‘Every day for a week,’ the count replies dismissively and glances suspiciously at the hide sack the midwife has placed at the base of the curtained bed, expecting her at any minute to produce some ridiculous quackery. Ignoring him, Ruth leans down and pulls out the cow gut and brass cup instrument that was presented in court.
‘What is that?’ The count alarmed, jumps back.
Detlef, amused by his brother’s uncharacteristic loss of control, steadies the count’s lace-clad arm. ‘Fear not, Gerhard, it is an instrument of scientia nova.’
‘Indeed. I believe I might have seen one myself at the French court,’ the count replies unconvincingly, trying to cover his humiliation.
Ruth, sensing that her best protection is to remain enigmatic, shows Alphonso how to place the brass cup over Ferdinand’s heart. While she listens intently the count pulls Detlef to one side.
‘You realise that if he dies the von Tennen name will be endangered, not to mention the fact that we shall have to drive the body back to Vienna at our own expense. Leopold will expect a state funeral.’
‘The prince shall not perish.’
The two men watch as Ruth, closing her eyes in concentration, begins to rock backwards and forwards on her heels. It is not a sight the count finds reassuring.
‘Nevertheless, you will oblige me by performing the last rites if necessary?’ he whispers to his brother.
‘Naturally.’
Ruth asks Alphonso to pull up the prince’s nightshirt so she may examine his midriff. The sight of the scarred abd
omen, now swollen and bloated like that of a pregnant woman, causes both men to turn away as the actor tenderly arranges the linen sheets around Ferdinand.
‘What are the scars from?’ Ruth asks, wondering at the crusty ridges that criss-cross her patient’s flesh.
‘From an old injury as a boy,’ Alphonso answers.
‘It could be that the current ailment is related to this. Remove the last of the leeches,’ Ruth instructs, but the count stays Alphonso’s hand.
‘My medic told us it was an impurity of the blood.’
‘Sire, with respect, the prince is weak, his heartbeat is faint. He needs to be given nourishment not drained of it.’
Reluctantly the count nods his permission and Alphonso removes four bloated leeches from the prince’s groin and neck. Ruth looks down the torso, her focus drawn towards the swollen belly. Below the bony ribs, on one side of the extended sac that was once a stomach, there is a visible growth. Gesturing with her hands she shows Alphonso how to massage gently around the area.
‘You must tell me exactly what you sense beneath your fingertips. From this I shall be able to deduce the ailment.’
Alphonso, almost too frightened to touch his lover for fear of hurting him, softly lies his hands over his sleeping flesh.
‘There is a stone, hard to the touch.’
‘Is there a ridge of muscle that lies above it?’
Alphonso hesitates as Ferdinand groans.
‘Please, you must continue if we are to save him.’
As Alphonso describes what he feels under his hands, Ruth sketches out an anatomical drawing on parchment, the ink splattering in her jerky haste. Detlef, watching over her shoulder, marvels at her vision and confidence. It is as if she is sensing the prince’s body through Alphonso’s fingers. The accuracy of the drawing—the stomach walls split open, the rippling coils of the intestines, both greater and minor—indicate that she has been witness to autopsies, a practice punishable by death in archaic Cologne but accepted in Amsterdam.
The count, after glancing at the midwife’s frantic sketching, looks at Detlef with disapproval.
‘Brother, is it not time we resorted to innovation if we are to advance?’ Detlef whispers, distracted by Ruth’s powerful strokes with the quill which belie the fragility of her figure.
‘But is this knowledge or alchemy?’ the count murmurs back, watching Ruth trace in the demonic growth visible in the upper intestine.
‘She has had training in Amsterdam with the finest medics of the Netherlands, trust me.’
‘Just save the youth’s life and we all shall live.’