A large raven watches him warily from a wooden rail. As Alphonso finishes and shakes himself dry, the bird takes off. Screeching cynically into the bleak sky, it veers to the left. Alphonso cannot dislodge the sensation that it is a bad omen.
The beast pelts into the muddy hollow, its short thick legs scrabbling desperately at the soft soil as it tries to conceal its shaggy hide with mud. Grunting it pauses, snout twitching in the spring breeze. It can smell the sweat of horses and men and, more horribly, the pungent aroma of the hounds—wet fur, shit and the blood of the last kill dripping from their jaws.
Suddenly the dogs’ baying and, below it, the low tone of the hunting horn, join to pervade the air. Squealing in fear the panicked animal wheels around, saliva spraying madly from its hairy mouth, and careers across the open glade beyond the hollow. As it runs it thinks of nothing except how to reach the ray of sunlight just visible in the next ravine.
The hunt rolls nearer until the cacophony of sound, scent and hooves is almost upon the beast. The boar scrambles over a fallen log and leaps towards the tiny valley that has opened up a couple of feet below. Its legs buckle beneath it and it falls heavily. Instantly the mottled back is covered with ravenous dogs. One long-legged yellow and red hound sinks its heavy jaw into the bushy fur at the neck, two others hang from the boar’s head. Blood spurts in a scarlet bow across the blue-white snow. The beast, a colossal male of at least three years, shakes its head heavily, its beady reddened eyes rolling in stupefied terror. The hounds hold fast and one ear tears away in a welt of lurid pink. Grunting, the bleeding animal butts blindly against a log in a desperate attempt to free itself of its attackers.
Suddenly a steel arrow soars through the air and pierces the boar as far as its heart. The porcine sovereign stiffens then with a strange grace falls heavily onto its side, its mouth pulling back over the yellowed tusks in a curiously benevolent grimace. Robbed of the final slaughter, the hounds hover over the corpse, disappointed.
The horn is sounded and reluctantly the dogs drop back, sniffing at the oozing blood, pawing the ground impatiently as the huntsmen ride to the ledge above.
‘A superb shot, your highness.’
Count Gerhard von Tennen, wearing a skin-tight leather hunting jerkin and matching breeches, takes off his large feathered hat and salutes Prince Ferdinand who, grinning in amazement, still clutches the crossbow to his breast as if the evidence of his skill might be ripped away from him at any moment.
‘Extraordinary,’ murmurs the prince, astounded at his own marksmanship.
Directly behind him Hermann Wolf, the von Tennens’ gamekeeper, winks at the count and swiftly lowers his own crossbow, concealing it in a bag hanging from his saddle. The count watches admiringly as the gamekeeper climbs off his stallion and clambers down the hill towards the boar. Hermann pauses triumphantly for a moment over the bloodied carcass then thrusts a short spear into the quivering body. The count waves his approval and turns to Ferdinand.
‘Your highness, where did you learn such craft? Why, you have the marksmanship of Hercules himself.’
The prince’s normally petulant face splits into a shy smile.
‘I didn’t…I mean, Uncle forced me to have a few lessons, but I must admit I have never really displayed any skill for it before today.’
‘Then the Rhineland air must agree with you. And you must tell your uncle of your triumph. He will be proud. Hermann! Bring us the prince’s trophy,’ the count calls to the gamekeeper.
Now hopefully the young brat will convey to Leopold how wonderfully invigorating his stay was at Das Grüntal and the von Tennens will at last be reinstated into the emperor’s favour, the count thinks smugly, wondering whether it would be possible for Hermann to repeat the feat of deception the following day during the pheasant hunt he has planned for his royal guest.
A sedan chair carried by two sweating pages appears over the small hill. Alphonso, dressed extravagantly as the Queen of the Hittites, complete with an ornate feather headdress, pushes his head out of the window.
‘Look, Alphonso, your prince has actually killed something!’ Ferdinand points triumphantly at the wild boar.
The banner of the Viennese court comes into view and three of the prince’s attendants ride up to the young royal. Dropping their reins they clap politely, appropriately awed by the sight of the sprawling corpse.
