The Witch of Cologne Read Online Free PDF Page B

and has left Heinrich compromised.
    Not that Wilhelm is much better, Heinrich muses, with his constant fondling of King Louis’ toes. Sometimes Heinrich wonders where the risky courtship will lead him. And whom Wilhelm is actually working for—the archbishop or the ambitious French royal? Distracted, Heinrich twists a large cross he is wearing—a holy relic, it contains a desiccated piece of the tongue of Saint Ursula. Suddenly he realises the court is awaiting his response.
    ‘Even more reason to send Detlef, let him insult the Spanish!’
    ‘Your grace,’ von Fürstenberg steps forward, ‘let me remind you that the Inquisition, although now almost toothless, is not entirely without muscle. Remember, this man Carlos Vicente Solitario was too meticulous and enthusiastic a prosecutor even for the Grand Council itself. Of all the inquisitors, Solitario has executed the greatest number of heretics. An achievement the pope himself has recognised by bestowing upon the good friar the title of monsignor. I have heard this from the Inquisitor-General Pascual de Aragon. There must be a reason why the emperor has chosen Solitario as his ambassador. Is it possible that somehow we have fallen out of favour with both Rome and Vienna?’
    ‘If we have, I am sure you would be the first to know about it. And Wilhelm, let me remind you that muscle is easily cut by the sword. Detlef will go.’ Heinrich’s reply is frosty with anger.
    Von Fürstenberg bows curtly to Detlef, his bulbous eyes full of sarcasm as he assesses his rival.
    Heinrich stifles a yawn then dismisses the huddled assembly, who scatter like geese. Detlef waits while the archbishop watches the grey figures scurry across the icy grass, snow beginning to float down with gentle abandonment. Sighing loudly, Heinrich hauls himself to his feet and walks heavily over to Detlef. Inches away from the canon he breathes a heady concoction of cloves and garlic into his face. Then, grabbing his cassock, pulls him closer.
    ‘Cousin, fail me and I will make sure you immediately cease to take confession. I don’t care how much money Meisterin Birgit Ter Lahn von Lennep donates.’
    Detlef, scarcely daring to inhale the malodorous breath, nods imperceptibly. ‘What would you have me do?’
    The archbishop’s hand remains gripped around Detlef’s robe while he pauses for thought.
    ‘I have heard rumour of whom Solitario is to arrest. Four individuals—two of our own merchants and two denizens of no consequence: one, a Dutchman, the other, a midwife. Curse the Inquisition and their meddling, can’t they stay within their own borders! I want you to milk the Spaniard for information and then I shall decide our response. But I promise you: if there is a head they want in Vienna they shall have it, but it will not be my own.’
    He drops Detlef’s cassock and thrusts his left hand imperiously under the canon’s nose. The bishop’s ring, mark of his holy anointment—a huge ruby set in gold, a stolen trophy from the Crusades—sits upon Heinrich’s plump finger. Detlef lowers his head and kisses the glistening jewel, his eyes closed tightly.

R uth pours the boiling water into the small tin bath then tests the temperature with a finger. Perfect. She goes over to the wooden shutters and pauses, staring out at the barren field which lies beyond. The ploughed broken soil thrown up with the snow; the winter trees like gnarled dwarves against a huge sky. For a moment she watches the grey firmament, the sun a struggling pale disk, the clarity caused by her exhaustion stirring up myriad observations.
    Here time moves only with the seasons, as it has always done, even before man, she concludes.
    The noisy narrow lanes of Amsterdam appear in her mind: their placement alongside the mephitic canals, the ebullience of the Dutch merchants and their servants as they hurry through the markets, the frenetic shouts of the traders as they call out the latest figures from the East India Company.