The Witch of Cologne (39 page)

A
chill whistling through the crack
under the door teases the back of

Detlef’s neck. He pulls up the collar of his woollen undervest and tries to concentrate on the Dutch pamphlet he is deciphering: a translation of one of his lectures entitled ‘Must man be a slave to superstition?’

Somewhere in the street a door slams shut. It is past midnight and the house feels profoundly empty without his wife and child.

‘…
the notion that faith might be a human necessity, a biological need, suggests that perhaps the ability to have faith elevates man above all other animals; but how to transform a belief in witchcraft, goblins, angels and devils to a conviction which embraces the
scientia nova
and the perfect geometry of nature, which, in truth, can only be a manifestation of the substance of God himself…’

Detlef pauses and absent-mindedly runs his hand along the underside of the Flemish desk. He is surprised when his fingers bump against a protrusion. He looks underneath, an
amulet is nailed to the inside of one of the wooden legs. Detlef pulls it off and gazes at the small stone tablet. Tilting it to the light he can see that it has one Hebrew letter carved into it. Ruth’s doing, one of her kabbalistic spells—for what? he marvels, amused. Protection, good study, prosperity? For all her defiant belief in the hard logic of the material world he knows that his wife still clings secretly to the ways of her mother’s family. Confronted by her superstition, Detlef has made the conscious decision to see it not as a flaw but as a strength, and given the Remonstrants’ belief that there is no predestination in life, he finds himself wondering whether Ruth’s instinctive faith in the written incantations might actually influence the outcome of events.

Ruth. He always aches for her when they are apart although he would never admit to such a weakness. Could it be a sin to love one’s wife this much? Possibly, for to love this intensely suggests he cannot accept the inherently transitory nature of both affection and life. He still finds it miraculous that he is able to love at all and that he found love so late in life. It is as if his identity and existence in Cologne now lie under a thick opaque glass, cloudy, out of focus and increasingly immaterial.

The town crier calls one o’clock. Detlef goes to the window and looks out over the narrow canal. A fog has settled on the water, transforming the lit windows of the tavern opposite into an oasis of dull gold in the dirty white. Where is she? And where is the maid? He knows Ruth was called to a birthing but to take the child also…? The notion worries him. Jacob is far too young to be exposed to such female matters. As if to answer his fears the clatter of horses’ hooves echoing in the narrow lane draws him from his anxious reverie.

Outside a small coach pulls up. Ruth, her face concealed by a deep hood, climbs down. With one bound Detlef is already
running down the steep wooden stairs towards the entrance hall. He hauls open the front door before the midwife has a chance to insert her key.

‘Ruth, your face wears the marks of exhaustion. Come, there is broth in the cooking pot. But where is Jacob?’

Ruth, pushing her hood back, wheels around.

‘What do you mean? I left him with Esther and your brother. Is the maid not with you?’

‘The house is empty.’

They stare at each other, horrified. Just then Esther sidles in through the door, stinking of beer, her face flushed and satiated. Ruth grabs the girl and shakes her violently.

‘Where is Jacob? I told you to look after him!’

Bewildered, the drunken maid rolls her eyes. ‘Isn’t he in his bed? The gentleman count did say he was going to look after him.’

Furious, Detlef pushes Ruth aside. ‘What do you mean? You should never have let him out of your sight! What do we pay you for?’

The girl’s large red face crumples into tears. ‘He said he would look after him, he said I could go and see my man Joris. I trusted him…He’s family, Mijnheer Tennen.’

Detlef lets her go; immediately the maid runs to her bedroom sobbing.

Panicked, Ruth has already thrown her hood back on.

‘Wait, wife, there must be a mistake. Perhaps my brother has taken him to his quarters for the night…’

‘What have I done? I should never have left my child, I should have stayed!’

‘Ruth, you had to attend the birth. It is I who is to be blamed. I should never have trusted Gerhard!’

Ruth throws open the front door, the icy air rushes in.

‘What about Jacob? What do you think he wants with our son?’ She stares up at him, full of dread.

‘We shall go to the tavern immediately and put your fears to rest.’

Determined not to let his own misgivings intensify hers, Detlef turns his back to her as he slips a short dagger into his belt.

