The cathedral bells rang out. Eva's eyes filled. She longed for the comfort of the morning mass, with Katharina sitting safely by her side. She and her daughter had not missed a Sunday in more than a year, and now their seats would be empty. Hushed whispers would fill Saint Kilian's, passing from mouth to ear, mouth to ear. Everyone would know, even those who'd not seen them dragged through the streets.
Eva heard the familiar scrape of the key. Katharina crawled into Eva's lap as the door swung open and the jailer's wife stepped in. The bony jailer or one of the guards came every day to check that Eva's shackles were secure, but it was always the jailer's wife who brought their food, emptied the slop bucket, and changed the straw.
The woman crossed herself, looked long at Katharina, then rubbed her thumb and middle finger together. A sign she'd been paid the two
gulden
? She reached for the bucket. The keys at her waist jangled as she lugged it across the floor. When she'd locked the door behind her, Eva relaxed her grip on Katharina. The jailer's wife had not taken her away.
Eva picked up Katharina's hand and traced a long line in her palm with her forefinger. “We'll work on your letters today.”
“But it's Sunday, Mama. We can't.”
Eva had not forgotten the day, but time had no meaning in this place. “We'll recite Psalms then,” she said. “The first verses of Psalm 5.”
Katharina rattled off a sentence. “
O Lord, rebuke me not in thy indignation, nor chastise me in thy wrath. Have mercy on me, O Lord, for
â”
“
Nein
,” interrupted Eva, “that's Psalm 6.”
The girl tipped her head to the side, finger to her chin. “
When I called upon him, the God of my justice heard me
.”
“
Nein
, that's Psalm 4.”
Katharina's pale brow furrowed. “A hint?”
“
Give ear, O Lord, to my words
â”
“I know it, Mama.
Give ear, O Lord, to my words, understand my cry. Hearken to the voice of my prayer, O my King and my God. For to thee will I pray. O Lord, in the morning thou shalt hear my voice. In the morning
...” Katharina chewed her lip.
Eva finished the verses. “
In the morning, I will stand before thee, and will see: because thou art not a God that willest iniquity
.
Neither shall the wicked dwell near thee. Nor shall the unjust abide before thy eyes. Thou hatest all the workers of iniquity. Thou wilt destroy all that speak a lie
.”
Eva had purposely asked for Psalm 5. It comforted.
Thou art not a God that willest iniquity
. God would protect them. Eva clasped her shackled hand around her rosary. “Mother of God,” she prayed, then stopped. Could the Mother of God hear her in such a place?
One man lights the pine torches on the wall. One by one, the other men step down into the chamber. Their fingertips move from forehead to chest, left shoulder to right. They slide silently onto wooden chairs set round the curved table. The young Jesuit records their names, all seven. The men believe there must be seven at this meeting, just as they believe there must be thirteen when my disciples gather.
They are soldiers of God. They have come here to do battle with evil.
They wear masks of calm, but flinch at the sound of skittering mice. I wave a hand just to see them cower when the flames flicker, crack my knuckles just to hear their sharp gasps. Under the table, where their bouncing knees are hidden, their jittery feet dance a tarantella.
The men dare not look at the shadows cast upon the stone walls, shadows broken and dismembered by shelves filled with ropes and birch rods, gouges, pincers, and thumbscrews. The grey walls bear silent witness, storing up, like sacred confessions, the screams they have heard. The porous floor hoards the rain of tears and blood.
The men mutter prayers and touch the balls of wax and herbs at their throats. As if mere wax can protect them from my charms.
Their fear smells of sour sweat and fevered breath.
It is their fear that brings me here, their fear that sustains me. Alone, I can do nothing. In their belief, all things are possible.
The men sat around the rough pine table set opposite the door leading to the narrow spiral staircase and the prisoners above. They waited patiently as Father Streng recorded Chancellor Brandt's answer to Herr Doktor Lutz's most recent question. Hampelmann shifted on the wooden chair, careful not to let his elbow nudge Judge Steinbach, who sat to his left. Hampelmann could hear the judge's wheezing breaths in the stillness of the cramped chamber.
