The Witch of Cologne

by Tobsha Learner

  How could Detlef have betrayed his cousin so? Heinrich can find nothing comprehensible or forgiveable in the canon’s actions, as much as he has tried, examining Detlef’s exodus again and again. Rather it is a multitude of treacheries: first of the archbishop himself as his cousin’s spiritual guide; second of his role as Detlef’s mentor, having personally nurtured the young man’s career; and third, of his fellow aristocrats. As a Wittelsbach prince, Heinrich feels Detlef is morally obliged to remain loyal to the notion of birthright.

  He has shat soundly on us all, Heinrich thinks, and now the family must bear the responsibility. To convert is one thing, but to marry and breed with a Jewish infidel? Unimaginable. Of course, all could be forgiven if the defector would only stop his sermonising and melt back into the forgettable marshes of Dordrecht, Delft, Amsterdam or wherever the devil it is the irritating man is currently lecturing.

  Outside the window, a large raindrop hits the stained glass and rolls down to join a small pool gathering at the base of Saint Anthony’s burning feet, drowning two devils with dog’s heads and ridiculously over-sized corkscrew penises. Heinrich sighs out loud then turns to face Count Gerhard von Tennen, who stands waiting, an unfathomable smile playing over his thin lips.

  Impatient, the count slaps his kid and lace gloves against his catalapha breeches, then finding the incense-laden atmosphere of the seminary a little close, sneezes loudly. In sympathy Heinrich offers him his snuffbox. The count, noting the royal crest and thus surmising that the powder is of top quality, takes a large pinch.

  ‘I must thank you for making such a long and precarious journey, Gerhard.’

  ‘Oh come, let us not overdramatise. The road is straight and well patrolled these days. Besides, your messenger was most adamant and not entirely without his charms.’

  ‘Indeed. How are things at Das Grüntal?’

  ‘Life there varies only with the seasons and thus is safely ensconced in the predictability of nature, unlike the rest of our world, Heinrich. In my mature years I have finally wearied of both court and politics.’

  ‘In that case I must apologise, for I bring you here on a political issue.’

  A very slight twitch mars the count’s impeccable features as his jaw tightens.

  ‘I have had word from Vienna, from the emperor himself…’ Heinrich leans forward and places his hand on the count’s stockinged knee. ‘Our young renegade, your dear brother, causes them much concern. His outrageous sermons have come to Leopold’s attention. Detlef must be silenced, otherwise, my dear old friend, there is talk of discrediting the von Tennen name.’

  ‘What? Am I to be penalised for my brother’s desecrations?’

  ‘As a family originally titled by a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, your name and lands can be repossessed just as easily should the church choose to…’

  ‘You would not dare.’

  ‘It is not I but a far more insidious and dangerous element who already has much grievance against our errant cleric and his unfortunate choice of wife. The inquisitor arrives from Vienna in a fortnight. If I can persuade him that you will sway your brother into returning to this fair city and making a full and public confession of the error of his ways, then perhaps together we can thwart the will of Vienna, Rome and the Dominican.’

  ‘I have no power over Detlef, you know that.’

  ‘If you wish to retain your lands, you will find some influence, no matter what it takes.’

  The archbishop holds out a letter, the emperor’s seal clearly visible. ‘This contains details of the whereabouts of your brother. It is impossible to completely disappear these days, when even the sky has eyes.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Reluctantly Gerhard takes the letter; already it weighs heavily on him, like a betrayal.

  ‘Heinrich, you astound me. To think that we are cousins.’

  ‘Power demands many sacrifices, and matters of the heart belong in the realm of youthful folly—let us not get nostalgic. Besides, beyond twenty years of age there is no such thing as an innocent kindness.’

  The count laughs bitterly then stands, collecting his ivory-topped cane.

  ‘Heinrich, you deceive yourself. Unlike Detlef, neither you nor I have ever possessed anything remotely resembling innocence from the moment we were born, nay, even conceived. However, I shall endeavour to liberate my brother from his current delusions and bring him back to this city. Until then I trust you will stay the hand of the inquisitor.’

