Radiating a certain smugness, Peter Ter Lahn von Lennep turns to Detlef.
‘Four invitations, Canon, and you refused all of them. Have we fallen out of favour?’
‘Forgive me. I have been otherwise occupied.’
The merchant glances at his wife. He has noticed a certain remoteness between Birgit and her confessor and speculates on the nature of their argument. Damn Birgit’s pique, he has business with the man whether his lady approves or not, the pragmatic merchant concludes. Covering his irritation he turns to the canon.
‘In that case we are honoured to have such a busy cleric at our banquet. But pray illuminate me, I have heard rumours that your distraction is of a secular nature?’
Startled, Detlef glances at Birgit—could she have guessed? He has experienced such transformation he is convinced it is as obvious as a stigma on his forehead. But Birgit, her eyes fastened on the plate before her, refuses to look up. The merchant again wonders why his wife is being so cold.
‘With a certain ribbon merchant?’
Detlef’s relief causes him to speak more quickly than he had intended. ‘Nikolaus Gülich has genuine grievances.’
‘If he has a grievance he should appeal to the city council, not involve the cathedral. Or are you thinking of giving up the cloth?’
‘I have no such intention.’
‘I spoke in jest. However I am most displeased that you have become involved in Gülich’s petty complaints. There are many in this city who have contributed to the young man’s success—his father was a mere journeyman, they say he wasn’t even a Cologner. His complaint is poor thanks to a system which I personally believe has worked successfully for many centuries.’
‘What about the weavers’ rebellion and then your very own bürgers’ revolt in 1482, when they stormed the town hall? The history of this city is built on challenging nepotism.’
Several of the merchants turn at the sound of Detlef’s raised voice. Ter Lahn von Lennep, embarrassed, signals to the musicians to begin the quadrille as Birgit lifts her eyes for the first time that evening.
‘The good canon is a passionate man. It is a weakness you must forgive, husband.’
‘If he is passionate then he must respect loyalty also. He has too many enemies to afford to make new ones amongst his friends.’
A shadow falls across the merchant’s normally placid face. He plays with a ball of dough between his fingers then crushes it.
‘Dance with my wife, Canon. She is in mourning but it would be seemly for her to dance with her confessor.’
Reluctantly Detlef offers Birgit his arm. Her wrist under the black satin feels frail and he guesses she has lost weight through grieving.
‘Madame, I am sorry for the death of your sister.’
‘It is hard, but there are many who have lost far more. What about you, Detlef, what has been your loss? I would swear there is a change in your demeanour, but not one that suggests pain or bereavement.’
They bow and begin the formal steps of the dance.
‘I have been sobered by my work in the pesthouse. It is hard to continue to believe in God when one is surrounded by so much suffering of the innocent.’
‘Indeed. Then explain, pray, why your face and manner seems even more infused with faith. If I did not know that you lacked one, I should say it is a matter of the heart.’
He spins her around, the scent of her body drifts up and jolts him suddenly back into the memory of her.
‘Birgit, I have great regret for the distress I caused you, but it was a dangerous game, one that went on far too long.’
Filled with the agony of rejection, Birgit is thankful that her face is turned away. Struggling, she composes herself then gracefully spins back to him, her face now an adamantine mask.
‘We were always equally matched in strategy as we were in lovemaking, Detlef. But be warned: you would be a simpleton to consider the game over yet.’
But Detlef, reading her face and seeing her smile, refuses to heed her warning, deluding himself with the thought that they are still allies.
The canon walks hurriedly along, hugging the dark walls of the brick and wooden houses that tower over the lane on either side. It is too late to return to the monastery so he is making his way to Groot’s dwelling, an illicit room his assistant rents from a tolerant landlady who is happy enough to accept that a man is a man whether he wears the cloth or not. Lately Groot is the only individual Detlef feels he can trust, but even he has no knowledge of the midwife’s existence, least of all the child she carries.
