‘And what of Miriam, is she with the living?’ Ruth suddenly asks, guilty that she has forgotten her assistant.
‘She lives but has not spoken since the rape. ‘Tis a pity, she will not find a husband now. She is living with us until your release. Fear not, she will be taken care of.’ Rosa lowers her voice. ‘The charge is of witchcraft, is it not?’
‘I am accused of lying with the devil for the promise of a good birthing. I am accused of poisoning cattle, of levitation. I am accused of bewitching two small babes, of consorting with the demon Lilith—’
Rosa breathes in sharply. ‘Of Lilith you must say nothing,’ she whispers, as if the evil spirit herself is eavesdropping. Somewhere in the distance a gate clanks shut. The old nurse draws closer. ‘We haven’t very long, child, but listen—I know this man, the inquisitor, from Aragon. He worked as a tutor in your grandfather’s house. He was the Judas that destroyed your mother’s family, and would have destroyed her if she had not had her wits about her.’
‘He murdered my mother’s family?’
Ruth feels nauseous as she remembers the glint of hatred in the Spaniard’s eyes.
‘Betrayed them, all of them, after they had extended their friendship to him.’
‘But Rosa, how is it possible that the Inquisition can ride into Deutz and arrest me? They have no power over the Jewish quarter.’
The nursemaid stares into Ruth’s eyes, innocent in their confusion, then takes her hand.
‘Ruth, you were baptised.’
Stunned, Ruth can barely absorb the information. ‘Baptised? How?’
‘It was many years ago when you were a small baby. There was rumour of another pogrom and Sara was petrified. You have to understand that she had seen her own father tortured, her mother burnt at the stake. She couldn’t bear the idea of you suffering too.’ Rosa’s voice falters. ‘She just wanted to protect you in case the Christian soldiers came…’
‘Does my father know?’
‘He learnt of it at your arrest—the news has devastated him. Sara made me swear on her deathbed never to tell him. I was the only witness. Child, you must find it in your heart to forgive her; it was the desperate act of a terrified woman who wished only for her baby to survive. You see now why you should marry Tuvia—he will have you regardless and it will make the community accept you again.’
‘If I am freed…’
‘Understand, you are in extreme peril. When the inquisitor looks at you, he sees your mother. You must placate him as long as you can, for he will push for the pyre. It is the only way your father will have enough time to negotiate for your life. There have already been soldiers at the house, searching for evidence.’
‘My mother’s Zohar?’ Ruth barely mouths the word; to be overheard would be immediate verification of the charges and an instant death sentence.
‘It is safe,’ Rosa assures her, ‘but promise me: whatever Solitario does to you, you must not confess to being a witch or carrying out any heretical practices. A confession will immediately condemn you and then nothing your father can do will save you.’
‘This I know already.’
Footsteps sound in the passageway and the guard shouts for Rosa.
‘Believe, my child. Faith is the food of survival.’
The nursemaid pulls Ruth to her in one last embrace.
The archbishop of Cologne strides through the narrow dirty streets of his diocese and into the Streitzeuggasse where the silk banner of the armourers’ guild hangs proudly overhead and the tiny shops are packed with a huge variety of shields, swords and weaponry. The constant pounding of the blacksmiths’ hammers, the shouts of the men trading information about the latest military conflict, the wheezing of the bellows and the pealing of church bells all blend into a medley of impossible noise. Which is precisely why Maximilian Heinrich has chosen the street: the cacophony is exactly what he needs to think.
Behind him, his two assistants struggle to keep up, mincing carefully around the pig shit and the abandoned pieces of twisted metal from the forges, anxiously wondering which latest political drama possesses their master.
Heinrich, a large man, is famous for trebling his pace when riddled with apprehension. The clerics have cause to worry. He has just come from the Church of the Assumption, Saint Maria Himmelfahrt, the domain of the Jesuits, where he had a reluctant audience with the head of the college, a stiff old priest called Father Hummerlich. A Prussian zealot, proud veteran of the Thirty Years’ War and a vehement Luther-hater, Hummerlich has expressed deep concern about the arrests. He wants the trials and the executions to be carried out quickly. Always searching for the political advantage, the Jesuit sees the public condemnation of the three secret Lutherans as an opportunity to galvanise Cologne’s lax Catholic community.
‘We must show the people that the true and only way to redemption is by confession and atonement. We must pay for our sins: indulgences are a necessary evil. These traitors cannot be allowed to live amongst us, in the heart of the community, all the while secretly practising the dreadful blasphemies of that man…’ The priest, face flushed with vitriol, was unable to complete his sentence.
Heinrich, enjoying the old man’s frustration, waited a full minute before putting him out of his misery.
‘That man Luther?’ The archbishop had rolled his tongue around the name with relish, Jesuit-baiting being one of his favourite pastimes.
‘Exactly,’ Hummerlich had fired back.
‘But Father, the two Cologne merchants have been accused of wizardry as well as being secret Protestants. Not forgetting the Jewess…’