The Witch of Cologne (7 page)

‘Perhaps there is a way of lessening the blow,’ von Fürstenberg whispers seductively, like a woman. Heinrich is disgusted at how he virtually glows with conspiracy—the only blood sport von Fürstenberg enjoys, he notes bitterly.

‘Speak plainly, Wilhelm, my gout has shortened my temper.’

‘What if Voss and Müller should suddenly be discovered to have been passing off bad cargo as good, thus endangering the names of their guilds?’

‘This can be arranged?’

‘Anything is possible under God’s good sky.’

‘And naturally, as archbishop I can only condone divine intervention.’

‘Naturally.’

The two men laugh, momentarily united in collusion. But Heinrich stops short with a cough, not wishing to over-encourage the minister.

‘Wilhelm, you are wasted in the church.’

Von Fürstenberg pauses; it is a barbed compliment. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

He bows, then seizing the opportunity moves closer still to the archbishop. ‘I just have one request. May I suggest that Detlef von Tennen represents the cathedral during the arrests? It would be prudent for the archbishop to keep a dignified distance.’

Before Heinrich has a chance to react, the page arrives and pours out a glass of wine. Heinrich sniffs it, then appalled dashes it to the ground.

‘Straight from Saint Pantaleon’s cellars! About as aged as a billy goat’s balls! Bring me something French!’

A minute later the page returns with a new bottle. The archbishop sips the liquid delicately, then takes a lingering mouthful, swilling it around before swallowing. The rich mellow claret runs through his body like the comforting rush of familial recognition. Heinrich savours the sensation, burps, then rubs his ulcerated stomach under his robe.

Detlef von Tennen. An image of his cousin aged sixteen, the beard barely visible on the cheeks made gaunt by battle, surges up in Heinrich’s mind. It is as vivid as if it were yesterday: his childhood companion and cousin, Count Gerhard von Tennen, presenting his young brother, arrogantly pushing Detlef to his knees. ‘My brother has a vocation that even two years of war could not beat out of him,’ the young nobleman had sneered.

Both von Tennens had served with the Bavarian army. But while Gerhard had flourished amid the camaraderie and bloodshed, his brother, sensitive to the plight of the soldiers
beneath him, had suffered. At fourteen Detlef had entered the Great War convinced that he was fighting for God and the Catholic Church. Two years later he left, revolted by the corruption, the utter waste of human spirit and the incompetence of the aristocratic generals whose outmoded battle manoeuvres often caused hundreds of thousands to be unnecessarily slaughtered.

Heinrich recalls the young Detlef, head bowed, trembling, pleading for a position with the ambitious young prelate who, it was rumoured, would one day become archbishop. Moved by his enthusiasm and simple belief, Heinrich had nurtured his cousin’s career and given him spiritual guidance. Nevertheless, over the years he had watched this ardent young man metamorphose into something entirely different: a creature of politics; a cynic whose faith in the archbishop had been slowly stripped away with every strategic turn Heinrich was forced to make to survive the crippling jurisdiction of the bürgers. Torn between his duties as archbishop and his loyalties as a Wittelsbach prince, Heinrich had tried to prevent the great aristocratic families being further robbed of their powers, in some cases even their land. He had failed. The demise of the old order was unstoppable. It was inevitable but how the archbishop hated to see the adulation in Detlef’s eyes dim like the embers of a dying fire. And how he craves to win it back.

Kinship will always be thicker than sworn loyalty, Heinrich thinks, glancing at the eager von Fürstenberg. It is a natural idiocy of man. Detlef is linked to him by both blood and spirit. There is no denying it, he still loves the young canon.

‘I will not sacrifice my cousin.’

‘I promise you, your grace, that no harm will come to the Wittelsbach name.’

‘Break your promise, Wilhelm, and I will break you.’

T
he horse’s velvet nostrils flare
in the freezing night air. Pawing impatiently, the bay tosses its head as the young carabinier slips on the bridle. There is no moon and he can see his companions only by the light of the torch held high by a monk, the reflected flames glinting off the steel of the muskets and the gleaming swords that hang from the soldiers’ belts.

