The Witch of Cologne (24 page)

Detlef laughs and, biding his time, pulls a sprig of mountain sage from a large bush. He buries his nose in it and inhales deeply. He does not want to think about the difficulties that lie ahead. All he desires is for the sense of exhilaration and calmness he feels standing next to her to continue.

Ruth, infected by his boylike abandonment, is confused. She wonders whether he understands how dangerous the situation could be for both of them. Suddenly he thrusts the sprig towards her.

‘Sage.’

‘The herb to render man immortal,’ she answers, smiling.

The coachman spits out his tobacco and shouts to them, wanting to move on while the horses are still fresh. Detlef tucks another sprig of sage in his coat pocket. As they walk back Ruth suddenly turns to him.

‘Canon, I lied…about the birthing of Frau Brassant. There was an amulet…’

Detlef, aware of the watchful driver, hurries her towards a stream where he knows the tumbling waters will drown out their voices.

‘Was there witchcraft, Ruth? Tell me honestly.’

Distracted by the use of her name in a familiar and loving manner, Ruth hesitates. An extraordinary sense of excitement rushes through her. Should she tell him about Lilith, about the circle of protection she drew around the ailing mother? Would he comprehend the way the demon has shadowed her life? Can she trust him with her great secret fear or will he crucify her as others wish to? She does not know him well enough, Ruth reminds herself. He is of another race, another world, he will always be other.

‘It is a weakness in me. I cannot let go of the ways of my mother. The amulet was there for protection, of both child and mother. The three angels, Snwy, Snsnwy and Smnglf, and Chesed, the kabbala symbol for mercy, that is all,’ she answers carefully.

‘No incantation, no appeals to the black master?’

‘None, I swear.’

‘Then it is a custom not a spell, a harmless token to ensure safety, and no one need know of this but ourselves.’

‘Do you think me weak? For all my belief in
scientia nova
, I must appear a primitive.’

‘Not weak, only human.’ He hoists her up into the coach. ‘And that is of great comfort to me as I had begun to doubt otherwise.’

Outside, the coachman shakes the reins and the six black stallions arch their muscles into a graceful trot.

Inside, looking away from Detlef, Ruth feels her heart reverberating over and over with the sound of his voice whispering her name.

T
he heavy drapes are drawn against the cold afternoon.
Two Kammerhunde, their large elegant bodies draped over each other in rough affection, lie sleeping in front of the glowing embers of a fire. The air is filled with the scent of burning cloves and camphor: protection against disease and the terrible smell emanating from the ailing royal. A housemaid removes the copper warming pan from the bed and empties out the cooling coals to replace them with red-hot ones.

The count, in a Persian day coat, reads in an armchair. Breaking the silence he laughs out loud. Alphonso, bent over the prostrate figure of Ferdinand, sponging the sweat from his unconscious face, hushes him. The count looks up guiltily then back down at his tome,
The Ingenious Knight Don Quixote of La Mancha.
The tension is shattered only by the clatter of hooves outside the window.

The prince’s face shines a mottled grey, the skin papery, flaking off around the nostrils and eyebrows. Ruth leans closer; she needs to take her patient’s pulse but it is forbidden.

Behind her the count, Alphonso and Detlef wait anxiously. Alphonso stares at the midwife as if she is the embodiment of hope, which indeed she is. Ruth notes the colour of her patient’s lips then instructs Alphonso to lift his eyelids. The actor, trembling slightly, peels back the young man’s lids; beneath the eyes roll back white.

‘Has he been bled?’

‘Every day for a week,’ the count replies dismissively and glances suspiciously at the hide sack the midwife has placed at the base of the curtained bed, expecting her at any minute to produce some ridiculous quackery. Ignoring him, Ruth leans down and pulls out the cow gut and brass cup instrument that was presented in court.

‘What is that?’ The count alarmed, jumps back.

