Freude didn’t answer. His eyes held the metallic glint of rage. He scraped Eva roughly, as if to inflict as much hurt and shame as he could. Leaning close, he whispered into her ear, “You nearly had me, you bitch, with your witch’s charms.”
Finally, when he’d finished and Eva was allowed to stand, the jailer’s wife handed her a pale linen shift. Frau Brugler pointed at her thigh. “There’s blood on her leg,” she said.
“A slip of the razor,” said Freude.
The woman’s thin eyebrows came together, but she said nothing. She went to Katharina and undressed her, much more gently than she had Eva. The girl did not resist, but only stared straight ahead, unseeing. She looked small and fragile, easily crushed.
Eva gagged and nearly vomited when Freude ordered Katharina to lie down. Mother of God, she begged, please help us in our hour of need.
Katharina did not move. Frau Brugler took her small hand and coaxed her to the floor. “I always feel bad for the young ones,” she said.
Freude rolled his eyes, then stooped to examine Katharina. The woman stood near and watched him closely. “Nothing to shave,” he muttered.
The jailer’s wife lifted Katharina to her feet, pulled a shift over her head, and smoothed it over her thin body. It dragged on the floor. She locked Eva’s wrists in the shackles, then she and Freude searched the small cell, lifting the pail and the stool, kicking at the straw and the cut hair, and poking into every crevice. Frau Brugler gathered the discarded clothes.
“Wait,” said Eva. “My rosary. Please let me have my rosary.”
“Not allowed,” said Freude.
After they’d left, Katharina came to sit in her mother’s lap, her frail body rigid beneath the thin shift. “That was him, Mama. The Devil. Did you see his red eyes? Why didn’t the angels protect us?”
“I don’t know, Liebchen. I don’t know.”
Eva wrapped her arms around her daughter and rocked. She felt the chill air on her scalp and a burning between her thighs where the man had scraped her skin raw. She tried to draw breath, but choked. The smell of lye soap was foul and hateful.
15
22 April 1626
Holding up a glass lantern, Chancellor Brandt pushed open the heavy door. The men had to duck to follow him through the doorway into the lowest chamber of the Prisoners’ Tower. As they filed in, each made the sign of the cross and whispered a prayer, in nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti.
Chancellor Brandt set the lantern on the curved table, and the men took their places along one side, sitting nearly shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, hat brim to hat brim. Judge Steinbach sat at the centre, Chancellor Brandt to his left, Father Streng to his right. The windowless chamber was less than eight paces across, and the table opposite the door where the accused would enter was hardly large enough to accommodate all seven men. All but the judge took off their hats and hung them on pegs behind them.
Freude lifted the pine torches from their iron holders on the wall, lit each in the sputtering fire in the wire basket set off to the side, then carefully placed the burning torches back in the holders. A black rat scrabbled away from the light, its pointed teeth clamped on a pale scrap of food. It slipped into a crevice between the grey stones.
Father Streng carried his breviary, a large wooden cross, a ledger, several quills, and a pot of black ink. He set the cross and breviary to the side, opened the ledger, dipped a quill into the ink, and recorded their names: Judge Lorenz Steinbach, Chancellor Johann Brandt, Herr Doktor Wilhelm Hampelmann, Herr Doktor Hans Lindner, Herr Georg Freude, and Father Rudolf Streng.
The priest, who sat on Hampelmann’s left, glanced pointedly at the vacancy to Hampelmann’s right. Hampelmann hunched his shoulders. He had no idea where Lutz was. Perhaps his courage had failed him. It had happened before. Many men lacked the strength of character and the faith needed to serve on the commission. The Prince-Bishop would have to appoint another man, a braver man, to take Lutz’s place.
Judge Steinbach laid out a gold watch in a wavering pool of candlelight. “Another few minutes,” he said, his face sour, “and then we’ll begin without him.”
Hampelmann coughed, the acrid wood smoke an irritant in his throat, and thought wistfully of the sweetness of cherry blossoms in the Lusam Garden. He’d gone there for meditation early that morning, the sun warming his back, the blackbirds warbling while he prayed, then laboured to compose verses. Concern about the morning’s hearing intruded, however, and he’d managed only one passable line.
