The Witch of Cologne

‘I didn’t…I mean, Uncle forced me to have a few lessons, but I must admit I have never really displayed any skill for it before today.’

‘Then the Rhineland air must agree with you. And you must tell your uncle of your triumph. He will be proud. Hermann! Bring us the prince’s trophy,’ the count calls to the gamekeeper.

Now hopefully the young brat will convey to Leopold how wonderfully invigorating his stay was at Das Grüntal and the von Tennens will at last be reinstated into the emperor’s favour, the count thinks smugly, wondering whether it would be possible for Hermann to repeat the feat of deception the following day during the pheasant hunt he has planned for his royal guest.

A sedan chair carried by two sweating pages appears over the small hill. Alphonso, dressed extravagantly as the Queen of the Hittites, complete with an ornate feather headdress, pushes his head out of the window.

‘Look, Alphonso, your prince has actually killed something!’ Ferdinand points triumphantly at the wild boar.

The banner of the Viennese court comes into view and three of the prince’s attendants ride up to the young royal. Dropping their reins they clap politely, appropriately awed by the sight of the sprawling corpse.

A shapely foot encased in an outrageously unsuitable crimson kid slipper emerges from the sedan, followed by gold leather leggings and the rest of the actor. ‘Well done, my prince! Well done!’ Alphonso blows a kiss in Ferdinand’s direction.

One of the attendants purses his lips in disapproval and throws a dead hare at the actor’s feet. Immediately the throng of hounds descends on the small furry body and, in a medley of tails, long brindled limbs and bloodied snouts, tear it to shreds within seconds. Alphonso, splattered with blood and fur, falls back overwhelmed.

Several attendants laugh behind their gloves as the prince frantically wheels his horse around to see if Alphonso is injured.

‘It is nothing! Just a few drops of blood.’ The actor, headdress askew and painfully aware of the ridicule, struggles to his feet and brushes madly at his stained costume.

‘Do not concern yourself with me. Look to the gamekeeper, he is honouring you.’

The prince peers nervously into the ravine where the gamekeeper is kneeling at the side of the boar. With a manly flourish Herr Wolf swiftly slices off its remaining ear with his knife. The mounted spectators break into polite applause which echoes through the dappled forest and causes a flock of sparrows to rise up from the canopy of trees. The gamekeeper strides back through the hounds, his muscular legs clearly delineated by the fine green hose he wears above his spurred boots.

Dismounting clumsily, Ferdinand walks as regally as possible, given the ridiculous amount of padding he is wearing, towards the gamekeeper and the offered organ. With an imperious air he pulls the fleshy purse off the knife and holds it up triumphantly. Prompted by the count the trumpeter sounds his horn.

Ferdinand turns to Alphonso and dropping to one knee presents the ear to him as a gift. The actor, genuinely touched but also revelling in his role, swoons theatrically. Delicately he takes the ear and pretends to nibble the bloody flesh. There is a smattering of appreciative laughter but the prince remains kneeling.

‘My love,’ Alphonso whispers, ‘you must get up, the ground is freezing.’

Ferdinand, face now bent towards the grass, does not move. ‘I cannot,’ he groans through clenched teeth.

Alphonso, fearing that his charade has plunged the prince into one of his famous tantrums, leans down towards him. Suddenly Ferdinand rolls over to his side and clutches at his stomach. ‘Quick! Quick! He is dying!’ the actor shrieks.

In seconds the three courtiers are by the prince, opening his clothing to see if there is a hidden injury.

‘I’m not wounded, you idiots! It’s an old injury, my stomach!’ Contorted by cramps the youth can barely gasp.

The count, terrified that he may be landed with the inconvenience of a royal mortality, wheels around on his horse. ‘A physic! A physic! Where is the damned physic?’

The count’s cry is taken up and relayed down the ranks until it reaches the rest of the hunt which is still arriving at the edge of the ravine. The mass of foot servants and mounted courtiers part to allow a gaunt man on a mangy donkey to ride through.

‘I am here, sire,’ he announces in an unhurried tone which exasperates the count further.

‘Attend to the prince! Can you not see his highness is stricken?’

The physic, whose long gangly legs drag in the mud even when he is mounted, climbs off his irritable steed and shuffles over to the prince. In his long black cloak and tall crowned hat the doctor looks like Death himself, a fact not lost on Ferdinand as the quack leans over him, blackened teeth exposed in a sneer of concentration.

‘Ahh! I am not ready! Sire, please, I am but young,’ he cries out in his

delirium.

Ignoring his pleas, the physic feels beneath the loosened padding. Ferdinand, convinced that the Angel of Death is clawing at his vital organs, struggles madly, his face feverish. But the older man, staring into the distance while his bony fingers read the diseased organs beneath the scarred abdomen, is indifferent.

The hunting party, some standing, some still mounted, form a suspended tableau of scarlet and green against the charcoal of the trees, with only the fluttering of the banners to break the stillness as all hang upon the doctor’s verdict. Finally the physic speaks, his gaunt face haggard in the bright sunlight.

‘He must be bled, we must get him back to the lodge immediately. I believe it is a case of blood poisoning.’

The pages rush the sedan chair over to the prostrate Ferdinand, who cries out as they try to squeeze him into the upright carriage.