The Witch of Cologne

The count sidles up beside the archbishop. ‘I did not know whether you would meet with me.’

‘Gerhard, you are my brother in blood and faith. Of course I would grant you an audience.’

‘In such a strange place of worship?’

‘Ah, but I chose the place for you. The joy you take in gambling is legendary, cousin.’

The peasant beside the archbishop throws off his hood to reveal the sombre visage of the inquisitor.

‘Good day, sir. It promises to be a fine competition. The creature with the torn ear, they say, already has three badger pelts to his name.’

Gerhard glances over at the small snarling pug whose squashed face is a battlefield of fighting scars. The dog, having caught the scent of the badger, is almost delirious with fury, snapping and growling at all who approach, while the badger, larger but with a disposition that is only vicious when cornered, has edged as far away as it can given the bleeding flesh of its tail.

‘I shall back the badger. I have seen these creatures fight, their tenacity is not to be underestimated.’

Gerhard throws three gold coins into the badger’s corner then turns back to his companions.

‘But tell me, how fares Detlef?’

Heinrich reaches into his pocket and holds out a signet ring with the von Tennen crest engraved upon it. The count, with a sharp inhalation, recognises it as Detlef’s.

‘He is experiencing the hospitality of the cathedral’s dungeon while awaiting trial. But he is in good spirits, so they say,’ the archbishop tells him, sorry for the obvious dismay that fills his cousin’s face.

‘But can you guarantee a fair tribunal?’

‘The Inquisition is always just for it acts according to the will of God,’ Carlos answers, pushing between the two men. Ignoring him, the count continues to direct his appeal to the archbishop.

‘Heinrich, promise me he shall suffer nothing more than a forced conversion, a signed confession of repentance. Surely that will satisfy Rome, Vienna and the Inquisition?’

Heinrich avoids the count’s eyes. ‘I can speak only for Vienna.’

At a nod from the inquisitor the dogkeeper holds up the animal. Carlos reaches over and with an expert hand assesses the muscles in the canine’s forelegs.

‘Tell me, count, what would you wager for your brother’s life?’ The inquisitor looks up from the beast.

‘Nothing that I have not already gambled.’

‘Come now, I have heard you are a bigger gamester than that.’

The count glances at the badger, it is larger than the pug and on close inspection already bears the marks of previous victories across its striped furry back. For a moment it seems to stare back at the aristocrat, a surprising intelligence gleaming in its bloodshot eyes. Gerhard looks at Heinrich: there is nothing in his face to hint that this might be a game. Is this what Detlef’s life has been reduced to, a mere wager? Suddenly the enormity of his treachery tumbles down upon him. He is worse than Judas, he thinks, and a seeping dread begins to sicken him.

‘You promised there would be amnesty for a Wittelsbach.’

The archbishop turns away.

‘Look, the fight is about to begin. Make your wager. Detlef von Tennen’s life if the badger wins.’ Carlos’s soft voice cuts under the shouting punters.

The count glares at the inquisitor, every muscle in his body flexed for revenge. Should he accept the wager or simply run the inquisitor through here and now? But what would that achieve? They have Detlef at their mercy.

Despite himself, the rising adrenaline of the gambler surges up, a pounding excitement that battles his logic. Just one win and they will defeat both church and state together, himself and his brother, free to begin a whole new chapter. Should he play? What choice does he have? The badger looks strong and fierce, it will defeat the pug—the creature is half its size. The wager will be easily won.

Gerhard throws ten coins into the pit.

‘A further ten on the badger, for my brother’s life.’

Ten minutes later the dogkeeper holds up the severed head of the badger amid cheering and booing. To the count it is as if he is holding up the head of Detlef himself, the neck still trailing purple arteries. Transfixed, the count sees the eyes suddenly fly open. Snarling, the head turns to gaze upon its brother.

The nightmarish fantasy is broken by a tap on his shoulder. Carlos, grinning, holds out his hand. ‘You owe me one hundred Reichstaler.’