The Witch of Cologne

‘Madame, I am sorry for the death of your sister.’

‘It is hard, but there are many who have lost far more. What about you, Detlef, what has been your loss? I would swear there is a change in your demeanour, but not one that suggests pain or bereavement.’

They bow and begin the formal steps of the dance.

‘I have been sobered by my work in the pesthouse. It is hard to continue to believe in God when one is surrounded by so much suffering of the innocent.’

‘Indeed. Then explain, pray, why your face and manner seems even more infused with faith. If I did not know that you lacked one, I should say it is a matter of the heart.’

He spins her around, the scent of her body drifts up and jolts him suddenly back into the memory of her.

‘Birgit, I have great regret for the distress I caused you, but it was a dangerous game, one that went on far too long.’

Filled with the agony of rejection, Birgit is thankful that her face is turned away. Struggling, she composes herself then gracefully spins back to him, her face now an adamantine mask.

‘We were always equally matched in strategy as we were in lovemaking, Detlef. But be warned: you would be a simpleton to consider the game over yet.’

But Detlef, reading her face and seeing her smile, refuses to heed her warning, deluding himself with the thought that they are still allies.

The canon walks hurriedly along, hugging the dark walls of the brick and wooden houses that tower over the lane on either side. It is too late to return to the monastery so he is making his way to Groot’s dwelling, an illicit room his assistant rents from a tolerant landlady who is happy enough to accept that a man is a man whether he wears the cloth or not. Lately Groot is the only individual Detlef feels he can trust, but even he has no knowledge of the midwife’s existence, least of all the child she carries.

For some time now the canon has been aware of footsteps behind him, which seem to stop every time he halts. Fearing an assault he clutches a dagger close to his chest, hidden under the short cape. He has not felt safe since he left the banquet hall. Perhaps it is the abandoned buildings left empty by the plague, like broken teeth in a gaping mouth. Perhaps it is the sensation that the city is full of ghosts who carry on their business regardless: old men shuffling along the gutters, the homeless begging at corners, the children skipping excitedly as they go off to the puppet show, the demure young women walking to church—oblivious phantoms, unaware they are no longer living beings.

Detlef swings around; a shadow darts back against the ancient Roman wall. Surely an assailant would have attacked by now, he thinks, cursing himself for not taking a carriage. Not trusting the narrowing lane he turns into a wider street which is better lit. Groot’s boarding house looms up, jutting out at the corner. Detlef is comforted to see candlelight still flickering in one window on the first floor. He throws a small pebble against the stained glass then waits nervously until Groot’s face appears, peering short-sightedly into the dark street below.

‘It is me,’ Detlef whispers hoarsely in Latin.

The assistant disappears behind a drape. A second later Detlef slips into the sanctuary of an opened door.

‘It gives me immense pleasure to see you back amongst us, Monsignor Solitario. I trust you had a safe journey.’

Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg holds open the heavy curtain which divides a small room from the rest of the coffee house, revealing a lit alcove furnished with chairs and a table.

‘Safe enough, considering the conflicts which continue to afflict our good emperor.’

The inquisitor, just two days from Vienna, already misses the palatial Hapsburg architecture and its eating houses. This coffee house, although considered by the locals as the epitome of modernity, is just a glorified beer hall, Carlos notes bitterly. Grimacing he steps into the airless booth and takes his place at the table.

‘Do you indulge in this latest opiate?’ Von Fürstenberg squeezes his bulk into the seat beside him.

‘Coffee has been available in Vienna these last five years. I have sampled it but I believe it to be a blasphemy.’

‘In that case you shall have tea while I sin.’

A man no taller than five feet, his face pox-marked and his demeanour so undistinguished it is hard to place an ethnicity upon him, tips his cap then slips in next to von Fürstenberg.

‘This is my good servant, Monsieur Georges. One might call him my invisible right hand. I am happy to report that he has spied for the Spanish and whored for the French. Georges is a master at wall-hugging and is utterly without loyalty except to his pocket. Of late he has been courting our mutual friend, Detlef von Tennen.’

The inquisitor does not bother to look up, merely studies the cup of tea a young servant has just placed before him. The spy, an expert at espionage, recognises the taciturn nature of a fellow misanthrope and stays silent. Sagaciously he awaits a signal from his master before divulging information.

Smiling, von Fürstenberg places his hand over the inquisitor’s gloved fist.

‘Friar, rest assured we are comrades in this, and we now have the blessing of the archbishop himself. Our dear friend the canon has suddenly become ambitious in the area of secular politics and there is genuine fear from both the aristocrats and the bürgers that he mean

s to upset the status quo. If there was only a legitimate way of arresting him…’

At this Carlos slowly raises his head.

‘The archbishop has finally come to his senses? That I find hard to believe.’