The Witch of Cologne (36 page)

Lifting her up on his hips, he carries her over to their sleeping cot set high in the wall, enclosed by a curtain. There he lies her down, and after peeling off his jerkin and hose falls beside her, one heavy hand curled across her narrow waist as they both tumble into deep sleep.

‘Papa! Papa!’

A small pink hand creeps around the edge of the drape. Detlef opens one eye as the hand finds its way to his big toe and pulls. A shriek of delighted laughter follows as Detlef, smiling, gently shifts Ruth’s sleeping head from his shoulder and pulls the curtain across. Jacob, naked except for a smock, a spinning top trailing behind him, stares up at his father with huge eyes, blond curls tumbling to his shoulders.

‘Papa!’ he demands, stamping his bare foot as he reaches out to be held. Detlef swings him into the cot, tucking the restless child down beside Ruth who sleepily cradles both her husband and son.

Jacob pulls at his father’s ears then tries to put a finger up his nose as Detlef allows his son to crawl over his chest. The boy is indulged, that Detlef realises: his colleagues are always ridiculing him for being such a lenient and attentive father, but he cannot help but adore his only child.

He has never quite recovered from the immeasurable happiness he first felt on staring into that face which reflects
so much of himself. A certain pensiveness he has seen flickering in the young boy’s eyes; Jacob’s joy at small things—ants dragging a beetle, his first snowflakes, the cat yawning. The four year old’s mouth and nose, a distinctive bent to his forefinger, are of Detlef’s family but the green eyes and the determined chin are his mother’s, as is the child’s quickening to anger.

Through half-opened lashes Ruth watches her husband with their child. He is so calm with him, she thinks, marvelling at the way Detlef’s face softens immediately Jacob is in his arms. Instinctively the boy knows his father, recognises Detlef’s quiet but intense curiosity, his sudden flashes of impatience, his gentleness, as character traits of his own. Perhaps this is why so few words pass between them, she observes, as if father and child can read each other’s minds without the necessity of speech. She is a lucky woman indeed, to have married for love and intellect and now to have the gift of a child who will carry on both their spirits in time.

‘My colleagues wonder why my son is not yet baptised,’ Detlef remarks upon hearing Ruth sigh.

“Tis none of their business.’

‘The Remonstrant brotherhood is most liberal, however for one of their own ministers to have an unbaptised son and a wife who will not attend church…’

‘By his mother’s heritage the child is a Jew, he cannot be baptised. I will not permit it, not after what happened to me.’

‘So not baptised but circumcised. Ruth, what are we bringing up in the world? A Jewish Protestant? The poor babe is neither fish nor fowl.’

Ruth props herself up and stares at her husband; a cheeky smile is playing across his mouth. Just then Jacob triumphantly inserts one of his fingers into Detlef’s nostril. Detlef pulls the offending finger out then grabs Jacob and lifts
him up in the air. The child squeals with delight, his limbs kicking freely.

‘Jacob shall be a citizen of the new world. When he is of age he shall choose for himself which faith, if any, he wishes to pursue. I will not have any doctrine thrust upon an innocent,’ Ruth replies then playfully bites Detlef’s shoulder.

Smiling, he lowers the laughing child. ‘Until then, to whom, pray, are we to entrust our child’s soul?’

‘Ourselves. As parents we are guardians of both the physical and the spiritual wellbeing of our child.’

‘I think I could persuade the brothers to accept that argument.’

‘A pox on them all if they don’t.’

‘Wife, you are still the heretic, even in this liberal city.’

‘Now more a seeker of knowledge than a heretic, in as much as my sex will allow.’

‘I will not have you adopt male attire again. I suspect that would create a scandal even the Remonstrants might find hard to explain. We shall employ the maid at night also to allow more freedom for your studies.’

‘Detlef, they will burn you yet,’ she murmurs, smiling.

‘Indeed they may. But my deal is not struck yet. My barter has conditions,’ he says, tickling her.

She pushes him off. ‘Which are?’

‘That you attend the next collegiate meeting in Rijnsburg which, it is said, a great mind and a great mentor has promised to attend.’

‘Benedict Spinoza?’

‘The renegade Hebrew himself, and with your attendance he should feel most at home.’

‘And who am I to be, Detlef? Felix van Jos, the earnest apprentice? Ruth bas Elazar Saul, the heretic midwife? Or the good Frau Tennen?’

‘It is time you wrote to him as your true self. They say that Spinoza is much troubled over Adriaan Koerbagh’s death.’

‘We all are—it is a warning that should be heeded, Detlef.’

‘Perhaps. But I refuse to live my life in fear. I will preach what I preach and suffer the consequences.’

‘What about us, your family?’

