The Witch of Cologne

by Tobsha Learner

  ‘You are suggesting I should take her confession?’ he asks incredulously.

  ‘I am suggesting that we should do everything in our power not to attract suspicion.’

  ‘Naturally, but I cannot execute what you suggest, out of respect both to Meisterin Ter Lahn von Lennep and to myself. I am no longer a man governed by his bodily desires alone.’

  Ruth turns away to hide her dismay at the confirmation of what she had only suspected, questioning the perversity which has forced this revelation. He is a man, naturally he has loved before, she thinks. Again she finds herself trying to apply Spinoza’s philosophy, to achieve liberation through reining in her passions.

  The philosopher’s animated face appears before her. ‘If you can free yourself from the dictatorship of the passions then all that occurs will be a result not of your relations with the external but of your own true nature within, which is God himself.’

  His words come back to her, a consoling remembrance that anchors her to some semblance of reality. Rebuking herself for depending on Detlef’s affection for her contentment, she decides she must rely only on the happiness she can muster from within: the strength of man’s inherent state, solitary, at one with nature. But still she loves him. Only God knows how much she loves him.

  Detlef watches her, her eyes downcast, staring at a line of ants that are transporting a crumb of cheese down the carved leg of the table. It is this very complexity which causes him both to adore her and suffer for her, but there is a mystery about her that is equally tantalising and infuriating. He fears she is a terra incognita that he will be driven to possess over and over.

  ‘You are unhappy?’

  ‘I am not unhappy, I am asleep and it is taking a long time for my furies and joys to shake themselves awake,’ she answers softly, hoping he will be assuaged by the plea in her eyes.

  Detlef drinks down the last of the wine then reaches for the leather travelling sack slung across the arm of a chair. He takes out a small red silk pouch.

  ‘I purchased a curio for your pleasure. From Adolf Bescher of the watchmakers’ guild.’

  He opens her curled hand and places the soft pouch into it. ‘I hope it will amuse you.’

  She pulls open the purse: a ground lens falls out, its curved surface glinting on the wooden table. Crying out with delight she holds it over the trail of ants.

  ‘Now we shall be the giants who decide the fate of others and marvel at the most intricate of God’s work.’

  She places a fork across the insects’ path and watches through the lens as one ant, an Atlas dwarfed by its globe of Edam, struggles bravely to climb the massive pewter arm of the utensil.

  ‘Let us be benign giants, in case our actions be judged by less generous giants above us, my Ruth, for tolerance must be the only way.’

  ‘Something I have seen little of these past few months.’

  ‘Indeed, but faith is an inspiration towards the betterment of the self. We must not allow ourselves to be contaminated by hate.’

  She suddenly grips his hand. ‘Promise me you will never travel without bearing arms. Swear that if you are attacked you will fight back to defend yourself.’

  ‘You forget that I was a trained soldier before I was a cleric.’

  But Ruth, instead of being comforted by these words, winds her arms around her womb and rocks gently.

  The heavy scents of rose and benjamin fill the chamber. Crinkling petals cover the small walnut side table where they have fallen from a brass vase in which Ruth has arranged a bouquet of the yellow and burgundy blooms. The window, its diamond panes creating a prism of moonlight, has been pushed open. A heavy tome, its yellowed pages fluttering slightly in the breeze, sits open at a reading stand beside a silver candleholder embossed with the von Tennen shield.

  Across the stone floor is a bed whose carved wooden frame is over a hundred years old. Ruth and Detlef lie stretched out half under the embroidered coverlet. Eyes open, his long lean form is curled around her, his arms under and around her belly, a glistening pale sphere. The tautness of her flesh amazes him, her breasts are like veined fruit about to burst. He buries his face in her hair and breathes in her scent. He has never felt more at peace, never closer to God. Suddenly he feels the child beneath kick.

  Ruth is woken by the movement. ‘He will have strong legs like his father,’ she murmurs, pulling the coverlet across her chilled skin.

  ‘She will be wilful like her mother,’ Detlef answers, smiling in the dark as he feels another ripple in the flesh.

