The Witch of Cologne (21 page)

‘Ferdinand.’ The emperor looks up mournfully from the letter, his heart sinking at the thought of the latest scandal his errant nephew might have engineered. ‘I prayed that the Rhenish hunting season might invigorate his manliness, but evidently not. His marriage to the long-suffering Maria of Champagne has served the empire but has done nothing to dampen his temperament.’

Leopold sighs heavily as Samuel glances down at Alphonso’s florid signature.

‘I fear you are right, sire.’

The two men pause for a moment as they reflect on the burdens of familial responsibility. The gentle snore of Samuel’s young son breaks their musing.

‘Is not the inquisitor, Carlos Vicente Solitario, in Cologne in the service of your highness?’ Samuel asks.

‘Of both myself and the Inquisitor-General—he is acting as prosecutor. Archbishop Maximilian Heinrich has been a bitter disappointment and I am forced to cut off a few of those fluttery fingers he is always waving at brattish King Louis.’

‘But what of this Rebecca of the lower Rhinelands?’

‘A mere nobody, a Jewish witch the inquisitor has some obsession with. I have made her my gift to him for being so obedient.’

Oppenheimer strokes his favourite dachshund. If there is one man he loathes at court it is Carlos Vicente Solitario. The Dominican embodies the worst aspects of religious fanaticism and Samuel knows many Sephardic families, some of them
conversos
, some not, who have suffered at the hands of the notorious inquisitor. It isn’t just the man’s anti-Semitism that rankles; after all, that is commonplace. Every successful
Hebrew must learn to live with and work around such ingrained attitudes. It is the palpable ignorance of the man, his belligerent old-world ways which he deliberately cultivates to exploit the emperor’s own remorse about his secret lack of Catholic faith. Religious guilt is Leopold’s Achilles heel and the Spaniard has been quick to take advantage of it.

Alphonso is right to allude to Molière, Samuel thinks to himself, Solitario is indeed a Tartuffe, but one far more extreme and with infinitely more dangerous political ramifications. He glances back down at the scroll. The Court Jew’s ambition is such that he cannot afford enemies. He is able to placate other ambassadors through gifts of jewels or carefully forgotten loans, but Solitario is driven by hatred. And as Samuel knows to his chagrin, hatred is the one emotion impervious to bribery.

The purveyor-general fingers the scarlet cord binding the scroll. This could be an extraordinary opportunity, but only if his next move is the right one.

‘Sire, could it be possible that the youth is genuinely ill, maybe even on his deathbed? He is described as suffering mightily.’

‘The only time I have seen Ferdinand suffer mightily was when he managed to inflict that ridiculous injury upon himself during a jousting competition. He could, of course, be stricken with the pox, in which case ‘tis best he suffers in an insignificant hunting lodge in the Rhineland than here under the eyes of the empire. He sets a bad example, Samuel, you know that.’

‘But his father was a great military hero in the war against the Lutherans.’

‘For which he was awarded the dubious honour of marrying my sister, God rest his soul. Anyway, what are you getting at?’

‘It could be ill-advised to let the son perish when we need heroes to fight against the Hungarians and possibly the Turks.’

‘Save him for later, in other words?’

‘With his father’s name he should attract conscripts.’

‘Possibly. Although Ferdinand on a horse is not an inspiring sight, and he is yet to find his métier with sword, crossbow or arrow despite the best tutors in the empire.’

‘No one need see him in actual combat. We could use the Lutheran tactic and employ the printing press to proclaim his heroism. Sire, the Hapsburgs could do with another hero.’

‘An interesting notion. How does the aspiring poet finish his plea?’

‘“Can the Lion of Judah save the double-headed Eagle’s errant fledgling?” I suspect the witch has some medical training—I have heard she has been in Amsterdam.’

‘Next they will be allowing women to attend the universities. It is too much for one century.’

‘Sire, should I send word to secure her release?’

‘Is there a way I can disguise my own command?’

‘Perhaps if this Alphonso were provided with some secret pledge he could take to the archbishop…?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And if Maximilian Heinrich were able to muster a defence swiftly and in the utmost confidentiality, the whole business could be over with and the midwife by your nephew’s side as quickly as the swallow flies. Speed and discretion are the objectives in this exercise. After all, what is the worth of a Jewess’s life next to that of a member of the royal family—unless she is able to save that life?’

‘Samuel, yet again your understanding of my nature astounds me.’

