The Witch of Cologne

Outside a small coach pulls up. Ruth, her face concealed by a deep hood, climbs down. With one bound Detlef is already running down the steep wooden stairs towards the entrance hall. He hauls open the front door before the midwife has a chance to insert her key.

‘Ruth, your face wears the marks of exhaustion. Come, there is broth in the cooking pot. But where is Jacob?’

Ruth, pushing her hood back, wheels around.

‘What do you mean? I left him with Esther and your brother. Is the maid not with you?’

‘The house is empty.’

They stare at each other, horrified. Just then Esther sidles in through the door, stinking of beer, her face flushed and satiated. Ruth grabs the girl and shakes her violently.

‘Where is Jacob? I told you to look after him!’

Bewildered, the drunken maid rolls her eyes. ‘Isn’t he in his bed? The gentleman count did say he was going to look after him.’

Furious, Detlef pushes Ruth aside. ‘What do you mean? You should never have let him out of your sight! What do we pay you for?’

The girl’s large red face crumples into tears. ‘He said he would look after him, he said I could go and see my man Joris. I trusted him…He’s family, Mijnheer Tennen.’

Detlef lets her go; immediately the maid runs to her bedroom sobbing.

Panicked, Ruth has already thrown her hood back on.

‘Wait, wife, there must be a mistake. Perhaps my brother has taken him to his quarters for the night…’

‘What have I done? I should never have left my child, I should have stayed!’

‘Ruth, you had to attend the birth. It is I who is to be blamed. I should never have trusted Gerhard!’

Ruth throws open the front door, the icy air rushes in.

‘What about Jacob? What do you think he wants with our son?’ She stares up at him, full of dread.

‘We shall go to the tavern immediately and put your fears to rest.’

Determined not to let his own misgivings intensify hers, Detlef turns his back to her as he slips a short dagger into his belt.

Staying close to her husband’s side, Ruth half-walks, half-runs across the slippery cobblestones. The fog has become a light drizzle yet the tradesmen still have their stalls set up for passing night trade. Flames dance across an alley wall as a fire encased in an iron pot flares up. A crippled man roasts chestnuts over it while a couple of nightwatchmen warm themselves at the glowing coals.

Under one streetlamp a nagtloper, a nightwalker, her poxscarred face lurid with rouge, lurches towards a boatman on his way to work. Grinning toothlessly she reaches for his crotch. Shrugging, the young man pushes her hand away. On the other side of the lane a farmer herds a small flock of pigs towards the slaughterhouse past a herring cart glistening with the day’s catch.

Detlef strides along with his hand firmly around Ruth’s arm. A multitude of scenarios crowds his mind as he wrestles with his demons. He cannot believe his brother would have taken the child. To what purpose? He is his blood as well as Detlef’s, for what reason could he want to hurt Jacob? Surely it is an innocent mistake. Surely he has the boy with him at the tavern, thinking it too late to return him to the house.

The couple cross a narrow stone bridge, making their way from the Harlemmerstraat near the docks at the western edge of the city towards its centre. They pass the Achterburgwal. A cart of drunken prostitutes pulls up at the tall iron gates of the Spinhuis. The windows of the grim correctional house are still lit as the pitiful inmates finish their long day of spinning and sewing. Several of the chained whores in the cart break into a mournful rendition of the ‘Hague Kermis’ as the vehicle passes through the forbidding gates.

Ruth peers into the distance, the swinging sign of the count’s tavern is just visible through the fog. Shaking off Detlef’s arm, she begins to run towards it.

‘The smart German gentleman? Might be sleeping, might not.’

The nightwatchman wraps his arms over his huge belly which flops over elegant breeches now stained and aged, the weight of the aristocrat’s bribe knocking nicely against his thigh.

Detlef reaches into his purse and pulls out five stuivers. ‘There’s more if you tell us exactly where he is.’

Ruth pushes forward. ‘Please, our son is missing. He is only a child.’

The nightwatchman weighs the silver; it is exactly the same price the ageing aristocrat paid him earlier for his silence. Detlef, taking the hint, adds another coin.

‘The count and his nephew left this evening, about three hours ago as the sun falls.’