The Witch of Cologne

by Tobsha Learner

  ‘Jacob?’

  But the child has withdrawn entirely into himself, eyes screwed tightly closed, his chin determinedly lowered to his chest.

  The count, losing his temper, shakes him violently but Jacob, fiercely determined to stay out of reach, keeps his eyes shut.

  ‘As you wish, young man.’

  Curse the brat; if he wasn’t the bait in the trap the count would have given him up to the poorhouse by now. Useless ill-bred mongrel, it just isn’t in his nature to be helpful, the count concludes, gazing bitterly at the sullen boy. He turns to the nursemaid, a timorous girl little more than a child herself, who has been fighting to keep her hands by her side.

  ‘Take him into the bedchamber and keep him there.’

  The nursemaid goes to pick up Jacob. Immediately he wraps his legs around her and, eyes still shut, snuggles up against her small bosom. Without a word she carries him out of the elegant dining room.

  The count takes a morsel of meat and tears it slowly while staring out the window at the bustling street beyond. Why hasn’t Detlef yet come for his son? His brother must be desperate with despair. Could he be in the city already?

  Below a street pedlar sells a bundle of faggots to a serving maid. His aged wife, her back bent, is beside him. Suddenly the pedlar catches the count’s gaze. The blue eyes staring up from under the battered felt hat look familiar. Before the count has a chance to flick through his memory, the pedlar’s woman pulls the man away. The aristocrat turns back to the room. Detlef is here in Cologne, he reassures himself; he can sense it as surely as he can sense a winner in the gambling pit.

  Restless, he contemplates the short walk down to the docks. He could buy some distraction amongst the young sailors if he so desires. Perhaps it is exactly the adventure he needs, he considers, wondering if the violence of a mindlessly sexual embrace would exorcise his agitation. Glancing at the Viennese clock on the wall he reluctantly decides that it would be prudent to keep guard until his brother appears.

  Ruth pulls Detlef away from beneath the window of the count’s townhouse. ‘Are you mad, husband? Do you mean to have us both arrested and our child lost for ever?’ she whispers, frantically packing the bundle of twigs into one side of the cart which they purchased, along with the old clothes and tattered hats, from an ancient journeyman who was happy to sell his silence and his persona for a handsome sum.

  Detlef, trembling with fury, pulls his hat lower over his brow.

  ‘Forgive me, I have lost my wits in anger.’

  ‘It will not be anger but strategy that wins our child back. You know that, Detlef.’

  He nods, smearing the soot deeper into his cheeks, fearing Gerhard might have recognised him.

  It is the second time they have journeyed from the tavern in the docklands where they have taken chambers, an area in which no one would suspect they might stay. The inn, infamous for its brawls and bad broth, has the further advantage of being frequented by foreign sailors and members of the Dutch resident garrison, none of whom know or care about a heretic preacher and his wife. The disguise was Ruth’s idea. Frightened that they might be recognised on the street, she sees no advantage in confrontation and has insisted they steel themselves against their panic and design a plan of rescue.

  It is a strategy that nearly backfired when, on the very morning they arrived exhausted and wild-eyed with anguish, they spied Jacob in the arms of a nurse at one of the count’s windows. It was Ruth then, her heart jabbering in blind urgency, who was prevented by Detlef from pounding on the count’s front door.

  The archbishop’s coach, adorned with trimmings and banners depicting the three Magi, turns into the narrow lane. Immediately Ruth pulls Detlef into a rough embrace, masking his face. The couple crouch inches away from Maximilian Heinrich and Monsignor Solitario as they climb down from the carriage, stepping carefully over the debris in the gutter to make their way towards the elegant portico.

  Detlef, seeing the archbishop lace his arm through the inquisitor’s, quivers with repressed fury. ‘We are betrayed,’ he mutters darkly into Ruth’s hair.

  Ruth tightens her arms around her husband. ‘Fight now and all is lost.’

  ‘But we cannot cower here like dogs.’

  ‘We shall get our revenge, I promise,’ she whispers back, clutching at his hand which now covers the hilt of his hidden dagger.

