The monk and the canon sit side by side in the stone athenaeum. The bibliotheca is empty apart from themselves. The walls are covered with shelves of books, their spines a medley of languages, from Latin to Portuguese, English to Greek, Persian to Hebrew. It is mid-afternoon and already the spring rains have begun.
Detlef writes in a painstakingly slow hand, his calligraphy elegant but deliberate. He is recording the proceedings of the last month. Each entry is written down, a day’s events captured in a succinct statement: Baptised baby Hermann Kuller same day I buried his uncle. The lacemakers’ guild protested to the city council over the levy imposed on Belgian lace. Merchant Knoff accuses hopmaker Franz Hausen of watering down his beer.
As he finishes each page he hands the loose parchment to Groot, who is waiting with his inks and brush. Happily the assistant begins the caricature for that day’s observation. Three strokes of black ink and there is the robust baby squalling beside a font of holy water, struggling in the arms of the canon, an elongated figure, his forehead a magnificent bundle of frowns.
It is at these times that the symbiotic relationship between servant and master is at its zenith: each content to be assisting the other, entirely absorbed in the task at hand, politics forgotten. It is at such times that Groot remembers why he chose to apprentice himself to Canon von Tennen rather than another older and more learned cleric: it was Detlef’s distinctive humour and irreverence for authority that attracted him. No other priest maintains a day book like Detlef, and although he insists that it is for posterity only, Groot suspects the canon keeps it for his own amusement. ‘Tis a great pity, Groot thinks, that his master should be so expert at human observation yet so naive in his strategies.
Secretly devising plans for his own promotion, the assistant places the fresh cartoon to one side to dry then reaches for the n
ext leaf. Their labour is interrupted by a cough.
‘Please, Canon.’
A young novice steps out from a stone arch. He is followed by a roughly dressed farmer stinking of horse, his feathered hat clutched between two huge hands reddened by labour, the carrot beard and whiskers streaked with mud from riding hard through the rains. The peasant steps forward and reaches out to Detlef. The young priest, fearing an assault, speaks hurriedly.
‘Please, sire, he insisted he knows you.’
‘Indeed he does. Joachim.’
For a moment the two men grasp hands, the canon’s pale soft skin, the mark of the scholar, dwarfed in the farmer’s huge paw.
Detlef’s heart has leapt at the sudden appearance of Hanna’s brother but conscious of Groot’s steady gaze the canon portrays nothing but the demeanour of a magnanimous overlord.
The novice, relieved, returns to his chamber, leaving Groot to wonder how Detlef could know such an unlikely figure.
‘Joachim, this is my assistant, Father Pieter Groot. Joachim is the brother of my housekeeper in the country.’
‘Sire, we must hurry back. Hanna made me swear that I would bring you with me directly. There is trouble at the house.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘That she would not tell me, but you know Hanna, she would not ask unless it were serious indeed. I have been riding for a day straight, sire, and that through dangerous country.’
‘I thank you for your loyalty.’
‘I seek not gratitude, just that you will do what my sister commands.’
Groot waits until Detlef has departed then takes up his brush again and in the margin of the sheet for today sketches the portrait of a lascivious she-demon, equipped with breasts and a scaly tail which is wound around the small figure of a priest with a patrician nose remarkably like Detlef’s.
Closing the volume, the cleric begins a long and thoughtful walk through the cloisters towards the chambers of Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg.
The acrid smell of amber, salt petre and brimstone taints the air, obscuring all other odours. Ruth, now labouring, has had Hanna smoke both the house and the grounds for fear of pestilence. With the birth imminent she finds herself in the grip of an irrational terror that she will suffer the same fate as her mother and die in childbirth. For two days Hanna has been running around executing Ruth’s instructions to protect against any unforeseen circumstances, and most of all to ward off the possible intrusion of the demon herself, Lilith.
Now the housekeeper, with a thin willow stick dipped in henna, traces the last of the Hebrew letters in thick red paste across Ruth’s white stretched skin.
‘Have you completed the three names?’
Ruth, her nightdress pushed up to her breasts, tries to peer over her huge shiny belly. Hanna sits back on her haunches.
‘I’ve copied them exactly like your drawing but I’m no artist.’
‘As long as the lettering is correct they will work as protection.’
‘With this much quackery soon not even the daylight will be able to get through,’ Hanna says, glancing around the room. Hanging on all four walls of the bedchamber are talismans against Lilith and her demons: here the Shield of David, there the three angels, Snwy, Snsnwy and Smnglf, covered from wing to tail with kabbalistic scrawlings. Pinned above the bed is a Hebrew prayer for safe delivery, while another amulet is wrapped around Ruth’s wrist.
‘But this amulet is tattooed on my very flesh. Whatever happens Lilith will not be able to penetrate there,’ Ruth mutters through clenched teeth as a contraction suddenly grips her. Frightened that the young woman might be becoming delirious, Hanna touches her forehead. She is hot but not unnaturally so.
‘Why such a fear of the devil’s grand-dame?’ Hanna asks.