Detlef, amused by his brother’s uncharacteristic loss of control, steadies the count’s lace-clad arm. ‘Fear not, Gerhard, it is an instrument of
scientia nova.
’

‘Indeed. I believe I might have seen one myself at the French court,’ the count replies unconvincingly, trying to cover his humiliation.

Ruth, sensing that her best protection is to remain enigmatic, shows Alphonso how to place the brass cup over Ferdinand’s heart. While she listens intently the count pulls Detlef to one side.

‘You realise that if he dies the von Tennen name will be endangered, not to mention the fact that we shall have to drive the body back to Vienna at our own expense. Leopold will expect a state funeral.’

‘The prince shall not perish.’

The two men watch as Ruth, closing her eyes in concentration, begins to rock backwards and forwards on her heels. It is not a sight the count finds reassuring.

‘Nevertheless, you will oblige me by performing the last rites if necessary?’ he whispers to his brother.

‘Naturally.’

Ruth asks Alphonso to pull up the prince’s nightshirt so she may examine his midriff. The sight of the scarred abdomen, now swollen and bloated like that of a pregnant woman, causes both men to turn away as the actor tenderly arranges the linen sheets around Ferdinand.

‘What are the scars from?’ Ruth asks, wondering at the crusty ridges that criss-cross her patient’s flesh.

‘From an old injury as a boy,’ Alphonso answers.

‘It could be that the current ailment is related to this. Remove the last of the leeches,’ Ruth instructs, but the count stays Alphonso’s hand.

‘My medic told us it was an impurity of the blood.’

‘Sire, with respect, the prince is weak, his heartbeat is faint. He needs to be given nourishment not drained of it.’

Reluctantly the count nods his permission and Alphonso removes four bloated leeches from the prince’s groin and neck. Ruth looks down the torso, her focus drawn towards the swollen belly. Below the bony ribs, on one side of the extended sac that was once a stomach, there is a visible growth. Gesturing with her hands she shows Alphonso how to massage gently around the area.

‘You must tell me exactly what you sense beneath your fingertips. From this I shall be able to deduce the ailment.’

Alphonso, almost too frightened to touch his lover for fear of hurting him, softly lies his hands over his sleeping flesh.

‘There is a stone, hard to the touch.’

‘Is there a ridge of muscle that lies above it?’

Alphonso hesitates as Ferdinand groans.

‘Please, you must continue if we are to save him.’

As Alphonso describes what he feels under his hands, Ruth sketches out an anatomical drawing on parchment, the ink splattering in her jerky haste. Detlef, watching over her shoulder, marvels at her vision and confidence. It is as if she is sensing the prince’s body through Alphonso’s fingers. The accuracy of the drawing—the stomach walls split open, the rippling coils of the intestines, both greater and minor—indicate that she has been witness to autopsies, a practice punishable by death in archaic Cologne but accepted in Amsterdam.

The count, after glancing at the midwife’s frantic sketching, looks at Detlef with disapproval.

‘Brother, is it not time we resorted to innovation if we are to advance?’ Detlef whispers, distracted by Ruth’s powerful strokes with the quill which belie the fragility of her figure.

‘But is this knowledge or alchemy?’ the count murmurs back, watching Ruth trace in the demonic growth visible in the upper intestine.

‘She has had training in Amsterdam with the finest medics of the Netherlands, trust me.’

‘Just save the youth’s life and we all shall live.’

Finally Ruth stops her scribbling. A servant places another log on the fire while Ferdinand, unconscious, curls his hands up like a sleeping child. His uneven snore rattles through the warm room as Ruth lays the diagram down beside his torso.

‘The ailment is an adhesion made of old scar tissue pressing against the bowel and causing a blockage. It is this that is poisoning the blood.’

‘Will he perish?’

‘If left untreated, yes—it may even be too late now. With your permission I might be able to cut the blockage out, but I shall need to be able to lay both knife and hand upon his highness myself.’

The count looks on as Ruth indicates the illustrated growth. Impressed by her draughtsmanship he is still hesitant—everyone in the room knows that to allow a Jew to touch royalty is a punishable offence.

