‘Impossible. Are you aware of exactly how many indulgences the good merchant, my husband Meister Ter Lahn von Lennep has purchased on my behalf?’
Birgit smiles at him in the round Italian glass which reflects the sumptuous interior of the bedroom, the rich tapestries and treasures her husband, an importer, has lavished on her in an impotent bid to win her affection. Staring at her reflection, Birgit decides that she looks like Venus herself. Her bountiful white flesh framed by the Moorish silk curtains, one stream of sunlight illuminating her rose-tipped breasts. Arching her back, she shifts slightly to throw her profile into a better light, a minute movement of the consciously beautiful. She doesn’t even have to remove her gaze from her lover, the only man who has been able to elicit any emotion from her. The one person she has ever cared for—and, with that terrible realisation, fears, for she knows she would not be able to withstand the loss of such a love.
‘Four hundred and six indulgences.’ Detlef’s answer is quick and betrays him.
For an instant he looks away, and finds himself confronted by a small portrait of the illustrious couple of the household. Birgit looks so youthful one could almost imagine an innocence, he observes, drawing some satisfaction from the ageing evident in a crinkling at the corner of the eyes of the flesh and blood woman sitting before him. Is he capable of discerning between lust and love, or has lassitude stolen even that from him, he wonders. Frightened that she should guess his thoughts, Detlef keeps his gaze averted.
‘You should know that as the chief canon under Maximilian Heinrich I have knowledge of all the donations to the cathedral. Your husband is a very generous and a very…apprehensive man. He must think you are a compulsive sinner.’
Birgit watches him walk across the room. The natural grace of his movements makes her ache for him. His long shapely legs dusted with light blond hair, the line of his narrow hips hearkening back to youth, the high curve of his tight buttocks and finally his heavy sex lolling against his thigh, taunting her with its perfect curved beauty. For a moment she hates him for the power he has over her. A second later she is tempted to confess all. She would like to ask this man of God: is it a sin to love? For surely the magnitude of the affection she feels defines it as a natural act. Instead, generations of aristocratic breeding forces her guard, she dares not be vulnerable. Pulling her robe around her, she finds herself answering, ‘If I am to be a compulsive sinner, then I am unable to help myself and therefore I am, by definition, an innocent.’
Detlef, his robe now slipped securely over his shoulders, laughs. Despite her wantonness Birgit is a wit, a characteristic which draws him back to her bed again and again.
A tap on the bedroom door startles them. Both stop still. Their liaison is tolerated but cannot be openly flaunted. Detlef gestures to Birgit who moves silently towards the door and cautiously opens it. A young housemaid whispers into her ear.
She turns to Detlef. ‘It’s that buffoon, your assistant.’
Detlef joins her. Groot, a short stocky man with political ambitions beyond his intellectual capabilities and an unfortunate wall eye, pushes past the maid. Bowing deferentially to Birgit, he keeps his eyes lowered.
‘Groot, to have sought me out here in my good lady’s chambers is a grave folly for both of us.’
‘Many apologies, Canon, but you are called suddenly to council this very morn. The inquisitor has arrived.’
‘Which inquisitor?’
‘The Spanish Dominican, Monsignor Carlos Vicente Solitario. Counsel to the Emperor Leopold and member of the Grand Inquisitional Council. They say that the archbishop is in ill humour to receive him, therefore he has bestowed the honour upon your good grace’s shoulders.’
‘A pox on the Spanish.’
‘A sentiment Heinrich is sure to share, given King Philip’s present relations with the French.’
‘His Highness Maximilian Heinrich to you.’
Groot bows low again, muttering apologies as he backs out of the chamber.
‘And pray reduce your bulk to a shadow as you leave these premises!’
Detlef slams the door shut on the intrusive cleric. For a moment he leans against the painted wood. Groot’s aspirations irritate him; aware that he would trade loyalty for advancement Detlef realises the cleric knows too much. But there will always be a part of the canon that is exhilarated by the possibility of betrayal.