  While the archbishop’s page bangs upon the count’s door, Carlos, older and fatter, glances languidly around the street. He sees nothing but a couple of grubby peasants mauling each other passionately beside their broken cart.

  ‘Lust is in the eye of the beholder, evidently,’ he remarks to Heinrich, who laughs, secretly condemning the priest as a prude.

  Inside, the count’s reverie is rudely interrupted by a footman. ‘Sire, the archbishop and the inquisitor wait below for an audience.’

  The count pulls on his jacket and follows the servant down the elegant wooden stairs.

  Outside, Ruth and Detlef quickly pack up their barrow and push it swiftly out of sight.

  Maximilian Heinrich and a smaller older man of Mediterranean appearance stand in the elaborately decorated reception room. In the corner a concoction of spikenard and storax burns in an incense holder, sweetening the air. Heinrich is gazing at a painting that depicts the old viscount as Mars, his wife as Venus and their two sons as celestial cherubs, while the inquisitor admires a Venetian vase with a rather violent hunting scene painted on it.

  ‘A Johann Rottenhammer painting, if I’m not mistaken,’ the archbishop remarks. ‘A beautiful work. But I don’t remember your father ever being quite that heroic.’

  ‘A great soldier but not a great connoisseur of culture. Fortunately I seem to display the opposite trait,’ the count replies smugly as he turns to the inquisitor without waiting for a formal introduction.

  ‘Monsignor Solitario, making your acquaintance is a challenging pleasure.’

  The inquisitor bows stiffly. ‘Indeed, and how is your brother? May God protect his soul.’

  ‘Ah, but is this God Catholic or Protestant?’

  ‘There is but one God and he is, naturally, Catholic, even in the case of a defector like your brother.’

  ‘Naturally. As for my brother, he is alive and hopefully somewhere here in Cologne. Meanwhile, would you partake in some good Rhineland wine? The archbishop tells me he has transformed you into something of an expert on our Rheinwein?’

  ‘He attempted but failed,’ the Dominican replies coolly.

  ‘We are here on business, Gerhard, but I do believe a little indulgence—more specifically, a bottle of Rudesheimer Klosterberg—would smooth the proceedings. I believe you have a good vintage in your cellar.’ Heinrich throws his gloves onto a table.

  The count gives the order to the footman then leads his guests to his study. A small room dominated by a large map of the Hapsburg Empire and a writing desk, and lined with solid oak panelling, the chamber has the distinct advantage of being almost soundproof and thus spyproof.

  ‘So you have come from Amsterdam. Is our friend willing to recant his chosen religion and return to Westphalia?’ Heinrich, impatient, cuts straight to the point.

  ‘My dear archbishop, there are many methods of persuasion. A craft at which I hear Monsignor Solitario is a master.’

  ‘Thank you. I shall take that as a compliment.’ The inquisitor bows his neat shaven head.

  ‘Indeed, Monsignor, your reputation precedes you.’

  ‘Enough!’ Tired of decorum, the archbishop fills his own glass. ‘Bluntly, for we have little time, which method of persuasion have you applied? Both Rome and Vienna grow weary of Detlef von Tennen’s insults.’

  ‘I have the child upstairs.’

  Surprised, both men look up.

  ‘You have the child? Detlef von Tennen’s son?’

  Gerhard, noting the hatred in the friar’s voice when pronouncing the family name, concludes that he will have to tread with great care to manipulate the inquisitor. Heinr
ich and Solitario are both experts in treachery and tactics. Will the archbishop keep his promise not to prosecute if Detlef confesses? A sudden doubt stiffens Gerhard’s muscles. Covering his discomfort, the count smiles at his guests.

  ‘I am convinced that his presence here will shortly bring the parents. And then, my good sire, you shall have your public confession and my brother shall have his child. I think that is a fair bargain, do you not agree, your grace?’

  ‘Fair indeed. You say Detlef is within the walls of the city?’

  ‘I believe so. I am expecting him at any moment. And when he arrives I shall notify you.’

  ‘We shall be watching, Gerhard, of that you may be assured.’

  ‘But you will protect his life, will you not?’

  ‘Naturally. Detlef is my protégé, as well as your brother and my cousin.’

