The Witch of Cologne

by Tobsha Learner

  ‘Benedict Spinoza has no understanding of the true God. He has repudiated the divinity of the Bible and, most blasphemous of all, has denied the existence of the soul. He is also a supporter of de Witt’s Republic.’

  ‘You are wrong; he believes that the soul is a self-aware being, but that the mind is incapable of imagination or recollection without the existence of the physical body. And that no amount of penance can buy us sanctuary after our death.’

  ‘Enough! I refuse to be polluted any further by the ideas of this heretic and anti-royalist.’ Carlos reaches into his robe and pulls out a small stone. Carefully he holds it before Ruth. ‘Do you recognise this?’

  She peers at it: the stone is rusty with bloodstains but beneath she can make out King David’s Shield, the kabbalistic symbol for protection and strength. It is the amulet Rosa gave her in the mikvah.

  ‘This was found sewn into the hem of your gown, Señorita Navarro. Do you deny that it is a spell or some such devilry?’

  Ruth looks wildly around the prison, trying to formulate a reply which will not incriminate her further, but her mind has clouded over.

  ‘It is Hebrew.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Is it not true that Christians wear an image of Saint Christopher to ensure safety on their travels?’

  ‘It has been known,’ Detlef interjects, encouraging her.

  ‘Hebrews have similar talismen—this one is for protection.’

  ‘You lie. This is a mystical number from the kabbala. Only witches and sorcerers carry such a thing upon their bodies.’

  Carlos turns to the guard who hands him an object wrapped in an oiled cloth. Ceremoniously the inquisitor unrolls the bundle to reveal a sharp metal object with a long pin-like nose and a curious dial at the top inscribed with Latin.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘No.’ But recognising the tool as the torturer’s instrument Ruth is suddenly nauseous with fear.

  ‘It is an instrument designed by another great man, an Englishman called Matthew Hopkins. Have you heard of him?’

  Ruth shakes her head; dread has swallowed her tongue.

  ‘He is also known as the Witchfinder General and has done much worthy work beyond the North Sea in this field. His instrument is known as Hopkins’ bodkin and is used to discover the secret mark the devil has made upon his womenfolk, the witches. It is not a pleasant modus operandi but very effective, let me assure you.’

  ‘You would torture me for a confession?’

  ‘Please, this is an investigation driven by the desire to reach the truth, Señorita Navarro. An immediate confession would of course make it unnecessary to resort to such methods.’

  Ruth remains silent. She is thinking about her mother and father: she cannot betray her lineage or her beliefs. She glances back at the bodkin. She knows they will probe and violate her until her ankles run with blood; that they might place her head in an iron mask to force open her eye sockets, or pull out her tongue; that they will bring her to the point of death over and over and each time revive her. She knows that the rational response would be to confess now and be thankful that burning at the stake will prove a faster death. But she will not confess. Curse them, she thinks, she will die in silence, true to her philosophy and the spirit of the future. Besser tsu shtarben shtai’endik aider tsu leben oif di k’nien; better to die upright than to live on your knees. Curse them.

  Studying the young woman sitting before him, Carlos watches the icy veneer of willpower closing over her. He has seen it before and as it excited him in the mother, it excites him now in the daughter. He will conquer the midwife’s soul even if it destroys him. He will see her annihilated, and with her the last shadow of Sara Navarro will be wiped from his eclipsed heart.

  ‘Your obstinacy is typical of your family and of your race. Very well; we shall take our leave and give you more time to contemplate the evidence I have laid out before you. Unfortunately it seems that even the philosophies of Benedict Spinoza will not be able to save you now.’

  The guard wraps up the bodkin then roughly pushes Ruth off the stool. She falls into the filthy sawdust. Bowing mockingly, the inquisitor leaves the cell.

  Detlef hesitates. He wants to go over and help the midwife up. He wants to wash the filth from her face and rinse the blood from her mouth, then hear her speak. Instead he turns away.

  The guard pushes the iron gate shut and Ruth is left alone, the clang of key in lock reverberating in the unequivocal darkness.

