The Witch of Cologne

by Tobsha Learner

  ‘Is she still practising her devilry?’

  ‘You mean midwifery.’

  ‘She is no mere midwife; she is witch, trust me on this.’

  The steely conviction in the inquisitor’s voice sends an involuntary tremble through von Fürstenberg’s body, despite his cynicism.

  The worst enemy is one whose doctrines are founded in hate and are thus beyond debate, the minister wryly observes to himself. The friar has no heart and a heartless man is the most vicious of all.

  Carlos meticulously prises off a portion of the flesh with the travelling fork he carries with him; the practice of sharing food using one’s fingers is abhorrent to his fastidious nature.

  ‘She has not been seen since her release, except at her father’s house.’ Von Fürstenberg offers the information cautiously.

  ‘To secure her we shall have to defame her liberator.’

  ‘That might be possible. The Countess von Marck is a close friend of Meisterin Birgit Ter Lahn von Lennep, a woman once much enamoured of our colleague von Tennen.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘In his newly found zeal he is refusing to take her confession. Naturally I am happy to console her.’

  ‘In the meantime?’

  ‘In the meantime we wait and watch. The patient cat catches the mouse.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Carlos replies carefully, ‘but be warned, sire, my patience can wear thin.’

  ‘Do have the breast, it is the choicest part of the bird, Monsignor.’

  Von Fürstenberg pulls at the huge glistening carcass with his fingers then thrusts the fatty piece of flesh towards the Spaniard. Carlos, in a heroic gesture of fraternity, takes it between his own fingers and nibbles at it delicately.

  Elazar sits before the fire with his breeches rolled up to his knees. The nursemaid stands behind him, her hands covered in a pungent-smelling ointment of chicken fat, almond oil and crushed cloves, massaging the old man’s shoulders. Ruth is at the table, grinding a poultice with a pestle and mortar, smiling at her father’s groans.

  ‘Woman, I am not a piece of old leather.’

  ‘No, you are a gout-ridden piece of old leather with religious ambitions,’ Rosa retorts as her thick fingers manipulate the swollen tissue.

  ‘Abba, you must stop the rich food.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with food. Your grandfather had the gout as did his father. It is in the blood!’

  ‘But the poultice helps?’

  ‘It soothes. You make miracles, daughter, with your magic.’

  They are interrupted by a pounding at the door. Fearing the worst, they stop still.

  ‘I will go,’ the old man announces as he struggles to stand.

  ‘No, you won’t.’

  Ruth wipes her hands and walks to the door. Outside a small boy, his reddish prayer locks tumbling down past his ears, waits impatiently.

  ‘Please, Fräulein! My mother needs a midwife. Please, she is in trouble! Please come!’

  ‘No, Ruth.’ The rabbi, leaning heavily against the doorway, his brow stern, is the figure of immutable authority. ‘I forbid it.’

  He turns to the child. ‘Tell your mother the midwife is not available.’

  The child, intimidated by the rabbi, is near tears but still he will not budge. ‘But Rabbi, she will die! She is screaming already…’

  Without answering Elazar begins to close the door.

  Ruth pushes past. ‘Come’ she says to the child and grabbing his hand runs with him down the street.

  Elazar, immobile with anger, dares not call out his daughter’s name.

  My true heart, my beloved,

  I sit by the stream that runs past my orchard. It is late, I know not how late. I have broken my father’s promise and attended a birthing this very day. The woman was narrow in the hips from rickets and would have died without my attention. The babe was a boy, second child to Herr and Frau Rechtschild. The father is a tailor for my people and I had to make him swear not to tell of my service nor to pay me for it. It is of necessity of the heart that I attend these women. Many have died before their time—my mother among them—through ignorance and unnecessary pain inflicted upon them by clumsy midwifery. And if I risk persecution, Detlef, then I risk it joyously.

  Venus, the first star, has appeared, another child is born and the stream runs on. Water must be a celestial element for it has neither time nor history stamped upon it and is as constant as the tides of the sea or the rising of the moon. I long for such constancy, be it in life or in comradeship. Memory is a great deceiver: it embroiders until naught is left but the glory and the pleasure. Did we really lie together? Was it really your voice that spoke of great affection? Was it you who dreamt a future that cannot be?