  ‘It is a male child.’

  ‘But how do you know?’

  ‘I have seen him in my dreaming and also he is sitting high in the womb.’

  She pushes herself further into the feather pallet and begins to fall back to sleep. Detlef lies for a time imagining the son he has sired. Will he be healthy? Sharp of mind and vigorous of body? How will they protect him, this hybrid creature, both Jew and Christian?

  In the far distance a wolf howls. Detlef, restless, gets up to make water. As he urinates into the chamberpot he notices a letter peeping out from his mistress’s abandoned bodice. The Dutch seal is unmistakable.

  ‘Ruth.’ He gently shakes her awake, holding the letter before her. ‘Who is this letter from? You know how dangerous it is to receive mail here.’

  ‘It is from Benedict Spinoza. I wrote to him for words of comfort and he has replied.’

  ‘This was unwise.’

  ‘Please, Detlef, I must rest.’

  ‘Don’t you understand the peril we live in here? It would take just one peasant, someone my brother has wronged, to betray us.’

  Drowsily she sits up.

  ‘Who was your messenger?’

  ‘Hanna has a brother who is to be trusted.’

  ‘I know the man, but no one is to be trusted. There is famine throughout this land, one Reichstaler would buy our lives.’

  ‘He does not know what he carries. He thinks it to be news from Hanna to her Dutch cousin.’

  ‘It must stop, do you understand? We have to be careful for only a little longer, until the child is born.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I have a plan.’

  ‘What plan?’

  Detlef falls silent. In truth he has not allowed himself to think further than this secret parallel existence, her waiting for him in this simple sanctuary, a paradise away from his other life.

  ‘I suppose I am to continue as your mistress, a plaything you keep stored in your closet to take out at your leisure,’ she says, unable to hide the bitterness in her voice.

  ‘Ruth, pray let us not argue. Please, trust me.’

  In the thickening silence an owl hoots in the distance.

  ‘Forgive me the indiscretion, but I needed some consolation, some wisdom to carry me through this dark passage.’ She reaches over to caress his hand.

  Detlef stares down at the page: the distinctive calligraphy speaks to him of a realm that transcends the limitations of orthodoxy, a place where man can dream of democracy, a belief that places God everywhere—in the calling bird outside, in the impenetrability of his loved one—a belief in which the body is the outward form of the soul.

  He looks at Ruth: that she is deemed worthy to share discourse with this man who so intrigues him, inspires him immensely. She is the key to a world in which he might rise above all the restrictions his birth and career have placed upon him. Forgiving her, he begins to read the scroll.

  ‘Is there no end to the decrees, legislations and proclamations I must sign? What have you and the evasive Herr von Fürstenberg been doing these past months? Supervising the miracles of the Magi?’

  Maximilian Heinrich, resplendent in a new robe tailored especially for his glorious return, sits at a large wooden desk. Grouped around him are several clerics, the von Fürstenberg brothers, Detlef and Groot. The archbishop, craving the usual hilarity from his entourage, looks expectantly at his audience—far fewer in number due to the pestilence—but the hol
low-faced young clerics are silent, some looking at the ground. Ravaged by misery and disease, the archbishop notes not entirely without sympathy.

  ‘If ever there was a time Cologne needed miracles, this was it. I am afraid much of our time was taken up with funerals, your grace. Then of course there was the enormous task of administering the last rites, to a mere ten thousand at last count,’ Detlef responds, looking up from the open ledger in front of him. Disgusted by his cousin’s tardiness in returning to the city after it has been officially declared plague-free, he finds it hard to remain courteous.

  Heinrich, pausing to calculate his response, watches the reaction of the clerics, several of whom peek admiringly at the fervent canon. Detlef really is becoming a liability, the archbishop thinks, I shall have to patronise Wilhelm after all.

  ‘Indeed, it has been a grave time. A period of great spiritual reckoning and introspection. Which is precisely why we need a festivity to celebrate all those who have survived.’ He turns to the corpulent minister, a smooth smile hiding his disgust. ‘Do you not think so, Wilhelm?’