The tallow candle burned high in the lantern, dripping pale yellow globs into the grease pan beneath. It stank of burning fat. Hampelmann almost wished that another man would take his place at the table, at least for a while. It was an onerous duty to study the evidence, question the accused, and then tease from them the truth. It was sordid, and frightening, to hear about the depraved and filthy things they’d done. And the commissioners had to be so attentive to detail, so terribly careful. There could, after all, be an innocent among the accused. And if God gave a sign, Hampelmann didn’t want to miss it for lack of paying attention. He rubbed his eyes. Tired, he was so tired. But God had called him to this work. It was his cross to bear.
The outside door creaked open. Lutz stepped in, a sheepish smile on his face. He clutched a ledger to his chest. He crossed himself, then took his place at the end of the table near Hampelmann. He removed his hat and hung it behind him. Chancellor Brandt picked up the judge’s watch and made a conspicuous show of examining it while Father Streng recorded the last name: Herr Doktor Franz Lutz.
Judge Steinbach tapped the gavel. “We may now begin. We must first decide who should be questioned first.” He nodded stiffly at Lutz and then at Freude, who sat at the end of the table opposite Lutz. “Can you tell us which one you believe to be the most timid and feeble?” asked the judge.
“I don’t know about timid and feeble,” said Lutz, “but all of them claim, quite sincerely, to be innocent of the charges against them.”
Freude laughed. “I’ve yet to meet a witch who didn’t claim to be innocent. At first, that is.” He clapped his grimy hands. “But then, that’s my job. To make them reveal the truth. Bring in the child first. She’ll confess right away.”
“The child has not been accused,” said Lutz. “She cannot be questioned except as a witness.”
“A formality,” muttered the executioner.
The torchlight cast Freude’s repugnant face in shadow. The man might be skilled at his profession, thought Hampelmann, but he failed, again and again, to comprehend the importance of following the letter of the law. God would protect them only if they carried out their duties meticulously and piously.
“In Würzburg,” Hampelmann said loudly, “we do not depart from the law, Herr Freude. The girl has not been accused. Moreover, we must always be mindful that there may be an innocent among the defendants. And that person must be protected. As Jean Bodin has written: It cannot be denied that witches occasionally conspire maliciously to accuse a totally innocent person of complicity in their crimes.”
“An excellent point, Herr Hampelmann,” said Lutz. “All of the accused spoke to me in the presence of their confessor. Certainly they’d have been reluctant to lie while Father Herzeim was there.”
Hampelmann stared at Lutz’s bland amiable face. The man’s ignorance and naiveté were nothing short of astounding. Surely he didn’t believe that the accused were innocent simply because they’d said so in the presence of their Jesuit confessor.
Willing himself to be patient, he took a deep breath. “Herr Lutz, witches are very, very clever in feigning innocence. It may take time, but as this inquiry proceeds, you will come to see that. And since you seem somewhat...” Hampelmann searched for a word less offensive than ignorant “...unfamiliar with the ways of witches, I suggest that you take the utmost precautions. They are far more dangerous than they appear.”
“And the more innocent they seem, the more dangerous they are,” said Judg
e Steinbach, touching the ball of wax at his throat.
Freude pulled on his black gloves. “If we can’t bring in the child, then I say either the maidservant or the beggar. They’re both scared out of their wits, especially the old hag. She’s feeble, easy to break.”
“What say you, Herr Lutz?” said Judge Steinbach.
“I could make no sense of anything Frau Bettler said. I believe the old woman is demented.”
“Or possessed?” said Lindner, who sat to the right of the executioner. The fringe of hair around the physician’s bald head looked like a bristling copper halo that had slipped.
“I don’t think so,” said Lutz, opening his ledger. “She exhibited no strange contortions. When I visited her cell, she knelt before Father Herzeim and wept. When I tried to question her, her answers were incoherent, but she did not speak in voices or threaten us in any way.”
“Bring her in,” said Judge Steinbach. Freude left the chamber through the low doorway that led to the cells above them.
Father Streng stood, and the other men rose and bowed their heads. “Almighty God,” said the priest, “guide us, your humble servants, in the execution of our duties. Help us to be discerning, yet merciful, as you, yourself, are the font of all mercy. And in the carrying out of your work, Lord, protect us, your dutiful servants, from Satan’s evil. In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti, amen.”