And with that, the emperor leans across and cheerfully knocks over half the Dutch fleet with his huge thumb.

M
aximilian Heinrich,
having been called from officiating at Sunday Mass, adjusts his green vestment and throws over his shoulder the short cape made from cloth imported from the Ottoman Empire and embroidered with Arabic script heralding the glory of Mohammed, a detail of which the archbishop—German and Latin being his only tongues—is completely oblivious.

Sweating profusely, he indicates to the young cleric assisting him that he wants to be rid of the irritating
cappa
decorated with a lurid depiction of the Resurrection that hangs down his back. As the trembling young novice clumsily unties the cape before tackling the rest of the heavy garments, Heinrich swings his glance to the young Jesuit priest who, with a rather annoying irreverence, slouches before him.

‘Young man, last time I cut my Sunday sermon short was for the beheading of the English King Charles. I cannot tell you how much that irritated the bürgers. It almost made it worth it.’

The archbishop, abandoning all protocol, glares aggressively at the young visitor. He looks Mediterranean, probably in cahoots with that damnable Dominican, Heinrich speculates grimly. Aggravated, he pulls off the heavy chain with the pectoral cross hanging from it containing the holy relic of the virgin Saint Ursula’s tongue.

‘A matter of great secrecy and urgency, eh?’ He plonks the relic down on the plain wooden table. ‘Of royal import?’ he continues sardonically, his tirade in full swing. Stripped back to his dalmatic, which he pulls roughly over his head, he finally stands defiantly in his undergarments, a simple long cotton vest and thin plain breeches. After farting with great satisfaction, the archbishop swipes a handkerchief from the young priest and begins mopping up the patches of sweat staining his undershirt. ‘What, pray, would a young pipsqueak like yourself, and a Jesuit to boot, have to say to the archbishop of Cologne, eh?’

The Jesuit, his attractive features almost feminine in their beauty, appears bewildered and painfully shy. Breaking into a passionate avalanche of Italian, he somehow manages to stammer and spit at the same time. Appalled, Heinrich wipes the spray from his face.

‘For God’s sake, at least speak German!’ the archbishop exclaims, fearing that the young Jesuit might be deranged.

Suddenly the priest’s whole demeanour transforms. His shoulders straighten, he pulls himself up to his full height, his chest puffs out. Miraculously a whole new air of confidence, even humour, seems to split his earnest face.

Now convinced that he is dealing with a dangerously crazed assassin, Heinrich grabs his crosier for protection, while his novice takes shelter behind the archbishop’s corpulent near-naked figure. Laughing, the Jesuit pulls off his hood and appears to peel away his scalp: instantly, rich black locks fall to his shoulders.

‘What witchery is this!’ Heinrich cries.

‘’Tis not witchery at all, merely the craft of a professional trickster, the actor,’ Alphonso replies, bowing deeply.

Heinrich covers his embarrassment by banging the crosier sharply on the floor. ‘And whose puppet are you, sir? Do you belong to the French or to our good emperor himself?’

‘Neither, your highness. A travelling performer is his own master, but on this particular occasion I merely represent the wishes of our good emperor, Leopold.’

Alphonso reaches into his cassock and pulls out a scroll of the finest paper. He presents it to Heinrich who sniffs it suspiciously.

‘You will find it authentic.’

Still apprehensive, Heinrich examines the seal—the double-headed eagle with its crowns appears genuine enough. Carefully he breaks the missive open with a paperknife and rolls it out. As he studies it, Alphonso winks cheekily at the blushing novice.

Heinrich sits down heavily and without thinking reaches for the bottle of Hattenheimer Engelmannsberg, a riesling made by the Cistercians that is ever-present on his desk. Sighing, he pours himself a glass. His pudgy forehead wrinkles with concentration as he begins to read. Outside, the sounds of the departing congregation drift into the small chamber: snippets of conversation about the local harvests, the trade index of the Dutch East India Company and the impact of the English war, a complaint about the emperor stealing Cologne’s gold to finance his war with the Turks. Somewhere a young woman laughs and is hushed by another.

Finally Heinrich looks up. With an imperious flick of the wrist he dismisses his assistant then turns to Alphonso.

‘This is a grave matter indeed and one not easily solved.’

‘Sir, it has to be. Prince Ferdinand is on his death bed. A desperate situation requires unorthodox measures.’