For some time now the canon has been aware of footsteps behind him, which seem to stop every time he halts. Fearing an assault he clutches a dagger close to his chest, hidden under the short cape. He has not felt safe since he left the banquet hall. Perhaps it is the abandoned buildings left empty by the plague, like broken teeth in a gaping mouth. Perhaps it is the sensation that the city is full of ghosts who carry on their business regardless: old men shuffling along the gutters, the homeless begging at corners, the children skipping excitedly as they go off to the puppet show, the demure young women walking to church—oblivious phantoms, unaware they are no longer living beings.
Detlef swings around; a shadow darts back against the ancient Roman wall. Surely an assailant would have attacked by now, he thinks, cursing himself for not taking a carriage. Not trusting the narrowing lane he turns into a wider street which is better lit. Groot’s boarding house looms up, jutting out at the corner. Detlef is comforted to see candlelight still flickering in one window on the first floor. He throws a small pebble against the stained glass then waits nervously until Groot’s face appears, peering short-sightedly into the dark street below.
‘It is me,’ Detlef whispers hoarsely in Latin.
The assistant disappears behind a drape. A second later Detlef slips into the sanctuary of an opened door.
‘It gives me immense pleasure to see you back amongst us, Monsignor Solitario. I trust you had a safe journey.’
Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg holds open the heavy curtain which divides a small room from the rest of the coffee house, revealing a lit alcove furnished with chairs and a table.
‘Safe enough, considering the conflicts which continue to afflict our good emperor.’
The inquisitor, just two days from Vienna, already misses the palatial Hapsburg architecture and its eating houses. This coffee house, although considered by the locals as the epitome of modernity, is just a glorified beer hall, Carlos notes bitterly. Grimacing he steps into the airless booth and takes his place at the table.
‘Do you indulge in this latest opiate?’ Von Fürstenberg squeezes his bulk into the seat beside him.
‘Coffee has been available in Vienna these last five years. I have sampled it but I believe it to be a blasphemy.’
‘In that case you shall have tea while I sin.’
A man no taller than five feet, his face pox-marked and his demeanour so undistinguished it is hard to place an ethnicity upon him, tips his cap then slips in next to von Fürstenberg.
‘This is my good servant, Monsieur Georges. One might call him my invisible right hand. I am happy to report that he has spied for the Spanish and whored for the French. Georges is a master at wall-hugging and is utterly without loyalty except to his pocket. Of late he has been courting our mutual friend, Detlef von Tennen.’
The inquisitor does not bother to look up, merely studies the cup of tea a young servant has just placed before him. The spy, an expert at espionage, recognises the taciturn nature of a fellow misanthrope and stays silent. Sagaciously he awaits a signal from his master before divulging information.
Smiling, von Fürstenberg places his hand over the inquisitor’s gloved fist.
‘Friar, rest assured we are comrades in this, and we now have the blessing of the archbishop himself. Our dear friend the canon has suddenly become ambitious in the area of secular politics and there is genuine fear from both the aristocrats and the bürgers that he mean
s to upset the status quo. If there was only a legitimate way of arresting him…’
At this Carlos slowly raises his head.
‘The archbishop has finally come to his senses? That I find hard to believe.’
‘Believe it. I have written authority.’
Von Fürstenberg pulls out a long clay pipe and packs it with tobacco. Reaching across he takes his light from a candle and sucks in deeply. Exhaling, he covers the Spaniard with a cloud of smoke.
‘As in French draughts, I have always believed in attacking one’s enemy from several angles. I had thought our best tactic to be a charge of immoral conduct.’
Carlos looks surprised.
‘I have strong evidence that von Tennen has been engaged in an improper liaison for many years with one of his congregation, Birgit Ter Lahn von Lennep. Of late they have argued. Seeking to exploit the anger of a wronged woman I sought her out. Alas, she was most fixed in her opinions. I had all but despaired until my invaluable servant Georges presented me with the following information.’
The spy clears his throat then spits into the corner of the room.
