The Witch of Cologne

‘Sire, the girl will perish,’ Juan ventures nervously.

The inquisitor snaps out of his reverie and realises that all present, even the guards, are staring at him. The page, his young face blank with shock, is doubled over in a bout of trembling. Carlos ignores him.

‘She will not, her blood is stubborn. Trust me, I know her lineage.’

‘What is she—superhuman?’ Herr Bull interjects, abandoning all protocol. ‘Because if she isn’t, and you want me to do my job, we fish her out now else we’ll be rolling in the coffin and the priest.’

‘We wait.’

All turn back towards the glistening black water: the young guard worrying about his receding supper; the page trying not to shit himself; Juan, who wonders about Detlef’s reaction when he hears of the Jewess’s drowning; Herr Bull, appalled at the inquisitor’s waste of a good craftsman; and the older guard who knows it will be he who must drag the corpse out of the barrel later and clean the vat.

If the Almighty wills it, she shall live. If he does not, she shall die, Carlos consoles himself. Part of him furtively longs for the spirit of the mother to appear to rescue the daughter. See, Sara, see where your child is now! Carlos, eyes closed, imagines the face of the Spanish woman as she gazes down at the floating black hair, her beauty wiped away by horror.

There is a pounding at the door. Before the inquisitor has a chance to gather his wits, several guards burst in followed by Detlef and Groot. For a moment the intruders stumble to a halt, overpowered by the stench of shit, urine and blood and the underlying smell of fear.

Detlef, peering into the shadows, thinks he must have arrived in a manifestation of Hell. The darkened chamber with its instruments of cruelty, the guilty look stretched across the inquisitor’s face as if he has been caught indulging in some covert transgression, combine to disorientate the young canon. He stares frenziedly around the cell, wondering where they have hidden the midwife. It is only when Solitario steps in front of the dunking bench that Detlef, with a sickening lurch, realises she is completely submerged.

‘Release her!’

‘On whose orders?’

Detlef knocks the Spaniard to the ground, then with one heave pushes down the dunking lever so the chair lifts up from the vat. Immediately Herr Bull and the guards rush to his aid. Together they untie the prostrate figure and lay her out on the wet stone floor. Her head flops sideways.

‘Bring a torch!’

Under the flare Detlef sees that the woman is lifeless, her eyes rolling back into her head. He clasps the slender shoulders, unable to believe she could have perished so easily. Not this spirit, he prays. Desperate, he tears open her tunic. The pallor of her breast is an appallingly poignant sight, a stark reminder of her youth. The nipple a large purple bud on white. Detlef places one hand on her chest and starts massaging her heart. Nothing happens.

Groot, kneeling beside him, picks up her limp wrist to find a sign of life. ‘Sire, the midwife’s spirit has fled us.’

But Detlef, refusing to hear him, keeps thumping on her chest, a dull thud which resonates through all of his senses again and again. As if all that matters is made manifest in this one gesture: the absurd scale of his huge hand across her narrow chest; the wet flesh which, like clay, gives with each blow; the mud streaking the skin coating his fingers, linking her degradation with him.

Let her live, he prays to his God. If you are to grant me anything, grant me this.

Groot, frightened by his master’s tenacity, tries to pull him away as bruises begin to blossom across Ruth’s mottled skin. But the canon, rigid in his determination, continues to pound over and over.

Suddenly, miraculously, her chest heaves and she coughs. Water streams from her purple mouth.

‘Sire, she lives!’ Groot cries out in amazement.

Detlef rolls her onto her side. Sweat beads on his face despite the freezing air. Only as he watches her shuddering ribs expand does he realise that there is life beneath his hands and for the second time in his existence he is infused with faith.

‘So the midwife lives to face another interrogation.’

Carlos’s voice rings out in the momentary silence and punches Detlef back into the room, to the paper-white faces of his startled audience.

‘Perhaps it would have been kinder to let her perish,’ the friar smirks.

Detlef takes off his cloak and wraps it around Ruth’s shaking figure. Again he is amazed at the delicacy of the midwife’s frame, how small she is under his hands. ‘From now on I shall be interrogating the accused myself.’

‘At whose command?’

Groot hands the sealed scroll to Juan who passes it to Carlos. The inquisitor reads it with pursed lips then crushes it angrily.

‘One word to the emperor will obliterate the archbishop’s sudden affection for the sorceress.’

‘Perhaps.’

Detlef gestures to one of his guards who gathers up the semi-conscious midwife, his face neutral, his eyes only on Detlef.