A shapely foot encased in an outrageously unsuitable crimson kid slipper emerges from the sedan, followed by gold leather leggings and the rest of the actor. ‘Well done, my prince! Well done!’ Alphonso blows a kiss in Ferdinand’s direction.
One of the attendants purses his lips in disapproval and throws a dead hare at the actor’s feet. Immediately the throng of hounds descends on the small furry body and, in a medley of tails, long brindled limbs and bloodied snouts, tear it to shreds within seconds. Alphonso, splattered with blood and fur, falls back overwhelmed.
Several attendants laugh behind their gloves as the prince frantically wheels his horse around to see if Alphonso is injured.
‘It is nothing! Just a few drops of blood.’ The actor, headdress askew and painfully aware of the ridicule, struggles to his feet and brushes madly at his stained costume.
‘Do not concern yourself with me. Look to the gamekeeper, he is honouring you.’
The prince peers nervously into the ravine where the gamekeeper is kneeling at the side of the boar. With a manly flourish Herr Wolf swiftly slices off its remaining ear with his knife. The mounted spectators break into polite applause which echoes through the dappled forest and causes a flock of sparrows to rise up from the canopy of trees. The gamekeeper strides back through the hounds, his muscular legs clearly delineated by the fine green hose he wears above his spurred boots.
Dismounting clumsily, Ferdinand walks as regally as possible, given the ridiculous amount of padding he is wearing, towards the gamekeeper and the offered organ. With an imperious air he pulls the fleshy purse off the knife and holds it up triumphantly. Prompted by the count the trumpeter sounds his horn.
Ferdinand turns to Alphonso and dropping to one knee presents the ear to him as a gift. The actor, genuinely touched but also revelling in his role, swoons theatrically. Delicately he takes the ear and pretends to nibble the bloody flesh. There is a smattering of appreciative laughter but the prince remains kneeling.
‘My love,’ Alphonso whispers, ‘you must get up, the ground is freezing.’
Ferdinand, face now bent towards the grass, does not move. ‘I cannot,’ he groans through clenched teeth.
Alphonso, fearing that his charade has plunged the prince into one of his famous tantrums, leans down towards him. Suddenly Ferdinand rolls over to his side and clutches at his stomach. ‘Quick! Quick! He is dying!’ the actor shrieks.
In seconds the three courtiers are by the prince, opening his clothing to see if there is a hidden injury.
‘I’m not wounded, you idiots! It’s an old injury, my stomach!’ Contorted by cramps the youth can barely gasp.
The count, terrified that he may be landed with the inconvenience of a royal mortality, wheels around on his horse. ‘A physic! A physic! Where is the damned physic?’
The count’s cry is taken up and relayed down the ranks until it reaches the rest of the hunt which is still arriving at the edge of the ravine. The mass of foot servants and mounted courtiers part to allow a gaunt man on a mangy donkey to ride through.
‘I am here, sire,’ he announces in an unhurried tone which exasperates the count further.
‘Attend to the prince! Can you not see his highness is stricken?’
The physic, whose long gangly legs drag in the mud even when he is mounted, climbs off his irritable steed and shuffles over to the prince. In his long black cloak and tall crowned hat the doctor looks like Death himself, a fact not lost on Ferdinand as the quack leans over him, blackened teeth exposed in a sneer of concentration.
‘Ahh! I am not ready! Sire, please, I am but young,’ he cries out in his
delirium.
Ignoring his pleas, the physic feels beneath the loosened padding. Ferdinand, convinced that the Angel of Death is clawing at his vital organs, struggles madly, his face feverish. But the older man, staring into the distance while his bony fingers read the diseased organs beneath the scarred abdomen, is indifferent.
The hunting party, some standing, some still mounted, form a suspended tableau of scarlet and green against the charcoal of the trees, with only the fluttering of the banners to break the stillness as all hang upon the doctor’s verdict. Finally the physic speaks, his gaunt face haggard in the bright sunlight.
‘He must be bled, we must get him back to the lodge immediately. I believe it is a case of blood poisoning.’