  ‘He is also a Wittelsbach. I take it I have your word?’

  The archbishop holds out his hand; the ring, catching the afternoon light, gleams for a second.

  ‘You have my word.’

  There has to be a way! I could break in, or bribe my way in through the servants…’

  ‘And then what? Appeal to your brother’s better nature?’

  ‘I shall regret my naivety until my dying day.’

  ‘Enough. What is done is done.’

  Ruth, dressed in just her petticoat, her face washed of its disguise, sits on a low oak stool beside the fire that burns in the small grate. Detlef paces restlessly in his nightgown, a blue silk sash tied around his waist.

  ‘I will not stand by and watch Jacob be used as barter. This is the coward’s way, Ruth, can you not see that?’

  ‘It is a trap your brother has laid for us—for you.’

  ‘The worst they could do is force me to repent.’

  ‘Detlef, your crime is greater than just conversion, you know it. You have questioned the divinity of the Bible, you have criticised the slave traders. There are other motives to the kidnapping, political ones.’

  ‘But what is to become of our son?’

  Ruth looks at him, and for the first time in a week sees beyond her own anguish. The strain of little sleep cuts across his face, a new suffering shows behind the eyes. In the loss of her child she has forgotten she has a husband. Reaching up, she pulls him down to her mouth, as if to wipe away the anger, the guilt, and with them all the fear and terror of what could be. Her kisses break down his reserve and, to his amazement, he finds himself weeping in her arms. Covering his face he pushes her away.

  ‘Forgive me, I am not myself.’

  Instead of answering she wraps her arms around him and rocks his head against her bosom. She takes his mouth again, her lips and tongue tasting salt and tenderness, her cheeks now wet with his tears, as their kisses deepen then quicken suddenly as the urgency of being within each other sweeps through them.

  Running her hands under his nightgown she reaches for him. Like an innocent he abandons himself to her caresses as she pushes him back against the wooden floor, laying open his garments, revealing his nakedness and masculinity in all its awkward glory. Lying there, he watches the woman he loves become another as Ruth runs her naked breasts down his torso then tauntingly traces a nipple over the tip of him. Erect flesh against erect flesh, and blind desire pushes all thought, all fear, from her tense mind. His organ arching up to rest between her lips as she teases him with her breath, her tongue, her separateness. Then deep in her mouth she plays the length of him, glorying in his pungent scent of ball and hair, cupping his arse and muscle, feeling his seed beginning to build, to run beneath the skin. In wonder she holds him profound within her mouth, his lust, his love, his trust in her abandonment, and just before she knows he is about to burst in all his sticky glory, she lifts her face and pushes the hard long length of her husband, her man, her lover, deep within her. Already wet without a single touch she rides him, the eye of her love a velvet-tight fist closing with each stroke. His hands reaching for her tumbling breasts, for her flowing hair. Faster, harder. Each knowing the quickening within the other like a map of the cosmos that even the sightless could recognise. Somewhere in the groaning, in the mounting staccato of his lover’s cry, Detlef is happy to forget that they are each human and for ever separate.

  She wakes suddenly, the awareness of someone else in the bedchamber flooding her instantly.

  She blindly reaches for Detlef, his warm, sleeping body lies curled around a pillow. Thank God, she thinks, instinct alerting all her senses. Deciding not to wake him, she lights the candle with a flint by the bed.

  As the yellow flame flickers the shadow of a woman appears on the wall. Transfixed with horror, Ruth realises there is no figure standing before it to make the silhouette. Lilith. Terror shrieks through her flesh like a physical convulsion. Quivering, she watches as a faint mist slowly collects in the centre of the room. Swirling slightly, it gathers then congeals with mounting speed into the shape of a naked woman, as human and as ordinary as the midwife herself.

  Lilith. The stench of the demon, the mockingly seductive demeanour, sweeps Ruth into a torrent of memory. She tries to move, to ward off the apparition, but finds she cannot.