There are fifteen mounted soldiers—young men recruited from the orphanage of the monastery of Saint Peter, patron saint of the cathedral. The carabinier is twenty years old and lost both father and grandfather to the Thirty Years’ War. He smooths down the chainmail vest he wears over his leather jerkin, then adjusts the broad red satin sash which indicates that this morning he rides for the emperor himself. It feels good. Powerful. In this uniform he is a man who belongs, a man who will give his life for the great Holy Roman Empire and Emperor Leopold. A man with purpose, not a terrified boy squatting naked in front of a burning cottage where the raped corpses of his mother and sister swing from the rafters.

The carabinier slips his foot into the silver stirrup and throws his long graceful leg across the stallion.

Detlef, in a scarlet cloak which reaches to his ankles, sits astride his own horse, a beautiful black Hanoverian mare, at the head of the squadron of riders. His expression is stern, hiding the revulsion he feels. He glances back and is privately appalled at the youth of the soldiers waiting behind him in the flickering shadows. Their eager open faces remind him too vividly of the carnage he witnessed himself: death slashing beauty across the throat, bodies ripped open and left bleeding like strange fruits scattered over abandoned fields. The plough still standing buried in mud, poised for a harvest that would never come. An endless war which fragmented his whole world. And for what? To reduce Germania to a motley quilt of princedoms all jostling for power.

Detlef glances at the banner a page carries. It bears the black double-headed eagle with a crown on each head. Clutched in one talon is a sceptre, in the other a sword, representing church and state: the symbol of the Hapsburgs. The other side of the banner carries a simple black cross against a white background: the emblem of the archbishops of Cologne.

Often Detlef feels as if he was born into unfortunate times. The noble values of the last century, when Cologne was at the apex of its power, have vanished. All that is left is a dwindling city, an obsolete organ infested with its own petty rivalries and self-importance. And yet the canon senses the promise of a huge transformation; cracks of light in a sky so darkened with confusion it is impossible to see the whole horizon. It is Detlef’s great private hope that he will live to see that promised revolution.

The canon glances across at the inquisitor who sits beside the coachman on the prison cart, a vehicle enclosed by iron bars, the dreaded symbol of a finished life.

What was in the mother is in the daughter, Carlos tells himself. It is his duty to eradicate this seam of pure evil. He knows he has the blessing of God, why else would his prayers have been answered? For it was nothing short of miraculous that the German priest should have realised that the raven-haired baby he had baptised so many years before was now the midwife of Deutz, accused of practising kabbalistic rites. The priest, driven by guilt in his dying days, told the Inquisition of the witch’s whereabouts and the Navarro investigation was reopened, with Carlos at its head. Yes, such a chain of events could only have been guided by Divine will. After that first blessing God had directed the inquisitor to Vienna, where he presented his case to Leopold. Informed by his spies that the emperor was displeased with Maximilian Heinrich and his whoring for the French king, Carlos offered to act as Leopold’s ambassador and sheriff and make his arrests according to the emperor’s command. Seeing his opportunity to crush the enemy’s spies in Cologne, Leopold agreed to the inquisitor’s plans and even provided him with a carriage and finance. So now he is both God’s emissary and the emperor’s constable, Carlos concludes smugly.

He wonders if the daughter will look like her mother, if he will feel the same rush of exhilaration at those eyes, that hair, those lips. The anticipation makes him tumescent.

Soon he will be absolved of his sins. He will use the sorceress’s own powers against her: he will call upon Lilith to fight evil with evil. The prospect of being liberated from an infatuation which has lasted more than thirty years lightens his whole physique. Tapping his foot against the side of the gaol cart the friar breaks into a low hum.

Disgusted at his irreverence, Detlef shoots a disapproving glance in his direction. The inquisitor stops and smiles back superciliously.

The canon can be as irritated as he likes, Carlos thinks. I am a Divine soldier, here to perform justice. I will enlighten these provincial German doorstops and show them the work of God’s army. I will avenge upon the daughter the humiliation caused by the mother.

With that defiant thought foremost in his mind he clutches the decree closer to his chest.

