The Witch of Cologne

Birgit studies the corpulent man as he fiddles nervously with the gold chain which hangs over his black robe. Many times she and Detlef have shared witticisms and cruel observations about the ambitious minister, and on numerous occasions Birgit warned the canon of von Fürstenberg’s famed treachery. Now here he is in her own parlour, like a huge spider pausing before deciding to which part of her anatomy he wishes to attach his dangerously sticky web.

‘The matter of the salvation of your soul, Frau Ter Lahn von Lennep.’

‘My soul?’ Birgit allows a sardonic smile to spread across her full mouth. ‘I have not noticed that it is in need of saving, but of course I bow to your professional insight.’

Angry at his impertinence she covers herself by reaching for her own teacup. It is only the years of decorum that prevent her hand from shaking with rage.

‘You have not taken confession for over two months. Naturally I understand why you would wait for the attentions of your…favourite canon. But given his recent and sudden preference for attending to secular matters before his religious duties, it is not correct that you should be without the cleansing of regular confession.’

‘Are you volunteering yourself?’

Birgit, now icily furious, looks him directly in the eye. Von Fürstenberg does not flinch or blush. He is betrayed only by a slight twitch which appears under one eyelid, as if Birgit might have willed it there herself.

‘I am afraid that I have other commitments, Madame, otherwise it would be a great honour to serve such a devout Catholic. I know no other lady in your position who has been taking confession with the same priest for so many years. It must be a great loss to find oneself suddenly without one’s cleric.’

The delicate teacup shatters under the pressure of Birgit’s fingers. Immediately the housemaid darts forward from her position in the corner and mops at the spreading liquid with her apron. Struggling to retain her composure, Birgit methodically gathers the pieces of china, pushing them into a tiny heap. Minute beads of blood well up on her thumb.

Von Fürstenberg takes the opportunity to lean closer.

‘The canon’s actions threaten the unity of the cathedral council. The archbishop is not pleased. A charge of immoral conduct, Madame, would cause Detlef von Tennen to be excommunicated and banished from Cologne.’

Birgit stares at his face as it mottles with excitement. Revolted by the minister’s obvious pleasure, she wonders how much he knows about her relationship with Detlef. Could it be that they were spied upon that fateful day at The Hunter’s Sheath? Surely not. As she hesitates, Birgit thinks she glimpses the shadow of a leaner, more vicious man emerging from von Furstenberg’s rotundity. The vision reminds her of some monstrous insect climbing out of a deceptively sleek cocoon.

‘You could destroy him,’ he whispers seductively, his breath a foul wind. In his excitement his spittle hits her cheek.

Birgit glares at him, shocked by the vitriol of his outburst, his flushed face, his pupils shining pinpricks of hate.

‘Nothing immoral has ever happened between myself and the good canon, Herr von Fürstenberg. To insinuate otherwise would be to suggest there was something unholy about our discourse. To love one’s fellow man is to love God, is it not?’ she finishes coldly.

She stands, stiff with rage. ‘Good day to you, sir.’

Smiling superciliously at her rebuff, the minister bows then reaches for his hat.

‘You know, Madame, that if you should change your mind I shall always be of service,’ he finishes smoothly before leaving.

Birgit goes to the window. Holding herself, she watches as von Fürstenberg climbs into his carriage. After his coach has disappeared she returns to the table and places her bleeding thumb in the cup of half-drunk tea he has left standing. Blood seeps out, staining the pale beverage with crimson tendrils.

Ruth and Detlef lie on the straw. Silent. Apart. Through the barn window the low crescent moon hangs below a velvet awning of stars. He has come to her again by the back roads. Standing over a bowl of flour, her hands covered with the dusty powder, Ruth sensed his approach as a fiery certainty. A phenomenon which burnt through her, leaving her shaking at the knees until at last she saw her lover appear at the edge of the field.

There was no need for words. This time it was she who simply took his hand and led him to the barn, the shelf above the stables, the most secret place she could think of, and this time they held each other for a long time before the lovemaking.

Ruth reaches down and touches hersel

f, her thighs are still sticky with his seed. With her finger damp she holds it in a beam of moonlight that cuts through the air and transforms the hay into a mysterious nest of greys and whites.

‘Poriut…fertility,’ she murmurs and glances across to Detlef’s profile, strong and chiselled, as he stares at the outside sky.

‘More sorcery?’ He smiles in the dark, reaching for her hand to kiss it.

Turning back towards the sky she watches the moon slowly continue its ascent. ‘Saturn, Jupiter, Mars,’ she points, ‘all celestial bodies with their own moons spinning around them.’

‘Thanks to Galileo, no longer are we the centre of the universe.’

‘No longer, although sometimes it is hard to remember. Benedict once showed me the moons of Jupiter through a wondrous telescope for which he himself had ground the lens. He said “Look, Felix, God gives us the gift of knowledge to observe his works just as he gave us the intelligence not to be slaves to our own destinies.”’

‘Felix?’

‘The name I gave myself when I was in the guise of a youth.’