The men sat down and waited. Father Streng sharpened his quills. Judge Steinbach slid the gavel from one trembling hand to the other, the white plume on his hat quivering. Lutz flipped through his ledger. Chancellor Brandt straightened the lace on his broad white cuffs. Lindner clicked a thumbnail on his front teeth, a noise irritating to Hampelmann, who brought his pomander to his nose and inhaled deeply of the pungent and faintly repellent mixture of lavender and hellebore: lavender for his recurrent headaches and fatigue, hellebore to reduce the excess of black bile that caused his ever more frequent bouts of melancholy.
The door swung open and an old woman entered, shuffling backwards on bare feet. A web of blue veins criss-crossed her shaved scalp. Freude prodded her with a birch rod and turned her to face the commissioners. She wore only a coarse linen shift laced loosely at the neck. Her gaunt face looked like a skull. Parts of her nose were missing and her mouth gaped; her lips had sunk back over her toothless gums. She swayed and nearly toppled over, but Freude grabbed the rope binding her wrists and held her upright. He pulled a heavy wooden chair into the centre of the chamber, then placed her hands on the back of the chair.
Father Streng came forward and held up the large wooden crucifix. “By the belief that you have in God and in the expectation of paradise, and being aware of the peril of your soul’s eternal damnation, do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is true, such that you are willing to exchange heaven for hell should you tell a lie?”
The woman’s milky eyes stared straight ahead.
The priest spoke sharply. “Do you swear?”
Lutz stepped toward her. “Truth,” he said slowly. “Frau Bettler, the commissioners want you to swear to speak the truth.”
Her whole body shook. “Ja,” she mouthed.
Returning to his seat between the judge and Hampelmann, Father Streng recorded her answer. “State your name and age,” he demanded.
The woman’s mouth moved. She licked her cracked lips.
“State your name and age,” Chancellor Brandt repeated. “I don’t think she understands,” said Lutz. “Her name is Old Frau Bettler. I’ve asked around, but no one can tell me her age. Most likely about sixty or so. It’s hard to tell. She lives as a beggar.”
Hampelmann checked his own ledger, the report prepared by the Malefizamt. “Let the record show that she has no license. She’s been begging illegally.”
Judge Steinbach waited for the priest to finish writing, then said, “Frau Bettler, do you know why you’ve been brought here?” His thin voice cracked.
Again, the woman’s mouth moved, but she said nothing. Her claw-like hands clutched the chair.
“I’ve tried to explain,” said Lutz, “but she doesn’t seem to understand the accusations made against her.”
“How do you know Frau Imhof, Fraulein Stolzberger, and Frau Basser?” asked Chancellor Brandt.
Lutz lifted his hands imploringly. “Chancellor Brandt, she does not understand.”
“Then she will be made to understand.”
Freude loosened the leather lacing of the shift, untied the hemp rope binding the woman’s wrists, then pulled at the shift, so that it fell down around her ankles. The old woman howled. Though Hampelmann had seen it many times before, the sight never failed to startle. The woman tried to cover her sudden nakedness with an arm over her flaccid breasts and a hand over her bald crotch. She was exceedingly thin, all knobs and bones, and her skin was covered with dark crusty patches and boils. Lutz stepped away.
“Hardly a need to examine her closely,” said the executioner, pulling a long pin from a leather case. He thrust it into the back of her thigh. The woman did not react. Freude turned her so that her back was to the commissioners. Pus dripped from the boil he’d pricked. “Note that she did not cry out in pain,” he said. “And there is almost no blood. These are Devil’s marks, gentlemen, not ordinary sores.”
Lindner came forward and peered closely at her skin, but was careful not to touch her. “I concur with that assessment,” said the physician. “And from all these sores and pustules, I would venture that the woman made her living as a prostitute when she was younger.” He smiled darkly. “Pity the man desperate enough to go to her.”
While Father Streng recorded the finding, Freude pulled the shift up and over the woman, tightened the laces, and bound her wrists. He again placed her hands on the back of the chair.
“When did you first meet with the Devil, Frau Bettler?” said Chancellor Brandt.
The woman’s toothless gums opened and closed.