‘And if I say no?’

‘He will be dead by morning.’

‘And Madame, if you fail you will be dead by the morning after.’

‘In that case I shall arrive at my natural destiny sooner rather than later and,’ she adds, smiling gently at her new patient, ‘I shall have the advantage of company.’

‘Let us hope you are as skilful with the knife as you are with your tongue.’

The count bows slightly, and after giving instructions to his servants to provide everything the midwife should need, is relieved to depart.

Alphonso tenderly pulls a coverlet over the prince while Ruth removes herbs, a scalpel, cleaning tools and a stitching needle from her bag.

‘I cannot protect you from my brother.’

Detlef, reaching across, clasps her hand for a moment. Alphonso turns away discreetly.

‘I don’t expect you to.’ Ruth pulls her hand away. ‘I shall need clean rags, a cauldron of boiling water and sheets. No one is to be in attendance except the prince’s valet.’

The authority of her request distances the moment of awkward intimacy. Noticing the tension between the two the actor steps forward.

‘As I refuse to leave the room you might as well use me as nursemaid. I am good with small instruments and faint not at the sight of blood—I once played Macbeth for three seasons.’

He leans forward, his dishevelled hair and week-old beard giving him an air of desperation. ‘Also, if the prince should perish, God forbid, I would like to be by his side.’

Ruth slowly nods. Already she has laid out the operating tools on a square of clean cloth. ‘I shall come to you when I have finished,’ she says softly to Detlef.

He nods, secretly thankful to leave the musky room with its nauseating odour of illness.

Outside, the canon pauses at the door. He recites a prayer for the protection of all concerned, then winds his way down the candlelit corridors towards the tiny chapel which the count has dedicated to Saint Hubert and all victims of hunting accidents.

The cotton stitches, long and crossed over, hold the swollen edges of the cut skin neatly together. Ruth, her face flushed from the heat, dark circles under her eyes, blood staining her apron and forearms, inserts the last one, pulling closed the incision like a seamstress.

The room stinks of foul air, mead and gore. The patient, still unconscious, dribbles slightly, his head tilted back drunkenly. Beside the bed lies a bowl in the centre of which the putrid growth squats evilly. The brass cauldron bubbles away on the hearth with several stained instruments floating on its surface.

Alphonso, pale with fatigue, dabs at the prince’s bloodied stomach with a clean rag. For hours he and Ruth have worked together and an unspoken but evident trust now links them as strongly as a conspiracy.

Ruth, too exhausted to speak, pulls open the drapes then the heavy wooden shutters. The dawn, framed by the window, streaks the sky with pink and mauve hope.

The prince’s body, newly illuminated, takes on a porcelain grace. Leaning over him the actor meticulously wipes the last of the blood away from the wound. ‘I love him,’ he says softly but definitively.

‘I know,’ Ruth replies, not unaccustomed to this kind of affection between man and man.

But Alphonso persists, looking for some form of absolution from the woman who to him now appears as luminous as a miracle-worker. Risking everything he steps towards her.

‘Fear not, Fräulein, yours are not the first Jewish hands to touch the prince.’

Surprised, Ruth looks up, then without a word leans across and cradles him in her arms.

M
aximilian Heinrich wakes
to the pealing of bells for early morning mass. For a moment he thinks he is still in Cologne, then remembers the hurried ride to Bonn the evening before. Five peals—five a.m. The midwife will have treated the prince by now. The sleepy archbishop shifts his weight around on the lumpy feather pallet, not wanting to open his eyes and face the bureaucratic quagmire that threatens to swallow him up.

In the distance a cock crows and the smell of fresh horse manure drifts in through the half-open shutters. The midwife. Heinrich, eyes squeezed shut, his massive double chin sagging against the feather pillows above his cotton nightshirt, is already struggling with the machinations of his political survival. What is Detlef’s interest in the plain little Hebrew? Knowing the canon’s susceptibility for the weaker sex, he nevertheless cannot believe that his cousin‘s interest could be romantic. The midwife is so far removed in station that the archbishop can barely think of her as female, never
mind desirable. No, it has to be some latent surge of faith in the man.

