The Witch of Cologne

‘It is an instrument designed by another great man, an Englishman called Matthew Hopkins. Have you heard of him?’

Ruth shakes her head; dread has swallowed her tongue.

‘He is also known as the Witchfinder General and has done much worthy work beyond the North Sea in this field. His instrument is known as Hopkins’ bodkin and is used to discover the secret mark the devil has made upon his womenfolk, the witches. It is not a pleasant modus operandi but very effective, let me assure you.’

‘You would torture me for a confession?’

‘Please, this is an investigation driven by the desire to reach the truth, Señorita Navarro. An immediate confession would of course make it unnecessary to resort to such methods.’

Ruth remains silent. She is thinking about her mother and father: she cannot betray her lineage or her beliefs. She glances back at the bodkin. She knows they will probe and violate her until her ankles run with blood; that they might place her head in an iron mask to force open her eye sockets, or pull out her tongue; that they will bring her to the point of death over and over and each time revive her. She knows that the rational response would be to confess now and be thankful that burning at the stake will prove a faster death. But she will not confess. Curse them, she thinks, she will die in silence, true to her philosophy and the spirit of the future. Besser tsu shtarben shtai’endik aider tsu leben oif di k’nien; better to die upright than to live on your knees. Curse them.

Studying the young woman sitting before him, Carlos watches the icy veneer of willpower closing over her. He has seen it before and as it excited him in the mother, it excites him now in the daughter. He will conquer the midwife’s soul even if it destroys him. He will see her annihilated, and with her the last shadow of Sara Navarro will be wiped from his eclipsed heart.

‘Your obstinacy is typical of your family and of your race. Very well; we shall take our leave and give you more time to contemplate the evidence I have laid out before you. Unfortunately it seems that even the philosophies of Benedict Spinoza will not be able to save you now.’

The guard wraps up the bodkin then roughly pushes Ruth off the stool. She falls into the filthy sawdust. Bowing mockingly, the inquisitor leaves the cell.

Detlef hesitates. He wants to go over and help the midwife up. He wants to wash the filth from her face and rinse the blood from her mouth, then hear her speak. Instead he turns away.

The guard pushes the iron gate shut and Ruth is left alone, the clang of key in lock reverberating in the unequivocal darkness.

On the other side of the heavy door Detlef finds he cannot move. Recognising his confusion as the onset of a revelation that is holding his body to ransom, he dismisses the guard and waits while the heavy footsteps recede down the corridor.

This woman has spoken the words he himself has longed to speak. She is defending ideas which have secretly possessed him for over two years. What is he to do? Can he let such a mind be destroyed by a petty vendetta?

Nobility of spirit wrestles with the necessity of political survival, but it seems pragmatism has deserted him completely. She cannot be a witch, he tells himself. Witches do not study philosophy; witches do not practise scientia nova. She belongs to a new age, a future he longs to be part of.

– BINAH –

Reason

Detlef stares at the globe of the world which sits on his desk, a gift from the shipbuilders’ guild in gratitude for a piece of diplomacy over taxes he executed on their behalf. It is a decorative sphere painted in sienna yellow and venetian blue, the cities marked in gold leaf, with Rome—as the axis of Christendom—naturally depicted as the centre of the world. He spins the orb around to Spain and walking his fingers tries to calculate the distance between Aragon and Cologne. By the time his thumb reaches the Free Imperial City, Ruth’s green eyes have fought their way back into his brain. He cannot shake the image of her.

Who is she? And who is she to the inquisitor? The other three arrests are entirely comprehensible now that he knows the two merchants are suspected spies and the Dutchman is an active de Witt sympathiser, but the midwife’s arrest is perplexing. The idea that she might be an informant for the Spanish Netherlands has occurred to him, but it is too preposterous—and she would not be demeaning herself in a Jewish ghetto if that were the case. Besides, he believes her story. Even under extreme physical duress she managed to stay articulate.

Detlef has known many educated women, but it was always the kind of learning that showed itself through sophisticated banter at banquets or performance at the musical recitals held by the more affluent bürgers. It never comprised the discussion of ideas as dangerous as a democratic society or a Godless universe. But this Ruth bas Elazar Saul, she has the fire of a man, the intellectual discipline of a scholar and the stamina of a sage. He has never met anyone remotely like her. Strangely moved, he struggles to compartmentalise his feelings. Damn the sorceress! The thought of her permeates his sensibility like a bewitching scent. She cannot be allowed to die at the hands of the Inquisition.

The words of his father come back to him: Intelligence is power; it is the flame behind the spark of intrigue. Find out all the facts and stamp out the fire. Demystify.

Detlef spins the globe again, this time wildly. Then, restless, he throws open the door of his chambers and shouts for Groot.

Beer splashes across the chevalier’s purple jacket. Laughing, he grabs the serving wench and pulls her onto his knee. The girl, little more than a child, pales as he thrusts his hand under her skirts. Immediately the madam of the establishment is there. A towering businesswoman with the severity of a chiselled warrior, she yanks the trembling maid away from the soldier and scolds the huge man as if he were a small boy. Then smiling provocatively she ushers into his presence a buxom blonde with ruddy cheeks and a generous cleavage visible above her tight blouse. Placated, the chevalier bows to the prostitute and with a graceful flourish invites her to drink with him. Before he has a chance to sit down a bottle of expensive wine is on the table.

The

brothel, known as The Hunter’s Sheath, lies just outside the city gates. An ancient building dating back to Roman times, it is located conveniently between the docks and the fish market, its patrons a happy mix of Catholic and Protestant, peppered with sailors and the resident troops from the military base at Mülheim. Inside, the dark oak panelling is decorated with the skulls of hundreds of deer: gifts of hunting trophies that allude to conquest from satisfied clients. Gothic candelabra hang low over tables covered in scarlet cloth, the cheap wax filling the atmosphere with a hazy scent designed to befuddle the senses and separate coin from purse.

The chevalier, a Flemish mercenary who knows no loyalty, glances at three men at a table in the corner. They are dressed in the drab clothes of bondsmen and for an idle moment he wonders if they are spies, then decides that even spies would not clothe themselves so appallingly. Distracted by a hand on his crotch he looks away, but if his curiosity were greater he would notice that the roughly stitched clothes do not fit the dignity of the tall blond man, and that the other two, although obviously underlings, have the distinct air of the church about them.

Detlef nods imperceptibly to the serving wench who immediately fills up the jug sitting before Inquisitor Solitario’s secretary. Juan’s face is already rosy and flushed but he is not quite drunk enough to lose the veneer of the diplomat.

‘What about her?’ He elbows Groot in the ribs and points to a tall thin girl whose dark hair falls in lanky strands from under her cowl.

‘Oh, I’m sure that she would be available, señor.’

The young Spaniard stares longingly at the girl then sighs dramatically. Turning back to Detlef he announces in a wheedling tone, ‘Alas, the stipend the inquisitional court allows me is very meagre.’

‘I think it only fair that the good cleric should sample the finest Cologne has to offer free of charge—do you not agree, Groot?’