The Witch of Cologne

Hanna listens, not allowing one sign of terror to creep from under her irreverent expression.

‘Good sir, I don’t understand the tongue of priests. Speak plain German.’

‘In plain German, Madame, we are here to arrest your master Detlef von Tennen on two charges of misconduct: congress with a Jewess and wizardry. Now move aside.’

But the housekeeper does not budge.

‘I know not this gentleman.’

‘Then, Madame, you are both a liar and an accomplice.’

Carlos nods to the captain, who calmly knocks the housekeeper to the ground. She lies gasping for breath as the soldiers, stepping over her, pour into the house.

The only light seeps in from a tiny crack between the wooden panels. From outside come the sounds of smashing furniture and ripping wall hangings as the soldiers search the rooms.

Detlef reaches for the small dagger he wears at his belt. Slipping it free he tenses, barely able to contain the anger which surges up through his muscles. The soldier within him, long buried, is suddenly alert: he wants to defend his own, to kill the intruders who threaten the life of his woman and unborn baby. He will not squat here in the corner like a coward waiting to be slaughtered; better to perish fighting than to die like a pantry rat run through by a blind sword.

Trembling, he closes his eyes, a picture of himself bursting through the wooden panel and grasping the inquisitor by the throat fills his imagination: the roar of blind satisfaction at plunging his knife in again and again, the blood splattering against the tapestries and coursing down to the wooden floor. Detlef’s sinewy fingers curl around the hilt of the blade. Slowly he lifts the dagger, his weight shifting as he readies his body to leap out of the confined space. At his side Ruth squats, her body heaving in labour.

The sound of running footsteps and Hanna’s screams pierce the thin panelling. Detlef feels Ruth twitching in fear. Instinctively he reaches out to the wooden partition. But Ruth grabs his wrist as she presses against the back wall for support, a rag between her teeth to prevent her groans being heard. In the dim light he can barely see her terrified eyes but knows they are pleading with him. As she stares at him Detlef suddenly realises that she has total comprehension of the events outside despite her body arching with each spasm of the birthing, her face a yawning mute cry of agony. Fumbling in the dark he runs his hand up her legs then between her thighs; inserting his fingers he can feel the slippery top of the babe’s head. It has almost descended. He glances at Ruth, willing her to push.

Her face clenched and red from exertion, she bears down and with a great gush of blood and pungent meconium the baby whooshes out straight into Detlef’s arms.

Swiftly he wipes the muck from its tiny nose and mouth, then wonders what he is to do with the pulsating birth cord still ravelling out from the child’s belly and back into Ruth. The midwife, feeling blindly, touches the thick slippery cord. Concentrating, she steadies her trembling fingers long enough to tie two pieces of thread around it then reaches for Detlef’s knife. Straining his eyes, he watches her as she cuts the throbbing band. Blood spills then ceases.

Exhausted, she relaxes against the wall then smiles at the baby. Outside the soldiers shout to each other as they run down the stairs. Seeing that the babe is about to bawl, Ruth covers his mouth with her hand. The cry is still perceptible.

Two rooms away in the master bedroom, Carlos rips down the mystical amulets from the walls.

‘Witchcraft!’ he spits, revolted.

He

tears up the drawings and throws the pieces into the air where they flutter down like chaotic snow. Spinning around, he stares at the blood-stained pallet. Furious, he pushes it onto its side. Underneath there is nothing, just the dusty wooden floor. But there is a greasy stain beside the pallet.

‘Look, look what magic the witch has made with her wizard!’

The inquisitor pulls down the remaining amulet still hanging over the bed.

‘Canon! Wherever you are hiding we will find you!’

He is answered only by a barking dog out in the courtyard. Just then the captain, his face covered in scratches beading with blood, enters.

‘We have searched the house, there is nothing.’

‘Have you looked everywhere? The servants’ quarters? The barn? The pig sty? I want you to examine every nook, every cranny, everywhere!’

The captain shakes his head slowly and sniffs the air. He starts to back out of the room fearfully. ‘That smell…I know it—they have smoked the place to ward off the plague!’

‘It’s a decoy, you idiot!’

‘How do you know?’

‘I am in command here! Search the rest of the property. I order you! Now!’

Reluctantly the captain goes back to the landing and yells for his men to search the upper floor again. Swearing and sniffing the pungent air nervously, the soldiers march up the staircase, their uniforms incongruous in the domestic setting.

Carlos, still standing in the middle of the master bedroom, looks around slowly. There are the witch’s combs, the soft hair still wound around the ivory teeth. Here are the canon’s boots, fancy French imports. Carlos kicks at them: the idea that a cleric should own such expensive footwear revolts the frugal Spaniard. There is a corruption in the German Catholic soul that must be stamped out, he thinks, but despite himself cannot help marvelling at the softness and length of the black hairs caught in the ornate comb. The midwife has hair like her mother’s, witch’s locks that can twist themselves around a man and milk him dry.