‘I think we should all be happier…and wealthier. You know how fond of you my husband is…’
‘And all the world loves a rich cuckold. However, for you, and only you, I shall try to speak to the prince.’
Smiling, he pulls down sharply on her hair, bringing her to her knees. With a reverent air, she takes him into her mouth.
While Detlef walks through the bustling lanes towards the cathedral, Birgit stands before her looking glass as her maid helps her into her lustring petticoats.
The taste of her lover still pervades her senses. His scent lingers on her fingers, a secret reminder she will carry all day. Behind her the maid’s chatter is a relentless monotone describing the latest gossip to grip the city: how terrible it is that the archbishop of Münster has sold seven thousand of his citizens as soldiers to the emperor, and how the good merchant Brassant has finally been able to produce a healthy male heir with his child bride. To her surprise Birgit finds her heart contracting as she remembers her own pregnancy. A babe which, had it gone to term, would have been of dubious parentage. Birgit chooses to think that Detlef would have been the father. But as the old merchant forces himself upon her once a month, it was just as likely to have been his, a notion which revolts her.
She looks at the reflected room, at her own visage, a magnificent façade whitened with lead, a flawless artifice unblemished by emotion. And for a moment wishes she was more fallible.
Maximilian Heinrich, prince of Wittelsbach, resident of Bonn and archbishop of the Holy Free Imperial City of Cologne, is squeezed awkwardly into the high-backed throne. In the style of Louis XIV, with baluster turnings adorning its polished walnut legs, it was an expensive gift from the Prince of Burgundy—expensive but unbearably uncomfortable. The archbishop’s hose is itching and his gout sends shooting pains across the back of one knee. He is presiding over the ceremonial receiving of the traditional rent the bürgers pay their archbishop on the twelfth day of the year: four hundred florins of gold and one hundred measures of oats, a sack of which sits before him. Heinrich, bending over, thrusts his hand into the sack and lets a handful of the soft grain run between his fingers. It is of poor quality, poorer than last year. An apt metaphor for the dwindling esteem in which the bürgers and the archbishop hold one another. In short, it is nothing less than an insult.
Heinrich, an aristocrat, feels the merchants’ distrust keenly. Secretly ambitious to reinstate the old royal families of Cologne who were thrown out of power in 1396, he is at constant loggerheads with the Gaffeln’s artisan policies. It is a delicate balancing act he performs: appeasing them yet privately pursuing his own royalist strategies.
The archbishop tries to comfort himself with the thought that he will be back in his residence in Bonn by the next night. Irritated with the world, and in particular with the divine will which has thrust him reluctantly into his current position, Heinrich looks over his court and finds a target for his ill humour.
‘Wilhelm! Will you stop being so obsequious!’
The archbishop plucks a truffle from a small silver tray and throws it squarely at the man fawning before him. Deftly Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg, minister to the cathedral, catches the truffle, barks once in imitation of the small dachshund lolling at Heinrich’s feet, then grinning inanely pops the delicacy into his mouth.
The small entourage of clerics draws a collective gasp and pauses, suspended. Each man stares intently at the archbishop, awaiting his cue. Heinrich frowns and the moment stretches out across the wintry beams of sunlight falling upon the grey hessian robes and naked pates of the shivering priests.
‘Touché.’ The archbishop, deciding to be amused, begins to laugh while simultaneously breaking wind.
Relieved by his turn of humour, the entourage bursts into polite applause. Detlef, watching from the stone cloister which leads out into the grass-covered courtyard, smiles wryly then realises too late that Maximilian Heinrich’s beady eyes have fastened upon him.
‘Detlef is not amused—pay heed to his supercilious smile. He believes such antics are below the dignity of the church.’
‘Not at all. The clown also is one of God’s good creatures,’ Detlef replies smoothly.
‘As is the buffoon,’ the archbishop retorts, continuing the exchange with relish. As one the waiting clerics turn expectantly to von Fürstenberg, a man not renowned for enduring insult.
‘The buffoon implies stupidity whereas Herr von Fürstenberg is far more calculating.’ Detlef’s voice rings out and is joined by the cawing of a crow flying overhead.
The minister’s face floods with uncharacteristic confusion, uncertain whether Detlef has insulted him or complimented him. This time Heinrich breaks into a full belly laugh, shaking so vigorously that he further inflames his gout.
‘Wilhelm, the lad has the edge on you. He will run rings around this idiot zealot. Why, I am tempted to go myself, just to be witness to the Spanish humiliation.’
‘Your honour, I am happy to bow to Canon von Tennen’s superior wit but I doubt his diplomacy.’ Von Fürstenberg, unamused, turns his flushed face towards the prelate.
Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg’s ferocious ambition is legendary, intimidating even the archbishop. The minister has both close allies and enemies within the Gaffeln, but also secret links directly to the French king himself. A portly man in his mid-forties whose Achilles heel is sensuality, von Fürstenberg’s one true ally is his younger brother Franz Egon von Fürstenberg, an individual Heinrich trusts even less since he embroiled him in the siege of Münster four years earlier. Despite Heinrich’s initial reservations, Franz Egon von Fürstenberg convinced Cologne to send artillery and troops. It was an expensive exercise that is still dragging on, 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?’