Clucking with disapproval, Heinrich walks over. He stares down at the sprawling friar, now snoring loudly, his habit flung about him. What a waste of a good man, he thinks, how obsession can decay and corrupt the heart. Then, just in case the condition could be contagious, reaches for his rosary.
The onlookers are gathered in the small wood-panelled courtroom with its elaborate ceiling divided into carved reliefs, each crowned with one of the shields of the guilds of Cologne.
The two witnesses fidget in the railed witness box. Merchant Brassant, painfully aware of his belly straining against his tight velvet doublet, his high-standing collar stiffened with buckram chafing his chin, and his groin itching beneath the new French breeches his young wife has insisted he wear, is unbearably uncomfortable. Beside him, in a cream dress made of poplin, hair hidden beneath a white cowl, with gold at her waist and neck, stands Abigail Brassant. Defiant, she clutches her baby, who, sleeping, is blissfully oblivious to the proceedings.
Opposite is the jury: a small panel consisting of four bürgers and two representatives of the higher council, all sympathetic and well rehearsed by Detlef. Next to them sits the magistrate flanked by his two sheriffs. The magistrate, Heinrich’s puppet and a grossly overweight bantam of a man, is infamous for the amount of ale he can consume at one sitting. An insufferable pedant when sober, his colleagues try to keep him constantly intoxicated to avoid lengthy legal proceedings. Now, squeezed into the austere Gothic judge’s chair, his feet encased in ridiculously ornate embroidered Turkish slippers dangling a good four inches above the ground, he appears to be entirely drunk.
Below the podium, seated on hard wooden benches, are the onlookers. At the front, with grim faces, sit Elazar ben Saul and Tuvia; behind them the few curious relatives of the jurors, and in the very back row, fully veiled, Birgit Ter Lahn von Lennep.
Determined to discover the source of her lover’s recent detachment, Birgit’s inquisitiveness has driven her out of her normal Lent retreat and back into the city. From behind her veil she watches the canon take his place before the court, Groot beside him.
Detlef exudes an air of authority. Feeling Birgit’s gaze he glances briefly to the back of the room. Her presence irritates him. Does she not trust him, he wonders, finding his mistress’s sudden possessiveness less than alluring. Dismissing her, he turns his attention to the rabbi.
Elazar ben Saul stares at Ruth as if trying to will her his strength. The canon cannot help but be affected by the obvious affection between father and daughter. Ruth herself, a diminutive figure in the dock, looks around fearfully. All her previous bravado and determination have vanished, making the manacles on her thin wrists appear an absurdity.
Just then the cathedral minister enters the court, followed by his secretary. What is von Fürstenberg doing here, Detlef thinks. Heinrich had promised no onlookers, no spies. The archbishop himself is not even in attendance. Perturbed, Detlef shuffles the pages of his interrogation notes, hoping that the artifice of the paid jury will proceed smoothly.
Heinrich, determined that the trial should go exactly how he wishes, has removed the Spaniard to take him on the promised tour of the vineyard at Kloster Eberbach further up the Rhine, thus freeing Detlef to conduct the sham tribunal unhindered. But before his departure the archbishop issued strict instructions to both the magistrate and the canon ordering them to arrive at a verdict of innocence within a week. It was his suggestion to hold the trial during Lent, a time when most of the populace were fasting and in prayer, and so distracted would pay little attention.
Von Fürstenberg would be wise not to intervene, Detlef muses, knowing that it will be difficult enough to prove the midwife’s innocence without his meddling. As if reading his thoughts the minister nods to Detlef, his portly face grim.
The air in the windowless court is foul. It is the perfect atmosphere for discomfort, which is precisely why Detlef insisted on this particular chamber, knowing the participants will want to conclude the trial as soon as possible, if only to escape their soporific surrounds. He glances over at the jurors. One of them, a middle-aged blacksmith from the powerful metalworkers’ guild, is already dozing, head rolled back, his velvet cap slipping down over one eye.
‘Good Meister Brassant, is it true that Fräulein Saul delivered your wife of a child on January the thirty-first of the year of our good Lord 1665?’ Detlef begins authoritatively.
The merchant glances across at Ruth. Struggling to hide her fear, she looks tentatively back. Abigail Brassant will not meet her gaze but Meister Brassant smiles at the midwife, embarrassed by her humiliation. He motions to the sleeping baby. ‘It is true. If it were not for her, we wouldn’t have little Franz here.’
‘It w
ere either her or magic,’ Abigail Brassant interjects, widening her blue eyes dramatically at the word. Her husband snorts derisively.
‘I care not a pox whether it were hocus pocus or not. The child lives and is healthy, that’s all that matters.’ He turns to Detlef. ‘Forgive my wife, she is young and the young see demons in mud. She was my housekeeper’s daughter before I married her and she is still new to her station.’
A smattering of laughter around the court brings a blush to Abigail Brassant’s cheeks. Belittled, she scowls at Ruth. ‘I know what I saw.’
‘In that case you should see what you have sleeping in your arms and be thankful,’ Brassant retorts curtly. ‘I’m sorry, Canon, but I have lost five children before this one and as far as I am concerned it is good to be thankful for miracles. For miracles are miracles, wherever they come from.’
Nervous about estranging his key witness, Detlef adopts a paternal tone which he hopes will calm the jittery wife. ‘I believe that is what we are here for: to deduce whether it was scientia nova or indeed something of a more supernatural nature that saved the child.’
‘But she used amulets! I saw them!’ the young woman shouts out. The court falls silent. As Ruth turns pale, Detlef struggles with his prosecution, mentally fishing for the right angle to continue his questioning.
‘Is this true, Fräulein?’ he asks Ruth sternly, praying she will not drop her humble demeanour.
‘I used everything I thought fit to save both child and mother,’ Ruth answers in a small voice.
Perfect, Detlef notes, she continues to appear the martyr. From the corner of his eye he can see von Fürstenberg whispering to his secretary who is frantically scribbling notes. The notion of betrayal begins to gnaw at the edge of his focus.
‘Did you use witchcraft to harm anyone?’
‘I swear I did not.’ The midwife lowers her burning face.
Elazar, outraged, tries to stand. Tuvia tugs him back into his chair, stroking the old man’s hand to calm him.
Detlef nods to Groot who presents a large doll to the court, a makeshift copy of a child in roughly sewn cotton with pieces of the straw stuffing still protruding at the seams, its face crudely drawn features upon the bulge of thin cloth which serves as the head. With a dramatic flourish, Groot holds it up to the magistrate.
‘I have had this posy made as a crude model of the baby,’ Detlef announces.
The magistrate peers blearily at the facsimile then glances at the chubby infant asleep in the merchant wife’s arms. ‘A wonderful likeness, Canon, well done,’ he declares pompously in a surprisingly deep voice for such a short man.