The wooden floor of the cell above them creaked. Judge Steinbach swallowed, the noise from his throat audible. A furtive mouse, its bright eyes reflecting the yellow flames of the torches, scrabbled over the thumbscrews, its nails clicking on grey iron.
Holding his spectacles on his nose, Father Streng frowned in concentration as he wrote. Clarity of vision. Hampelmann wondered if he should consider getting spectacles. Then again, that might be thwarting God's will. Perhaps God had blurred his vision so that he might see more clearly what lay beneath the obvious.
The obvious and what lay beneath. Hampelmann surveyed the men at the table. Judge Lorenz Steinbach: old and fainthearted. The burgomaster slept through every city council meeting, but here, in the Prisoners' Tower, he was alert and watchful. He sat hunched at the centre of the curved table, twitching like a nervous hare every time the torches flickered. He might wear the judge's black robes and hold the gavel in his gnarled hands, but, as always, it would be Hampelmann,
Father Streng, and Chancellor Brandt who would actually conduct the hearings.
Chancellor Johann Brandt: forceful and crafty. He sat across from Hampelmann and the judge, calmly studying the report prepared by the
Malefizamt
, his eyebrows a thick dark line. Hampelmann didn't particularly like the man, or trust him, but he respected his authority. A gold medallion bearing His Grace's coat of arms hung from his neck. He'd been the Prince-Bishop's chancellor for nine years, and he knew how to prosecute witches.
To the right of the chancellor, Father Streng: irritatingly brilliant and zealously devoted to the cause. The diminutive Jesuit was a true soldier of God,
militare Deo
. The young priest scribbled furiously while the quaking judge looked on from across the table, sliding the gavel from hand to hand.
Herr Georg Freude: disgusting in his vulgarity, but skilled at his profession. He sat at the end of the table nearest the tools of his trade: hemp ropes and birch rods, eye gougers, pincers and thumbscrews, leg vises, a large wooden wheel attached by a rope to a pulley on the ceiling. The executioner combed his fingers through his scraggly dark beard, searching out lice, which he pinched between his thumb and middle finger. His forefinger was missing. Hampelmann surmised that Freude had been a thief before he came to his current profession. Or, thought Hampelmann, he could have lost the finger in a botched execution rather than as punishment for petty theft. Hampelmann found the man's scarred pockmarked face revolting and wished that he wore his black mask during the hearings as well as the executions. Hampelmann tried to keep his distance from the executioner, who always stank, carrying about his person the sour miasma of a beggar. There were also his lice to consider. And the way the man scratched at his crotch, he no doubt had crabs as well.
To the right of the executioner and the left of the judge,
Herr Doktor Hans Lindner: thick-headed, boorish, and ridiculous looking with a fringe of sandy hair ringing his bald head and a face dotted with freckles. He was here only because, by law, a physician must be present at the preliminary inquisition. He had the authority to stop the torture from going too far, but Lindner, a pompous buffoon, overestimated his importance, and his knowledge of witches. Thick arms crossed over his broad chest, fat lower lip thrust out, the physician appeared relaxed, but Hampelmann could feel the vibrations from his bouncing knee coming through the table.
Hampelmann glanced at the man sitting to his right. Herr Doktor Franz Lutz: slovenly, of middling intelligence, and almost as twitchy as the judge. Constantly touching the ball of wax at his throat, Lutz sat nearest to the outside door, as if he hoped to be the first to flee should one of the witches or the Devil attack. His pale moon face was framed by shaggy white hair, shadowed by dark circles under his eyes. The man was obviously losing sleep. A simple contract lawyer, Lutz was, no doubt, spending hours poring through law books, terrified of making an error in such a weighty matter. Which was, of course, as it should be. And yet his simple-minded questions had led Hampelmann to wonder if it had been a mistake to recommend the councilman for the commission, if the man were too dense to grasp the enormity of the crimes they were there to investigate.
Lutz raised a beefy hand. The long shadows cast by his outstretched fingers on the circular walls appeared to be reaching to enclose the men. “Another question, gentlemen. I have some concerns about
corpus delicti
. According to the Carolina Code, article 44, there must be evidence that a crime has been committed before a person can be arrested. What is the evidence, the
corpus delicti
, if you will, against the accused?”