Silently the horses part as Maximilian Heinrich emerges from the cathedral. In full regalia the archbishop walks down the stone steps and stands before the envoys, oblivious to the stamping hooves, the night chill which drifts across the troops and the shivering animals’ flanks, and the aroma of incense floating from the golden thurible an altar boy carries behind him.

Heinrich lifts his hands and blesses the soldiers. Their young faces, some still beardless, lower in reverence.

‘My sons, may you go with the power of Jesus Christ pounding in your veins and know that you
are
the Lord in both sword and spirit. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ the young men repeat, their soft voices a lingering echo caught in the daybreak.

Believers; may God grant they stay that way, Detlef prays.

Heinrich strides towards him. ‘Fast and silent, cousin. The Spaniard will want blood. It is your duty to make sure there is none.’

Then, his robes swirling behind him, the archbishop is swiftly back in the cathedral. The image of his presence floats suspended over the soldiers and the pawing horses.

It is dawn and the mauve sky hovers between night and day. The colonies of sparrows perched in the plane trees that line the square begin their chorus. The birdsong pierces the sky like a handful of thrown silver.

Detlef jerks his horse’s bridle and leads off the procession,
across the square and into Komodienstrasse towards the first of the accused. The mare, sensing her rider’s reluctance, is slow but then quickens her pace, excited by the scent of a distant ocean brought by a breeze off the Rhine.

Meister Matthias Voss is dreaming of frogs. Dancing frogs dressed in silver hose. They are singing and Meister Voss strains to hear the lyrics. He turns in the bed and pushes his plump buttocks towards his sleeping wife, Gretel. Dimly conscious, she smiles at the bulk of the man she loves and wraps her strong arms around his waist. Meanwhile, Meister Voss is wrestling with the amphibian ballet: he thinks they might be singing about being cooked in a soup, but the lyrics are in French and he is nervous that he has misunderstood the word
consommé.
Suddenly the singing becomes shouting and the frogs are flying everywhere. The dreaming Voss spins around, trying to catch them, then realises to his great chagrin that he is naked.

He wakes sharply to the sound of loud banging. Gretel clutches him, her long grey plaits falling between her pendulous breasts.

‘Matthias! What is it? Maybe Mathilde, maybe she has been taken! Oh, my poor child, to die so young!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, woman!’ the merchant replies, still struggling with the dull weight of his dreaming. For a second he remains frozen upright in bed, his weeping wife beside him, unable to find a rational meaning for the calamitous pounding below.

‘I will go.’

‘No! Let the servants answer! Please, Matthias.’

But the old merchant is already on his feet, the furred nightcap pulled down over his weathered brow, his silk nightdress tumbling over the veined belly, the vulnerable sac
of balls and cock, the gnarled feet which have stood on sand, grass, polished wood, marble and straw. Before Meister Voss can pull his old cloak trimmed with mink across his shoulders, his valet bursts into the bedroom followed by three young cathedral guards and a short friar of Mediterranean appearance bristling with self-importance.

For an instant Meister Voss thinks they have come to ravish his wife. Forgetting that she is now old and grey, he throws himself in front of her naked body. A soldier turns away to snicker.

Now visibly quivering with righteousness, the friar steps forward and speaks in German with a heavy Spanish accent. As Voss’s senses shake themselves awake and the words slowly penetrate his understanding, he recognises the man as Inquisitor Carlos Vicente Solitario, the friar he had ridiculed only the night before with his fellow bürgers in the local beer hall.

‘…the Grand Inquisitional Council of Aragon charges you with two indictments of wizardry, one charge of conspiring against the Holy Roman Empire and one charge of consorting with the devil himself,’ Carlos finishes.

‘You pumped-up piece of religious shit! You have no right to do this!’

‘Matthias! Please! Don’t make them more angry,’ his wife pleads, but the old man, his fur cloak now over his shoulders, has mustered his full authority. He glares at the friar.

‘This is a free city, you have no power over us bürgers! The Gaffeln shall hear of this, they will use your hypocritical shaved pate to wipe their arses!’