  Von Fürstenberg, who has spent most of the disease-ridden summer at the residence of the Countess of Marck, thirty miles out of the city, nods gravely.

  ‘Precisely. The people need to be reminded how wondrous it is to have an archbishop here in one of the most important cities of the Holy Empire. I suggest a procession, a mass blessing and then a sermon on the theme of the Resurrection—a most suitable allegory.’

  ‘An excellent proposal. I shall read the sermon. The nuns of Saint Ursula shall lead the way bearing palms, followed by the choir boys of Saint Severin accompanied by flutes, and then the cathedral guards shall bring up the rear on horseback. It shall take place on Saint Severin’s day—it is fitting that the city’s patron saint should represent fair Cologne’s survival of the plague. All the ruling families shall attend. We should invite Prince Ferdinand. Is he still in Vienna?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Then make sure he comes as a representative of the Holy Emperor himself. I shall make the decree at the Sunday sermon.’

  The minister shuffles his papers ostentatiously. ‘Monsignor Solitario would be delighted to receive an official invitation also. It would serve Cologne well to extend diplomatic courtesy to the Inquisition, particularly after the confusion of the last trial conducted here,’ von Fürstenberg adds, glancing at Detlef to gauge his response. ‘I believe the witch perished in the Schülergeleif—is that correct, Canon von Tennen?’ the minister continues fearlessly.

  Detlef stares back at von Fürstenberg, not a single emotion betraying his smooth features.

  ‘The midwife’s whole family including the chief rabbi were burnt to death in their own house.’ Detlef’s soft voice is tense with hatred.

  Heinrich, fearing an argument, interjects. ‘Yes, well, the death of the chief rabbi is naturally regrettable. We all know the presence of Jews is irritating but it doesn’t pay to exterminate a loyal hound when all the hound wants to do is serve. Do you not agree, Detlef?’

  Heinrich winks at his cousin, a genuine attempt at reconciliation. Detlef, his gut churning with revulsion, forces himself to smile back. Satisfied, the archbishop continues.

  ‘It would be of great benefit to appease the Grand Inquisitional Council by inviting their loyal servant back to our fair city. Send a messenger at once. And now I believe it is time for sext and for eating.’ Heinrich stands, rubbing his hands at the prospect.

  The plague caused a shortage of imported goods—spices, cheeses and cured meats—as all the trading routes had to be closed down. Now they have been reopened, the city is inundated with gourmet delicacies and many, including the archbishop, have happily plunged themselves into an orgy of culinary abandon.

  Eating helps numb the grief, the archbishop thinks to himself, swept up in gastronomical self-righteousness. It is both a holy celebration and a defiant gesture of abundance and survival, he concludes, salivating at the notion.

  ‘There is something else we need to discuss.’ Detlef remains seated, an open insult to the archbishop’s authority. Heinrich, reluctant to enter into further conflict, rubs his rumbling belly and sits down again, followed by his entourage.

  ‘Klüngel: nepotism,’ Detlef announces solemnly.

  Heinrich stares at him, then realising the canon is entirely serious bursts into laughter.

  ‘Cousin, in Cologne favouritism is a tradition. And we all know that Cologners are great traditionalists.’

  ‘Maybe so, but there are new traditions and new power afoot. To ignore them would be dangerous. The constitution allows only entitled citizens to vote—that is, only one tenth of the population—and they may vote only for others within their privileged group. The Gaffeln, despite its twenty-two subdivisions, has power to choose only four councillors. The system is a breeding ground for favouritism. There are too many without a voice: day labourers, bondsmen, journeymen, clergymen, women and Jews—all live without any influence, yet all contribute to the economy of this city.’

  ‘This is not the cathedral’s concern and neither is it yours, unless canons have suddenly become politicians. Remember, we are here only because the bürgers have consented to our presence. Do I have to remind you of the events of 1396 when the merchants and bürgers threw all the aristocrats out of Cologne, including your own family, Detlef?’

  ‘But it will be our concern if the bürgers revolt again. It is no longer enough for one’s family name to guarantee a position on the city council. There are good working men who are demanding recognition of their true worth.’

