The minister waits for Heinrich’s tantrum to dissipate then tentatively leans forward, furtiveness arching his corpulent body.
‘Your grace, be patient. Emperor Leopold is a young man, he is infected with the zeal of youth. Soon he will realise that King Louis is a better ally than enemy.’
‘In the meantime I am to be sacrificed to these plebeian Dutch-loving bürgers who will crucify me for these arrests.’
‘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.’
The 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.