  I have a noble spirit, but I want to live. Tell me how to live and who to live for. I fear I shall surrender too much in love and then survive to regret it…

  She sits with her naked feet tucked under her long stained skirt. It is barely an hour since she left the birthing, smuggled out of the tailor’s meagre dwelling, hidden under an old cloak long abandoned by one of his customers. Herr Rechtschild, profusely grateful, led her down a narrow alley stinking with sewage that only the goats and chickens care to frequent. In lieu of payment he insisted she allow him the pleasure of mending all her shawls for a month, claiming that if anyone asks why he shall say that he is preparing her for her engagement to Tuvia. Ruth, too exhausted to argue, was sickened by his obvious joy at the imagined union. The encroaching expectations of the small community are already fastening around her like tentacles. An old but familiar sense of panic begins to ferment within her: the desire to leave, to break free.

  The gutter ended at a sluice-gate, beyond it a field adjacent to her own property. As the tailor unfastened the gate she had made him swear not to tell anyone of her service. As soon as she was out of view, she had run through the long grass towards the cottage, hoping against all reason that Detlef would be there waiting for her, like some glorious apparition from a forgotten daydream.

  By the time she reached the dwelling the consequences of her actions had sobered her completely. But the yearning to talk with her lover, to touch him, to share the day, was overwhelming.

  Night creeps across the orchard now as the first swarm of gnats begins to dance over the water. Ruth looks down at the sheet of parchment, her handwriting an erratic scrawl, illegible in its jagged eagerness. How is she to send it? A courier would be too dangerous. She could bribe a journeyman, but discovery would mean death and disgrace for at least one of them. Can she trust Detlef? Is she able to discern between the pleasure of the body and the loyalty of the heart?

  Uncertain of anything, she tears the parchment into pieces then scatters them across the rushing water.

  Detlef stands over the font. Behind him he can hear the last of the sext prayers fading. Looking down he sees his fingertips reflected in the water’s surface as he prepares to dip them to mark himself with the holy cross. He does not think, he dares not.

  It is four nights since he lay with the midwife and the potency of their encounter has rendered his ecclesiastical life with its rigid rituals and antiquated traditions meaningless. The prospect of loving her, the sheer audacity of it, has jarred him into a multitude of different futures, as if the road he had carefully mapped out has branched uncontrollably into endless possibilities. Suddenly all his work within the cathedral feels futile, worse than that: hollow.

  He wonders how he is to deal with the day-to-day routines of his clerical life: the singing of vespers, the taking of confession, ministering to the poor. How is he to go on as before, an ambitious young canon manipulating his way to a bishopric? Will it be possible for his life to continue without her?

  He kneels at the ornate altar. The statue of Saint Ursula is a baroque carving which vividly depicts the young maiden with scarlet cheeks and huge sad eyes, her gown torn, her body shot through with arrows, while at her bleeding feet writhe several of her ravished followers. Here a damsel
of Aryan perfection straddled by a huge dark-haired Briton, his face a puffy parody of arousal; there a pale creature cowers as her gown is torn from her body by a rusty-haired sailor. The saint herself seems to gaze down at Detlef. The more he stares at her the more he is convinced there is a chastising look on her painted face.

  Closing his eyes he begins to pray but finds that Ruth’s naked form plays before him: tantalisingly, fragments of memory—the tilt of her chin below a shy smile, cheeks flushed with excitement, an erect nipple—wash over him, weakening his resolve. Each supplication as it forms in his mind concludes with one word: Ruth.

  A sharp tap on the shoulder rescues him, jolting him back to within the stone walls of the chapel. Groot pulls at his robe, gesturing that Detlef should follow him outside to a place where they cannot be heard. Together they step through a stone archway into a courtyard where the archbishop’s servants grow vegetables for the kitchen. The midday sun hits the back of their shaved necks, reddening the skin above the rough linen. A page squats on some stone steps, busy mending his boots with a hammer. Groot, edging closer, takes advantage of the loud banging.

