‘Not a Godless universe but one in which men strive for equality of spirit and ambition.’
‘A heretic, a Republican and a witch, Ruth bas Elazar Saul—your discourse only adds weight to the charges against you.’
Would you wish me to lie for my life? The last charge is false. Grant you, there are many things that are unexplained: the magic of nature, what drives a man, how the faith of many can change the life of one. There may even be witches, Canon, but I am not one, I promise you.’
Outside, hail suddenly rains down against the slate roof. A coal rolls out of the grate and onto the floor, dangerously close to Ruth’s bare feet. Detlef kicks it back into the hearth. He does not know how to answer her; there have been many occasions which have left him marvelling at the nature of faith and how it may transform the way men perceive events.
During his childhood the gamekeeper, a surly Italian who had served the von Tennen family for over thirty years, visited the viscountess to complain that all the rabbits had been bewitched and were dying outside their burrows. He charged a local widow with the deaths, claiming she was a sorceress who transformed herself into a fox at night. The woman had lived in the grounds of the manor for as long as Detlef could remember; in truth her meagre abode was in the direct path of the seasonal hunt and was considered by the gamekeeper to be an obstruction to the blood sport. Determined to solve the mystery, the viscountess rode out one early morning accompanied by the eight-year-old Detlef. In the hush of that glistening dawn they went from burrow to burrow examining the tiny corpses caught by death in the gentlest of postures: some still wrapped around each other, others with babes still suckling at the teat, but all showing traces of having consumed the same weed. The viscountess ordered the deceptively harmless-looking plant to be pulled from every patch of wild ground and the rabbits stopped dying, but the gamekeeper had never been persuaded that the widow was not a witch. That such circumstantial coincidence can be woven into vindictive accusation is an aspect of life Detlef witnesses every day, and as the spiritual confidant of his community is expected to suspend his disbelief.
‘How do you explain your use of the kabbala, Fräulein? I am not ignorant of its associations.’
‘The kabbala is a system of mystical mathematics, meanings imposed on the Hebrew alphabet by some of our ancient scholars. It is a set of instructions on how to live your life. No more and no less.’
‘If it has no power, why then do you use it
in your midwifery?’
Ruth turns to the window, her aquiline profile a chiselled silhouette against her black hair. ‘It is a wild, beautiful night. Nature is enchanting, is it not?’
Detlef waits in silence. The stillness deepens then abruptly weaves the air between them into an erotic ambience. He finds himself studying the curve of her slender neck, marvelling at the fragility of her bone structure, the narrowness of her skull, her high cheekbones, all tantalisingly exotic to him. To distract himself he averts his gaze; it falls upon a small patch of skin on the inside of her wrist. As he stares, its whiteness becomes translucent and suddenly he can see the blue veins beneath, the blood pumping, in microscopic detail—a vibrant life force he fought to save.
Ruth notices his confusion but is unable to interpret its cause. The intensity of her gaze embarrasses him and he cannot shake the sensation that of the two of them she is the stronger. He coughs and turns away, struggling to maintain his authority.
‘The kabbala,’ he demands.
‘Both you and I know the superstition of the uneducated man, his drive to create meaning as a way of refuting the powerlessness of his situation.’
‘You employ a belief system in which you have no faith?’
‘I did not say I had no faith in it. Besides, I am a pragmatist, Canon von Tennen.’
Detlef is amazed to find his heart stumbling as he realises she has remembered his name. He stares at those green eyes, startlingly light against the blackness of her eyelashes and brows.
‘If you were such a pragmatist you would not be in the situation you are in now, Fräulein.’
‘Perhaps, but then again there is a certain pragmatism to martyrdom—even Jesus Christ would agree to that,’ she replies with a smile.
The smile instantly transforms her naturally pensive features. Again, Detlef sees a radiance which lies not in the classical beauty of his Birgit, but in the gesture, the movement of Ruth’s expression.
‘Is it true you have studied with Benedict Spinoza?’
‘What of it?’
He swallows and wonders whether he can trust her. If he reveals himself to her, will she reciprocate? Surely she must, he tries to reassure himself, for he has saved her life.
‘I have an interest in matters west of the border. Some say there is a great change coming,’ he replies carefully, masking a youthful enthusiasm in his voice.
Ruth pauses. The being before her has unexpectedly transformed from a cleric to a man: he has become an individual she can both recognise and appreciate, his intelligence now glimmering through the arrogance. Thus exposed, his certainty strikes her as a false confidence that covers profound—and far more interesting—vulnerabilities.
She becomes aware of another scent in the air: the faint musk of his masculinity. The awareness is a sudden awakening. There is only one other time she can remember being so affected: in a small attic room near the Kalverstraat. Dirk Kerkrinck. Being held in his arms. It is a perfume that utterly disarms her. A slow blush creeps up her neck and spreads across her cheeks, sending peachy tendrils right to her earlobes. Its heat forces her to adopt a fiercer exterior.
‘It would be wise for any enlightened man to look to the Lowlands. There is to be found the intellectual freedom to soar philosophically; to believe in a God who cannot be bribed, who can exist side by side with knowledge; to dream of other ways of civilising a nation, to yearn for a democracy in which slave and master no longer exist—’
‘Hush, even bricks have ears…and wagging tongues.’
Detlef leans forward and the brush of his breath on her skin launches Ruth into further excitement.
‘In that case I shall whisper also.’