Staying close to her husband’s side, Ruth half-walks, half-runs across the slippery cobblestones. The fog has become a light drizzle yet the tradesmen still have their stalls set up for passing night trade. Flames dance across an alley wall as a fire encased in an iron pot flares up. A crippled man roasts chestnuts over it while a couple of nightwatchmen warm themselves at the glowing coals.

Under one streetlamp a
nagtloper
, a nightwalker, her poxscarred face lurid with rouge, lurches towards a boatman on his way to work. Grinning toothlessly she reaches for his crotch. Shrugging, the young man pushes her hand away. On the other side of the lane a farmer herds a small flock of pigs towards the slaughterhouse past a herring cart glistening with the day’s catch.

Detlef strides along with his hand firmly around Ruth’s arm. A multitude of scenarios crowds his mind as he wrestles with his demons. He cannot believe his brother would have taken the child. To what purpose? He is his blood as well as Detlef’s, for what reason could he want to hurt Jacob? Surely it is an innocent mistake. Surely he has the boy with him at the tavern, thinking it too late to return him to the house.

The couple cross a narrow stone bridge, making their way from the Harlemmerstraat near the docks at the western edge of the city towards its centre. They pass the Achterburgwal. A cart of drunken prostitutes pulls up at the tall iron gates of the Spinhuis. The windows of the grim correctional house are still lit as the pitiful inmates finish their long day of spinning and sewing. Several of the
chained whores in the cart break into a mournful rendition of the ‘Hague Kermis’ as the vehicle passes through the forbidding gates.

Ruth peers into the distance, the swinging sign of the count’s tavern is just visible through the fog. Shaking off Detlef’s arm, she begins to run towards it.

‘The smart German gentleman? Might be sleeping, might not.’

The nightwatchman wraps his arms over his huge belly which flops over elegant breeches now stained and aged, the weight of the aristocrat’s bribe knocking nicely against his thigh.

Detlef reaches into his purse and pulls out five stuivers. ‘There’s more if you tell us exactly where he is.’

Ruth pushes forward. ‘Please, our son is missing. He is only a child.’

The nightwatchman weighs the silver; it is exactly the same price the ageing aristocrat paid him earlier for his silence. Detlef, taking the hint, adds another coin.

‘The count and his nephew left this evening, about three hours ago as the sun falls.’

‘Left for where?’

‘That I do not know, but he has taken his baggage.’

‘He has gone and he has taken Jacob!’

Ruth, her eyes ringed by exhaustion, lets out an anguished howl. Detlef wraps his cloak around her. She cannot shake the image of the small boy being bundled into a carriage. Will the count have fed him properly? Does he know that Jacob is frightened of the dark and cannot sleep alone? And what of Punti, his favourite toy? Panic confuses her, filling her with irrational anxieties. She clutches at Detlef’s jerkin.

‘We must do something! Jacob is in danger, I can sense it!’

The nightwatchman, flushed with shame, hurriedly shuts
the gate against the couple and his own guilt, his only consolation the heavy purse at his hip. Rain begins to fall as Detlef rocks Ruth while trying to steady his rising fear.

‘Sshh, we will try de Hooch and then, if we have to, we shall ride to Cologne this very night. With luck we will catch them at the border.’

The hammering at the front door buzzes around the young apprentice’s head like a swarm of demented wasps. Half-asleep he swipes at the imaginary creatures then sits bolt upright. Does his new master have debts? The painter swore not when he hired the fourteen year old, a talented farmer’s son from de Hooch’s own town of Delft. A pox on the bailiffs! Perhaps they have the wrong studio.

The apprentice waits for a second then, furious, pulls on an old pair of rough barras breeches. Immediately his crotch starts to itch. Cursing, he runs to the wooden door. Pulling open the top half he is surprised to see a couple, the gentleman obviously a pastor of some Protestant denomination and his young wife who, the apprentice notices immediately, is beautiful, despite her eyes which are swollen from crying.

‘Is my master dead then?’ the obtuse youth asks, a question which momentarily confuses the couple.

‘Is this Pieter de Hooch’s studio?’

‘What if it is?’ the apprentice replies suspiciously, determined to defend his master’s privacy at any cost.

‘Is the artist here?’

‘My master is presently detained in Delft, he is not due back until Shrove Tuesday.’