‘You realise that Fräulein Saul has been charged with grave offences of witchcraft: that she has lain with the devil to ensure a good birthing, that she consorted with the demon Lilith to steal the voice from a poor babe—’

‘Serious indeed, but if she is able to save the life of one of the heirs apparent…’

‘A witch is a witch, my good sir. I assume the emperor realises the danger to my station and reputation if I act upon his wishes?’

‘The emperor is deeply fond of his nephew and will be eternally indebted if his requirements are fulfilled.’

Alphonso, calling on the best performance technique he knows for lying, looks the archbishop straight in the eye and maintains a steady gaze. Heinrich, no virgin to deception, smiles smoothly back.

‘And as we both know, the emperor’s fondness for his nephew is legendary.’ The archbishop’s cynical smile widens. ‘I shall be happy to contribute to his ongoing affection for the youth. However, there is one small obstacle: the zealot Carlos Vicente Solitario…’

At which Alphonso, resorting to another hue from his palette of performances, throws on the guise of Othello. ‘Leopold will take care of the inquisitor. If you can free the midwife to look after Ferdinand, and swiftly, all shall be rewarded,’ he announces in a sudden rich baritone.

The deep Moorish tone confuses the archbishop. The actor, with a certain lewdness, picks a grape off the table in front of him, sucks the skin off it, then, leaning forward, looks brazenly into Heinrich’s bloodshot eyes.

‘I have it on the emperor’s word.’

After the actor has left, Heinrich sits staring out of the small stained-glass window. Through the azure and gold figure of the archangel Gabriel proclaiming the annunciation to the
Virgin Mary—an image the archbishop desperately hopes might be an allegory for his recent visitor—he can see the struggling branches of a grape vine given to him as a gift by a visiting Cistercian abbot a few years earlier. The twisting tendrils remind him of the beauty of the vineyard it originated from. Suddenly he has an idea, a plan which promises to resolve everything.

Cheered, the archbishop laughs then bellows for Detlef.

The low marble table is set amongst the vines beside an ancient stone bench. A burning lantern sits at one end, casting a crimson glow that makes ruddy the faces of the monks gathered around it. The moon, the slenderest of crescents, still hovers in the dawn sky. Carlos, a fur jacket wrapped around his hooded robe, shivers. Heinrich, who has metamorphosed into the quintessence of conviviality, well lubricated with the best Rheinwein since his arrival, stands with his bare head bowed in prayer, indifferent to the strong wind blowing up from the Rhine below.

‘May this season bring bounty to the vines, joy to our parishioners and fecundity to the Rhineland. In the immortal words of our own Saint Hildegard:
Mann macht den Menschen gewund; der Wein macht den Menschen gesund; man hurts men but wine heals them.
Amen,’ the prelate finishes.

‘Amen,’ murmur the Cistercian monks, pale ghosts in their white cassocks.

The archbishop suddenly yawns, stretching his arms wide against the cosmos. Standing at the top of the mountain of Ruesdesheim, his figure cuts an imposing cross against the vast panorama filled with nothing but the last of the night’s stars and the paling moon. It is five o’clock and Heinrich has insisted that the inquisitor accompany him and an entourage
of seven local monks, each carrying a stone flask of wine and a glass, to witness the ‘birth of the day’ from the highest point within the ancient walled vineyard.

It is the morning of the third day of their sojourn and, although Carlos distrusts the prelate’s motives for inviting him along, he cannot help but be seduced by the gentle rhythm and unspoken camaraderie of the white monks, the result of years of cohabitation and shared labour which has transformed them into a perfectly coordinated colony of superb viticulturists. Their discipline and unquestioning acceptance of his presence, the severity of the terraced slopes descending down to the river, the immaculately groomed ancient vines now bedecked with luminous spring growth, the simple beauty of the white and red wooden monastery with its old press-house containing giant wine presses from the Middle Ages, are all balm to his Spanish soul. It is the first time the inquisitor has felt welcome since his arrival in Germania. And, to his surprise, he begins to feel a begrudging gratitude towards his host.

‘Ahh, there fades Venus, the first and last of the celestial goddesses.’ The archbishop points to the planet whose glistening light dims until, all of a sudden, it disappears.

Carlos gazes up; the empyrean hangs over them like a billowing tapestry embroidered with the most delicate of gold and silver threads. Noticing the slight shift in the position of the stars, the Dominican cannot help but long for his own Spanish sky.