Canon von Tennen steps from behind the soldiers and Voss falters. Here is a man he both recognises and respects. Unable to connect Detlef’s presence with the proceedings, confusion muddles the old man for a moment as he ponders the frightening possibility that the canon might be there to give him the last rites.

‘My apologies, Meister Voss, for the inconvenience of our visit but the Gaffeln knows about the charges. They also know about the other matter—the passing of bad silver to a certain Portuguese merchant.’

‘What bad silver? I have never dealt in bad silver in my entire life.’

‘Nevertheless, the charges must be examined.’

‘You know these are trumped-up accusations, you know it!’ Voss protests, his baritone voice ringing out with false confidence. But Detlef, inwardly mortified by the speciousness of his commission, has already slipped back into the shadows.

Meister Voss looks around wildly. For the first time in his life there is no one to defend him. Instinctively he reaches down for his sword, forgetting that he is still in his nightshirt. The soldiers move forward and grab him roughly by the arms. His wife, screaming, throws herself at him, clinging to his waist.

‘Nein! Nein! Nicht mein Mann!
No! Not my husband!’ she cries out, oblivious to her unclothed state. Several of the soldiers turn their faces away in embarrassment as they drag the merchant out.

Voss, now frail with shock, remembers that in his dream the frogs were not singing but shrieking. As he is pushed down his own ornate wooden stairs, he realises in a moment of stark clarity that he has always known that time and fear would eventually collide like this and render meaningless all of the life he lived before.

Outside, back on his horse, Detlef presses his hand across his eyes. Shaking with rage he is trying to control an overwhelming desire to strike down the squat Spaniard who watches triumphantly as his first captive is loaded into the gaol cart.

The cat lies stretched across a bolt of Indian bombazine that arrived in Cologne on a ship belonging to the East India Company. The first streak of the morning sun falls across the feline’s belly. Delighted, it purrs in the warmth.

Suddenly glass fragments scatter over the animal’s fur. Terrified, it tears across the shopfront window as the soldiers burst through the entrance. Somewhere above a door slams as Hermann Müller’s sons run to wake their father.

The younger, fourteen years old, hauls himself up the narrow staircase leading to the attic and his father’s bedchamber. His brother, sixteen, is just in front of him. Terror pounds against the back of his throat as both boys throw themselves into the darkened room. But Hermann Müller is already on his feet. A widower with only his sons to live for, he pulls both young men to his chest.

‘Listen, you must leave, both of you. Go to your uncle in Paris. Tell him to go to the king. Whatever it takes! I have been betrayed…’

The hammering of the soldiers’ footsteps draws closer. The younger boy begins to weep; the other, conscious of his approaching manhood, moves to protect his father.

‘No, Günter, they will take you too. Go now!’

Herr Müller pushes his two sons towards a small window. Thrusting open the shutters he reveals the roofs of Cologne, a grey mountainous range of glistening slate and brick.

‘Whatever I have done, forgive me.’

Unable to look at their shocked faces fragmenting into grief, Müller grabs the younger one and pushes him through the narrow opening. Following, the elder son turns to kiss his father briefly on the lips then climbs out after his brother.

Herr Müller watches them clamber over the slippery tiles, his heart squeezing with sorrow. His breath catches as the smaller boy slips and his brother reaches out to steady him. Terrified this will be the last time he will ever see his
children, the merchant leans against the wall to stop his legs from buckling beneath him.

A moment later, scurrying up the steep slope, the two youths hear the muffled shouts of their father as he struggles with the soldiers.

By the time the prison cart has rumbled off the barge and onto the muddy track that leads to the small Calvinist outpost of Mülheim, the village children are already dancing along behind it.

Hungry for beauty their thin dirty faces stare at the soldiers’ crimson sashes, at the golden horn hanging from the trumpeter’s neck, at the lush fringed purple of the Hapsburg banner. Turning to the wheeled cage, the ragged urchins begin to mimic the bewildered faces of the two prisoners who shiver in their nightclothes, clutching the bars to stop themselves falling into the foul-smelling straw that covers the rocking floor.