Danger is an aphrodisiac; Detlef is more decadent than he would care to admit and far more of a free thinker than Groot could ever imagine. He thinks of the revolutionary treatises he has hidden in his chambers: papers from Holland containing the latest philosophical and religious debates which, if discovered, could see him burn as a heretic.
A proverb of his father’s floats back into his memory: information is the gunpowder that both builds and destroys empires. The old viscount, addicted to the battlefield, had drummed the saying into his second son, whom he always regarded as stupidly idealistic. It would be wise to keep a record of the youths Groot favours, the canon reminds himself, should the ambition of his assistant render him untrustworthy.
Birgit moves up behind Detlef and winds her arms around his waist, pressing her breasts against him through the thin calico.
‘Who is the inquisitor?’
‘Some zealot Emperor Leopold has thrust upon us. Probably another bloodhound for the nervous sovereign who is worried about Maximilian Heinrich’s lax French manners. Leopold fears that the archbishop—like a typical Wittelsbach prince—is in bed with King Louis and plans to cuckold him behind his back.’
‘Is Heinrich such a coquette?’
‘Maximilian Heinrich is a politician.’
‘Is it a contradiction to be both politician and a man of God?’
‘Nay. But Heinrich sees no difference between campaigning for God and campaigning for his Parisian friends.’
‘And yourself? Be politician for me,’ Birgit murmurs seductively as she runs her fingers across his torso then moves down to bury them into his soft fleece. She loves to reach for him blind like this. Taking him between her fingers, marvelling at the way he always blossoms under her touch.
This time he does not move away. Reaching over his shoulder he lifts a strand of her hair.
‘You wish for me to usurp Heinrich?’
He curls the lock once around; it tightens but he does not yet pull.
‘They say the emperor’s nephew, Prince Ferdinand, will be visiting the count your brother this hunting season…’
‘And you want me to speak to the prince and secure a title for you and your impotent bürger?’
He keeps winding the hair around as she continues to caress him.
‘You forget that I was once a von Dorfel, a rank equal to—nay, above—any Wittelsbach.’
Her voice detached from her actions only excites him further. He closes his eyes for a second, standing perfectly still as tendrils of pleasure burn up his body.
‘Birgit, you are mistaken. Your loyalties are misplaced, they belong to the old world. The future is the new world which belongs to the bürgers and the plain men of Luther.’
Instead of answering she frees him from his gown. With his sex between both hands, pressing herself hard against his back, she imagines that his body is an extension of her own, that the throbbing organ between her palms is part of her own flesh. Oh to be a man, to have all fortune’s paths laid out before one: what she would have done, could have done, she thinks. Allowing love to delude her, she imagines this is what they are: one being. Irrevocably bound by both ambition and destiny. For a moment she cleaves to him like this.
‘Why, Detlef, could you be a heretic?’
‘Unfortunately I lack the passion. We differ, Birgit. You are passionately ambitious, whereas I have passion only to forget what I have become.’
‘Grant my husband and me our title and I promise I will reinstate your faith.’
She strokes him faster, sensing his climbing pleasure. He laughs dryly, his voice catching in his throa
t.
‘Do you think that by overthrowing Heinrich and being elected archbishop I should find my vocation?’
‘I think we should all be happier…and wealthier. You know how fond of you my husband is…’
‘And all the world loves a rich cuckold. However, for you, and only you, I shall try to speak to the prince.’
Smiling, he pulls down sharply on her hair, bringing her to her knees. With a reverent air, she takes him into her mouth.
While Detlef walks through the bustling lanes towards the cathedral, Birgit stands before her looking glass as her maid helps her into her lustring petticoats.
The taste of her lover still pervades her senses. His scent lingers on her fingers, a secret reminder she will carry all day. Behind her the maid’s chatter is a relentless monotone describing the latest gossip to grip the city: how terrible it is that the archbishop of Münster has sold seven thousand of his citizens as soldiers to the emperor, and how the good merchant Brassant has finally been able to produce a healthy male heir with his child bride. To her surprise Birgit finds her heart contracting as she remembers her own pregnancy. A babe which, had it gone to term, would have been of dubious parentage. Birgit chooses to think that Detlef would have been the father. But as the old merchant forces himself upon her once a month, it was just as likely to have been his, a notion which revolts her.