‘I have been following the good canon for several days now and found nothing of undue concern whatsoever on which to pin any charge of immoral or lewd conduct, sire. So being somewhat at a loss I decided to use my head and look to the recent past, as it were, namely his relationships. Upon hearing about his protection of the Jewess, I thought naturally I should travel over to the right bank and visit the ghetto of Deutz—what’s left of it, that is. There, having disguised myself as a Hebrew and claiming I was from Buda and therefore spoke only bad German, I heard a most peculiar story. That at the time of the Schülergeleif several houses, including that of the midwife’s father, the rabbi, were burnt and the occupants with them. But the midwife’s cottage was untouched and although she has not been seen since, her body was never found. Leading me to the conclusion that perhaps our canon could be harbouring the witch. Find her with him and you’ve got yourself a right proper trial and an execution which will be very popular with King Mob.’
‘Do you think he has lain with her?’ Excited by the thought Carlos feels his scar begin its telltale throb.
‘Even if he hasn’t it would be easy to invent such a notion. Just leave it to me, sire. All we have to do is catch them in the same place at the same time,’ the spy concludes with a crooked grin.
Von Fürstenberg finishes his clay pipe and knocks the bowl clean. Glowing ash spills onto the marble tabletop.
‘The canon has recently been leaving the city far more regularly than before. Initially I had assumed this was because of concern for his brother, the count, during the plague; now I have my doubts.’
‘I have with me my secretary Juan and an alguacil. I also have ten soldiers of the emperor’s army. I am sure Count von Tennen will be most hospitable should we decide to visit.’ Carlos smiles for the first time that day.
A young serving wench peeps around the curtain and gestures to the minister. With his permission she enters and whispers into his ear.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I believe we may have a surprising ally.’
A minute later Birgit Ter Lahn von Lennep is ushered in. Dressed like any common bürger’s wife, she is wearing the traditional Cologne hat with its distinctive protruding stem and a ribboned bauble on the end. From the brim streams a dark blue veil, covering a ruffled white collar and black bodice. After curtsying she holds out her hand; von Fürstenberg kisses it greedily.
‘A surprising honour, Madame. Pray join us.’
Flustered, her cape wet from the rain, Birgit sits. Nauseous with misgiving, she can hardly stop herself gagging at the strong smell of the stimulant the wench brings to her.
‘The Countess von Marck told me where I might find you but not before some explanation. She is a good friend indeed, Herr von Fürstenberg.’
‘I would trust her with my life, as indeed on some occasions I have. I assume you have had a change of heart, Madame? The moral path manifests slowly but, thank the good Lord, it always prevails.’
Birgit plays with a lace handkerchief tucked into her waist. Now she is actually there, sitting before the enemy of the man she still loves but has also begun to hate, she finds herself caught in an internal struggle as loyalty and affection conflict with fury. Should she betray Detlef? It will mean losing him for ever, and there still remains somewhere deep within her a stubborn belief in a future together. Can she be untrue to their ardour, even if for him it no longer exists? These and other darker thoughts swirl through her mind like the cream in her coffee: Detlef’s face at the guild dance, closed and indifferent, telling her that their affair had merely been a game to him, seems to stare up from the bowl of pale liquid. The memory of his indescribable cruelty at that moment propels her to speak. But then she hesitates, still reluctant to surrender the hope of reconciliation.
Frustrated by her reticence, the minister leans forward.
‘He has wronged you, Madame, both as a man and a confessor. I have reason to believe that he is sheltering the midwife…’
The logic of von Fürstenberg’s statement hits Birgit like a hammer. Suddenly jigsaw pieces of Detlef’s behaviour slot into one another to create a complete puzzle-picture which horrifies her in its clarity: his first distraction, his morality…How could he have risked so much for an insignificant Jewess, Birgit wonders, surmising that the midwife’s persecution must have awoken the idealist within him.
‘You lie.’ She tries unsuccessfully to control the anger in her voice.