  Slowly the creature turns, her long thick black hair falling over her shoulders and drooping breasts. The clarity with which Ruth perceives the demon gives the illusion that time has slowed down, as if the seasons and the skies have stopped turning. An eerie silence fills the room as the howling wind outside fades away. As Lilith moves towards her, Ruth sees that this manifestation is of middle years, some two score or more. The stretchmarks on the creature’s womb indicate that she has borne many children. Lilith stares steadily at Ruth. Lifting a large hand, she slowly uncurls the long fingers, offering up the palm. It is covered with thick black curly hair, the hair of the sex. Revolted, Ruth watches as Lilith, lifting her other hand, points to Detlef.

  ‘Who summoned you? Who?’ The midwife’s voice is a croaking whisper of terror.

  ‘The Spaniard, the musician,’ the fiend answers, her utterance a baritone pleasure that oozes into Ruth’s ears. Slowly Lilith grins at the terrified look of revelation on Ruth’s face. The smile is radiant, like sunlight it fills the room and transforms her plain countenance into one of blinding splendour.

  The evil spirit rises up into the air and hovering above the ground floats towards the sleeping man. Ruth sees that the obscenely thick growth of black pubic hair also covers the soles of the horny feet. Rotating her hips seductively, Lilith advances until she is beside Detlef. Asleep, he rolls onto his back. Innocent in dream, a half-smile plays across his mouth.

  Lilith turns to Ruth who, immobilised by dread, is still lying beside her husband. Grinning triumphantly the she-demon lifts her heavy thigh and begins to mount the dormant cleric. Suddenly a great fury breaks inside Ruth.

  ‘No!’

  With a huge burst of energy she pushes Lilith off her man.

  ‘No!’

  She wakes, her body drenched in cold sweat, thrashing in Detlef’s arms.

  ‘Stop! Stop! You are dreaming!’

  Shaking, Ruth comes to her senses then frantically runs her hands over him to assure herself he has not been harmed.

  ‘What was it, my love?’

  ‘Lilith.’

  ‘Ruth, I thought you had stopped with all that gibberish.’

  ‘She wanted you, she was after you, the inquisitor sent her…’

  ‘Hush, this is just fear talking, it is not sane.’

  ‘Promise me you will wear an amulet, promise!’

  ‘You know I do not believe in preordained destiny, only in sound judgement and foresight. We shall be safe, I promise you.’

  ‘Detlef, please…’

  Detlef falls back on the pallet. He has not seen Ruth so undone since they left Das Wolkenhaus a lifetime ago.

  ‘If it will make you happy I shall wear the amulet, but only under my garments.’

  She pulls him into an embrace. ‘Thank you.’

  What d
amage can it do, he thinks. It is not witchcraft, merely a harmless charm to reassure his wife. Surely that cannot be a sin. Taking comfort in the notion he rocks Ruth back to sleep. Watching her, he wonders what they have become, where reason disappears to when man is confronted with his greatest horror.

  The coquette, dazzling in a tight-waisted corset, red curls cascading down her back, pulls the young sailor to his feet and begins to jig with him. Throwing her lustring petticoats up she reveals a shapely thigh.

  Detlef, having left Ruth to sleep, watches from the corner of the tavern, a long clay pipe between his lips. The boy is so young he barely has a beard. The sailor, roaring drunk, staggers from side to side, his arms clasped with a desperate tenderness around the wench, although in truth it is difficult to tell whether this is for balance or pleasure. The girl, a strong-faced lass with a thick layer of lead over her skin, two circles of rouge plastered on top and a plethora of patches after the English fashion—a virtual galaxy of hearts and stars—seems robust enough, hauling her blade upright every time gravity gets the better of him. Encouraged, the sailor thrusts his hand between her legs, then yells out as if he has been stung by a million bees. ‘She’s got a cock!’ he screams in disgust.

  Half the tavern double over in laughter while the other half—sailors from Lübeck in the far north, all wearing the same ridiculous striped caps with pom-poms—leap to their comrade’s aid as he begins to pummel the exposed transvestite.

  Like a crumpled butterfly she falls to the sawdust-covered floor, her skirts collapsing around her as blood bursts streaming from her nose. Instead of protecting herself she offers up her bruised face after each punch like a defiant sacrificial lamb then breaks into convulsions of high-pitched mirth. The dull sound of fist thudding against bone sickens Detlef.