  ‘Your cousin is an idealist, perhaps even a secret Republican.’ Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg, delighting in Detlef’s ill-placed bravado, slams a ledger shut as if to emphasise his point.

  ‘What say you to Wilhelm’s accusation?’ Heinrich asks archly.

  ‘I say this. These are changing times: a man will not survive if he ignores the rising tide, and neither will Cologne. Tradition has never favoured trade.’

  Frowning, the archbishop twists his ring around his finger, an indication that he is displeased. He knows Detlef is right: there is a growing unrest amongst the bürgers, which accelerated after the abandonment of the city by many of its privileged during the Black Death. But the discontent existed before the plague, influenced by the growing number of talented craftsmen rising up from the peasant class, all wanting representation on the city council.

  ‘But cousin, what role is the clergy to play in all of this? I am a shepherd of the spiritual not the purse,’ Heinrich says coyly, still playing to the gallery. Detlef refuses to be swayed.

  ‘A young man came to visit me. He is of a poor family but managed to win himself an apprenticeship and then a business. But because of his lack of good name he is denied the privilege of certain levies, even access to some wharves. He is angry and has gathered much support amongst his guild, the ribbon merchants.’

  ‘Nikolaus Gülich?’ von Fürstenberg interjects with a sneer.

  ‘You know the gentleman?’

  ‘Gentleman? He is no gentleman, merely a troublesome upstart who means to manipulate the discontent of the common man for his own profit.’

  ‘I beg to differ. Meister Gülich intends to challenge the corruptness of the nepotistic system and I suspect he will succeed.’

  Heinrich is acutely conscious of the avid attention the younger clergy are paying to the canon. The archbishop knows he must tolerate Detlef’s radicalism, worse he must be seen to support him, for Nikolaus Gülich is not the only man to engender enthusiasm among the lower ranks.

  ‘As neutral observers we may act as a diplomatic bridge between the guilds and the city council. Your grace, it is our duty to find a way of appeasement, by appointing a few who have won their influence through their trade not their blood,’ Detlef continues.

  ‘Cousin, those who have power will not give it up without force.’

  ‘Discontent is rising like the North Sea, one day it will burst it
s dam. Let me go to the mayors, I can be the unofficial spokesperson for Gülich—’

  ‘You shall be no such thing! As a member of the cathedral council you have no right to intervene in civil matters! Enough. We are to sext.’

  Heinrich stands and sweeps out of the room, followed by the others. Detlef stays sitting, staring down at the ledger as if trying to find within it a meditation to calm his frustration.

  As the archbishop strides angrily down the stone corridor past archway after archway, he turns to the panting minister who struggles to keep abreast.

  ‘My dear von Fürstenberg, I think perhaps it is time I abandoned the indulgence of familial love. I shall leave to you the means of disposal.’

  The small but ornate banquet hall has remnants still of its medieval heyday: the walls are hung with rich tapestries depicting the triumphs of the trading guilds and a variety of more recent military victories from the Great War, and several Oriental statues—Crusades bounty—adorn the corners of the chamber. A small ensemble of musicians, a flautist, lute player and harpsichordist, perform on an upper balcony while below some twenty guests sit around a long ebony table covered with half-eaten dishes. A suckling pig dominates one end of the table while a stuffed swan accompanied by a flotilla of roasted ducks presides at the other.

  The banner of the garment-makers—a shield divided into four showing a three-tiered tower alternating with an oak tree—dangles from the balustrade. Peter Ter Lahn von Lennep stands at the head of the long table, a wine glass in hand.

  ‘It is my honour as president of the guild to usher in our one hundred and fiftieth anniversary! May the guild reign profitably for many more centuries!’

  The merchant takes his chair as the audience, his peers and their wives, bang the table with their goblets in approval. Detlef, his clerical robe a stark contrast to the brightly coloured gowns of the women and the rich velvets, embroidered waistcoats and wide ruffled collars of the men, sits on one side of the merchant. Opposite is Birgit, in black taffeta for her dead sister.