Pleased with this hypothesis, Heinrich, eyes still shut, smiles. His valet, having stepped silently into the bedroom, notices the archbishop’s expression of pleasure and thinking that he might be disturbing an early morning moment of erotic delight steps back out. Meanwhile the archbishop, continuing his musing, finds himself feeling almost paternal towards the young canon. In his later years Heinrich has started to cherish in others the youthful passions which were once his own inspiration. The idea of reinforcing a moral world in which everything, even the most mundane tragedies, has meaning, has always appealed to him. It was the experience of watching his father being stripped of land and wealth until all that remained was his title which initially led the young Heinrich to yearn for power to reestablish the old ways of the aristocracy.

The strict hierarchy of the church with its pomp and glory seemed to provide a stability he craved in the chaotic aftermath of the Reformation. By the time he realised that the theological order was just as corrupt as any other, it was too late for the idealistic young Heinrich. It delights him now to think that, unlike himself, Detlef still retains his passion, perhaps even a small vestige of faith.

The archbishop opens one eye. From a small side table the timepiece he inherited from his father stares back at him. It chimes again; this time gilded doors fling open and Death, a hooded skeleton, wrestling with Love, a buxom bare-breasted maiden, pop out. It suddenly feels like a bad omen to Heinrich. In an attempt to stem his fears he decides to ignore the chiming timepiece and resume his meditation.

If the midwife saves the prince, Detlef will have pulled off a coup that will serve Heinrich, Cologne and most importantly the emperor, with the added advantage of being an act of
both spiritual and ethical grace. The man is a born strategist;
he
is his natural heir, not that buffoon Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg. Unless the canon has failed, in which case Heinrich will have to banish him to some remote abbey in Bavaria until the name von Tennen has completely disappeared from the mind of that ridiculous puppy Leopold.

Having swung from a gentle daydream into a full-blown nightmare, and gripped by the ghastly possibility that Ferdinand might actually die and with him all hope of appeasing the emperor, Heinrich sits up and reaches for his quill.

A few minutes later, dressed in riding boots with a long velvet robe flung over his nightshirt, clutching a scribbled appeal to the count asking him to conceal any connection between the cathedral and Ruth bas Elazar Saul should the prince die, the archbishop strides across the muddy courtyard of his country palace towards the dovecote. His falconer, still pulling on his trousers, runs after him, stumbling his way through a flock of geese.

The dovecote, an iron and wooden structure built in the style of a mock Oriental palace, stands over a stable containing some unhappy goats, next to the archbishop’s falconry. Several sleepy hooded hawks and kestrels blindly twist their cloaked heads in Heinrich’s direction as he arrives puffing in the chilly morning air. Planting both feet squarely in the mud and straw he stares up at the cooing doves and pigeons.

The falconer catches up and stands panting beside the archbishop, wondering what terrible mistake he has made to bring the archbishop out so early. Finally Heinrich turns to the trembling bird handler.

‘Count von Tennen has a dove here, does he not?’

‘Yes, your majesty.’

‘Bring it here.’

The falconer, donning his cap, climbs up the narrow wooden ladder precariously balanced against the side of the cote and unfastens the small woven door. Below Heinrich plucks two feathers from the air and watches as the falconer crouches in a corner and begins cooing softly. Within seconds the birds have settled. Carefully the peasant makes his way to one small grey dove.

‘She’s a good bird, swift too.’

‘How fast?’

‘Two hours by daylight to the count, by my reckoning.’

Heinrich holds out his cupped hands and with a tenderness that belies their paw-like size wraps his fingers around the bird. Fearlessly the dove cocks her head, her curious beady eye fastening on the archbishop’s round, reddish nose which she has mistaken for a juicy caterpillar.

