The Witch of Cologne

by Tobsha Learner

  Having swung from a gentle daydream into a full-blown nightmare, and gripped by the ghastly possibility that Ferdinand might actually die and with him all hope of appeasing the emperor, Heinrich sits up and reaches for his quill.

  A few minutes later, dressed in riding boots with a long velvet robe flung over his nightshirt, clutching a scribbled appeal to the count asking him to conceal any connection between the cathedral and Ruth bas Elazar Saul should the prince die, the archbishop strides across the muddy courtyard of his country palace towards the dovecote. His falconer, still pulling on his trousers, runs after him, stumbling his way through a flock of geese.

  The dovecote, an iron and wooden structure built in the style of a mock Oriental palace, stands over a stable containing some unhappy goats, next to the archbishop’s falconry. Several sleepy hooded hawks and kestrels blindly twist their cloaked heads in Heinrich’s direction as he arrives puffing in the chilly morning air. Planting both feet squarely in the mud and straw he stares up at the cooing doves and pigeons.

  The falconer catches up and stands panting beside the archbishop, wondering what terrible mistake he has made to bring the archbishop out so early. Finally Heinrich turns to the trembling bird handler.

  ‘Count von Tennen has a dove here, does he not?’

  ‘Yes, your majesty.’

  ‘Bring it here.’

  The falconer, donning his cap, climbs up the narrow wooden ladder precariously balanced against the side of the cote and unfastens the small woven door. Below Heinrich plucks two feathers from the air and watches as the falconer crouches in a corner and begins cooing softly. Within seconds the birds have settled. Carefully the peasant makes his way to one small grey dove.

  ‘She’s a good bird, swift too.’

  ‘How fast?’

  ‘Two hours by daylight to the count, by my reckoning.’

  Heinrich holds out his cupped hands and with a tenderness that belies their paw-like size wraps his fingers around the bird. Fearlessly the dove cocks her head, her curious beady eye fastening on the archbishop’s round, reddish nose which she has mistaken for a juicy caterpillar.

  The maidservant throws the sheet over the balustrade and shakes it vigorously. Below she can see the midwife making her way towards the family chapel, her black hair streaming down her back. Unaccustomed to the heavy skirt she is clumsy in her gait. Such an ugly woman, the maid thinks, wondering whether the Jewess is truly a witch, maybe even half-goat under the long skirts. Could it be possible that such a hag has saved the prince’s life?

  The young wench has already heard from the cook that the midwife and the Italian actor locked themselves in the prince’s quarters overnight and were seen through the keyhole conducting a black mass. How can such a puny insignificant woman wield such power? It has to be sorcery. Crossing herself the girl makes a quick prayer for protection to Saint Zita, the Italian patron saint of house servants. Her entreaty is interrupted by the appearance of a single dove flying in from the east. The bird, a small defiant ball of grey feathers, lands beside her and ruffles its wings. Frightened that it might shit on her clean sheets the maidservant immediately shoos it away.

  Swooping down to the courtyard, the dove swings in a wide arc towards the enclosure where the count keeps his winged messengers.

  Ruth barely notices the bird passing above her. She stands at the doorway of the small chapel, not daring to enter. Oblivious to her presence Detlef kneels in a pew, his head bowed in front of the altar. The statue is of the Virgin Mary, hands outspread, bestowing grace. The painted yellow hair, the rose of her cheeks, the ornate blue robe all look completely foreign to Ruth, but the intensity of the canon’s physiognomy—the way his hands clutch the iron railings, his head bowed in desperate supplication, the vulnerability of his curved shoulders—all of these gestures reverberate in her.

  This is a man at prayer. A man in direct appeal to his God, she thinks. It is not important to her that he is worshipping a deity different from her own, for it is his spiritual ambition, his drive to surrender his will to a higher power, that attracts her. To her, the humility of his absorption is wondrous.

  Sensing her presence, Detlef swings around. ‘How long have you been waiting there?’

  ‘Not long,’ she replies, embarrassed to be caught in her reverie.

  Detlef gets up, dusts his knees then walks towards her. ‘You may enter. It is not a sin to let the unchristian into a place of worship.’