  On the other side of the heavy door Detlef finds he cannot move. Recognising his confusion as the onset of a revelation that is holding his body to ransom, he dismisses the guard and waits while the heavy footsteps recede down the corridor.

  This woman has spoken the words he himself has longed to speak. She is defending ideas which have secretly possessed him for over two years. What is he to do? Can he let such a mind be destroyed by a petty vendetta?

  Nobility of spirit wrestles with the necessity of political survival, but it seems pragmatism has deserted him completely. She cannot be a witch, he tells himself. Witches do not study philosophy; witches do not practise scientia nova. She belongs to a new age, a future he longs to be part of.

  – BINAH –

  Reason

  Detlef stares at the globe of the world which sits on his desk, a gift from the shipbuilders’ guild in gratitude for a piece of diplomacy over taxes he executed on their behalf. It is a decorative sphere painted in sienna yellow and venetian blue, the cities marked in gold leaf, with Rome—as the axis of Christendom—naturally depicted as the centre of the world. He spins the orb around to Spain and walking his fingers tries to calculate the distance between Aragon and Cologne. By the time his thumb reaches the Free Imperial City, Ruth’s green eyes have fought their way back into his brain. He cannot shake the image of her.

  Who is she? And who is she to the inquisitor? The other three arrests are entirely comprehensible now that he knows the two merchants are suspected spies and the Dutchman is an active de Witt sympathiser, but the midwife’s arrest is perplexing. The idea that she might be an informant for the Spanish Netherlands has occurred to him, but it is too preposterous—and she would not be demeaning herself in a Jewish ghetto if that were the case. Besides, he believes her story. Even under extreme physical duress she managed to stay articulate.

  Detlef has known many educated women, but it was always the kind of learning that showed itself through sophisticated banter at banquets or performance at the musical recitals held by the more affluent bürgers. It never comprised the discussion of ideas as dangerous as a democratic society or a Godless universe. But this Ruth bas Elazar Saul, she has the fire of a man, the intellectual discipline of a scholar and the stamina of a sage. He has never met anyone remotely like her. Strangely moved, he struggles to compartmentalise his feelings. Damn the sorceress! The thought of her permeates his sensibility like a bewitching scent. She cannot be allowed to die at the hands of the Inquisition.

  The words of his father come back to him: Intelligence is power; it is the flame behind the spark of intrigue. Find out all the facts and stamp out the fire. Demystify.

  Detlef spins the globe again, this time wildly. Then, restless, he throws open the door of his chambers and shouts for Groot.

  Beer splashes across the chevalier’s purple jacket. Laughing, he grabs the serving wench and pulls her onto his knee. The girl, little more than a child, pales as he thrusts his hand under her skirts. Immediately the madam of the establishment is there. A towering businesswoman with the severity of a chiselled warrior, she yanks the trembling maid away from the soldier and scolds the huge man as if he were a small boy. Then smiling provocatively she ushers into his presence a buxom blonde with ruddy cheeks and a generous cleavage visible above her tight blouse. Placated, the chevalier bows to the prostitute and with a graceful flourish invites her to drink with him. Before he has a chance to sit down a bottle of expensive wine is on the table.

  The
brothel, known as The Hunter’s Sheath, lies just outside the city gates. An ancient building dating back to Roman times, it is located conveniently between the docks and the fish market, its patrons a happy mix of Catholic and Protestant, peppered with sailors and the resident troops from the military base at Mülheim. Inside, the dark oak panelling is decorated with the skulls of hundreds of deer: gifts of hunting trophies that allude to conquest from satisfied clients. Gothic candelabra hang low over tables covered in scarlet cloth, the cheap wax filling the atmosphere with a hazy scent designed to befuddle the senses and separate coin from purse.

  The chevalier, a Flemish mercenary who knows no loyalty, glances at three men at a table in the corner. They are dressed in the drab clothes of bondsmen and for an idle moment he wonders if they are spies, then decides that even spies would not clothe themselves so appallingly. Distracted by a hand on his crotch he looks away, but if his curiosity were greater he would notice that the roughly stitched clothes do not fit the dignity of the tall blond man, and that the other two, although obviously underlings, have the distinct air of the church about them.