  ‘Canon, I have news from a small but friendly bird. Von Fürstenberg has made water with the Spaniard and we both know how bad their piss must stink. They have made merry and I fear you are to be the cuckold. Find yourself a dance master, for if you falter but once they shall take advantage.’

  Detlef, frustrated by Groot’s dramatic and incomprehensible allegories and unsure just how much his assistant actually knows, decides to feign ignorance.

  ‘Groot, you know yourself that I dance superbly.’

  The cleric leans even closer, his pockmarked face looming like a craterous moon. ‘In plain talk, sire, you are watched and closely.’

  For a second Detlef’s heart misses a beat. Can Groot know about the midwife when he has been so careful?

  The assistant, relishing his master’s paling face, elaborates. ‘Von Fürstenberg seeks favour with the archbishop and both are worried about your recent and growing affection.’

  He is oblivious to the sudden silence as the page pauses in his hammering and cocks his ear at the second mention of von Fürstenberg, wondering if he might be able to make an extra Reichstaler through eavesdropping.

  ‘Affection…?’

  ‘For those who challenge the way the bürgermeisters favour certain individuals. Even some of the Gaffeln are worried, and everyone knows you haven’t taken Meisterin Ter Lahn von Lennep’s confession for over two full moons.’ Groot smiles lewdly. ‘One might even say you are a chaste man.’

  ‘Chaste indeed,’ Detlef replies with a serious demeanour, fear prickling still at the back of his scalp.

  A few feet away the watching page wonders why the handsome young canon looks so uncomfortable at his cleric’s words.

  The infusion of elderflower and ginger root wafts fragrantly from an elegant teapot of Chinese porcelain. Birgit, demurely resplendent in pale mauve damask, pours the tea into two impossibly fragile cups.

  ‘My husband bought these from an Oriental trader by way of a Dutch ship. They are said to be over one hundred years old.’

  She hands the cup to Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg, who takes it between his pudgy fingers and raises it above his large ruffled collar. Birgit watches him sip with a surprising delicacy.

  ‘But you did not visit me to sample tea, Herr von Fürstenberg, did you?’

  ‘No. I am here on a more sombre matter.’

  Birgit studies the corpulent man as he fiddles nervously with the gold chain which hangs over his black robe. Many times she and Detlef have shared witticisms and cruel observations about the ambitious minister, and on numerous occasions Birgit warned the canon of von Fürstenberg’s famed treachery. Now here he is in her own parlour, like a huge spider pausing before deciding to which part of her anatomy he wishes to attach his dangerously sticky web.

  ‘The matter of the salvation of your soul, Frau Ter Lahn von Lennep.’

  ‘My soul?’ Birgit allows a sardonic smile to spread across her full mouth. ‘I have not noticed that it is in need of saving, but of course I bow to your professional insight.’

  Angry at his impertinence she covers herself by reaching for her own teacup. It is only the years of decorum that prevent her hand from shaking with rage.

  ‘You have not taken confession for over two months. Naturally I understand why you would wait for the attentions of your…favourite canon. But given his recent and sudden preference for attending to secular matters before his religious duties, it is not correct that you should be without the cleansing of regular confession.’

  ‘Are you volunteering yourself?’

  Birgit, now icily furious, looks him directly in the eye. Von Fürstenberg does not flinch or blush. He is betrayed only by a slight twitch which appears under one eyelid, as if Birgit might have willed it there herself.

  ‘I am afraid that I have other commitments, Madame, otherwise it would be a great honour to serve such a devout Catholic. I know no other lady in your position who has been taking confession with the same priest for so many years. It must be a great loss to find oneself suddenly without one’s cleric.’

  The delicate teacup shatters under the pressure of Birgit’s fingers. Immediately the housemaid darts forward from her position in the corner and mops at the spreading liquid with her apron. Struggling to retain her composure, Birgit methodically gathers the pieces of china, pushing them into a tiny heap. Minute beads of blood well up on her thumb.

  Von Fürstenberg takes the opportunity to lean closer.