  With a curt nod, Gerhard von Tennen leaves the archbishop’s chambers, followed by his page.

  Heinrich, watching the count’s trim figure stride through the courtyard some moments later, finds himself remembering a time, many years before, when his own heart would have quickened at the sight. Saddened, he sits back down at his desk.

  My dear Brother,

  It may seem strange to you to receive this missive after so many years, but I have grown sentimental in my maturity. The passing traveller has supplied us with some news of you, mainly of your vocation and spreading support amongst the Lowlanders. Detlef, please be convinced when I swear that I wish to cast aside all religious differences. I seek a reconciliation and, naturally, the acquaintance of my nephew (I do believe you have a son?). My own marriage has proven barren and my life, as you know, has been bereft of children. I would take great pleasure in his company. Also, my health has been failing in this past year. My gamekeeper and companion Herr Wolf was gored in a hunting accident two years ago and I miss him greatly. There is now a hollow echo at Das Grüntal that I wish to eradicate.

  I am willing to make the journey to the port of Amsterdam and have heard that a trading ship of reputation is due to leave the sixth of next month. Please give your reply to the accompanying messenger, he is to be trusted and is instructed to ride back directly to me only.

  Yours in faith and in blood,

  Your brother, Gerhard von Tennen

  The Dutch nursemaid playing with Jacob on a low ottoman sneaks a glance at the handsome German chevalier waiting at the door, a royal crest visible on his short cloak, and wonders how the humble Tennen family knows such a man. Meanwhile, at the table Detlef finishes reading the letter from his brother and without a word hands it to his wife.

  A moment later Ruth looks up.

  ‘I cannot help myself, Detlef, I mistrust the honesty of his intentions.’

  ‘I have my own misgivings, but he is family. I will agree to his visit.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wife, I want him to visit us here. I want him to see what it is to survive by one’s wits and not one’s estate. This way he will learn humility and true brotherhood.’

  ‘But this is a man who has only ever lived by politics. What makes you think his character might have transformed?’

  ‘The awareness of mortality. When a man confronts the end of his life he is left with nothing but a mirror of his actions. Besides, what harm can he do in Amsterdam? We are much loved and well protected, there is nothing to fear. I shall find him a tavern of status for his lodgings. In the meantime I shall compose my reply and you shall trust in the better will of mankind.’

  ‘It seems I have no choice.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Detlef turns away to instruct the nursemaid to offer a jug of hot spiced wine to the messenger.

  Intensely frustrated by what she perceives as Detlef’s naivety, Ruth sweeps Jacob into her arms and carries him to the kitchen. Will he ever listen, she thinks furiously as she enters the cosy chamber which has become her retreat. How much longer is he going to give untrustworthy people the benefit of his doubt?

  The kitchen, a back room dominated by a large hearth which harbours the firepot with the stewpan and peat box on either side of it, is Ruth’s private sanctuary, her heart of their house. Against the white plastered wall opposite is a copper sink fed by a pump attached to a cistern, and next to that Detlef’s cherished wedding gift to her, a freestanding walnut cupboard of delicate French design with a sparse collec
tion of English porcelain behind its glass doors. Seeing it she cannot help but feel a wave of affection despite her anger, remembering Detlef’s childlike enthusiasm when he presented it to her. It is her favourite piece of furniture: a symbol of their marital fidelity and material wealth, and of the Dutch people’s acceptance of their union.

  Lentil and pheasant soup bubbles on the firepot. Ruth stirs it with a large ladle while Jacob, slung on her hip, plays with her long hair. Mother and child are caught for a moment in a brass mirror hanging on the wall—the reflection of an elliptical magical world. The smell of the soup drifts around the kitchen as the child struggles in Ruth’s arms. She puts him down.