The pages rush the sedan chair over to the prostrate Ferdinand, who cries out as they try to squeeze him into the upright carriage.
‘Be careful! You’ll kill him, you fools!’ Alphonso yells out, forgetting his rank and letting his voice fall three octaves in his terror.
Stumbling in his long skirts, headdress clasped in one hand, he runs through the mud alongside the chair as the prince is raced back to Das Grüntal.
Das Wolkenhaus, Some Miles From The Von Tennens’ Country Estate
Detlef lies sprawled on a small divan pushed up against the white wall of the simple parlour. There is little furniture in the large high-ceilinged room, a chamber which has faint echoes of a previous grandeur but now, denuded, is humbled in its asceticism. A large fireplace is set into the far wall, an ornate marble mantelpiece arching over it. A portrait of Detlef‘s aunt depicted as a buxom huntress hangs above, but the painting is dusty and badly in need of restoration.
A virginal, its once glorious gilded frescoes of nymphs and satyrs faded like a beautiful ageing spinster, sits mournfully beside the window. Next to the virginal stands a cabinet. Bavarian, the ornate cupboard boasts a kitsch panorama of the bizarre seduction of Hephaestus by Aphrodite; its spindly legs look strangely defenceless in the bleakness of the room. A worn medieval tapestry, threads hanging out, is stretched across the opposite wall giving that end of the chamber a curiously Oriental mood. A leather ball, a childhood toy, lies abandoned at the skirting board, beside it a chequered spinning top.
While Detlef sleeps, his cloak draped over his eyes, a large pink and black sow enters the room followed by several piglets. She trots territorially around the sleeping man, sniffs at the dried manure packed around his riding boots, then wanders towards the leather ball. The piglets follow, squealing.
‘Brunhilde!’ A matronly woman in a stained smock and sturdy wooden clogs runs into the room waving a straw broom at the pig. ‘This is a place for people, not for a glorified meat platter on legs!’
The sow, backed into a corner, grins crookedly at her mistress then farts defiantly. The noise and the odour drift across the room to penetrate Detlef’s slumber. He stirs and one of his legs slips from the divan.
‘Oh!’ The housekeeper whirls around and raises the broom ready to defend herself from the intruder. Convinced it must be an impoverished journeyman who has crept in to shelter from the cold, she tiptoes over and sees the royal crest embroidered on the cloak. Confused, she carefully raises the damp wool from the intruder’s face. At the same time Detlef opens one eye.
‘Master Detlef!’
The cleric, blinking in the bright light, rubs the sleep from his eyes and peers dubiously at the raised broomstick. ‘Are you going to beat me with that or is it just your latest means of transport?’
‘Beg your pardon, Master Detlef, your Hanna’s no witch,’ she says, lowering the broom. ‘I just thought you was one of those tramps that are for ever taking advantage.’
To cover her embarrassment she begins to sweep the floor. ‘If I had known you were coming, I would have made a fire, maybe cooked some broth.’
‘Well, I’m here now.’
‘And so you are. There’s precious little left of the winter stock in the larder, but I can go borrow some turnips and salted beef from my brother and have you all warm and toasty within the hour.’
‘How about some bacon?’ Detlef glances at the old sow, who glares back with open hostility.
‘You might have to wait a couple of months for one of the young ones. It’s been a mean winter, most folk are reduced to eating their grain. Brunhilde’s fended off several kidnapping attempts, haven’t you, darling?’ the housekeeper says to the pig with rough affection.
‘In that case, reassure Brunhilde. I’ll settle for broth.’
Yawning, Detlef gets up and shakes his stiff limbs, his body reeking of the damp night. Hanna shoos the sow and her offspring back out to the entrance hall and the serving quarters.
Looking around, Detlef feels a wave of affection for Das Wolkenhaus, the small country retreat where his mother’s sister once held her exclusive literary salons far from Cologne. His aunt, an unmarried spinster who had rejected family pressure to enter a convent, had turned the place into an unorthodox sanctuary for the bored wives of wealthy bürgers, and even some of the women merchants. Accompanied only by a few servants they often made the journey by coach or on horseback and stayed several days, gathering in the evening to recite poetry and play music and, more importantly, to exchange valuable information about their men and the webs of power that tenaciously held together the hierarchies of the city.