‘You have my love and protection, always, Ruth. Enough gloom. You must come with me to the meeting. I am sure it will be of great solace to Spinoza to see an old associate.’

‘Perhaps.’

They are interrupted by Jacob demanding that he be told, again, the story about Hanke the mouse and how he was taken by the terrible stork.

L
eopold bends over a tall pale pink orchid
and sniffs at it tentatively.

‘Some of these blooms are entirely without scent. One wonders if they are to be pollinated by colour alone.’

The emperor, dressed in his morning robe, stands in the baroque conservatory where he is dwarfed by a cascade of tropical plants and ferns, all gifts from allied colonies.

‘It is a magnificent plant, a veritable feat of creation. A present, your highness?’

The inquisitor, his face etched more deeply with the frustrations of the past four years, sniffs at the offered flower then sneezes vigorously. Leopold, amused by the priest’s obvious lack of sensuality, smiles.

‘From the Grand Fez of Morocco—he courts me for he fears Sultan Mahomet. So, Inquisitor, what urgent information do you have for me that brings me from my morning repose?’

Carlos steps closer.

‘I believe you have been having some trouble with the ambitious Georg Friedrich von Waldeck.’

The emperor looks up sharply. As much as he personally dislikes the friar he cannot help but admire his political astuteness. For a second he envies the Dominican his spies.

‘The leader of the Wetterau Union, like many of the Wittelsbach princes of the Rhineland, is nervous about the Dutch war. He fears it will spread,’ Leopold replies cautiously.

‘So much so that he has opened his court to his Catholic counterparts…unusual for a Protestant.’ The friar’s smile broadens.

‘Indeed.’

‘In fact I hear that our good friend Count von Tennen has started a flirtation with von Waldeck. Von Tennen has supplied you with both troops and money in the past to fight the Turk, has he not?’

‘Along with many of the Wittelsbachs.’ Leopold plunges a hand into a flower pot and rubs the soil between his fingertips.

‘A clan so loyal that even Maximilian Heinrich has been seen in the company of von Waldeck. Perhaps Cologne will join the Wetterau Union.’ Carlos’s voice is rich with sarcasm.

Leopold looks away, trying to control a nervous tic in his eye. This is indeed news to him: after Count Gerhard von Tennen’s hospitality towards his nephew, the emperor had thought it safe to count on von Tennen’s future loyalty. But Maximilian Heinrich…he is a constant anxiety.

‘It is only natural that the German leagues should feel insecure. Who wouldn’t with that buffoon de Witt in the west and Louis’ greedy French fingers spreading out from the south-east?’

‘Naturally. And naturally we would not want them getting any ideas about their own independence, would we?
Somehow I suspect von Waldeck’s ambitions might be secular. Before we know it, the Protestants will be getting into bed with the Mohammedans as well as the Catholics. Frankly, it all seems rather obscene not to mention blasphemous.’

Barely controlling his anger Leopold snaps the stem of a pale yellow lily then immediately regrets it.

‘What are you proposing, Friar? Our audience is quickly drawing to an end.’

‘Detlef von Tennen—Gerhard’s brother—once a Catholic canon with the Cologne chapter is now a Protestant pastor whose lectures openly question both the divinity of the Bible and the territorial rights of your own dynasty, the exalted Hapsburgs, your highness.’

‘So I have heard, but what of it? He is in Holland—out of our reach, my good friar. Perhaps it would wise to resign ourselves to his maledictions…all after, they are only words.’

‘He gathers support, and draws interest from your own territories, including some powerful allies within the Wetterau Union.’

‘He does?’

Seizing his opportunity the inquisitor leans across.

‘Detlef von Tennen might be beyond our grasp but Gerhard von Tennen is not. I have a notion that might appeal, for it serves both of us, your majesty: namely, jolting Archbishop Heinrich into remembering who is his emperor and, at the same time, bringing the heretical canon to his knees.’

After glancing over his shoulder for spies, the friar steps forward to whisper into the royal ear.

‘I know where Detlef von Tennen is, and I believe there is a way of luring him to Cologne to stand trial.’

The emperor, brushing an attentive bee away from his face, sits down heavily on a large upturned flower pot and steels himself for the friar’s conspiratorial strategies.

Maximilian Heinrich stares out at the pouring rain. The half-built spire juts out lonely and abandoned. The archbishop has again failed to inspire the funds to resume construction of the cathedral; he has almost given up his vision of the massive Gothic structure soaring above all else in Cologne. Heinrich has felt the power of the Catholic church ebb away during the past four years. Detlef von Tennen’s shameful flight to Holland has not helped, nor his very public conversion to the Protestant church—worse, to one of its radical mutations that the decadent Netherlander liberalism seems to encourage like field mushrooms blossoming out of a pail of horse manure.

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.