  As Jacob runs for his spinning top, Ruth finds herself enveloped by a familiar dread, a sensation she has not experienced for years but recalls with vivid intensity as it claws its way through her body. Without thought she begins to recite a kabbalistic chant for protection, but stops when her son, laughing, pulls at her skirts.

  In the silence of the sleeping house, in the recess under the stairs—a space little more than a cupboard which Detlef jokingly refers to as Ruth’s laboratorium—the midwife is to be found beside the chest she has set up as a desk. The tassel of her nightcap is twisted around her long black plait as she kneels in her damask nightdress, the floorboards cold and hard beneath her reddened knees.

  Squinting in the candlelight, she examines a drop of water through a ground lens set in an iron clamp mounted on a saddle of wood. A small dish of pond water waits beside her, while lying next to that is an open book of illustrations, meticulous etchings of the magnified anatomies of insects: the antenna of a beetle, the thorax of a wasp. Beneath the thick lens she watches the minutiae of life enact all manner of dramas. An amoeba propels itself forward in a series of jerky movements, bumping up against a smaller creature, a mass of swirling dots, while another organism divides above it. Fascinated, Ruth holds her breath, waiting while the two sacs pause next to one another until, with a violent contraction, the larger organism swallows the smaller and doubles in size.

  ‘“The omnipotent finger of God is here present in the anatomy of the louse, in which you shall find wonder heaped upon wonder and be amazed by the wisdom of God manifest in the most minute matter.”’ Detlef’s voice startles her.

  Ruth smiles at him as he stops reading aloud from the illustrated book. ‘Swammerdam was right. Here under this lens all kinds of human follies and foibles are repeated in miniature. If the lens could fill a stage, the study of these tiny creatures would be the end of theatre.’

  ‘It is certainly the end of your sleep, wife.’

  ‘Are you displeased I have left your side?’

  ‘No. Just perplexed. I fear you have anxieties you hold from me.’

  In lieu of a reply Ruth pushes the primitive microscope towards Detlef. He lowers his head to peer through the lens.

  ‘Behold Spinoza’s “substance”. The divine in nature, in the invisible. Sometimes I like to think this is the equivalent of Ein Sof, the essence and light of God, although of course that is a literal intrepretation.’

  She loves the fact that she can indulge in such discourse, knowing he can contribute.

  Detlef studies the pond water a moment then looks up.

  ‘Ruth, we differ in this: you draw your inspiration from scientia nova while I draw it from people, from the wondrous transformation faith brings about in them.’

  ‘Some do not, or cannot, transform, Detlef.’

  ‘I assume you mean my brother?’

  She uncovers another dish of water. Brackish, its strong smell fills the alcove.

  ‘This is stagnant water. If I were to place this beneath the glass there would be no signs of life. Nor could I introduce life.’

  ‘Ruth, all through my childhood I sought ways of proving my worth and affection to both my father and my brother. I could not prove it through battle, I could not prove it through my service to the church. Let me prove it now through trust.’

  Ruth closes the book and covers her instruments. She knows there is no purpose in arguing with Detlef, that there is a point beyond which she can no longer sway his judgement. She learnt long ago to surrender to this stubbornness of his.

  ‘Come to bed, woman. For tomorrow we are to Rijnsburg.’

  Later, as she lies beside him, she finds herself gazing at the few objects she rescued from her cottage in Deutz. Aaron’s sword, glimmering in the moonlight, hangs on the wall. Below it, standing on a chest full of linen, is the menorah that once belonged to her father and at its base a bracelet of coral and pearl that was once her mother’s. While hidden in the wall lies the Navarros’ Zohar. Where is she now in relation to all of this, Ruth sleepily wonders.

  Jacob, in the sleeping drawer built underneath the main bed, laughs softly in his dreaming. Ruth peeps through the darnick curtains at her son, his plump cheek sunk into the feathered cushion. Remembering the old suspicion that when a boy laughs in his sleep he is about to be visited by the demon Lilith, she taps him gently on the nose. The child rolls over.

