The Witch of Cologne

‘Would you wish it to be otherwise?’

‘I should wish it only that I might instigate changes.’

Detlef points again and Ruth, squinting against the sun, can see a patchwork of fields, most of which appear fallow.

‘The count has neglected his duty as farmer for too long. Not since before the war has this land been run properly. There is much disease and poverty amongst our peasants yet my brother does little to relieve their misery.’

‘If I have time, and with the count’s permission, I shall visit the women myself. There could be tasks I can do to make their burden easier.’

‘Be warned: my brother is a creature of politics, he has no sensibility of the needs of others.’

Behind them one of the horses snorts impatiently. Ruth glances around; the coachman sits on the box chewing a wad of tobacco. He peers down suspiciously but is unable to meet Ruth’s eye. She turns to Detlef.

‘You have endangered your position bringing me here. Even the coachman suspects that I have you under a spell.’

Detlef laughs and, biding his time, pulls a sprig of mountain sage from a large bush. He buries his nose in it and inhales deeply. He does not want to think about the difficulties that lie ahead. All he desires is for the sense of exhilaration and calmness he feels standing next to her to continue.

Ruth, infected by his boylike abandonment, is confused. She wonders whether he understands how dangerous the situation could be for both of them. Suddenly he thrusts the sprig towards her.

‘Sage.’

‘The herb to render man immortal,’ she answers, smiling.

The coachman spits out his tobacco and shouts to them, wanting to move on while the horses are still fresh. Detlef tucks another sprig of sage in his coat pocket. As they walk back Ruth suddenly turns to him.

‘Canon, I lied…about the birthing of Frau Brassant. There was an amulet…’

Detlef, aware of the watchful driver, hurries her towards a stream where he knows the tumbling waters will drown out their voices.

‘Was there witchcraft, Ruth? Tell me honestly.’

Distracted by the use of her name in a familiar and loving manner, Ruth hesitates. An extraordinary sense of excitement rushes through her. Should she tell him about Lilith, about the circle of protection she drew around the ailing mother? Would he comprehend the way the demon has shadowed her life? Can she trust him with her great secret fear or will he crucify her as others wish to? She does not know him well enough, Ruth reminds herself. He is of another race, another world, he will always be other.

‘It is a weakness in me. I cannot let go of the ways of my mother. The amulet was there for protection, of both child and mother. The three angels, Snwy, Snsnwy and Smnglf, and Chesed, the kabbala symbol for mercy, that is all,’ she answers carefully.

‘No incantation, no appeals to the black master?’

‘None, I swear.’

‘Then it is a custom not a spell, a harmless token to ensure safety, and no one need know of this but ourselves.’

‘Do you think me weak? For all my belief in scientia nova, I must appear a primitive.’

‘Not weak, only human.’ He hoists her up into the coach. ‘And that is of great comfort to me as I had begun to doubt otherwise.’

Outside, the coachman shakes the reins and the six black stallions arch their muscles into a graceful trot.

Inside, looking away from Detlef, Ruth feels her heart reverberating over and over with the sound of his voice whispering her name.

The heavy drapes are drawn against the cold afternoon. Two Kammerhunde, their large elegant bodies draped over each other in rough affection, lie sleeping in front of the glowing embers of a fire. The air is filled with the scent of burning cloves and camphor: protection against disease and the terrible smell emanating from the ailing royal. A housemaid removes the copper warming pan from the bed and empties out the cooling coals to replace them with red-hot ones.

The count, in a Persian day coat, reads in an armchair. Breaking the silence he laughs out loud. Alphonso, bent over the prostrate figure of Ferdinand, sponging the sweat from his unconscious face, hushes him. The count looks up guiltily then back down at his tome, The Ingenious Knight Don Quixote of La Mancha. The tension is shattered only by the clatter of hooves outside the window.

The prince’s face shines a mottled grey, the skin papery, flaking off around the nostrils and eyebrows. Ruth leans closer; she needs to take her patient’s pulse but it is forbidden.

Behind her the count, Alphonso and Detlef wait anxiously. Alphonso stares at the midwife as if she is the embodiment of hope, which indeed she is. Ruth notes the colour of her patient’s lips then instructs Alphonso to lift his eyelids. The actor, trembling slightly, peels back the young man’s lids; beneath the eyes roll back white.

‘Has he been bled?’