And with that, the emperor leans across and cheerfully knocks over half the Dutch fleet with his huge thumb.
Maximilian Heinrich, having been called from officiating at Sunday Mass, adjusts his green vestment and throws over his shoulder the short cape made from cloth imported from the Ottoman Empire and embroidered with Arabic script heralding the glory of Mohammed, a detail of which the archbishop—German and Latin being his only tongues—is completely oblivious.
Sweating profusely, he indicates to the young cleric assisting him that he wants to be rid of the irritating cappa decorated with a lurid depiction of the Resurrection that hangs down his back. As the trembling young novice clumsily unties the cape before tackling the rest of the heavy garments, Heinrich swings his glance to the young Jesuit priest who, with a rather annoying irreverence, slouches before him.
‘Young man, last time I cut my Sunday sermon short was for the beheading of the English King Charles. I cannot tell you how much that irritated the bürgers. It almost made it worth it.’
The archbishop, abandoning all protocol, glares aggressively at the young visitor. He looks Mediterranean, probably in cahoots with that damnable Dominican, Heinrich speculates grimly. Aggravated, he pulls off the heavy chain with the pectoral cross hanging from it containing the holy relic of the virgin Saint Ursula’s tongue.
‘A matter of great secrecy and urgency, eh?’ He plonks the relic down on the plain wooden table. ‘Of royal import?’ he continues sardonically, his tirade in full swing. Stripped back to his dalmatic, which he pulls roughly over his head, he finally stands defiantly in his undergarments, a simple long cotton vest and thin plain breeches. After farting with great satisfaction, the archbishop swipes a handkerchief from the young priest and begins mopping up the patches of sweat staining his undershirt. ‘What, pray, would a young pipsqueak like yourself, and a Jesuit to boot, have to say to the archbishop of Cologne, eh?’
The Jesuit, his attractive features almost feminine in their beauty, appears bewildered and painfully shy. Breaking into a passionate avalanche of Italian, he somehow manages to stammer and spit at the same time. Appalled, Heinrich wipes the spray from his face.
‘For God’s sake, at least speak German!’ the archbishop exclaims, fearing that the young Jesuit might be deranged.
Suddenly the priest’s whole demeanour transforms. His shoulders straighten, he pulls himself up to his full height, his chest puffs out. Miraculously a whole new air of confidence, even humour, seems to split his earnest face.
Now convinced that he is dealing with a dangerously crazed assassin, Heinrich grabs his crosier for protection, while his novice takes shelter behind the archbishop’s corpulent near-naked figure. Laughing, the Jesuit pulls off his hood and appears to peel away his scalp: instantly, rich black locks fall to his shoulders.
‘What witchery is this!’ Heinrich cries.
‘’Tis not witchery at all, merely the craft of a professional trickster, the actor,’ Alphonso replies, bowing deeply.
Heinrich covers his embarrassment by banging the crosier sharply on the floor. ‘And whose puppet are you, sir? Do you belong to the French or to our good emperor himself?’
‘Neither, your highness. A travelling performer is his own master, but on this particular occasion I merely represent the wishes of our good emperor, Leopold.’
Alphonso reaches into his cassock and pulls out a scroll of the finest paper. He presents it to Heinrich who sniffs it suspiciously.
‘You will find it authentic.’
Still apprehensive, Heinrich examines the seal—the double-headed eagle with its crowns appears genuine enough. Carefully he breaks the missive open with a paperknife and rolls it out. As he studies it, Alphonso winks cheekily at the blushing novice.
Heinrich sits down heavily and without thinking reaches for the bottle of Hattenheimer Engelmannsberg, a riesling made by the Cistercians that is ever-present on his desk. Sighing, he pours himself a glass. His pudgy forehead wrinkles with concentration as he begins to read. Outside, the sounds of the departing congregation drift into the small chamber: snippets of conversation about the local harvests, the trade index of the Dutch East India Company and the impact of the English war, a complaint about the emperor stealing Cologne’s gold to finance his war with the Turks. Somewhere a young woman laughs and is hushed by another.
Finally Heinrich looks up. With an imperious flick of the wrist he dismisses his assistant then turns to Alphonso.
‘This is a grave matter indeed and one not easily solved.’
‘Sir, it has to be. Prince Ferdinand is on his death bed. A desperate situation requires unorthodox measures.’
‘You realise that Fräulein Saul has been charged with grave offences of witchcraft: that she has lain with the devil to ensure a good birthing, that she consorted with the demon Lilith to steal the voice from a poor babe—’
‘Serious indeed, but if she is able to save the life of one of the heirs apparent…’
‘A witch is a witch, my good sir. I assume the emperor realises the danger to my station and reputation if I act upon his wishes?’
‘The emperor is deeply fond of his nephew and will be eternally indebted if his requirements are fulfilled.’
Alphonso, calling on the best performance technique he knows for lying, looks the archbishop straight in the eye and maintains a steady gaze. Heinrich, no virgin to deception, smiles smoothly back.
‘And as we both know, the emperor’s fondness for his nephew is legendary.’ The archbishop’s cynical smile widens. ‘I shall be happy to contribute to his ongoing affection for the youth. However, there is one small obstacle: the zealot Carlos Vicente Solitario…’
At which Alphonso, resorting to another hue from his palette of performances, throws on the guise of Othello. ‘Leopold will take care of the inquisitor. If you can free the midwife to look after Ferdinand, and swiftly, all shall be rewarded,’ he announces in a sudden rich baritone.
The deep Moorish tone confuses the archbishop. The actor, with a certain lewdness, picks a grape off the table in front of him, sucks the skin off it, then, leaning forward, looks brazenly into Heinrich’s bloodshot eyes.
‘I have it on the emperor’s word.’