The Witch of Cologne (32 page)

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.

‘
I
s 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 hollow-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 its 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.’

T
he 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.

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 means 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.