The Witch of Cologne

Tucked up in a blanket Jacob sleeps peacefully despite the motion of the coach which bounces over the rough road. His eyelashes are dark against his cheek, the toy rabbit is clutched in one hand while the other lolls over the edge of the seat.

The count sits opposite, snoring slightly, his face pushed up against the darnick upholstery. The carriage lurches over a large pothole, banging his head suddenly against the wood panelling. The aristocrat wakes, irritated. Orientating himself, he stares at the small boy. Thank God the brat is asleep, he thinks, wondering what he will feed him in Cologne. If Detlef had to breed why couldn’t he have done it sensibly, with a Christian woman who would at least have provided the family with offspring of a decent lineage? Exasperated, the count pushes open the curtain.

Outside a half moon illuminates the forest beyond. The thick tree-trunks stand silent in judgement, staring back at him like a council of magistrates wrapped in their shadowy robes. A broad river runs alongside the muddy track, the moonlight transforming it into a silvery galaxy of sparkling currents. The count guesses it is the Maas. We must still be in Holland, he surmises, wondering how much more of the bumpy ride he must endure before they are in the sanctuary of the Rhineland.

The forest opens up into a field. Already a peasant is out there, harvesting cabbages by the dull light of his lantern, his dog sitting patiently beside him. The count watches, hypnotised by the rhythmic sway of his shovel. A blind serf, little more than a beast, doing the same repetitious work day in day out, he thinks. How can Detlef believe that all men are equal when confronted with the animal stupidity of these people? What mental facilities do they possess to appreciate the finer things in life—music, literature, a beautiful object? None, as far as the count can see. No, he is correct to take the child; he is rescuing Detlef from himself. This deed, however despicable, is for a higher purpose, to preserve the lineage of the von Tennens, an ancient family, a noble clan who have served kings and princes for four centuries. He cannot sacrifice everything for one deluded sibling, the count thinks. He will not let the church take his land or his title, even if it means using this half-Christian, half-Jewish mongrel as bait.

His task is only to entice Detlef back to the city, after all; he should feel no guilt. They have promised that if Detlef makes a full confession they will reinstate him as canon again. Surely his brother will agree, it is a small price to pay to retain the von Tennen lands. Besides, they would not dare to harm a Wittelsbach. No, the maximum penalty will be but a short prison sentence. Consoling himself with these thoughts, which eventually bleed into the rhythm of the creaking wheels, the troubled aristocrat falls back into sleep.

Jacob jerks open his eyes. The first beams of sunlight stream through the half-covered window and the holes in the coach’s ceiling. Confused, he wants to cry, but then remembers Ruth asking him to be brave for his uncle. Mama would be proud, he thinks. He has been courageous all night and hasn’t wept once, even when he almost dropped Punti in the gutter. The thought is some consolation for his sudden loneliness.

Comforted by the memory of his mother’s expressive eyes, the child sits up. His stomach growls; hungry, he wonders when they will arrive at his papa’s cottage and whether the maid will have breakfast ready. Then he remembers that the count has promised him his very own pony and a puppy.

Funny uncle, he thinks, looking at the old man asleep opposite. The count’s wig has slipped and his mouth lies open revealing several brown and stained molars. He is not frightening at all. Why was Mama worried?

Suddenly the coach pulls to a halt, causing his uncle to fall off his seat. Jacob, delighted at the spectacle, bursts into peals of laughter.

They have been travelling for three hours straight. Ruth, Aaron’s sword strapped to her side, her legs gripping the saddle, is filled with a determination that shapes every muscle towards a sole purpose: to rescue her son. Detlef, racing beside her, has resorted to a galloping motion he mastered while riding with the chevaliers during the war. His flesh now melded with his mount they are one beast, a massive centaur hurtling against wind and time, propelled by a single quest.

The flying hooves consume the narrow track mile by mile as Detlef and Ruth ride on in silence, stopping for nothing. Oblivious to the passing landscape, they ride through worlds that mock them with unblemished sanctuary. Here is a cottage with a light burning, a child safely sleeping within its walls; there is a young son helping his father with the early morning milking.

Detlef is angry. Murderous. Astounded at the audacity with which he has been betrayed. H

e cannot believe his brother has misled him so deliberately. Shocked by his own naivety, he tries to find a rationale for it as he relives the events over and over in his mind. It is his new-found faith, he thinks as his anxiety poisons everything, his stupid fantasy that the base nature of man is redeemable, that blood is thicker than greed. The very premise of his new life has been shaken. What shall be the legacy of this treachery? Will Ruth ever trust him again? And his son, what of his beloved son?

As the horse’s legs pound beneath him, Detlef finds that a part of himself, the idealist, still clings to the hope that somehow there has been a misunderstanding, that his brother has assumed they know about his return to Cologne. But then why take the child?

Gerhard, exasperated, swings around from the window of his Cologne townhouse. His nephew, sullen and red-faced, sits rigidly at the dining table.

‘Come, Jacob, you must eat!’

The count picks up a slice of the meat and holds it under the boy’s nose. The child pushes his hand away.

‘I want Papa and Mama.’

‘They will be here tomorrow.’

‘You said that yesterday.’

The young nursemaid the count has hired flinches slightly as the man grabs the child. She has been paid enough not to ask questions but the young boy’s obvious distress has her wondering. Where are the parents? Is the child really an orphan as his uncle claims? If so, why does he keep asking for his mother?

‘Jacob.’

The count leans into the child’s face. The small boy, lips pursed, looks downwards as his eyes brim with tears.

‘Don’t you trust your uncle?’

Momentarily confused, Jacob glances up; he doesn’t trust him but Detlef has taught him it would be impolite to say so. He wishes his papa was there. He would know exactly what to say, he always knows how to make angry people happy. But Jacob doesn’t understand why his uncle is so angry with him. Why didn’t Mama say they were going on a trip? Tears well up in the young child’s eyes as he remembers his parents and how happy they were the last time they were all together, laughing on Mama’s bed. For fear of making a mistake, he decides to say nothing. Instead he closes his eyes, imagining that he is back home, tinkering on the keys of the old clavichord his father has given him.

‘Jacob?’

But the child has withdrawn entirely into himself, eyes screwed tightly closed, his chin determinedly lowered to his chest.

The count, losing his temper, shakes him violently but Jacob, fiercely determined to stay out of reach, keeps his eyes shut.

‘As you wish, young man.’

Curse the brat; if he wasn’t the bait in the trap the count would have given him up to the poorhouse by now. Useless ill-bred mongrel, it just isn’t in his nature to be helpful, the count concludes, gazing bitterly at the sullen boy. He turns to the nursemaid, a timorous girl little more than a child herself, who has been fighting to keep her hands by her side.