She looks at the reflected room, at her own visage, a magnificent façade whitened with lead, a flawless artifice unblemished by emotion. And for a moment wishes she was more fallible.
Maximilian Heinrich, prince of Wittelsbach, resident of Bonn and archbishop of the Holy Free Imperial City of Cologne, is squeezed awkwardly into the high-backed throne. In the style of Louis XIV, with baluster turnings adorning its polished walnut legs, it was an expensive gift from the Prince of Burgundy—expensive but unbearably uncomfortable. The archbishop’s hose is itching and his gout sends shooting pains across the back of one knee. He is presiding over the ceremonial receiving of the traditional rent the bürgers pay their archbishop on the twelfth day of the year: four hundred florins of gold and one hundred measures of oats, a sack of which sits before him. Heinrich, bending over, thrusts his hand into the sack and lets a handful of the soft grain run between his fingers. It is of poor quality, poorer than last year. An apt metaphor for the dwindling esteem in which the bürgers and the archbishop hold one another. In short, it is nothing less than an insult.
Heinrich, an aristocrat, feels the merchants’ distrust keenly. Secretly ambitious to reinstate the old royal families of Cologne who were thrown out of power in 1396, he is at constant loggerheads with the Gaffeln’s artisan policies. It is a delicate balancing act he performs: appeasing them yet privately pursuing his own royalist strategies.
The archbishop tries to comfort himself with the thought that he will be back in his residence in Bonn by the next night. Irritated with the world, and in particular with the divine will which has thrust him reluctantly into his current position, Heinrich looks over his court and finds a target for his ill humour.
‘Wilhelm! Will you stop being so obsequious!’
The archbishop plucks a truffle from a small silver tray and throws it squarely at the man fawning before him. Deftly Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg, minister to the cathedral, catches the truffle, barks once in imitation of the small dachshund lolling at Heinrich’s feet, then grinning inanely pops the delicacy into his mouth.
The small entourage of clerics draws a collective gasp and pauses, suspended. Each man stares intently at the archbishop, awaiting his cue. Heinrich frowns and the moment stretches out across the wintry beams of sunlight falling upon the grey hessian robes and naked pates of the shivering priests.
‘Touché.’ The archbishop, deciding to be amused, begins to laugh while simultaneously breaking wind.
Relieved by his turn of humour, the entourage bursts into polite applause. Detlef, watching from the stone cloister which leads out into the grass-covered courtyard, smiles wryly then realises too late that Maximilian Heinrich’s beady eyes have fastened upon him.
‘Detlef is not amused—pay heed to his supercilious smile. He believes such antics are below the dignity of the church.’
‘Not at all. The clown also is one of God’s good creatures,’ Detlef replies smoothly.
‘As is the buffoon,’ the archbishop retorts, continuing the exchange with relish. As one the waiting clerics turn expectantly to von Fürstenberg, a man not renowned for enduring insult.
‘The buffoon implies stupidity whereas Herr von Fürstenberg is far more calculating.’ Detlef’s voice rings out and is joined by the cawing of a crow flying overhead.
The minister’s face floods with uncharacteristic confusion, uncertain whether Detlef has insulted him or complimented him. This time Heinrich breaks into a full belly laugh, shaking so vigorously that he further inflames his gout.
‘Wilhelm, the lad has the edge on you. He will run rings around this idiot zealot. Why, I am tempted to go myself, just to be witness to the Spanish humiliation.’
‘Your honour, I am happy to bow to Canon von Tennen’s superior wit but I doubt his diplomacy.’ Von Fürstenberg, unamused, turns his flushed face towards the prelate.
Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg’s ferocious ambition is legendary, intimidating even the archbishop. The minister has both close allies and enemies within the Gaffeln, but also secret links directly to the French king himself. A portly man in his mid-forties whose Achilles heel is sensuality, von Fürstenberg’s one true ally is his younger brother Franz Egon von Fürstenberg, an individual Heinrich trusts even less since he embroiled him in the siege of Münster four years earlier. Despite Heinrich’s initial reservations, Franz Egon von Fürstenberg convinced Cologne to send artillery and troops. It was an expensive exercise that is still dragging on, and has left Heinrich compromised.