Von Fürstenberg, sensing that he has secured his prey, takes her arm eagerly.
‘Madame, he shelters her at this very moment at the estate of his brother.’
‘No, it would not be at Das Grüntal, but somewhere nearby. A place I know well…’
‘Then you will assist us?’
Birgit nods, trying to hide her tears behind a stiff dignity. But already the men have begun to whisper amongst themselves.
As they continue their strategising, Birgit gazes into the grains of black coffee at the bottom of her cup, despairing at the thought of what her life holds without Detlef.
The monk and the canon sit side by side in the stone athenaeum. The bibliotheca is empty apart from themselves. The walls are covered with shelves of books, their spines a medley of languages, from Latin to Portuguese, English to Greek, Persian to Hebrew. It is mid-afternoon and already the spring rains have begun.
Detlef writes in a painstakingly slow hand, his calligraphy elegant but deliberate. He is recording the proceedings of the last month. Each entry is written down, a day’s events captured in a succinct statement: Baptised baby Hermann Kuller same day I buried his uncle. The lacemakers’ guild protested to the city council over the levy imposed on Belgian lace. Merchant Knoff accuses hopmaker Franz Hausen of watering down his beer.
As he finishes each page he hands the loose parchment to Groot, who is waiting with his inks and brush. Happily the assistant begins the caricature for that day’s observation. Three strokes of black ink and there is the robust baby squalling beside a font of holy water, struggling in the arms of the canon, an elongated figure, his forehead a magnificent bundle of frowns.
It is at these times that the symbiotic relationship between servant and master is at its zenith: each content to be assisting the other, entirely absorbed in the task at hand, politics forgotten. It is at such times that Groot remembers why he chose to apprentice himself to Canon von Tennen rather than another older and more learned cleric: it was Detlef’s distinctive humour and irreverence for authority that attracted him. No other priest maintains a day book like Detlef, and although he insists that it is for posterity only, Groot suspects the canon keeps it for his own amusement. ‘Tis a great pity, Groot thinks, that his master should be so expert at human observation yet so naive in his strategies.
Secretly devising plans for his own promotion, the assistant places the fresh cartoon to one side to dry then reaches for the n
ext leaf. Their labour is interrupted by a cough.
‘Please, Canon.’
A young novice steps out from a stone arch. He is followed by a roughly dressed farmer stinking of horse, his feathered hat clutched between two huge hands reddened by labour, the carrot beard and whiskers streaked with mud from riding hard through the rains. The peasant steps forward and reaches out to Detlef. The young priest, fearing an assault, speaks hurriedly.
‘Please, sire, he insisted he knows you.’
‘Indeed he does. Joachim.’
For a moment the two men grasp hands, the canon’s pale soft skin, the mark of the scholar, dwarfed in the farmer’s huge paw.
Detlef’s heart has leapt at the sudden appearance of Hanna’s brother but conscious of Groot’s steady gaze the canon portrays nothing but the demeanour of a magnanimous overlord.
The novice, relieved, returns to his chamber, leaving Groot to wonder how Detlef could know such an unlikely figure.
‘Joachim, this is my assistant, Father Pieter Groot. Joachim is the brother of my housekeeper in the country.’
‘Sire, we must hurry back. Hanna made me swear that I would bring you with me directly. There is trouble at the house.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘That she would not tell me, but you know Hanna, she would not ask unless it were serious indeed. I have been riding for a day straight, sire, and that through dangerous country.’
‘I thank you for your loyalty.’
‘I seek not gratitude, just that you will do what my sister commands.’
Groot waits until Detlef has departed then takes up his brush again and in the margin of the sheet for today sketches the portrait of a lascivious she-demon, equipped with breasts and a scaly tail which is wound around the small figure of a priest with a patrician nose remarkably like Detlef’s.
Closing the volume, the cleric begins a long and thoughtful walk through the cloisters towards the chambers of Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg.
The Witch of Cologne Page 35