  Detlef nods imperceptibly to the serving wench who immediately fills up the jug sitting before Inquisitor Solitario’s secretary. Juan’s face is already rosy and flushed but he is not quite drunk enough to lose the veneer of the diplomat.

  ‘What about her?’ He elbows Groot in the ribs and points to a tall thin girl whose dark hair falls in lanky strands from under her cowl.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that she would be available, señor.’

  The young Spaniard stares longingly at the girl then sighs dramatically. Turning back to Detlef he announces in a wheedling tone, ‘Alas, the stipend the inquisitional court allows me is very meagre.’

  ‘I think it only fair that the good cleric should sample the finest Cologne has to offer free of charge—do you not agree, Groot?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Groot replies, sliding his hands around the younger man’s shoulders. ‘They say she has a muscle that can milk a bull dry,’ he whispers hoarsely into his ear. The secretary practically salivates as he turns back to watch the woman weave her way through the revellers. Already he sees himself being ridden by white thighs, already he can feel her full breasts pressed against his face, taste her salt on his skin. ‘She could be under you in less than two wags of a dog’s tail…for just a little information. Your good master, Monsignor Carlos Vicente Solitario…?’

  Juan takes his cue. ‘He is lower than the bastard son of a pox-ridden whore. A puritan bag of hypocrisy. Anything you want to know, it is yours,’ he replies with a certain relish.

  Detlef, privately appalled at the ease with which the secretary betrays his employer, fills the Spaniard’s jug again.

  ‘The four arrests—three I understand, but the fourth…’

  ‘The Jewess?’ Juan bellows, now visibly drunk.

  Detlef nods then leans forward. ‘Young master, it would be wise to keep your voice down. This establishment is patronised by the best and the worst of our esteemed citizens.’

  ‘Of course, of course. The first three, as you understand, are politic. The good Inquisitor Solitario dances to only two tunes: that of Pascual de Aragon the Inquisitor-General and of Emperor Leopold. But you must realise that the Inquisition is nervous, it knows it is an ageing lion with broken teeth. It shares Leopold’s dread that more of the Wittelsbach princes could defect to the Protestants, further reducing the territory of the Holy Roman Empire. This is why they have sanctioned Monsignor Solitario’s activities, although he has dismayed even them with his cruelty. The old Catholic guard fears that the dream of a secular Republic could be infectious: the disease is spreading everywhere, even in France.’

  ‘But the midwife?’

  ‘A personal vendetta. Her mother was Sara Navarro and the Navarro family were my master’s Achilles heel…But maybe I divulge too much.’

  He falls momentarily into a solemn reverie and with a wry smile Detlef realises that his drunkenness is part artifice. The canon gestures to the tall brunette; within seconds she is at their table.

  ‘The gentleman is a visitor and would like to sample some of our famous Rhineland hospitality.’

  He addresses the girl using the polite form and the quaint formality coupled with his unnerving beauty actually makes the prostitute blush. With a hesitant smile she sits down beside the grinning cleric and starts unbuttoning Juan’s breeches as she prepares to slip under the table.

  ‘But only after the gentleman has shared some invaluable information about his glorious nation,’ Detlef says, staying her hand. The girl immediately sits back, taunting the plainly tumescent secretary with her high breasts.

  ‘The Navarros were once the wealthiest Marrano family in Aragon,’ the Spaniard continues, now stammering with excitement, ‘forced into conversion forty years ago. Solitario was the young friar who pursued them with a vengeance after he had been in their employment as a music tutor. My master’s gift for music is surpassed only by his gift for sadism.’

  He leans forward; the scent of cheap musk mixed with the smell of wine wafts over Detlef, sickening him. ‘There were rumours of an attempted rape and of a great love scorned. Whatever his motives, our good friar was determined to denounce the Narravos, which he did, and for his troubles was rewarded with the enviable position of inquisitor. The family were charged with being secret Jews, devil worshippers and sorcerers. The father, an eminent diamond merchant, perished denouncing himself on the rack, the mother was burnt, the son—a youth of fifteen—died by his own hand before they had a chance to arrest him. Only the daughter, Sara, escaped, but not before Solitario had interrogated her and left his mark upon her body. And what a body. They used to say that the diamond that shone brightest in Señor Navarro’s coffers was his daughter. She was as beautiful as the moon and as mysterious as the sea.’