The maidservant throws the sheet over the balustrade and shakes it vigorously. Below she can see the midwife making her way towards the family chapel, her black hair streaming down her back. Unaccustomed to the heavy skirt she is clumsy in her gait. Such an ugly woman, the maid thinks, wondering whether the Jewess is truly a witch, maybe even half-goat under the long skirts. Could it be possible that such a hag has saved the prince’s life?

The young wench has already heard from the cook that the midwife and the Italian actor locked themselves in the prince’s quarters overnight and were seen through the keyhole conducting a black mass. How can such a puny insignificant woman wield such power? It has to be sorcery. Crossing herself the girl makes a quick prayer for protection to Saint Zita, the Italian patron saint of house servants. Her entreaty is interrupted by the appearance of a single dove flying in from
the east. The bird, a small defiant ball of grey feathers, lands beside her and ruffles its wings. Frightened that it might shit on her clean sheets the maidservant immediately shoos it away.

Swooping down to the courtyard, the dove swings in a wide arc towards the enclosure where the count keeps his winged messengers.

Ruth barely notices the bird passing above her. She stands at the doorway of the small chapel, not daring to enter. Oblivious to her presence Detlef kneels in a pew, his head bowed in front of the altar. The statue is of the Virgin Mary, hands outspread, bestowing grace. The painted yellow hair, the rose of her cheeks, the ornate blue robe all look completely foreign to Ruth, but the intensity of the canon’s physiognomy—the way his hands clutch the iron railings, his head bowed in desperate supplication, the vulnerability of his curved shoulders—all of these gestures reverberate in her.

This is a man at prayer. A man in direct appeal to his God, she thinks. It is not important to her that he is worshipping a deity different from her own, for it is his spiritual ambition, his drive to surrender his will to a higher power, that attracts her. To her, the humility of his absorption is wondrous.

Sensing her presence, Detlef swings around. ‘How long have you been waiting there?’

‘Not long,’ she replies, embarrassed to be caught in her reverie.

Detlef gets up, dusts his knees then walks towards her. ‘You may enter. It is not a sin to let the unchristian into a place of worship.’

‘If you please, I would rather not.’

He joins her at the stone archway, shivering in the dawn chill.

‘So, Fräulein, does the prince live?’

‘For the moment.’

Ruth, unwilling to give any reason to hope, watches carefully as the strain begins to lift from the canon’s face.

‘Thank the Good Lord himself.’

‘You were praying?’

‘All night.’

‘Then pray some more for I shall not know if he has fully recovered until tomorrow’s sunrise.’

Exhaustion drains her voice of any inflection. Weary to within an inch of her life she stumbles in the direction of her sleeping quarters.

The count, not knowing how to house the midwife and fearing scandal, has placed Ruth in the room of his mother’s favourite maid, an old woman who died only a month before. The tiny chamber, little more than a sparse box dominated by a roof beam, sits off a top hallway which leads into a maze of corridors with peeling plaster and sloping walls that houses the rest of the servants. At night this labyrinth transforms into a treacherous forest of whispered endearments, of shadows that criss-cross the wooden ceilings, a lattice of sexual intrigue.

Tucked neatly in the corner of the room is a straw pallet covered with an ancient quilt which, Ruth surmises correctly, the poor woman must have inherited from her mother before being given up to service as a small child. The coverlet, lovingly embroidered by a woman who no doubt feared for the safety of her first-born, depicts the fourteen Stations of the Cross. Above the bed hangs a small icon of the Virgin Mary. Against the opposite wall stands a pewter washing jug and wooden bucket, the hallmarks of a good and clean Christian woman. Ruth’s journeybox, an embossed Spanish leather case she inherited from her own mother, sits against the chalky partition.