‘Were you here throughout the day yesterday?’

‘Indeed, sire, never left the place.’

‘Did a German gentleman visit, with a small boy? My brother has commissioned a portrait, his name is Count Gerhard von Tennen.’

‘No, Master de Hooch has not taken a portrait as a commission for over three months. Besides, I would know the name.’

Ruth pulls at Detlef’s sleeve. ‘They are to Cologne, I know it.’

‘Is Master de Hooch in trouble?’

‘No, good lad. Return to your slumber.’

As soon as the bleary-eyed youth closes the half-door, Ruth begins to run through the rain in the direction of their own district.

‘Ruth, please, this will require some strategy. We know nothing yet,’ Detlef shouts, following her.

Swept up by fear, she spins around. ‘We know that our child has been taken and that he is probably in danger. I was a fool, I should have stayed with him, what have I done?’

‘What have we both done?’ Detlef answers, desperate with guilt himself.

Ruth clutches at him. ‘The count will be riding tonight for the Rhineland. I for one will be following and…’ she snatches the dagger from his belt, ‘I shall go armed. I shall wear my cousin’s sword if necessary.’

He stares at her, seeing the exhaustion drawing a web of lines on her taut face.

‘I am sorry, my love, for trusting my brother so blindly. But I hold hope there may yet be a rational explanation. I will ride after them. You are ailing, you will stay in Amsterdam and wait for my word.’

She takes his hand firmly. ‘No. We ride together.’

Tucked up in a blanket Jacob sleeps peacefully despite the motion of the coach which bounces over the rough road. His eyelashes are dark against his cheek, the toy rabbit is clutched in one hand while the other lolls over the edge of the seat.

The count sits opposite, snoring slightly, his face pushed up against the darnick upholstery. The carriage lurches over a large pothole, banging his head suddenly against the wood panelling. The aristocrat wakes, irritated. Orientating himself, he stares at the small boy. Thank God the brat is asleep, he thinks, wondering what he will feed him in Cologne. If Detlef had to breed why couldn’t he have done it sensibly, with a Christian woman who would at least have provided the family with offspring of a decent lineage? Exasperated, the count pushes open the curtain.

Outside a half moon illuminates the forest beyond. The thick tree-trunks stand silent in judgement, staring back at him like a council of magistrates wrapped in their shadowy robes. A broad river runs alongside the muddy track, the moonlight transforming it into a silvery galaxy of sparkling currents. The count guesses it is the Maas. We must still be in Holland, he surmises, wondering how much more of the bumpy ride he must endure before they are in the sanctuary of the Rhineland.

The forest opens up into a field. Already a peasant is out there, harvesting cabbages by the dull light of his lantern, his dog sitting patiently beside him. The count watches, hypnotised by the rhythmic sway of his shovel. A blind serf, little more than a beast, doing the same repetitious work day in day out, he thinks. How can Detlef believe that all men are equal when confronted with the animal stupidity of these people? What mental facilities do they possess to appreciate the finer things in life—music, literature, a beautiful object? None, as far as the count can see. No, he is correct to take the child; he is rescuing Detlef from himself. This deed, however despicable, is for a higher purpose, to preserve the lineage of
the von Tennens, an ancient family, a noble clan who have served kings and princes for four centuries. He cannot sacrifice everything for one deluded sibling, the count thinks. He will not let the church take his land or his title, even if it means using this half-Christian, half-Jewish mongrel as bait.

His task is only to entice Detlef back to the city, after all; he should feel no guilt. They have promised that if Detlef makes a full confession they will reinstate him as canon again. Surely his brother will agree, it is a small price to pay to retain the von Tennen lands. Besides, they would not dare to harm a Wittelsbach. No, the maximum penalty will be but a short prison sentence. Consoling himself with these thoughts, which eventually bleed into the rhythm of the creaking wheels, the troubled aristocrat falls back into sleep.

Jacob jerks open his eyes. The first beams of sunlight stream through the half-covered window and the holes in the coach’s ceiling. Confused, he wants to cry, but then remembers Ruth asking him to be brave for his uncle. Mama would be proud, he thinks. He has been courageous all night and hasn’t wept once, even when he almost dropped Punti in the gutter. The thought is some consolation for his sudden loneliness.