  ‘Sir, your sonnet-making is as wondrous as a bucket of night soil,’ Groot interjects impatiently. ‘How did the daughter escape?’

  ‘They say she bribed the prison guards with a huge diamond of her father’s. Smuggled in her undergarments.’ To emphasise the point he thrusts his hand under the skirt of the girl beside him, who squeals musically but does nothing to resist.

  ‘Where did the good woman flee to?’ Detlef asks.

  ‘To Holland where she converted back to Judaism, much to Solitario’s chagrin. Fuck him, he’s a miserly bastard with about as much love of humanity as a goat turd.’

  ‘Now that simile shows true poetic talent.’

  The two clerics break into full belly laughs of mutual admiration, splattering wine at each other in their drunken mirth. Juan suddenly lurches forward and grabs the collar of Detlef’s smock.

  ‘My master struck a deal with the emperor himself. He went to Vienna with the permission of the Grand Inquisitional Council to forge new relations between Austria and Spain. He knew Heinrich was a thorn in Leopold’s side so he offered to kill four birds with a single arrow: the French spies, the secret Republican and the witch.’

  ‘So our misanthropic friend plans to avenge himself on the daughter because he failed to destroy the mother?’ Detlef muses.

  ‘Mark my words, the old bastard will torture her to the brink of her life then torture her some more. And whatever she confesses, I swear on my own mother’s life: the Jewess will burn.’

  ‘But she remains under the jurisdiction of Cologne?’ the canon ventures.

  ‘That won’t save her. Besides the witchcraft they say she is an associate of the heretic Benedict Spinoza and the Dutch anti-royalist Franciscus van den Enden. By burning her Monsignor Solitario scores two points with one sorceress. Anyway, what do you care? She is just a Jewish peasant. Let the old bastard have his fun, maybe it’ll get him off our backs. And now I believe I am more than ready to sample some Rhenish delight.’ He pushes back his chair and struggles to his feet.

  Detlef tosses several Reichstaler towards the whore who, sensing his authority, scoops them up with a reverent air. Ste
adying the Spaniard with one arm she guides him to the back stairs which lead to the tiny bedchambers above. Just before they disappear she turns and gives Detlef a cheeky wink.

  The canon reaches for the Rheinwein and pours himself a large glass. He drinks it down in one long gulp. Tonight he wants to get drunk, to lose himself. Groot watches, curious; he has never seen his master like this. Excited at the possibility of a new vulnerability to be exploited he immediately fills Detlef’s glass again.

  ‘Sire, should I make enquiries about whether the good Merchant Ter Lahn von Lennep is at sea? It could be that his fine lady is in need of spiritual reassurance…’

  ‘Why not. Although tonight I believe it is I who is in need of spiritual reassurance.’

  ‘Such enlightenment, they say, may be found—although momentarily—in both cunt and flask. Not that I would know,’ Groot finishes piously.

  Depressed, Detlef reaches for the bottle again. There have been many occasions when the complexities and hypocrisies of his church have challenged his faith, but the romantic within him yearns still for the exhilaration of unquestioning belief. To be a priest of a small parish somewhere in the Rhineland, unhindered by the machinations of power, a simple shepherd of souls, this was the life he imagined as a boy; not the convoluted strategies of domination in which men are sacrificed for political gain. Even the plain language of Luther, which dignifies the ordinary man, seems attractive to him at this moment.

  Is he suddenly finding his principles again, he wonders, and drains his goblet in an effort to banish any more outrageous notions. His mistress will, at least, provide a distraction.

  Two hours later he is with her, the darkened bedchamber heavy with oriental musk and the scent of their bodies. He is between her thighs, pounding with a violence entirely out of character. Birgit, wrapping her legs around his back, arches herself up to embrace him further.