The Witch of Cologne

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.

‘These are the people from across the river who live in that shiny city which is always out of reach. Now look at them! Dirty as monkeys!’ the children chant in Dutch and Flemish as they sprint ahead.

The prison cart lumbers across the small square with its duck pond desolate in the centre; past the wooden stocks in front of the town hall, a building as immaculate as a doll’s house; the herring stall with its wares already scenting the breeze. It rolls past the Protestant church, its Calvinist severity afire with the sunrise; past the white school with its steep red Dutch roof; past the fishmonger’s and the bakery. Finally, wheels squeaking, the cart halts outside the house of Jan van Dorf, the most prosperous merchant of Mülheim.

The children gawk in bewilderment—surely the soldiers must have the wrong address. A God-fearing man such as van Dorf, whose annual donations keep the small school running, clearly such a man is beyond authority. Why, everyone in Mülheim knows that van Dorf is unassailable, the only Dutchman in the village on first-name terms with the Catholic merchants of Cologne. He even travels over to the city and openly trades with the cargo ships; he has an honorary membership of the goldsmiths’ guild, verified by the shield with golden urns hanging proudly in his window. But the prison cart has definitely stopped outside the palatial shopfront and the friar is climbing down and walking towards the door. The children, amazed, gather in a cluster behind the steaming flanks of the restless horses.

A second later van Dorf bursts out of the shop. A handsome man in his early thirties, his round Flemish face is florid with agitation. He greets the small priest and the tall elegant blond man courteously but soon he is shouting at them in German. ‘Witch! Wizard! Inquisition!’

The frightened children understand only every third word, but they know from his face and the scent of terror which fills the morning air with its acrid tang that the world has lurched suddenly like a shipwreck tilting on its side. Stricken with dread they stagger back as the soldiers move forward.

Unexpectedly van Dorf bolts, fleeing down the lane, eyes rolling like those of a terrified hare, his rotund body wobbling violently as his legs pound beneath him. Shocked at the incongruous sight the children fall silent. One small boy breaks into loud weeping as the soldiers languidly turn their horses around as if van Dorf’s run for his life is little more than an irritant. The mounted guards transform into beautiful centaurs with tassels flying, hooves stomping and tails lashing through the fine morning air. With nostrils steaming like dragons, heads pointed towards the dashing figure, the horses give chase. In minutes the soldiers catch the Dutchman, drag him face down through the ploughed mud back to the prison cart.

And the watching children think the sky has fallen, for no one is safe if they can take van Dorf. Even the youngest looks up to the heavens, waiting for a vision of the fierce face of God, or lightning, or some other divine sign to show that a terrible mistake has occurred. Instead the church bells start to peal and somewhere a woman begins to wail.

Ruth squats next to her winter herbs, her skirts pulled up while she urinates onto the icy ground. She looks over at the guelder-roses and nettles tethered to the long wooden stakes pounded into the hard mud. This is where she grows her medicinal plants—motherwort for breastfeeding, skullcap for pain, rosemary for the inflamed womb.