The Witch of Cologne

‘Take him into the bedchamber and keep him there.’

The nursemaid goes to pick up Jacob. Immediately he wraps his legs around her and, eyes still shut, snuggles up against her small bosom. Without a word she carries him out of the elegant dining room.

The count takes a morsel of meat and tears it slowly while staring out the window at the bustling street beyond. Why hasn’t Detlef yet come for his son? His brother must be desperate with despair. Could he be in the city already?

Below a street pedlar sells a bundle of faggots to a serving maid. His aged wife, her back bent, is beside him. Suddenly the pedlar catches the count’s gaze. The blue eyes staring up from under the battered felt hat look familiar. Before the count has a chance to flick through his memory, the pedlar’s woman pulls the man away. The aristocrat turns back to the room. Detlef is here in Cologne, he reassures himself; he can sense it as surely as he can sense a winner in the gambling pit.

Restless, he contemplates the short walk down to the docks. He could buy some distraction amongst the young sailors if he so desires. Perhaps it is exactly the adventure he needs, he considers, wondering if the violence of a mindlessly sexual embrace would exorcise his agitation. Glancing at the Viennese clock on the wall he reluctantly decides that it would be prudent to keep guard until his brother appears.

Ruth pulls Detlef away from beneath the window of the count’s townhouse. ‘Are you mad, husband? Do you mean to have us both arrested and our child lost for ever?’ she whispers, frantically packing the bundle of twigs into one side of the cart which they purchased, along with the old clothes and tattered hats, from an ancient journeyman who was happy to sell his silence and his persona for a handsome sum.

Detlef, trembling with fury, pulls his hat lower over his brow.

‘Forgive me, I have lost my wits in anger.’

‘It will not be anger but strategy that wins our child back. You know that, Detlef.’

He nods, smearing the soot deeper into his cheeks, fearing Gerhard might have recognised him.

It is the second time they have journeyed from the tavern in the docklands where they have taken chambers, an area in which no one would suspect they might stay. The inn, infamous for its brawls and bad broth, has the further advantage of being frequented by foreign sailors and members of the Dutch resident garrison, none of whom know or care about a heretic preacher and his wife. The disguise was Ruth’s idea. Frightened that they might be recognised on the street, she sees no advantage in confrontation and has insisted they steel themselves against their panic and design a plan of rescue.

It is a strategy that nearly backfired when, on the very morning they arrived exhausted and wild-eyed with anguish, they spied Jacob in the arms of a nurse at one of the count’s windows. It was Ruth then, her heart jabbering in blind urgency, who was prevented by Detlef from pounding on the count’s front door.

The archbishop’s coach, adorned with trimmings and banners depicting the three Magi, turns into the narrow lane. Immediately Ruth pulls Detlef into a rough embrace, masking his face. The couple crouch inches away from Maximilian Heinrich and Monsignor Solitario as they climb down from the carriage, stepping carefully over the debris in the gutter to make their way towards the elegant portico.

Detlef, seeing the archbishop lace his arm through the inquisitor’s, quivers with repressed fury. ‘We are betrayed,’ he mutters darkly into Ruth’s hair.

Ruth tightens her arms around her husband. ‘Fight now and all is lost.’

‘But we cannot cower here like dogs.’

‘We shall get our revenge, I promise,’ she whispers back, clutching at his hand which now covers the hilt of his hidden dagger.

While the archbishop’s page bangs upon the count’s door, Carlos, older and fatter, glances languidly around the street. He sees nothing but a couple of grubby peasants mauling each other passionately beside their broken cart.

‘Lust is in the eye of the beholder, evidently,’ he remarks to Heinrich, who laughs, secretly condemning the priest as a prude.

Inside, the count’s reverie is rudely interrupted by a footman. ‘Sire, the archbishop and the inquisitor wait below for an audience.’

The count pulls on his jacket and follows the servant down the elegant wooden stairs.

Outside, Ruth and Detlef quickly pack up their barrow and push it swiftly out of sight.

Maximilian Heinrich and a smaller older man of Mediterranean appearance stand in the elaborately decorated reception room. In the corner a concoction of spikenard and storax burns in an incense holder, sweetening the air. Heinrich is gazing at a painting that depicts the old viscount as Mars, his wife as Venus and their two sons as celestial cherubs, while the inquisitor admires a Venetian vase with a rather violent hunting scene painted on it.

‘A Johann Rottenhammer painting, if I’m not mistaken,’ the archbishop remarks. ‘A beautiful work. But I don’t remember your father ever being quite that heroic.’

‘A great soldier but not a great connoisseur of culture. Fortunately I seem to display the opposite trait,’ the count replies smugly as he turns to the inquisitor without waiting for a formal introduction.

‘Monsignor Solitario, making your acquaintance is a challenging pleasure.’

The inquisitor bows stiffly. ‘Indeed, and how is your brother? May God protect his soul.’

‘Ah, but is this God Catholic or Protestant?’

‘There is but one God and he is, naturally, Catholic, even in the case of a defector like your brother.’

‘Naturally. As for my brother, he is alive and hopefully somewhere here in Cologne. Meanwhile, would you partake in some good Rhineland wine? The archbishop tells me he has transformed you into something of an expert on our Rheinwein?’