The Witch of Cologne

‘If it will make you happy I shall wear the amulet, but only under my garments.’

She pulls him into an embrace. ‘Thank you.’

What d

amage can it do, he thinks. It is not witchcraft, merely a harmless charm to reassure his wife. Surely that cannot be a sin. Taking comfort in the notion he rocks Ruth back to sleep. Watching her, he wonders what they have become, where reason disappears to when man is confronted with his greatest horror.

The coquette, dazzling in a tight-waisted corset, red curls cascading down her back, pulls the young sailor to his feet and begins to jig with him. Throwing her lustring petticoats up she reveals a shapely thigh.

Detlef, having left Ruth to sleep, watches from the corner of the tavern, a long clay pipe between his lips. The boy is so young he barely has a beard. The sailor, roaring drunk, staggers from side to side, his arms clasped with a desperate tenderness around the wench, although in truth it is difficult to tell whether this is for balance or pleasure. The girl, a strong-faced lass with a thick layer of lead over her skin, two circles of rouge plastered on top and a plethora of patches after the English fashion—a virtual galaxy of hearts and stars—seems robust enough, hauling her blade upright every time gravity gets the better of him. Encouraged, the sailor thrusts his hand between her legs, then yells out as if he has been stung by a million bees. ‘She’s got a cock!’ he screams in disgust.

Half the tavern double over in laughter while the other half—sailors from Lübeck in the far north, all wearing the same ridiculous striped caps with pom-poms—leap to their comrade’s aid as he begins to pummel the exposed transvestite.

Like a crumpled butterfly she falls to the sawdust-covered floor, her skirts collapsing around her as blood bursts streaming from her nose. Instead of protecting herself she offers up her bruised face after each punch like a defiant sacrificial lamb then breaks into convulsions of high-pitched mirth. The dull sound of fist thudding against bone sickens Detlef.

As the red wig slips from the young transvestite’s head to reveal a crown of dark cropped hair there is something about the aquiline beauty the cleric recognises. Dropping his pipe, he dives into the mêlée of flailing arms and flying punches.

‘Alphonso!’ he screams.

He reaches the bleeding actor and pulls him out of the forest of wrestling men that has suddenly sprouted on the tavern’s floor. Together they bolt up the stairs to the sanctuary of Detlef’s chamber.

‘The fortunes of the actor are as fickle as the sea and invariably involve indignation of one sort or another.’

Alphonso, stripped down to undergarments of bloomers and a short petticoat, winces as Ruth stitches a deep gash in his forehead.

‘I cannot describe what an odyssey it has been, a great epic of tragic and absurd destiny. I no longer have a heart,’ he declares dramatically.

‘I was grieved to hear of the death of Prince Ferdinand,’ Detlef tells him solemnly. Alphonso’s masquerade of frivolity immediately switches to the raw vulnerability of a grieving youth.

‘Sacrificed to his uncle’s ambition. Murdered on the battlefield fighting the Ottomans. I begged him not to go—he had about as much soldiercraft as I have—but he was determined to prove himself to that wretched relative of his. It was a plot, I knew it, I had gathered information myself for Leopold’s Jew, Oppenheimer. I warned Ferdinand but he would not heed me. Leopold needed a Hapsburg martyr—well, now the bastard has him.’

Pushing Ruth’s hand away, Alphonso tries to hide his sudden sobs. Detlef, sorry for the actor’s loss of the young prince he so obviously loved, puts his hand on the man’s heaving shoulders. Alphonso briefly kisses it, then collects himself.

‘Thank you for your kindness, Herr von Tennen. I apologise. I have had no will to live since my good prince’s slaughter. But perhaps your plight will give me back my purpose. What is your plot?’

Ruth looks at Detlef, then answers for him. ‘My husband would storm the house and steal back our child, but I fear they plan to arrest him.’

‘Of that I have no doubt.’ Alphonso turns to Detlef. ‘Does anyone know of your presence in Cologne?’

‘No one, as far as we know. Although naturally my brother will be expecting me to appear at any minute.’

‘Then we shall not disappoint him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I am not without my resources. I know the count’s townhouse as well as the count himself from accompanying Ferdinand on his visits to Cologne. I also have my troupe with me, my fellow actors are posted around this fair city at various taverns. We are recently returned from an unfortunate season at the spring market at Aachen where we performed a wonderful rendering of Euripides’ Medea. The artistic sensibility of which, I’m afraid, was lost on the ignorant mob and resulted in an abrupt halt to the performance as well as several of my players being assaulted with a variety of vegetables, most of which were, unfortunately, inedible. However we still have our costumes and paint. I might be able to provide some powerful distraction which will afford you an opportunity to free your son and flee.’

‘A disguise and an entertainment? My brother is a devious man and knows your face well. This has to be an ingenious plan indeed.’

‘It is remarkable how men, given the choice, will only see what they want to see. Trust me, in my time I have deceived my own mother.’

‘I can truly believe it.’

‘You tell me your brother is recently bereaved?’

‘Alas yes, his hunting master was killed in an accident two years ago.’

‘Herr Wolf?’