The Witch of Cologne

As a boy Detlef saw the scourge decimate the local village, then witnessed the slow and lingering death of his mother who contracted the disease after attempting to ease the discomfort of her peasants. Is there no one with whom he can share his fears? No one with an enlightened mind? No, not since Das Grüntal. Not since Ruth.

A woman with long black hair turns the corner and Detlef is instantly flooded with memories of the midwife: her gestures, the particular way she speaks with her hands. It is over a month since he last laid eyes on her, the day she left his brother’s estate on a cart headed for Deutz. They parted after he had warned her of the temporary nature of her pardon. Knowing that the emperor is fickle and the inquisitor dedicated, Detlef suggested the midwife leave Deutz as soon as she could for a more remote settlement or for the Lowlands itself. But Ruth promised nothing, saying only that she was committed to spe

nding the last of her father’s days with him now that they were to be reunited.

The woman with the raven locks passes out of sight and Detlef is reminded that he does not even know whether the midwife is still in Deutz, or if she thinks of him at all. To his shame he realises that the meditations, the fasting, even the lashing he gave himself with the knotted whip of the flagellant, have not banished Ruth’s image but only enhanced it. The picture of her face, her voice, her scent, grows within him like a luminous visitation.

There is not an hour when he does not think of her: the clarity of her logic, the whiteness of her skin, the curve of her cheekbone. She creeps in everywhere, in his prayers, in the faces of the hopeful pilgrims staring up from the pews, in the texts he studies. Ruth, Ruth, Ruth. Desperate to be released, he has taken valerian for slumber and claret to quieten the mind. Groot, smelling wine on the canon’s breath before midday mass, has begun to wonder what new fiend possesses his master.

Detlef steps through the low arched doorway of the coffee shop, his nostrils pleasantly assaulted by the fragrance of this novel beverage shipped from the new Americas. The air is thick with tobacco. The scent of ginger and cinnamon rises from the freshly baked pastries that line the marble countertop. Serving maids in white caps and stained aprons carry jugs of the steaming coffee between the crowded tables. Several of the merchants and their clerks look up from their scribbled calculations, then, upon seeing the newcomer is merely a cleric and not one of their own, look down again. Intrigued by the seriousness with which the bürgers carry out their endeavours, Detlef secures a small table to himself by the window then orders a cup of the steaming brown liquid and a pipe. By the dim light filtering into the smoky room through the tiny diagonal glass panes he begins to scan the news sheet’s headlines.

MORE PERISH OF DEVILISH SCOURGE IN THE LOWLANDS, THE LATEST TOLL STANDING AT TEN THOUSAND. LEIDEN CLOSES ITS GATES…

ITALIAN ASTRONOMER SIGNOR GIOVANNI CASSINI OBSERVES THE HEAVENLY TRACKS OF THE ROYAL PLANET JUPITER AND HIS QUEEN VENUS…

The canon reads on, trying to lose himself in the larger world but finding no comfort in the grim reportage.

‘Please sire, my good lady is yonder and seeks an audience with you.’

A small page wearing a green satin turban and coat and breeches in the colours of the house of Merchant Ter Lahn von Lennep stands before him. Detlef, not having seen the exquisite Moor before, thinks he must be the latest toy from the often absent merchant to his errant wife. He peers out of the cloudy window.

Seated in her carriage Birgit waits across the narrow street. Framed by the window she glances across but does not see him. In a day dress of green satin matching the colours of her page, her hair covered by a demure lace cap, she is a vision of incongruous beauty amongst the grimy street pedlars that loiter by the coach.

‘Tell your good lady that if she wishes to speak to me she may do so herself,’ Detlef finally replies then looks back down at the news sheet.

The boy, confused, shuffles in his buckled shoes. ‘Please, sire, a gentlewoman may not enter such an establishment.’

‘If it is good enough for a canon of the church it is good enough for the wife of a tradesman,’ Detlef answers curtly.

The page bows and leaves. Detlef surreptitiously watches as he reports back to his mistress. For a second Birgit seems to falter, then she climbs out of the carriage and walks determinedly towards the coffee house.

‘You have forced me to demean myself. This is not an establishment for a good Christian woman.’

She stands over him. The other patrons glance up curiously from their stock figures and bills of exchange. Rising, Detlef offers her a chair.

‘Fear not, they will think you are here to plead on behalf of your husband, the good merchant, who must have fallen into some moral disrepute, may God bless his soul.’

‘You make light of my distress. Why do you refuse to see me, even to take my confession, Detlef?’

Several of the bürgers, surprised by Birgit’s use of the familiar, turn their heads again. Feeling the heat of their gaze, the canon leads her out of the coffee house and into the shade of the overhanging balcony.

‘It is dangerous to be so indiscreet.’

‘I have no choice. You refuse to answer my messages and I am tired of Groot’s diplomacy. Five summers and five winters we have lain together and now it pains you to see my face?’

Detlef wants to look at her but knows he cannot, that if he were to see the agony in her stiff dignity and bewildered eyes his resolve would collapse completely. Instead he looks down and watches her gloved hands worry at her ribboned handkerchief.

‘Madame, I cannot persist with the artifice and deceit. I have changed. It would be hypocritical for me to continue to lie with you. That is the reason for my absence.’

‘You no longer have affection for me?’

Brigit’s face twists into a grimace as she struggles to stop her emotions bursting through. Recognising her fierce pride as a reflection of his own, Detlef reaches across and takes her hand.

‘Always.’

‘Then prove it: take me now.’

She lifts Detlef’s hand and thrusts it into her bodice. His fingers find themselves fastened around her breast, the nipple erect against his palm. The page boy, embarrassed, looks away.