  This is what she lives for, her husband and her child, she reminds herself. But how is she to marry her past with her future, the three separate lives she has lived—Ruth, Felix, Frau Tennen—and with her eventual death, who will be left to carry on the history of her father? One day she must find time to write it down for Jacob, for him to have when he is of age. The comforting thought dispels old ghosts and slowly the chattering voices of insomnia begin to dissolve.

  Ruth shifts in the bed to curl herself deeper into the sweet aroma of her husband’s body, burying her cheek into the fur of his chest where finally she is carried off by a falling and rising sea of half-images and dreams.

  It is a small cottage attached to a mill powered by the stream running alongside it. Ruth can hear outside the constant grinding of the heavy stone wheels kept in motion by the turning cogs. It is early evening and the smell of peat fires and manure drifts in through the open window. There are five of them now: four men and herself, sitting silently around a table. Others are still arriving.

  Ruth sits at one end of the long table. Roughly hewn, its age is apparent in the wooden top scarred by a thousand knives and a thousand layers of wax. Detlef sits beside her, holding her hand tightly under the table. He is in riding clothes, a short cape slung across his knee, a smudge of dust still visible on his cheek. They have ridden for four hours along the narrow lanes of the Dutch countryside, across bridges, around dykes edging marshy reclaimed fields overlooked by the white and black windmills that watch over the stolen land like lonely sentries, until they reached Rijnsburg, a hamlet on the bend of a river. Once there the couple were silently directed to the low isolated cottage in which they now sit.

  Ruth leans over and wipes the smudge from Detlef’s face with the end of her sleeve. She cannot help herself, it is an instinctive gesture of intimacy and protectiveness. A wave of pride sweeps over her: he is remarkable, she thinks, this man who has given up everything and risked all both to love her and to live his life freely. Even more so to display the generosity of spirit to accept her for what she is. Detlef looks back at her, a flicker of excitement in his eyes.

  She shyly glances away and her gaze falls on the tall man sitting opposite. Conrad van Beuningen. An impressive figure in his late forties, Ruth knows him by reputation only: once the bürgermeister of Amsterdam, now Jan de Witt’s greatest adviser on foreign policy. The fact that such a famous man is present means it is indeed a highly significant gathering. Dressed in a sombre-coloured tunic of the finest wool, Beuningen nods once at Detlef.

  They are interrupted by five men entering in cloaks and hats, bending low to step into the cottage then shaking the rain off their clothes. Standing within the protective circle the four others form around him is a far shorter individual. The atmosphere of the room is immediately galvanised by his presence, as if all are unconsciously deferring to the intensity emanating from this otherwise insignificant creature. Of a pale and delicate comp
lexion, his black hair falls to his shoulders and his large dark eyes smoulder beneath a battered wide-brimmed hat.

  Benedict Spinoza takes off his hat and Ruth, now on her feet, catches her breath. She had forgotten how beautiful he is with his large expressive face, high cheekbones and delicate Spanish features, his evident indifference to his own physical attributes only enhancing his allure.

  The philosopher glances around the room, nodding and gently smiling at those assembled, taking his time to shake the hands of all in attendance. Ruth, paralysed with anticipation, says nothing for she knows he has not recognised her in her female attire. After an eternity he turns towards her.

  ‘We collegians have not had the pleasure of a woman amongst us since the visit of the English Quaker, Margaret Fell. Indeed, I have never regarded theology or philosophy to be the domain of the feminine.’

  ‘Good sir, you know me not as the feminine but as the masculine.’

  With that she slips off her head scarf. Spinoza looks perplexed then slowly a gleam of delighted recognition crosses his face.

  ‘Felix van Jos?’

  “Tis the slow-witted youth himself, Benedict.’

  The others look on bewildered as, smiling, he takes her hands into his own. ‘Ruth, the girl has become a woman.’

  ‘A wife and mother, sir, but I still practise my craft and retain my curiosity in scientia nova.’

  ‘I had been wondering what became of you. Your correspondence finished so suddenly during the Great Plague. I feared the worst.’