientia nova and her investment in the old ways, Detlef again decides to trust his instincts.
‘I believe you. I will search out this woman and make sure that her child and her silence are provided for.’
‘I am both reassured and sorry to see that you have such a realistic turn of mind, Canon,’ Ruth replies, a wry twinkle in her eyes. Detlef cannot help but smile back.
‘Would you have your inquisitor otherwise?’
‘No, I believe I would not.’
Again the space between them thickens, empathy catching each like a spiderweb. Awkward in his desire, Detlef steps back.
‘There is something else. Your father has made a supplication to the archbishop.’
‘My father?’ Her voice cracks with sudden emotion. ‘How is he?’
‘That I cannot say, but I do know he has offered to waive Maximilian Heinrich’s debts in exchange for your freedom.’
‘They are Herr Hossern’s debts, the exchange will include my hand.’
‘Your hand? But I thought that perhaps you were already…’
‘Pledged?’
‘Forgive me, I know not the customs of your people.’
‘I am maiden and have vowed to have no congress with man.’ Then she adds mischievously, ‘Nor devil.’
Surprised, Detlef looks away. What else had he imagined? But then her ways are foreign to him.
‘So you are to marry the moneylender?’
‘It is his nephew, Tuvia, my father’s assistant, who seeks the match.’
‘In that case we must secure your freedom for then you shall have both husband and father to return to.’
‘The freedom I desire, the husband not. My father tried to marry me before; it was another reason I fled to Holland.’
They both sit and watch each other, she on a small wooden stool, he towering over her on a chair. And for an instant they are neither canon nor heretic but simply man and woman.
‘Are a woman’s desires ever relevant?’ she asks softly, a statement more than a question, a plaintive echo of her own frustrations.
‘It is written that a woman needs guidance for her own welfare and that such guidance is best supplied by a husband and the security of the hearth. Most are betrothed by fifteen, Fräulein, you should consider yourself lucky to have a suitor at such an advanced age.’
‘I am twenty-three.’
‘Ten years younger than I.’
‘But you are a man of the cloth, such matters are superfluous to you. If I were a man I should dedicate my life to philosophy and medical knowledge.’
‘But you are not; you are a woman. And I am a priest.’
‘You are more than that, I suspect, just as I am more than you know, Canon von Tennen,’ she adds defiantly, then leans towards him. ‘You have as much curiosity as I. You seek knowledge.’
And upon seeing his ears begin to burn, she realises she has stumbled upon a hidden truth. ‘What have you read?’
‘Careful, Fräulein, be sure you understand your intentions. After all, if I am to burn too, who will be left to rescue you?’
‘See it as a pledge of faith. Confess, as I have confessed to you, and then we shall be equals. I swear on my father’s life that I will never betray you.’
‘Not even under torture?’
‘Not even if they rip the bones of my arms from my body.’
And as Detlef stares at her, a great exhilaration rises up from the soles of his feet and burns slowly through his body: the thrilling relief of admission, of being released from the burden of secret inspiration, of notions that he had dismissed as flights of wild fancy until he read those incriminating pieces of parchment, one of which alone could condemn a man to death. A colossal excitement, sexual in its intensity, grips him.
‘De Witt, Spinoza, John Milton, Everard the Leveller and John Lilburne amongst others,’ he tells her, shaking, then wonders what spell she has cast to make him utter such a damning statement.
‘And how does an aristocrat and powerful member of the Catholic church align himself with such radical ideas of humanism and democracy? Could he be a covert supporter of the notion of a republic?’
‘Do you wish to damn me further, Fräulein, or are you just toying with my vulnerabilities?’
‘Rest assured, sir, I never jest. I just have a fatal curiosity.’
‘Fatal indeed. If I am defined by my robe and rank, then I grant you there is a growing paradox within me. Sometimes I wonder why I fought in the Great War, why all those young men were slaughtered. To what purpose? How is it that ideology can divide and destroy men? Why is one man worth more than another by dint of his birthright? It is these debates that have driven me to my secret readings. I find that I have more philosophical ambition than I had calculated upon. It leaves me with a restless soul. Another cleric would be more than satisfied with my position.’