  ‘If you please, I would rather not.’

  He joins her at the stone archway, shivering in the dawn chill.

  ‘So, Fräulein, does the prince live?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  Ruth, unwilling to give any reason to hope, watches carefully as the strain begins to lift from the canon’s face.

  ‘Thank the Good Lord himself.’

  ‘You were praying?’

  ‘All night.’

  ‘Then pray some more for I shall not know if he has fully recovered until tomorrow’s sunrise.’

  Exhaustion drains her voice of any inflection. Weary to within an inch of her life she stumbles in the direction of her sleeping quarters.

  The count, not knowing how to house the midwife and fearing scandal, has placed Ruth in the room of his mother’s favourite maid, an old woman who died only a month before. The tiny chamber, little more than a sparse box dominated by a roof beam, sits off a top hallway which leads into a maze of corridors with peeling plaster and sloping walls that houses the rest of the servants. At night this labyrinth transforms into a treacherous forest of whispered endearments, of shadows that criss-cross the wooden ceilings, a lattice of sexual intrigue.

  Tucked neatly in the corner of the room is a straw pallet covered with an ancient quilt which, Ruth surmises correctly, the poor woman must have inherited from her mother before being given up to service as a small child. The coverlet, lovingly embroidered by a woman who no doubt feared for the safety of her first-born, depicts the fourteen Stations of the Cross. Above the bed hangs a small icon of the Virgin Mary. Against the opposite wall stands a pewter washing jug and wooden bucket, the hallmarks of a good and clean Christian woman. Ruth’s journeybox, an embossed Spanish leather case she inherited from her own mother, sits against the chalky partition.

  Ruth is grateful for the sudden tranquillity of the chamber. Although windowless it has the feeling of being securely embedded in the body of the hunting lodge, with life rustling above and below it. She pulls off the damp tippet and drapes it carefully over the beam. Leaning over she takes the icon off its hook. Pinned to the back is a small portrait of a young aristocratic woman who resembles Detlef in her fair colouring and the line of her proud mouth. Attached to the miniature is a faded lock of blonde hair. Ruth, realising that this is Detlef’s mother, is surprised by the sudden rush of intimacy she feels staring at the crudely painted likeness. Holding the picture under the spluttering taper, she can clearly see an earnestness tempered by a look of humour in the eyes, a characteristic she has glimpsed only momentarily in the son.

  The maid must have loved the mistress, she thinks, and carefully leans the icon against the leather chest. She opens the journeybox and pulls out a small pebble. Etched onto it, the crevasses of the letters filled with gold leaf, are three kabbalistic words: Chochma, Binah and Netzach—revelation, reason and lasting endurance. Ruth mutters a blessing, kisses the amulet then places it under her pillow.

  Outside she can hear the distant village bells pealing for midday. Too fatigued to think, she pulls off her overskirt then struggles to wriggle out of the tight corset. Now clad only in a simple cotton petticoat, she pours water from the jug into the bucket and washes herself with a small cake of salt. Throwing herself onto the pallet she falls instantly into a dreamless sleep.

  ‘Pray tell me, are we in need of an undertaker yet?’

  The count sits at the centre of the long wooden table in the reception hall of the hunting lodge. Beside him is his land manager, a puny man whose self-effac
ing manner ill conceals his ruthlessness.

  The canon, still in his clothes from the night before, paces restlessly in front of the huge granite fireplace. The count’s tone reminds Detlef of the dismissive manner of their dictatorial father. Knowing that his brother is deliberately humiliating him in front of his servants, Detlef is momentarily gripped by anger.

  ‘I received one of Maximilian Heinrich’s birds only an hour ago. The good archbishop panics. Along with myself, he fears the emperor’s wrath should his nephew perish.’ The count sounds peevish with impatience.

  ‘You will have to wait until tomorrow morning. The prince lives, but I am told we shall not know for how long until then.’

  ‘The incision was successful?’

  ‘I told you, he still breathes…I have made prayer for him.’

  ‘In that case we have no choice but to wait on God’s will. But of course, with a canon’s personal supplication I assume we are slightly advantaged, are we not?’ The count’s sardonic smile further enrages Detlef.

