Maximilian Heinrich wakes to the pealing of bells for early morning mass. For a moment he thinks he is still in Cologne, then remembers the hurried ride to Bonn the evening before. Five peals—five a.m. The midwife will have treated the prince by now. The sleepy archbishop shifts his weight around on the lumpy feather pallet, not wanting to open his eyes and face the bureaucratic quagmire that threatens to swallow him up.
In the distance a cock crows and the smell of fresh horse manure drifts in through the half-open shutters. The midwife. Heinrich, eyes squeezed shut, his massive double chin sagging against the feather pillows above his cotton nightshirt, is already struggling with the machinations of his political survival. What is Detlef’s interest in the plain little Hebrew? Knowing the canon’s susceptibility for the weaker sex, he nevertheless cannot believe that his cousin‘s interest could be romantic. The midwife is so far removed in station that the archbishop can barely think of her as female, never mind desirable. No, it ha
s to be some latent surge of faith in the man.
Pleased with this hypothesis, Heinrich, eyes still shut, smiles. His valet, having stepped silently into the bedroom, notices the archbishop’s expression of pleasure and thinking that he might be disturbing an early morning moment of erotic delight steps back out. Meanwhile the archbishop, continuing his musing, finds himself feeling almost paternal towards the young canon. In his later years Heinrich has started to cherish in others the youthful passions which were once his own inspiration. The idea of reinforcing a moral world in which everything, even the most mundane tragedies, has meaning, has always appealed to him. It was the experience of watching his father being stripped of land and wealth until all that remained was his title which initially led the young Heinrich to yearn for power to reestablish the old ways of the aristocracy.
The strict hierarchy of the church with its pomp and glory seemed to provide a stability he craved in the chaotic aftermath of the Reformation. By the time he realised that the theological order was just as corrupt as any other, it was too late for the idealistic young Heinrich. It delights him now to think that, unlike himself, Detlef still retains his passion, perhaps even a small vestige of faith.
The archbishop opens one eye. From a small side table the timepiece he inherited from his father stares back at him. It chimes again; this time gilded doors fling open and Death, a hooded skeleton, wrestling with Love, a buxom bare-breasted maiden, pop out. It suddenly feels like a bad omen to Heinrich. In an attempt to stem his fears he decides to ignore the chiming timepiece and resume his meditation.
If the midwife saves the prince, Detlef will have pulled off a coup that will serve Heinrich, Cologne and most importantly the emperor, with the added advantage of being an act of both spiritual and ethical grace. The man is a born strategist; he is his natural heir, not that buffoon Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg. Unless the canon has failed, in which case Heinrich will have to banish him to some remote abbey in Bavaria until the name von Tennen has completely disappeared from the mind of that ridiculous puppy Leopold.
Having swung from a gentle daydream into a full-blown nightmare, and gripped by the ghastly possibility that Ferdinand might actually die and with him all hope of appeasing the emperor, Heinrich sits up and reaches for his quill.
A few minutes later, dressed in riding boots with a long velvet robe flung over his nightshirt, clutching a scribbled appeal to the count asking him to conceal any connection between the cathedral and Ruth bas Elazar Saul should the prince die, the archbishop strides across the muddy courtyard of his country palace towards the dovecote. His falconer, still pulling on his trousers, runs after him, stumbling his way through a flock of geese.
The dovecote, an iron and wooden structure built in the style of a mock Oriental palace, stands over a stable containing some unhappy goats, next to the archbishop’s falconry. Several sleepy hooded hawks and kestrels blindly twist their cloaked heads in Heinrich’s direction as he arrives puffing in the chilly morning air. Planting both feet squarely in the mud and straw he stares up at the cooing doves and pigeons.
The falconer catches up and stands panting beside the archbishop, wondering what terrible mistake he has made to bring the archbishop out so early. Finally Heinrich turns to the trembling bird handler.
‘Count von Tennen has a dove here, does he not?’
‘Yes, your majesty.’
‘Bring it here.’
The falconer, donning his cap, climbs up the narrow wooden ladder precariously balanced against the side of the cote and unfastens the small woven door. Below Heinrich plucks two feathers from the air and watches as the falconer crouches in a corner and begins cooing softly. Within seconds the birds have settled. Carefully the peasant makes his way to one small grey dove.
‘She’s a good bird, swift too.’
‘How fast?’
‘Two hours by daylight to the count, by my reckoning.’
Heinrich holds out his cupped hands and with a tenderness that belies their paw-like size wraps his fingers around the bird. Fearlessly the dove cocks her head, her curious beady eye fastening on the archbishop’s round, reddish nose which she has mistaken for a juicy caterpillar.
The maidservant throws the sheet over the balustrade and shakes it vigorously. Below she can see the midwife making her way towards the family chapel, her black hair streaming down her back. Unaccustomed to the heavy skirt she is clumsy in her gait. Such an ugly woman, the maid thinks, wondering whether the Jewess is truly a witch, maybe even half-goat under the long skirts. Could it be possible that such a hag has saved the prince’s life?
The young wench has already heard from the cook that the midwife and the Italian actor locked themselves in the prince’s quarters overnight and were seen through the keyhole conducting a black mass. How can such a puny insignificant woman wield such power? It has to be sorcery. Crossing herself the girl makes a quick prayer for protection to Saint Zita, the Italian patron saint of house servants. Her entreaty is interrupted by the appearance of a single dove flying in from the east. The bird, a small defiant ball of grey feathers, lands beside her and ruffles its wings. Frightened that it might shit on her clean sheets the maidservant immediately shoos it away.
Swooping down to the courtyard, the dove swings in a wide arc towards the enclosure where the count keeps his winged messengers.
Ruth barely notices the bird passing above her. She stands at the doorway of the small chapel, not daring to enter. Oblivious to her presence Detlef kneels in a pew, his head bowed in front of the altar. The statue is of the Virgin Mary, hands outspread, bestowing grace. The painted yellow hair, the rose of her cheeks, the ornate blue robe all look completely foreign to Ruth, but the intensity of the canon’s physiognomy—the way his hands clutch the iron railings, his head bowed in desperate supplication, the vulnerability of his curved shoulders—all of these gestures reverberate in her.
This is a man at prayer. A man in direct appeal to his God, she thinks. It is not important to her that he is worshipping a deity different from her own, for it is his spiritual ambition, his drive to surrender his will to a higher power, that attracts her. To her, the humility of his absorption is wondrous.
Sensing her presence, Detlef swings around. ‘How long have you been waiting there?’
‘Not long,’ she replies, embarrassed to be caught in her reverie.
Detlef gets up, dusts his knees then walks towards her. ‘You may enter. It is not a sin to let the unchristian into a place of worship.’
‘If you please, I would rather not.’
He joins her at the stone archway, shivering in the dawn chill.
‘So, Fräulein, does the prince live?’