The Witch of Cologne

‘You lie, sir!’

‘I have lied many times in my life and practised many deceits, and I have paid penance for them, my boy, both in deed and in spirit. But in this I do not deceive. I have had your father’s body exhumed, he now lies in the family chapel where he belongs. Detlef was my kin, my brother, just as you…’

The aristocrat’s voice cracks with emotion as he realises how far he has journeyed over the years.

‘You are my nephew.’

Overwhelmed, Jacob sinks into a chair. The count reaches into the leather satchel lying at his feet and pulls out a bottle of Clos Vougeot, an expensive vintage Jacob has only ever dreamt of tasting. The old man uncorks it vigorously and, after tossing the stale claret onto the floor, pours himself and his nephew a glass.

With an elegant flourish that could only have been taught by a woman of breeding, his mistress perhaps, the count guesses, Jacob lifts the glass to his mouth and allows the delicious liquid to slowly saturate his palate. He is more von Tennen than he realises, the count notes, secretly delighted.

It has taken Gerhard years of examining his own behaviour—his intense remorse over Detlef’s death, his subsequent immersion in his duties as overseer of the von Tennen estates, his gradual comprehension of the struggles of his serfs—to attain the realisation that all men begin and end equal, in birth, love and death. He is content to have finally found acceptance in his heart. And now he is rewarded, for despite the boy’s mixed heritage and his anger towards his parents, Gerhard is pleased to see that he still displays the virtues and, more importantly, the fortitude of his father’s class.

‘Your father died refusing to betray your mother and you. I believe that at the very end he found solace in both his faith and his love for his family.’

‘My father was murdered.’

‘And it gives me great pleasure to inform you that his murderer, the inquisitor Carlos Vicente Solitario, perished a day later—an act of divine intervention, I am sure.’

For the first time since the nobleman’s arrival the young poet smiles. The count, encouraged, leans closer.

‘Nephew, there are many changes in the Rhineland. I myself have converted to Luther and taken to the plain ways and cloth of the Protestant. The Holy Free City has opened up and many non-Catholics, both Jew and Protestant, now trade freely. Even the nepotism that blighted the city council is being challenged. Nikolaus Gülich, a man your father supported, is at the vanguard of the revolt and his power grows daily. Detlef once urged me to take to heart the plight of my peasants and this I have done. My serfs know neither plague nor starvation. All this I have undertaken in the name and spirit of my dear brother. This has been my penance. But I am old, and finally, and most thankfully, I am dying.’

Stunned, Jacob looks up. The count suddenly seems to radiate a new frailty.

‘I was married once, a loveless arranged affair that proved barren in every way. For all the grief and disaffection between us, you are my heir, Jacob, the only one I have.’

‘I, to go to Germania? To inherit the von Tennen estate, the title?’

The young poet stares at him astonished.

The count nods, anticipation molten in his veins. To his shock, Jacob leaps up and strides to the door.

‘Do not insult me, sir!’

Startled, the count knocks over his glass of wine.

‘I am half Hebrew, this you know well. As such I cannot own German land. Good day to you, sir.’

With a curt bow Jacob waits at the open door.

Furious, the count draws himself up stiffly in the chair.

‘You are a von Tennen! You will always be a von Tennen, whoever and whatever your mother was! I know it will not be easy, I know there will be hostility and resistance to you as my heir. But I intend to defy all authority that stands between me and my decision.’

There is a silence; neither man moves. Then Jacob closes the door.

‘You must understand that I mean to do well, but entirely on my own talents.’

‘But I can help you, just as you can help me. We are family, Jacob. Whatever state, crown and church think. You are my blood.’

For a moment Jacob seems to waver. His eyes wander down to his mother’s slim volume and to his surprise he finds himself contemplating what his parents would have wanted. Ruth’s dying words float back into his mind: ‘You must fight tyranny always, live for the freedom of belief, freedom of thought—this is our gift to you.’ Is this what he has done with his life so far? How much change can he achieve through his sonnets—which are, he thinks ruefully, merely imaginative allegories in the style of his hero, the English poet Milton.

He reaches for a chair and sits again. After some moments of intense contemplation he looks up.

‘I shall return with you on the following conditions. Firstly, I must be free to pursue my philosophical pursuits and poetic ambitions. Secondly, each peasant on the estate is to be offered a portion of the land he farms.’

He pauses then pulls Ruth’s book protectively towards him. ‘Thirdly, you agree to have a midwife trained in my mother’s techniques to service the women of the region.’