  A knock on the door interrupts them. A page ushers in a tall emaciated man, weathered beyond his years by poverty and toil. The peasant, limping badly and dressed in his best but heavily stained clothes, shuffles in behind the page, clutching a cloth cap. His wooden clogs rattle against the stone floor. He stands before the count and stares at his feet in abject terror.

  Knowing that his brother is critical of the way he oversees Das Grüntal, Gerhard deliberately postpones dismissing him. Let him see for himself the difficulties I face every day in dealing with these plebeians, the count thinks, ignoring Detlef’s obvious exhaustion. At least next time he launches into a diatribe of advice it will be more informed.

  His land manager hands him a scroll.

  ‘Herr Braun, you have failed to pay rent for the last three moons for both field and hearth. Do you realise the penalty?’

  The count looks up from the report.

  ‘Sire, I have a war injury and the winter’s been bad on it.’

  ‘Is that your only excuse?’

  ‘That and the frost—it got two crops of turnips and the barley will be nothing to speak of come summer. But fear not, I’ll pay the rent, just as soon as I have something to sell at market…’

  The farmer shifts nervously, glancing apprehensively at both Detlef and the count. His eyes wander around the room, staring at the splendour of the candelabra, the silver ornaments, the bronze lion’s feet of the table. The farmer has never been inside Das Grüntal before and he is astounded at the opulence. Like Heaven it is; if he loses everything at least he will have seen this. Gazing up at a portrait of Katerina von Tennen, he reminds himself to tell his wife how like an angel the lady looks.

  ‘From midday tomorrow you and your family shall be cast out and your land and house repossessed,’ the count announces smoothly.

  The farmer’s jaw drops open, revealing a row of blackened stumps. For a moment he is too shocked to speak, then, indignant, he bursts into broad dialect. ‘But sire, I have five children! We will all starve! I can pay you back, I can!’

  Clutching at Detlef’s robes he drops to his knees, begging. Immediately two lackeys grab him and begin to drag him towards the door.

  ‘Stop!’ Detlef cries out.

  Confused, the manservants pause, waiting for instruction. The canon turns to his brother.

  ‘Surely it is fitting that we celebrate the prince’s recovery? If Ferdinand lives, grant a reprieve of three months to Herr Braun: that should give him enough time to pay back the rent and the gesture will only enhance your reputation as a humane and generous master.’

  ‘And if the prince dies?’

  ‘Naturally Herr Braun shall be without a roof,’ Detlef answers, calculating on the addiction of the gambler, one of his brother’s foibles.

  Amused by Detlef’s stratagem, the count consults with his land manager who scribbles out financial calculations with a quill made from a long black raven’s feather. Angrily the manager explains the sums to his overlord who, smiling at the official’s indignation, turns back to the farmer still kneeling on the floor, his eyes wide in panic.

  ‘So be it.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, your highness. You are indeed a kind man, thank you.’

  Irritated by his obsequiousness, the count waves him off. As the land manager continues to splutter in outrage, Gerhard calmly tears up the eviction notice and with a regal flourish throws the pieces over the trembling serf. Too terrified to move, the peasant stays kneeling.

  ‘But Herr Braun, it would be prudent of you to pack your belongings anyhow,’ the count adds before the servants hoist the farmer to his feet and haul him out.

  Yawning, Gerhard turns back to Detlef.

  ‘The inferiority of these people astounds me! He will be running around the village boasting about the kind heart of his good lord before cock crow. ‘Tis almost a pity we shall be evicting him tomorrow.’

  ‘You shall not keep your word?’

  ‘Naturally. But brother, you and I both know the prince will die.’

  The handsome young musician pauses dramatically at his harpsichord. A periwig in the latest style, imported from the Italian court, balances precariously on his head. His slender muscled figure is clearly apparent under his short-sleeved tunic made of philoselle, bound at the shoulder with an obscenely abundant knot of scarlet ribbon. Before sitting he flicks up the long velvet tails of his waistcoat, revealing for an instant his taut satin-clad buttocks. An audible sigh of desire ripples through the assembled women. Thrilled with the effect, the musician tosses back his locks and stretches his long elegant fingers suggestively over the keyboard. Smiling mischievously he scans the front row of his audience, knowing that his heated stare leaves every woman there convinced of a liaison later that evening. Only then does he begin to play.