When his aunt died she left the property to her favourite nephew. The manor has become Detlef’s private home, a refuge from the demands of Cologne and from the affairs of his brother, whose own hunting lodge, Das Grüntal, lies several miles up the road. Never close, the gulf between the two brothers has widened over the years. Gerhard regards Detlef’s tolerance of Heinrich’s vacillating loyalties as weak, while Detlef has long given up hope of discovering anything human beneath his brother’s glittering political veneer. While they maintain the semblance of fraternal affection, in reality each lacks respect for the other. It is hard for Detlef to believe now how desperately he craved Gerhard’s approval when younger.
The slightly decayed atmosphere of Das Wolkenhaus suits its antiquity. The fields beyond the garden are still fallow after being devastated by the Great War. Detlef, relishing the bleak landscape, has let the ambience spread to the orchard and the garden, deliberately allowing the thick overgrowth to creep across the stone walls and raked gravel paths. Such is the success of his plan that from the outside the manor looks so neglected that no one is ever able to tell whether the canon is in residence or not.
Bathed and dressed in a plain damask shirt and jerkin of paduasoy, Detlef takes a seat at the round wooden table in the long kitchen.
‘This should keep the damp from the bones,’ Hanna says, setting the bowl of watery stew in front of him. She watches anxiously as the canon tentatively picks his way through the pieces of gristle until finally hunger triumphs over his palate and he is compelled to eat.
‘Excellent, Hanna,’ he lies. Relieved, the housekeeper turns back to her salting.
As Detlef spoons the greasy liquid into his mouth he muses on her sturdy figure in its stained skirt and grubby bodice. She seems so content, so unquestioning in her servitude. Is it possible that she might harbour the same ambitions, the same spiritual yearnings as himself? His thoughts are drawn back to Ruth bas Elazar Saul: although no peasant, she is still a woman and of far lower status than a Wittelsbach prince. So where does her intelligence, her constant questioning, stem from? The aether? God? From her lineage?
‘Hanna, do you think yourself to be equal to me?’ he asks suddenly.
Hanna looks up from her stewing pan, shocked, and spills some of the beef onto the stone floor.
‘It isn’t a trick question, I’m just curious. Do you think your soul is equal to mine, for example, or to that of my brother the count? Or even to that of the emperor?’
‘Sir, are you drunk?’
‘No, entirely sober, in fact I’ve never been more so. But I need to know: under that guise of servility do you, or any of the other
peasants you know, believe yourselves to be equal to your masters?’
‘Well, we’ve all got two arms, two legs and a pot, but that’s where it stops, if you ask me. I mean, some of them ladies your aunt used to have staying here, it wasn’t just that their lives were different, their heads was different too. I’m happy with my lot. I was born to serve, as was my mother and her mother before her. Does that makes us less or more? I don’t know. But it doesn’t make us equal. Why, that’s like comparing Brunhilde with Matti the hunting hound! What next, Master Detlef? Not that man Luther, I hope! You are to the manor born as I am to the pantry. That’s how it’s always been and that’s how it’ll end.’
‘The Dutch Republicans would have it otherwise.’
‘A pox on the Republic and on the Lutherans. Who’s been poisoning your ear, Master Detlef?’ she asks impertinently, forgetting that the nobleman before her is no longer the seven-year-old boy who used to chase geese around the orchard.
‘Who indeed?’
Detlef swings around. Birgit stands in the doorway framed by the sunlight behind her, dressed in riding clothes, hat and veil. She steps into the pantry with an air of confidence that belies her apprehension.
Hanna drops into a deep curtsy. ‘Meisterin.’
Birgit slaps her riding gloves onto the wooden counter. ‘No need to stand on ceremony, Hanna, you’ve known me since I was a child.’
‘Nevertheless, you are a married woman now and a wealthy one at that, so if you don’t mind I will stay with the formal.’
The Witch of Cologne Page 18