  ‘The canon’s actions threaten the unity of the cathedral council. The archbishop is not pleased. A charge of immoral conduct, Madame, would cause Detlef von Tennen to be excommunicated and banished from Cologne.’

  Birgit stares at his face as it mottles with excitement. Revolted by the minister’s obvious pleasure, she wonders how much he knows about her relationship with Detlef. Could it be that they were spied upon that fateful day at The Hunter’s Sheath? Surely not. As she hesitates, Birgit thinks she glimpses the shadow of a leaner, more vicious man emerging from von Furstenberg’s rotundity. The vision reminds her of some monstrous insect climbing out of a deceptively sleek cocoon.

  ‘You could destroy him,’ he whispers seductively, his breath a foul wind. In his excitement his spittle hits her cheek.

  Birgit glares at him, shocked by the vitriol of his outburst, his flushed face, his pupils shining pinpricks of hate.

  ‘Nothing immoral has ever happened between myself and the good canon, Herr von Fürstenberg. To insinuate otherwise would be to suggest there was something unholy about our discourse. To love one’s fellow man is to love God, is it not?’ she finishes coldly.

  She stands, stiff with rage. ‘Good day to you, sir.’

  Smiling superciliously at her rebuff, the minister bows then reaches for his hat.

  ‘You know, Madame, that if you should change your mind I shall always be of service,’ he finishes smoothly before leaving.

  Birgit goes to the window. Holding herself, she watches as von Fürstenberg climbs into his carriage. After his coach has disappeared she returns to the table and places her bleeding thumb in the cup of half-drunk tea he has left standing. Blood seeps out, staining the pale beverage with crimson tendrils.

  Ruth and Detlef lie on the straw. Silent. Apart. Through the barn window the low crescent moon hangs below a velvet awning of stars. He has come to her again by the back roads. Standing over a bowl of flour, her hands covered with the dusty powder, Ruth sensed his approach as a fiery certainty. A phenomenon which burnt through her, leaving her shaking at the knees until at last she saw her lover appear at the edge of the field.

  There was no need for words. This time it was she who simply took his hand and led him to the barn, the shelf above the stables, the most secret place she could think of, and this time they held each other for a long time before the lovemaking.

  Ruth reaches down and touches hersel
f, her thighs are still sticky with his seed. With her finger damp she holds it in a beam of moonlight that cuts through the air and transforms the hay into a mysterious nest of greys and whites.

  ‘Poriut…fertility,’ she murmurs and glances across to Detlef’s profile, strong and chiselled, as he stares at the outside sky.

  ‘More sorcery?’ He smiles in the dark, reaching for her hand to kiss it.

  Turning back towards the sky she watches the moon slowly continue its ascent. ‘Saturn, Jupiter, Mars,’ she points, ‘all celestial bodies with their own moons spinning around them.’

  ‘Thanks to Galileo, no longer are we the centre of the universe.’

  ‘No longer, although sometimes it is hard to remember. Benedict once showed me the moons of Jupiter through a wondrous telescope for which he himself had ground the lens. He said “Look, Felix, God gives us the gift of knowledge to observe his works just as he gave us the intelligence not to be slaves to our own destinies.”’

  ‘Felix?’

  ‘The name I gave myself when I was in the guise of a youth.’

  ‘Did Spinoza not know your true sex?’

  ‘Yes, eventually, but I was a paradox he could not accept.’

  ‘For me you can be both Ruth and Felix: a woman who leads and a man who can surrender.’

  He pulls her towards him, banging their noses together in the dark. Laughing, she searches out his mouth again, this time sweetness overriding passion. But afterwards, as he lies there, Detlef feels a foreboding. He knows this stolen time will never be enough, that he cannot put away this desire, contain it as he did with Birgit, for he has already begun to feel as if Ruth is a part of himself, privy to his most private ambitions, secret terrors, unspeakable desires.

  ‘Ruth, we must talk. We must face what is before us and not succumb to the pleasures of the moment.’

  ‘But why? You know this love cannot be. Not with who we are, what we are,’ she answers, not allowing herself hope, her fears warning her to surrender nothing despite the warmth of his arms.