Judge Steinbach pointed his gavel at the ledger in Chancellor Brandt's hands. “There, in the confessions of the witches who
were just executed,” said the judge. “All three of them named the accused as accomplices.”
“But those are only accusations, not evidence,” said Lutz. “Moreover, those accusations came from disreputable witnesses. What about
that
question, gentlemen, the admissibility of testimony from a disreputable witness? According to the Carolina Code, the testimony of a
testes infamis
is not admissible in court.”
Hampelmann ran a thumbnail along a deep scar in the table. Despite Lutz's obvious intellectual limitations and his irksome questions, Hampelmann found himself developing a grudging respect for the man. Where had the bumbling lawyer mustered the temerity to question the procedures of his betters: nobles and clerics who'd served on the commission a dozen times?
Chancellor Brandt tipped back his head so that he looked down his narrow nose at Lutz. “I would remind you, Herr Lutz, of two very basic points, the first being that this is a preliminary inquisition, not a trial. We are here to gather and evaluate the evidence, to discover the truth, not to render a verdict. The strict legal requirements of a trial do not apply to these initial hearings. Secondly, witchcraft is a
crimen exceptum
, an exceptional crime. Strict rules of evidence do not apply. Therefore, the testimony of disreputable witnesses can be accepted.”
“Witchcraft is the most secret of crimes,” added Father Streng, pointing the brown plume of his pen at Lutz. “How could we possibly know of its existence except through the testimony of the witches themselves? How could a God-fearing person know who has attended the sabbath?” He smirked at Lutz. “Or do you imagine that people who associate with witches are of good reputation?”
“Because you are new to the commission, Herr Lutz, your errors in thinking are understandable,” said Chancellor Brandt. “It would be best if you merely observed for a while. Your questions will then be answered to your satisfaction...without
delaying our deliberations this morning.”
Lutz scanned the wall behind Freude, his gaze settling on the thumbscrews. “It is true that all of this is new to me, but ever since I was honoured by being appointed to the Commission of Inquisition, I have been thinking hard about such questions as these. I beg your indulgence, gentlemen.
Bitte
, just a few more questions.”
Judge Steinbach gave a small reluctant nod.
“While it may be true that for investigations of witchcraft we must accept the testimony of persons of bad reputation, it has struck me that there is a problem inherent in accusations made by condemned witches.” Lutz's eyes were drawn back to the thumbscrews. “If these women are truly guilty of witchcraft, aren't their accusations questionable precisely because they are witches? Obviously, they wish to harm innocent people. On the other hand, if they are not witches,” he raised his palms, “then, as Father Streng has pointed out, they cannot possibly name accomplices.”
The priest laid a hand on his breviary. “Are you suggesting that the commission has condemned innocent people?”
“Not at all. I'm just trying to sort out the problem of accepting as truth the testimony of witches.”
“It's a moot point, Herr Lutz,” said Hampelmann, reaching across the table for the ledger held by Chancellor Brandt. “In searching their homes, the bailiff found plenty of evidence.” He brought the open ledger close to his face. “The most alarming was found in Frau Lamm's quarters. There were more than two score plants and roots, most of unknown origin. Many were bundled together and hung to dry. There were both dried and fresh toadstools, three small pots of greasy ointments, one of which the bailiff recorded as having the colour and odour of human flesh. There were at least two dozen small leather or cloth bags marked with cryptic characters and filled with powders of various colours, as well as pots containing odd mixtures â most
definitely not food. Hanging above the doorway was a large stone shaped like a human heart with a hole in the centre.”
“But aren't the plants and powders, the odd concoctions, just part of a midwife's trade?” said Lutz.
Lindner cleared his throat. “Precisely,” said the physician, “and those who use herbs for cures do so only through a pact with the Devil, either explicit or implicit.”
“Surely, Herr Lutz,” snapped Father Streng, “you are familiar with what
Der Hexenhammer
has to say about midwives:
No one does more harm to the Catholic faith than midwives. For when they do not kill children, they take them out of the room and, raising them up in the air, offer them to devils
. And this particular midwife delivered Fraulein Spatz's stillborn child.”