The Witch of Cologne

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 investigati

on 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!’