‘This year has not been well aspected, your grace. You must have seen in January, as we did from Vienna, the inauspicious comet that blazed its fiery way over all of Europa. A bad sign, I fear: the rest of the year will bring much suffering and perhaps more war.’

Carlos stares grimly into the brightening firmament where
the first glow of buried sunshine is just beginning to bleed into the mauve horizon.

Heinrich glances at the Spaniard. The proximity of the last few days has allowed him the luxury of observation: now he can see the hues and subtleties of the man. There is some buried tragedy which has scarred this man, the archbishop muses, having found that in discussion he always hits the same immovable spot in the inquisitor’s soul: a boulder of hate that, like a hostile coastline, defines his character.

‘Indeed,’ Heinrich responds. ‘However, my personal astrologer is more optimistic than the hacks who make money foretelling doom and disaster. He predicts a hot summer and a good harvest—that’s enough future for me. We cannot choose the times we live in. Just as, sometimes, we cannot choose whom we love.’

‘Of such secular matters I know nothing. My only love is for Jesus Christ, our Good Lord who died on the Cross for our sins,’ the inquisitor replies with the taint of the prude in his voice.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I think the nature of faith is love and love of the goodness in man. Hate is not Christian; it is a toxin that can only fester like a canker, do you not think, Monsignor?’

The sun is now a throbbing crimson lip pushing up over the muddy vineyards. The inquisitor turns from the archbishop feeling like a crab which has been stripped of its shell. Torn between the temptation to unburden his heart and the terror of his constructions and beliefs being dismantled, Carlos hesitates and stares directly into the ascending ball of fire. A grey cloud has begun to race across the edge of the orb. It is like Apollo himself, the friar fancies, imagining that the thin wisps of vapour are the fiery steeds, with the beautiful young god, his golden hair streaming behind him, his naked body a muscular arc of honed grace, following the
stallions in his chariot of spun gold. Shall I ever be that brave, Carlos thinks; was I ever that rash? Frightened of the answer that is forming deep within him, he turns back to Heinrich.

‘I have faith and love for my mission, your grace. It is not an easy task and often requires me to harden my heart. Righteousness is not to be confused with hate,’ he finishes, his shell now firmly clamped back around him.

Disappointed that he has failed to liberate the man within the inquisitor, Heinrich gestures to the waiting monks. With silent decorum they place the seven bottles of wine—each with two wine glasses beside it—on the table before the two men.

‘I have arranged a little tasting for our pleasure, Monsignor Solitario. Seven bottles for the seven stages of Christ’s life. It is a beloved allegory of mine that I have been meditating upon for many years. I hope you will appreciate it.’

The Dominican cannot help but smile at the gleeful gleam in the prelate’s eye. ‘Indeed, I am honoured.’

The archbishop takes up the first bottle. He pours out two glasses then lifts one up against the sunrise. The wine shines a pale yellow.

‘This is for the baptism of our Lord by John the Baptist. I think of the Galilean, infused with belief but still uncertain of his calling, up to his knees in the clear water of the River Jordan as the fervent words of his black-eyed and wild-haired cousin stir his soul. The wine is a simple innocent white, a youthful Chasselas from Alsace, a favourite once with the English playwright Shakespeare. Still green but dry, soft and gently fruity, laced with tremendous promise—just like our young Lord, and ourselves once upon a time.’

He goes to the second bottle, this time pouring out a dark red.

‘The temptation of Christ in the wilderness. Satan’s manifestation, every sinful seduction whirling before our Lord’s eyes.’

Heinrich glances wryly at the Spaniard, searching for a glint of recognition, having sensed that the sins of the flesh might be the inquisitor’s weakness. Carlos’s face remains an expressionless mask.

‘Christ’s torment is the anguish that strikes every young monk once he resigns himself to his vocation. After all, are we not all men under the robe?’

Heinrich laughs but Carlos remains ominously silent. Shrugging off the inquisitor’s sudden frostiness, the prelate turns to the wine, lifts a glass and sniffs it.

‘Naturally I have chosen a red wine from the Benedictine vineyards at Savigny-les-Beaune. A vineyard once owned by the Knights Templar, who themselves were guilty of succumbing to all sorts of temptations, accused of buggery and many other profanities by King Philip IV. So this wine has a dangerous history of temptation—satiated and otherwise. Wickedly full-bodied, it lingers on the palate like a lascivious dream.’