Not that Wilhelm is much better, Heinrich muses, with his constant fondling of King Louis’ toes. Sometimes Heinrich wonders where the risky courtship will lead him. And whom Wilhelm is actually working for—the archbishop or the ambitious French royal? Distracted, Heinrich twists a large cross he is wearing—a holy relic, it contains a desiccated piece of the tongue of Saint Ursula. Suddenly he realises the court is awaiting his response.
‘Even more reason to send Detlef, let him insult the Spanish!’
‘Your grace,’ von Fürstenberg steps forward, ‘let me remind you that the Inquisition, although now almost toothless, is not entirely without muscle. Remember, this man Carlos Vicente Solitario was too meticulous and enthusiastic a prosecutor even for the Grand Council itself. Of all the inquisitors, Solitario has executed the greatest number of heretics. An achievement the pope himself has recognised by bestowing upon the good friar the title of monsignor. I have heard this from the Inquisitor-General Pascual de Aragon. There must be a reason why the emperor has chosen Solitario as his ambassador. Is it possible that somehow we have fallen out of favour with both Rome and Vienna?’
‘If we have, I am sure you would be the first to know about it. And Wilhelm, let me remind you that muscle is easily cut by the sword. Detlef will go.’ Heinrich’s reply is frosty with anger.
Von Fürstenberg bows curtly to Detlef, his bulbous eyes full of sarcasm as he assesses his rival.
Heinrich stifles a yawn then dismisses the huddled assembly, who scatter like geese. Detlef waits while the archbishop watches the grey figures scurry across the icy grass, snow beginning to float down with gentle abandonment. Sighing loudly, Heinrich hauls himself to his feet and walks heavily over to Detlef. Inches away from the canon he breathes a heady concoction of cloves and garlic into his face. Then, grabbing his cassock, pulls him closer.
‘Cousin, fail me and I will make sure you immediately cease to take confession. I don’t care how much money Meisterin Birgit Ter Lahn von Lennep donates.’
Detlef, scarcely daring to inhale the malodorous breath, nods imperceptibly. ‘What would you have me do?’
Th
e archbishop’s hand remains gripped around Detlef’s robe while he pauses for thought.
‘I have heard rumour of whom Solitario is to arrest. Four individuals—two of our own merchants and two denizens of no consequence: one, a Dutchman, the other, a midwife. Curse the Inquisition and their meddling, can’t they stay within their own borders! I want you to milk the Spaniard for information and then I shall decide our response. But I promise you: if there is a head they want in Vienna they shall have it, but it will not be my own.’
He drops Detlef’s cassock and thrusts his left hand imperiously under the canon’s nose. The bishop’s ring, mark of his holy anointment—a huge ruby set in gold, a stolen trophy from the Crusades—sits upon Heinrich’s plump finger. Detlef lowers his head and kisses the glistening jewel, his eyes closed tightly.
Ruth pours the boiling water into the small tin bath then tests the temperature with a finger. Perfect. She goes over to the wooden shutters and pauses, staring out at the barren field which lies beyond. The ploughed broken soil thrown up with the snow; the winter trees like gnarled dwarves against a huge sky. For a moment she watches the grey firmament, the sun a struggling pale disk, the clarity caused by her exhaustion stirring up myriad observations.
Here time moves only with the seasons, as it has always done, even before man, she concludes.
The noisy narrow lanes of Amsterdam appear in her mind: their placement alongside the mephitic canals, the ebullience of the Dutch merchants and their servants as they hurry through the markets, the frenetic shouts of the traders as they call out the latest figures from the East India Company. There man is finally conquering the seasons; he is swept up in the urgency of the future, stopping only for the wild storms on the North Sea and the English war.
In her tiny cottage on the edge of the town Ruth’s musings fill her mind, and with that meditation comes memory and questioning.
The Witch of Cologne Page 3