The Witch of Cologne

‘You knew him?’

‘From the prince’s excursion to Das Grüntal. This tragedy could augur well for our cause. A grieving man is a vulnerable man. The first part of the prologue shall be my acquaintance with the nursemaid…’ the actor begins thoughtfully, the pulse of inspiration already beating through his veins.

A goblet of fine Venetian crystal containing red wine stands on a table beside the four-poster bed. Draped in a canopy of mauve silk, the roof of the bed is painted with a cavalcade of muscular male angels led by Mars himself. Count Gerhard von Tennen reclines on the feather bed, dressed in a Turkish gown that was a gift from some distant ambassador. This time of night, between the town-horn of midnight and two in the morning, is always the loneliest. There is much of the day he would have shared with his companion: humorous observations, ambitions, discourse, the architecture of intimacy that can only be constructed through years of living together. Something one simply cannot buy or replace, the count observes wryly as the now-familiar ache of desire seeps through his body. Two years have passed but Hermann’s absence has evolved into a longing which seems to increase not decrease with time.

The world-weary aristocrat reaches for the large key hidden under his pillow. It is the key to the lock on the bedroom door behind which his nephew is secured. The shape of it under his fingers reassures him that Jacob is secure and that Detlef’s appearance is inevitable.

He glances across the bed. On the other side neatly hangs Hermann’s nightgown and nightcap, like faithful hounds awaiting their master. The count cannot bring himself to burn them. He likes to bury his nose deep into the fine cotton and find hidden between the woven fibres the lingering scent of his dead lover.

He groans out loud, then reaches for his customary glass of Madeira. Hoping to be transported to some Valhalla where he will no longer be conscious of the loneliness and guilt which infuses his whole being, he drinks the wine swiftly. The culinary pleasures that once delighted him are now rendered bland and tasteless by sorrow.

While his back is turned, a hand reaches up from under the bed and pulls down the dead gamekeeper’s clothes, swiftly tugging them out of sight.

Oblivious, the count lies back and stares at the flickering candle that sits on a carved chest beside the French doors which open onto a wooden balcony. Below lies a walled courtyard lined with orange trees imported from Spain; he used to sit there with Hermann each day, breaking the morning bread. Smiling, he remembers his lover’s laughter, the way it would burst from a shy placidity, a silence the count used to find truculent until he realised Hermann was a man who spoke with his body and hands but would always struggle with words, as if he found the complexity of language itself an unnecessary hindrance. It was enough for the count when the gamekeeper used to reach out suddenly in the middle of a half-formed sentence or a smile and take his lover’s finer hand in his own huge bearlike paw. Language is for scholars and effeminate courtiers who have little else, the count thinks, turning onto his side as a mysterious drowsiness seeps through his blood. He stares at the candle flame. It splutters then becomes a red glow which begins to throb with a strange intensity.

Transfixed, he surrenders to a detachment that makes him feel as if his body is lifting up from the bed. It is as if Mars himself is reaching down with his strong muscular arms and gathering the count to his manly bosom, he could almost stick out his tongue and lick the salt off the bronzed shining skin of the war god.

‘Gerhard…’

His lover’s voice emerges from the velvet darkness, its seductive timbre tickling the back of his mind.

‘Hermann?’

The count struggles to sit but finds that a great weight seems to be pinning him down. He turns his head: a man stands in the doorway of the balcony, his great broad shoulders and flowing hair silhouetted against the night sky of Cologne.

‘Hermann…could that possibly be you?’

The ghost says nothing. A cool breeze drifts through the open doors bringing with it the unmistakeable aroma of worn leather, sweat and the faint scent of hounds, the smell of the pack the hunting master took with him always.

‘It is you, Hermann. Could this be a miracle?’

‘No miracle, my knight, but a manifestation to please you, to comfort you in your grief. But to keep me here you must shut your eyes and silence your doubts for fear of driving my spirit away. Lie back and

allow me to pleasure you.’

How articulate and softly spoken Hermann has become now that he is an angel, the count notes dreamily as he falls back against the pillow. His heart races as his gown is untied. His lover’s hands, the calloused palms achingly familiar, run up his naked legs. The long strong fingers massage his thighs, the soft skin of his groin, touching him everywhere except his cock, which, now standing, quivers under the warm breath of his lover.

‘Hermann, Hermann,’ he murmurs, ‘you were my life, my reason for being.’

As his lover’s burning mouth finally closes over him, taking him as he always did with unbearably slow strokes, the count, arching in ecstasy, fastens his fingers in Hermann’s hair. Overcome by pleasure he does not notice that the texture is not even remotely similar to the hair of his dead hunting master.

‘Slowly, slowly,’ the count moans, sitting up, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. Unnoticed, a tiny stunted hand creeps under the pillow and swiftly removes the large key.

The actor, a dwarf affectionately known as La Grande, carefully places the key between his teeth then crawls along the floor to the door. He glances back at the bed where Alphonso, wearing a horsehair wig and Hermann’s gown with its padded shoulders, crouchs over the count performing fellatio. Winking at his colleague, La Grande reaches for the doorknob.

Outside, Ruth and Detlef stand on the landing, immobile like ice sculptures, too afraid to move. Holding their breath they wait at the door of Gerhard’s chamber. Ruth’s amulet hangs around her husband’s neck, hidden under his shirt. Suddenly the door swings open. Detlef, clutching his dagger, lifts it ready to strike. Just before he is about to plunge down, La Grande, his large misshapen face shiny with excitement, pops out like the Punch from a puppet show. The performer gestures lewdly then, grinning, drops the gleaming key into Detlef’s free hand.

The three of them creep silently to a door at the far end of the corridor. Detlef slips the key into the lock and turns it. The door pushes open with a sudden creak. They freeze.

Nothing. The household slumbers still.

Jacob lies on a small straw pallet in the corner of the room, clutching his toy rabbit. A china washing bowl and jug stand beside the bed, a bowl of half-eaten whey thrust to one side.

Ruth runs over and wraps her arms around the sleeping child. ‘Jacob? Jacob!’

She cradles him, resting his tousled head against her bosom, while Detlef kneels beside them, running his hands over the child to search for any injury.

‘Mama?’ Jacob opens his eyes sticky with sleep. ‘You took a long time to come. I have seen four mornings since and yesterday uncle told me he had sent a carrier pigeon. Is that why you’re here?’