  Seated in two curved rows, the wealthy wives of the bürgers, desperate for an opportunity to show off their imported finery, preen and fidget like excited canaries. Birgit, her tight-fitted bodice tapering to an elegant point, her embroidered blue underskirt flaring out from beneath a silk skirt of black taffeta, her bosom, neck and shoulders covered by a fine lace gorget fastened at the front with a diamond and emerald brooch her husband has just brought back from a trip to the West Indies, is the most restless of them all. Not even the lascivious glances of the young instrumentalist—a dusky Italian who has threatened to tutor all the ladies and daughters of Cologne—can soothe her irritation.

  It has been over a month since she last saw Detlef. Only half an hour ago she suffered the indignity of sending her page to Groot’s seedy chamber, wanting to establish whether the rumour that the canon is at Das Grüntal attending the sick prince is true. Groot’s diplomatic but highly ambiguous answer has only added to her anxiety. In the sedan chair on the way to the recital she actually wept with frustration. And now, despite the powdered white lead she has applied, conscious of her swollen eyes she affects a shrill air of gaiety—which fools none of the women around her.

  ‘Nice trinket.’ Meisterin Schmidt, wife of Klaus Schmidt, head of the guild of kegmakers, stares at the brooch at Birgit’s bosom. ‘You must be pleasing the husband then?’

  For the millionth time Birgit curses the fact that she married a mere bürger and not one of her own.

  ‘What pleases me pleases him.’

  But Meisterin Schmidt, winking at another woman who is wearing a ridiculously high cornet headdress, persists. ‘In that case, Merchant Ter Lahn von Lennep must be more pious than I thought, although I have heard rumour that you have not attended confession for several weeks. Why not visit another priest? Confession is confession. Although, of course, the canon’s enthusiasm is legendary and he is much loved.’

  ‘There is no need. I have it on good authority that the canon is attending to family business and will be with us by the summer solstice.’

  ‘I am much relieved to hear it, Meisterin Ter Lahn von Lennep, as you yourself must be.’

  They are interrup
ted by the first notes of a madrigal, a decorative tune ill suited to Birgit’s mood. As she sits there a sudden panic sweeps through her. For the first time in their five-year love affair she senses that the bond that has always connected her to her lover—a sensibility that allowed her to intuit Detlef’s movements, to visit him in spirit at night, to kneel beside him at prayer, her warm breath on his shoulder, to watch him saying a mass—has been brutally and inexplicably severed.

  Terrified by the notion, she starts to tremble despite the heat of the auditorium. Craving reassurance like an opiate, she clenches her gloved hands and summons all her willpower to stop herself running out to look for him, wanting Detlef to tell her that her terror is misplaced, that his affection for her is as strong as ever.

  Instead she drops her veil and forces her features into a rigid mask of control. Beneath the lace her jaw tightens as she tries to listen to the music which her distraught ear has reduced to a series of discordant notes.

  Ruth’s hand is lying palm up on the pillow beside her sleeping head. Her nails are bitten and chewed. A tendril of black hair winds its way across the yellowed hessian, creeping under the petite hand, the fingers of which Detlef now realises are surprisingly long for such a small palm. They are working hands. Reddened by the cold. Scratched by labour. The skin visible on the fingertips is callused and coarse. They would be rough to touch, abrasive on his body. Distracted by the thought he becomes aware of his breath quickening.

  He is standing in the room where Ruth lies sleeping. To him it seems as if this place has a twilight of its own, a half-light between reality and dream. He cannot remember how he got here, only that instinct drove him up the narrow wooden stairs beyond the level where his brother sleeps, up higher to the servants’ quarters, knowing that here, somewhere, she would be. Like the kernel that lies at the heart of a rosebud, like the glimmer of pearl fluttering up through green water. And without calling out her name, without knowing which door to push open, but guided by a certainty of sensation, he has found her. As if, for the first time in his memory, he did not have to apply thought or strategy but an inherent knowledge summoned up from his very soul.