The Witch of Cologne

Groaning, Ruth props herself up. ‘She took my own mother when she was birthing with her second child. Both died.’

‘That will not be your fate, Fraülein. I am sure of it.’

Sighing, the housekeeper wipes her hands and returns to a stone bowl she has resting in the corner. She starts to stir, mixing a concoction of pellitory, sanicle, chamomile, melilot, green-balm, red-balm, white mullein, mallow, betony, marjoram, nipp, march, violet and mugwort with three pints of white wine—which she now splashes in liberally. She sniffs the mixture, grimaces, then pours out a glass of the foul-smelling liquid and holds it to Ruth’s lips.

‘Not again,’ Ruth groans.

‘It’s your own recipe, three times a day you instructed—to bring the child forth.’

‘And now I feel pity for my poor patients.’ Ruth manages to smile despite another spasm.

Hanna wipes her brow. ‘There was a woman in the village who was birthing for four days.’

‘Did she live?’

‘She did, both her and the child. Big baby it was, the length of three hands.’

‘Who was the midwife?’

‘They sent for one from Bonn, but she got here too late. Was Mother Nature in the end—and your Hanna. So, you see, you should not fear.’

Ruth reaches out and grasps the sturdy forearm of the housekeeper, the skin greasy from the oil of violets she has been using to massage Ruth’s womb.

‘I’ll try not to, but I am impatient for the child to come.’

She rests her head a moment on the bosom of this sturdy countrywoman who has become mother, friend, nursemaid and now midwife to a midwife.

Ruth has been in labour for a day and a night and knows from the opening of her womb that the baby will not be hurried. But still she cannot stop the dread which has been eating into her ever since her waters broke. Narrow like her mother, she knows it will not be an easy birth. The memory of Sara perishing from a haemorrhage after the birth of her still-born son is deeply engraved within her. Will this be her fate too? Or will all the amulets and prayers ensure that it is not so? Still her trepidation has grown until she had to summon Detlef to be by her side.

‘It be almost two days since my brother left, they’ll be here before sunset,’ Hanna remarks as if reading Ruth’s thoughts. ‘Master Detlef’s a good man, for all his dangerous ideas. He reminds me of my mistress, his aunt, when he talks like that, filling the air with fanciful notions.’

Another contraction begins, rippling from the base of Ruth’s spine, sending out waves of intense pain. Immediately she starts breathing deeply.

Hoping to distract her, Hanna wipes her brow. ‘Mind you, dreams like his could get a man killed—just like his aunt. I used to say “Master Detlef, ‘tis a good thing no one can hear you except the wind else we’d both be hanging.” He was a lovely young boy, handsome as the day, always thought he was wasted in the church.’

She waits until Ruth has stopped thrashing then straightens the robe around her sweating torso.

‘The child will be beautiful, despite the poor bastard he is.’

Ruth, her eyes wide, stares up at the ceiling and tries to breathe some relief into her pain-racked body. Hanna pulls her up so that her back is resting against the wall. She places a goblet of water against Ruth’s bitten, swollen lips.

‘Drink, you need to keep drinking.’

Exhausted, the two horses trot into the overgrown courtyard then invigorated by the scent of their home meadows toss their manes impatiently as Detlef and Joachim slip wearily out of their saddles, thighs and buttocks burning from the long ride. Detlef looks up at the house. Seeing a light glowing in the master bedroom, he fears that he might have arrived too late.

‘I’ll leave you here, sire, as is Hanna’s wishes. If there’s anything else you need, I’ll be on the farm with the wife…’

‘Could you take my mare? There is better eating for her over your way and she deserves a good feed.’

Joachim nods but Detlef is already running towards the house.

He pauses in the corridor, he can hear the soft murmuring of Hanna’s voice as she hums an old folksong. The heavy scents of the birthing herbs float under the closed door. For a moment Detlef hesitates, unsure whether he should enter a domain that is for ever the realm of women, until he hears Ruth call out his name.

The mounted soldiers wait in the cover of the trees, their green uniforms blending in with the low branches and bushes. Beyond, on the other side of an open meadow, lies the house, a low stone building so ancient and well masked that it takes the eye a few minutes before it is able to focus on the dark thatched roof, the grey walls that merge into the shadows of the forest. It is only with instruction from Birgit Ter Lahn von Lennep that they have been able to approach the estate from this angle. Any other direction would have caused them to completely miss sight of the building.

Carlos slides gingerly from his mount. He has been riding for hours, struggling to keep up with the soldiers who are all experienced horsemen. Doubled over with pain the inquisitor hobbles towards the captain who silently hands him the eyeglass. The friar, mouth dry with anticipation, peers through it. Instantly his backache disappears and all regret for the agony of the journey evaporates as he sees the burning light, almost hidden under the eaves, on the first floor of the low farmhouse.

‘The rat is in his hole,’ he whispers to the captain, who smiles back, his olive face split by the white of his teeth.