The Witch of Cologne

‘Precisely. The people need to be reminded how wondrous it is to have an archbishop here in one of the most important cities of the Holy Empire. I suggest a procession, a mass blessing and then a sermon on the theme of the Resurrection—a most suitable allegory.’

‘An excellent proposal. I shall read the sermon. The nuns of Saint Ursula shall lead the way bearing palms, followed by the choir boys of Saint Severin accompanied by flutes, and then the cathedral guards shall bring up the rear on horseback. It shall take place on Saint Severin’s day—it is fitting that the city’s patron saint should represent fair Cologne’s survival of the plague. All the ruling families shall attend. We should invite Prince Ferdinand. Is he still in Vienna?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then make sure he comes as a representative of the Holy Emperor himself. I shall make the decree at the Sunday sermon.’

The minister shuffles his papers ostentatiously. ‘Monsignor Solitario would be delighted to receive an official invitation also. It would serve Cologne well to extend diplomatic courtesy to the Inquisition, particularly after the confusion of the last trial conducted here,’ von Fürstenberg adds, glancing at Detlef to gauge his response. ‘I believe the witch perished in the Schülergeleif—is that correct, Canon von Tennen?’ the minister continues fearlessly.

Detlef stares back at von Fürstenberg, not a single emotion betraying his smooth features.

‘The midwife’s whole family including the chief rabbi were burnt to death in their own house.’ Detlef’s soft voice is tense with hatred.

Heinrich, fearing an argument, interjects. ‘Yes, well, the death of the chief rabbi is naturally regrettable. We all know the presence of Jews is irritating but it doesn’t pay to exterminate a loyal hound when all the hound wants to do is serve. Do you not agree, Detlef?’

Heinrich winks at his cousin, a genuine attempt at reconciliation. Detlef, his gut churning with revulsion, forces himself to smile back. Satisfied, the archbishop continues.

‘It would be of great benefit to appease the Grand Inquisitional Council by inviting their loyal servant back to our fair city. Send a messenger at once. And now I believe it is time for sext and for eating.’ Heinrich stands, rubbing his hands at the prospect.

The plague caused a shortage of imported goods—spices, cheeses and cured meats—as all the trading routes had to be closed down. Now they have been reopened, the city is inundated with gourmet delicacies and many, including the archbishop, have happily plunged themselves into an orgy of culinary abandon.

Eating helps numb the grief, the archbishop thinks to himself, swept up in gastronomical self-righteousness. It is both a holy celebration and a defiant gesture of abundance and survival, he concludes, salivating at the notion.

‘There is something else we need to discuss.’ Detlef remains seated, an open insult to the archbishop’s authority. Heinrich, reluctant to enter into further conflict, rubs his rumbling belly and sits down again, followed by his entourage.

‘Klüngel: nepotism,’ Detlef announces solemnly.

Heinrich stares at him, then realising the canon is entirely serious bursts into laughter.

‘Cousin, in Cologne favouritism is a tradition. And we all know that Cologners are great traditionalists.’

‘Maybe so, but there are new traditions and new power afoot. To ignore them would be dangerous. The constitution allows only entitled citizens to vote—that is, only one tenth of the population—and they may vote only for others within their privileged group. The Gaffeln, despite its twenty-two subdivisions, has power to choose only four councillors. The system is a breeding ground for favouritism. There are too many without a voice: day labourers, bondsmen, journeymen, clergymen, women and Jews—all live without any influence, yet all contribute to the economy of this city.’

‘This is not the cathedral’s concern and neither is it yours, unless canons have suddenly become politicians. Remember, we are here only because the bürgers have consented to our presence. Do I have to remind you of the events of 1396 when the merchants and bürgers threw all the aristocrats out of Cologne, including your own family, Detlef?’

‘But it will be our concern if the bürgers revolt again. It is no longer enough for one’s family name to guarantee a position on the city council. There are good working men who are demanding recognition of their true worth.’

‘Your cousin is an idealist, perhaps even a secret Republican.’ Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg, delighting in Detlef’s ill-placed bravado, slams a ledger shut as if to emphasise his point.

‘What say you to Wilhelm’s accusation?’ Heinrich asks archly.

‘I say this. These are changing times: a man will not survive if he ignores the rising tide, and neither will Cologne. Tradition has never favoured trade.’

Frowning, the archbishop twists his ring around his finger, an indication that he is displeased. He knows Detlef is right: there is a growing unrest amongst the bürgers, which accelerated after the abandonment of the city by many of its privileged during the Black Death. But the discontent existed before the plague, influenced by the growing number of talented craftsmen rising up from the peasant class, all wanting representation on the city council.

‘But cousin, what role is the clergy to play in all of this? I am a shepherd of the spiritual not the purse,’ Heinrich says coyly, still playing to the gallery. Detlef refuses to be swayed.

‘A young man came to visit me. He is of a poor family but managed to win himself an apprenticeship and then a business. But because of his lack of good name he is denied the privilege of certain levies, even access to some wharves. He is angry and has gathered much support amongst his guild, the ribbon merchants.’

‘Nikolaus Gülich?’ von Fürstenberg interjects with a sneer.

‘You know the gentleman?’

‘Gentleman? He is no gentleman, merely a troublesome upstart who means to manipulate the discontent of the common man for his own profit.’

‘I beg to differ. Meister Gülich intends to challenge the corruptness of the nepotistic system and I suspect he will succeed.’

Heinrich is acutely conscious of the avid attention the younger clergy are paying to the canon. The archbishop knows he must tolerate Detlef’s radicalism, worse he must be seen to support him, for Nikolaus Gülich is not the only man to engender enthusiasm among the lower ranks.