‘The riches towards which your intellect drives you will be far greater and far more rewarding than a bishopric in the Rhineland, that I promise you.’
‘So the prisoner is making promises to the gaoler,’ he replies, amused by her earnestness. Ruth’s intensity is broken by a slight smile before she becomes serious again.
‘Tell me, what have you read of Benedict Spinoza?’
‘I have read his short treatise on God, man and his wellbeing, and I subscribe to his notion, sub specie aeternitatis, that we should look at our own lives under the aspect of eternity, to try to see our problems in light of the place they actually occupy in a universal perspective. In that idea I find great solace, to know that our short lives are finally and undeniably insignificant in the greater realm of the universe,’ Detlef replies hesitantly.
‘We are of shared sentiment then.’
‘It appears so. And as such I am desirous of your liberation.’
‘I am flattered.’
‘Do not be. Even Catholic canons are able to have an appreciation of a rare intellect.’
‘So are you a supporter of the republic?’ she asks.
‘Only at such a time when the common man is educated enough to govern himself. I cannot see it working otherwise.’
‘But a republic where serf is equal to king, where property belongs to a commonwealth—such a nation would educate its people,’ Ruth counters.
‘Perhaps, but I fear that man is inherently unequal in nature and that all the nurturing in the world will never undo this inequality. It is the cruel law of the forest itself, or of the herd or the gambling pit,’ he answers, spurred on by her argument.
‘But without the social experiment of a republic, we are never to know.’
‘You speak a sombre truth. Tell me, is it true that Benedict Spinoza is a Mennonite?’
‘He dwells amongst them at Rijnsburg. They meet weekly in collegia where each is allowed the freedom to voice his hypothesis. Like-minded individuals freely exchanging visions for a new future. Stronger spirits than myself,’ she adds, unable to keep a note of regret from her voice.
‘Fräulein, I will prove your innocence.’
Only then, mustering all the courage he has, does he reach across and take her hand, holding it as paternally as he can despite the lust that bolts through him.
‘And I your valour,’ she replies, looking directly at him.
&nb
sp; Samuel Oppenheimer, Court Jew and purveyor-general to Leopold I, leans over the table and, with the help of a long brass pole with a carved wooden hand fashioned at one end, pushes the model of the English ship, The Diamond, towards the miniature Dutch fleet. Colourfully painted in the red, white and blue of their nation, they sit on a rendition of the North Sea, placed in an arrowhead of advancement. The tall man, in his mid-thirties, his handsome aquiline features denoting an ancient elegance, stands and smooths down the silver curls of his impressive periwig, then flicks back the long lace sleeves which hang past his manicured fingernails.
‘Joseph!’ Samuel calls out.
His son, barely eight, who is curled up on a low settee, jolts himself out of a light sleep.
Oppenheimer points imperiously at the English fleet which appears to be slamming sideways into the Dutch ships. ‘Who shall win, Joseph?’
‘The English,’ replies the child in a well-rehearsed response.
Emperor Leopold, watching from a high-backed baroque chair, leans forward on his gold-tipped cane. The rugged features and huge craggy jaw break into a grin that immediately softens the unprepossessing visage. Oppenheimer, exceedingly conscious of Leopold’s approval, decides to exploit the young emperor’s joviality further.
‘And why, my child?’ he asks.
‘Because we don’t like the Dutch,’ Joseph answers in an uncertain tone.
Leopold’s cackle bounces around the small court chamber.
‘And…?’ the purveyor-general persists. Worried, the boy creases his forehead in imitation of his father. The emperor, recognising the gesture, laughs again.
‘Because we owned some of the East India Company?’ the child replies nervously.
‘Bravo!’ the emperor applauds and turns to Samuel. ‘You have the child well trained. If only the English were as compliant.’
The Witch of Cologne Page 21
