The canon turns to the inquisitor. ‘I believe that if you leave now you might just catch the night messenger to Vienna. The coach departs at midnight.’
Carlos glances at the soldiers who have accompanied Detlef; several reach for their swords. Acknowledging defeat he turns to Juan who, with an embarrassed air, collects the viola da gamba.
‘I shall remember your meteoric promotion to inquisitor, Canon von Tennen. For your sake I pray it shall be temporary.’ With that comment the Dominican leaves, followed by his clerk.
Herr Bull pulls off his hood to reveal a pockmarked but surprisingly kindly face. ‘Sire, will you be needing my services? Because if not the missus is waiting.’
‘You can go.’ Detlef turns to the guards. ‘You too.’
Empty of the key players the tension in the stone cell dissipates like air out of a balloon.
Detlef kicks at the torture rack. ‘Wood and iron, Groot—they may break a man’s body but never his spirit. That will always remain within the realm of the untouchable.’
But Groot experiences a sudden shudder as a half-formed premonition momentarily grips his senses. Repressing his intuition the assistant quickly crosses himself.
The curved ash-wood bow sweeps across the taut strings, drawing a low moan from the viola da gamba. A furious torrent of semi-quavers follows, a stanza from a Hungarian rhapsody Carlos stole from a gypsy he accidentally tortured to a premature death. In the spartan cell the Spaniard, naked and annointed with myrrh, plays wildly as the music interlaces with the stillness of the monastery. Clutching the shiny instrument between his bony thighs he throws back his head, eyes closing in ecstasy. A delirium both spiritual and aural in nature.
I held her life in my hands, he rages, and he tore her away. I shall make him pay, I shall break both of them. A crescendo of revenge builds with each screaming note. Now he will use the witch’s power against her. He will summon the dark one and bend her to his will. His chair placed in the centre of the freezing room, his shivering and exposed flesh beyond sensation, he works himself into a frenzy.
There is only one light source in the darkened chamber: a smouldering pile of incense acquired especially for the secret incantation. The burning fills the chamber with a whitish smoke. On the stone floor lies a single amulet, a marble tablet encrusted with jewels. On one side it is carved with the image of Lilith, her body bound by chains, an emerald adorning her navel. This side is hidden, face down on the cold floor. The side which is visible carries a depiction of Lilith breaking free from her chains, her wings and hands raised victoriously. The Aramaic words, ‘Hear me and I shall triumph; worship me and I should serve thee,’ are inscribed into the marble. Carlos himself had this image and text carved into the tablet twenty years before at a market stall in Istanbul to emulate an amulet confiscated as evidence during the arrest of the Navarro family; evidence that mysteriously disappeared after Isaac Navarro’s execution.
The music builds in intensity, swirling arabesques and waterfalls of arpeggios, before sliding into a haunting, teasing love song. It is extraordinarily beautiful, a stark contrast to the grotesquery of the naked old man making love to his instrument.
‘Come, my woman, come to me,’ Carlos murmurs softly in Aramaic, a language he studied in the monastery of Villanueva de Gállego during the desolate years after Sara’s flight to Amsterdam. A language which opened him to mystical studies and illustrated texts that existed beyond the kabbala, for he too, in a desperate attempt to draw himself closer to his obsession and nemesis, had become a scholar of the Zohar.
The gleaming haunches of a naked woman appear through the smoke: Lilith. Hips undulating, she dances seductively to the music, long veils trailing from her brow to the ground. Incandescent they float through the air, revealing tantalising glimpses of the glorious body beneath. Carlos opens his eyes. Transfixed, he paces his rhythm to her movements, his erection hardening with each newly revealed part of her body.
The demon stands tall, some three yards in height; her breasts are high, like those of the Moorish slave girls he has seen dancing in such a fashion, her flesh generous, rounded and luscious, with a bloom like ripe fruit. Her face is ridiculously young and the deceptively innocent eyes, huge and black, are a travesty of shyness above the swaying flesh. It is a paradox he knows he will always succumb to.
‘My mistress, my downfall, I appeal to you. Join forces with me and help me destroy the midwife.’
The demon swirls, her nude sex glistening for a moment in the dim light of the glowing embers. Her hissing voice fills the friar’s head like a maddening perfume he cannot escape. ‘This I shall do; but know that to dance with Lilith is to surrender more than just your seed.’ Her reply is not of the voice but of the senses, as if her tone is a blade that cuts through Carlos’s very body.
Before he can answer her soft burning hands are reaching for his penis. Trembling with blinding pleasure Carlos lets his bow fall to the ground.
Outside the door of the cell stretches a line of curious Jesuit novices, their young faces flushed with intrigue, their eyes eager for information. They strain to hear more of the Dominican’s marvellous music which has been floating down the shadowy passage, drawing them from their monastic cells. In the ensuing silence the Spaniard’s loud moan of pleasure is clearly audible, but from their side of the door it sounds like pain.
‘The good Spanish friar must be wrestling with Satan himself,’ whispers one awed novice, scarcely more than fourteen. His companions nod wisely and cross themselves fervently.
– CHESED –
Mercy
Müller lies on his back counting the drops of moisture crawling down the stone wall of his cell. He has made a pledge to himself that when the fiftieth droplet, pregnant with gathered grime, plummets to the granite floor he will call out to the guard again.
They should be here by now, he thinks. Von Fürstenberg promised him; surely twenty years of service means something. He is more than just an employee: he is a confidant; the cathedral minister has trusted him with his very life and now Müller must trust him in return. Von Fürstenberg had explained how his arrest was a mistake, a clumsy attempt by the emperor to frighten the archbishop. He had promised to organise everything—by dawn this day an unlocked cell and a secret passage direct to Paris and his sons. His beautiful boys. So why had no one arrived yet?
Müller’s reverie is broken by the rattle of keys. He sits up and tries to brush the straw out of his hair and tidy the torn clothes he has been wearing for over a week.
‘Herr von Fürstenberg?’ he calls out to the darkened corridor beyond his cell. His words echo back unanswered but still the footsteps approach.
A man, his smiling face lit by the lantern he carries, emerges from the shadows. ‘We’ll have you out of here in no time,’ he says cheerfully and placing the lantern on the floor unlocks the cell door.
Müller, his gratitude on his lips, steps out. A moment later his head is jerked back and his throat professionally and swiftly slit.
One hand lies in her lap, the other rests on the arm of the plain wooden chair. Eyes half-open, Ruth stares into the fire burning in the small hearth.
Detlef is at the barred window; he looks out at the night sky. It has been four days since he pulled the midwife’s broken body from the freezing water, four long days during which he has not