Ruth is grateful for the sudden tranquillity of the chamber. Although windowless it has the feeling of being securely
embedded in the body of the hunting lodge, with life rustling above and below it. She pulls off the damp tippet and drapes it carefully over the beam. Leaning over she takes the icon off its hook. Pinned to the back is a small portrait of a young aristocratic woman who resembles Detlef in her fair colouring and the line of her proud mouth. Attached to the miniature is a faded lock of blonde hair. Ruth, realising that this is Detlef’s mother, is surprised by the sudden rush of intimacy she feels staring at the crudely painted likeness. Holding the picture under the spluttering taper, she can clearly see an earnestness tempered by a look of humour in the eyes, a characteristic she has glimpsed only momentarily in the son.

The maid must have loved the mistress, she thinks, and carefully leans the icon against the leather chest. She opens the journeybox and pulls out a small pebble. Etched onto it, the crevasses of the letters filled with gold leaf, are three kabbalistic words: Chochma, Binah and Netzach—revelation, reason and lasting endurance. Ruth mutters a blessing, kisses the amulet then places it under her pillow.

Outside she can hear the distant village bells pealing for midday. Too fatigued to think, she pulls off her overskirt then struggles to wriggle out of the tight corset. Now clad only in a simple cotton petticoat, she pours water from the jug into the bucket and washes herself with a small cake of salt. Throwing herself onto the pallet she falls instantly into a dreamless sleep.

‘Pray tell me, are we in need of an undertaker yet?’

The count sits at the centre of the long wooden table in the reception hall of the hunting lodge. Beside him is his land manager, a puny man whose self-effacing manner ill conceals his ruthlessness.

The canon, still in his clothes from the night before, paces restlessly in front of the huge granite fireplace. The count’s tone reminds Detlef of the dismissive manner of their dictatorial father. Knowing that his brother is deliberately humiliating him in front of his servants, Detlef is momentarily gripped by anger.

‘I received one of Maximilian Heinrich’s birds only an hour ago. The good archbishop panics. Along with myself, he fears the emperor’s wrath should his nephew perish.’ The count sounds peevish with impatience.

‘You will have to wait until tomorrow morning. The prince lives, but I am told we shall not know for how long until then.’

‘The incision was successful?’

‘I told you, he still breathes…I have made prayer for him.’

‘In that case we have no choice but to wait on God’s will. But of course, with a canon’s personal supplication I assume we are slightly advantaged, are we not?’ The count’s sardonic smile further enrages Detlef.

A knock on the door interrupts them. A page ushers in a tall emaciated man, weathered beyond his years by poverty and toil. The peasant, limping badly and dressed in his best but heavily stained clothes, shuffles in behind the page, clutching a cloth cap. His wooden clogs rattle against the stone floor. He stands before the count and stares at his feet in abject terror.

Knowing that his brother is critical of the way he oversees Das Grüntal, Gerhard deliberately postpones dismissing him. Let him see for himself the difficulties I face every day in dealing with these plebeians, the count thinks, ignoring Detlef’s obvious exhaustion. At least next time he launches into a diatribe of advice it will be more informed.

His land manager hands him a scroll.

‘Herr Braun, you have failed to pay rent for the last three moons for both field and hearth. Do you realise the penalty?’

The count looks up from the report.

‘Sire, I have a war injury and the winter’s been bad on it.’

‘Is that your only excuse?’

‘That and the frost—it got two crops of turnips and the barley will be nothing to speak of come summer. But fear not, I’ll pay the rent, just as soon as I have something to sell at market…’

The farmer shifts nervously, glancing apprehensively at both Detlef and the count. His eyes wander around the room, staring at the splendour of the candelabra, the silver ornaments, the bronze lion’s feet of the table. The farmer has never been inside Das Grüntal before and he is astounded at the opulence. Like Heaven it is; if he loses everything at least he will have seen this. Gazing up at a portrait of Katerina von Tennen, he reminds himself to tell his wife how like an angel the lady looks.

‘From midday tomorrow you and your family shall be cast out and your land and house repossessed,’ the count announces smoothly.