The Witch of Cologne

‘I will not be a distraction, I promise,’ she answers lightly and slips her hand further up his leg. He pushes it away gently. Quickly she covers the moment by pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve.

‘What of the other three arrests? The Dutchman no one cares about, Müller is not powerful enough for his guild to protest, and as for the witch—’

‘Her guilt is yet unproven,’ Detlef replies, a little too swiftly.

‘So it is true? You have secured the role of her inquisitor?’

‘It was necessary. The Spaniard is not impartial.’

‘Of course he isn’t. There is no such thing as impartiality; one would be a fool to assume otherwise. But people’s tongues have begun to wag, Detlef. It is unnatural for a canon to become the protector of a Jewish woman. You realise that if you continue with this behaviour you will endanger my quest for a knighthood for my husband?’

‘I have the grace of one month to prove her guilt or her innocence. I intend to carry out my pledge.’

Intrigued by his stubbornness, Birgit speculates what the midwife looks like. She cannot believe that an ill-bred heathen from the right bank of the Rhine could hold any fascination for Detlef, so she imagines there must be another dimension to the scenario, something more insidious which will be infinitely harder to battle. Is he suffering a crisis of faith? Has he finally begun to weary of the role of cleric, or even that of politician? Wondering, she caresses his long blond hair. ‘Are you not pleased to see me, my love?’

‘Always.’

Kissing her hand, he stands and moves off. Outside it is early afternoon but already he can smell the scent of evening fires on the chilly breeze.

‘It is getting late, shouldn’t you begin your ride back? Your manservant will be waiting.’

She wraps her arms around his waist. ‘I have an hour.’

As he stands passively with the sunlight crossing his face, she reaches into his breeches and finds him soft and pliant. Staring him in the eye she starts to stroke him with hidden fingers. Her long languid caresses cause him to grow hard, but he makes no move. She is careful to keep herself distant except for the delicious strokes of her cool hands which set his thigh muscles quivering. Now her lover is erect, saluting her touch; still he does not reach for her.

‘Embrace me,’ she whispers, but he pushes her away.

‘Birgit, I have told you, I am here for solitude. At this time it is a great luxury.’

Hurt, she smooths down her skirts.

‘I hope it is a profound distraction you suffer, Detlef, one that precludes matters of the heart, for I have ridden far this morning.’

‘I am not of the disposition for love.’

‘But your flesh is.’

‘The flesh is of the man not of the spirit.’

‘I can make you forget both.’ Her eyes tease him with her wit.

This time he walks out of the room. Picking up her riding crop she follows.

Detlef strides through the entrance hall out into the wild front garden. An ancient stone border encircles the large lawn at the centre of which is an ornamental pond choking with weeds. A lone goose floats sadly upon it. Beyond the wall is the overgrown orchard which even in winter is thick with vines. A northern wind rustles the tall oak and beech trees. Like a row of towers they are guarded by a platoon of ravens. Balancing on the naked slender branches, hunched up against the cold, the birds look like flung splotches of sooty ink.

Detlef takes a deep breath and allows the wind to roar through him like a scythe. ‘I don’t want to forget, not today,’ he answers finally, eyes shut tight, arms outstretched.

Birgit, steadying herself against a tree trunk, wonders whether his depressed spirit might be a precursor to illness. Comforted by the thought that this might be her only foe she glances to where her page waits patiently.

‘I shall be back in the city as of Tuesday morn and shall attend Sunday’s confession. I trust you will have returned to Cologne by then?’

‘Naturally.’

With a formal nod and an air of faint dismay she takes her leave.

Detlef watches her ride down the lane, the trees on either side bowing with the wind, her riding veil a scarlet streak against a panorama of cascading greys, and finally realises that his affection for her has started to wane.

Carlos’s hand sweeps through the air and lands a resounding slap against Juan’s cheek. The secretary stumbles slightly then stoically regains his balance. Knowing the inquisitor’s penchant for violence, he loathes being the bearer of bad news.