‘I believe you have not been formally introduced to Herr Bull?’
The man makes the politest of bows, its grace a striking juxtaposition with his muscular body.
‘Herr Bull is a master craftsman. He has worked on both sides of the North Sea and was, I believe, in the employment of Cromwell during the occupation of Ireland. Naturally he has no political or spiritual allegiances. He also has mastered some Spanish—’
‘El potro and la garrucha, the rack and pulley,’ Herr Bull interrupts proudly, his Spanish a thick-accented abomination. Carlos smiles patronisingly then turns back to Ruth.
‘You are a lucky woman to be in the hands of such a cultured professional.’
‘Fräulein, be assured that I am infamous for bringing a man to the very brink of death then resurrecting him only to take him to further ecstasy. Of course there have been a few mistakes, but in the main I can guarantee a long and arduous journey that will leave your very innards twitching.’ With another bow Herr Bull steps back into the shadows.
‘A poet not of the tongue but of the screw; but let us not dally any further. Juan, please begin.’
The secretary removes a small scroll from his sleeve, unrolls it and reads aloud.
‘Ruth Navarro, you stand accused of one count of consorting with the devil and the demon Lilith, two counts of murder with the use of witchcraft, and five counts of sorcery. Do you have anything to say in your defence?’
‘This is most unorthodox. Am I not to stand trial?’
‘An interrogation gives you the benefit of redeeming your soul before you have to go to trial. It is a natural sequence of events.’
‘I repeat: am I not to stand trial?’
‘Not before interrogation.’
‘In that case, I have nothing to say except that I am innocent.’
Her declaration hangs defiantly in the air for a second before being blown away by a hurricane of panic. She is amazed at her courage, but at the same time knows that any confession will condemn both her family and her people.
The inquisitor gestures to the guards who march her over to the dunking bench.
So it is to be the water, she thinks, and bites her tongue in an effort not to scream or betray herself with pleading.
They strap her to the wooden stool attached to the end of the plank. Swinging it out, they hold her precariously above the vat of icy liquid. Ruth stares down and sees her pale oval face reflected back: it is so blank with terror that she does not recognise herself. Instantly she is plunged in.
Breath is knocked out of her and a violent pain like the stabbing of a thousand knives jabs at her skin. The back of her brain is pierced by an ice-cold tongue of steel. She knows this is just the beginning, the glacial water rushing through her body. Blindly she struggles against the ropes, her eyes wide and staring up to the surface at the burning light beyond. Her lungs squeeze out the last remaining air but she dares not open her mouth. It feels as if her chest will explode with the agony of wanting to breathe. Somewhere in her half-conscious mind she knows that if she does she will drown.
Carlos reaches for his viola da gamba. With exquisite slowness he draws the bow across the cat-gut and begins to play a cantata once loved by Sara Navarro.
‘You wish to take on the interrogation of the Jewess yourself? What on earth makes you think you have even the remotest qualification to become an inquisitor?’
Maximilian Heinrich leans back in his chair with a certain smugness, enjoying his cousin’s uncharacteristic vulnerability.
Detlef has eyes only for the large timepiece behind the archbishop, the hour hand of which stands at just before sext. He is surprised at this compulsion to act. Heinrich is right. What is it about this woman that makes him feel as if he has embarked upon a crusade? As if she is the key that could liberate his world? The clock chimes, jolting him back into the moment. A sympathetic guard has told him that the midwife’s interrogation started fifteen minutes earlier and Detlef, painfully aware of passing time, tries to concentrate on the archbishop.
‘I am a canon, I can take confession. I am innately capable of recognising evil just as I am of distinguishing innocence.’ He finishes his appeal with just the right amount of sincerity.
Heinrich arches one eyebrow, disbelieving. ‘Indeed, I am told that the pious Meisterin Ter Lahn von Lennep is often seen at your confessions, and I have no doubt that the penance you prescribed her has saved her soul—on more than one occasion.’
The archbishop, pleased with his own wit, leans back—a gesture the surrounding entourage takes as permission to laugh. Detlef, ears burning, struggles to remain calm.
‘Your excellency, I beg you: I have reason to believe that the inquisitor’s motive is personal. The woman is still a German, even if she is a Jew and the daughter of a Spanish converso. I cannot believe she poses any threat to the Holy Empire as I truly do not believe she is a sorceress—but she is undeniably an obsession of the good monsignor. Unfortunately it turns out that the woman was baptised, a legality that has allowed the Inquisition to make their arrest.’
‘Detlef, your logic has become faulty. I have never known you to be politically simplistic. Perhaps the rabbi’s daughter is a sorceress. Perhaps Monsignor Solitario is not the only man obsessed.’
Again Detlef has to suffer the humiliation of ridicule as several of the younger clerics conceal their mirth behind their long sleeves. The hour hand shifts slightly across the clock face. Desperate now, he decides to gamble on how much the archbishop actually knows about Ruth bas Elazar Saul.
‘Your highness, both you and I realise that the Sephardic community in Amsterdam is not without royal connections. I have heard that the young woman’s mother was persecuted by a younger incarnation of the notorious friar and fled to the safety of the Netherlands. I have also heard rumours that she was held in high esteem within that community. The Jews in Amsterdam will not take kindly to her daughter’s martyrdom—and neither will their moneylenders.’