“Have you ever met with the Devil?” Lutz said quietly.
Father Streng raised his quill. “That is not the question, Herr Lutz. The marks upon her confirm that she has met with the Devil. The question is when and where. When did you first meet with the Devil, Frau Bettler?”
The woman’s head lolled from side to side.
Chancellor Brandt cracked his knuckles, one by one, making Judge Steinbach cringe with each pop. “If she does not speak to us, Herr Lutz,” said the chancellor, “she will be recorded as taciturn.” He glanced at the executioner. “And then tortured until she does speak.”
“Please, Frau Bettler,” pleaded Lutz, “answer the question. When did you first meet with the Devil?” He touched her arm, then pulled back as if burned.
Hampelmann heard the gasps, his own among them. How could Lutz forget the terrible danger in touching them? The degrading memory of his own carelessness came, unbidden, to his mind. Like Lutz, he’d been a novice on the commission. There’d been a young woman with clear sapphire eyes, unclouded by a trace of guilt, and flawless skin, even when shaved. Hampelmann persuaded himself that she must be innocent. When he visited her in her cell, her graceful hand reached out. He could have stepped back. Instead, he let her soft fingers rest lightly on his cheek, her thumb wiping away a tear he didn’t even know he’d shed. That night, lying beside Helena, he dreamed of her. The young woman came to him, her full breasts showing through her gown of sheer red silk. Her dark hair fell loose to her narrow waist. She danced like Salome, just out of reach, then coyly came closer, onto the bed, and sat astride. He could feel the inviting wetness between her thighs. He saw then that her eyes were not blue, but orange and glowing, like hot coals. Her teeth were black points in a red grinning mouth. He awoke, terrified, and choking on hexen gestank. He knew then that the woman was a witch, a succubus. If God’s hand had not shaken him awake, his soul would have been lost to the Devil. His arousal shamed him, but also taught him how easy it was to be deceived. He should warn Lutz.
The old woman rocked back
and forth. “Gott. Gott. Gott.”
Father Streng leaped up. “The woman dares to blaspheme? A violation of Article 106 of the Carolina Code.”
“She is praying,” said Lutz. “She cannot speak coherently.”
“I’ve seen this woman begging on the steps of the cathedral,” said Hampelmann. “Heard her cursing. She was coherent enough then. I suspect that she just needs a bit of convincing.”
“Show her the first instrument of torture, Herr Freude,” said Chancellor Brandt. Judge Steinbach folded his arms over his stomach and shrank into his chair.
The executioner reached for the set of thumbscrews on the shelf. He’d polished the metal plates and the large centre screw so that the iron gleamed. He held the instrument in front of the woman. She stared blankly.
“She cannot see,” said Lutz. “Frau Bettler is almost totally blind.”
Freude draped her hands over the thumbscrews so that her fingers could explore the instrument, but her hands lay still, except for their continuous tremor.
“When did you first meet with the Devil?” said Chancellor Brandt.
“She does not understand,” said Lutz.
Chancellor Brandt nudged Judge Steinbach, who then sat up. “Record the woman as taciturn,” he said. “Take her back to her cell, Herr Freude, and bring us...”
“The maidservant,” said Hampelmann. “Fraulein Spatz.”
Freude prodded Frau Bettler from the chamber. Lutz sat down at the table and flicked through his ledger. Hampelmann saw that the pages were wrinkled and smudged. Notes were scrawled in corners and margins. Hampelmann squinted to read them: Carolina Code, article 58. Evidence? Ask F. Herzeim. What a dangerous foolishness to consult that man, a suspected sceptic. He should warn Lutz about that, too.
While they waited, Chancellor Brandt replaced the nub of tallow in the lantern with a new candle. Lindner added a few pieces of wood to the fire in the mesh basket. Lutz drummed his blunt fingers in an irregular rhythm that Hampelmann found unsettling, a sound like soft chuckling. Hampelmann’s hand went to the ball of wax at his throat. Then he smelled it: hexen gestank. He glanced into the shadows. Red eyes. A rat, surely, but he could not see its outline, only the glowing eyes. He crossed himself. In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti. God protects those who do his will. He had nothing to fear from the Devil.
Dancing in the Palm of His Hand Page 10