Read Online The Witch of Cologne by Tobsha Learner - Free Book Online
Authors: Tobsha Learner
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congratulated on his promotion to chief medic (pity his poor patients!).
Please write back, there is a Dutch ship nearly every week and your wisdom would be of great encouragement to me. Always yours, ‘Felix van Jos’
‘I am sorry to see that his royal highness the archbishop does not grace me with his majestic presence but instead sends a servant.’
Carlos Vicente Solitario, inquisitor, Dominican friar and advisor to the great emperor Leopold I, listens intently as Juan, his secretary, translates the sentence from Spanish into bad German. Both parties have refused to speak Latin; it is an unspoken signal that their discourse is of a political not spiritual nature.
Carlos, a short bald man in his sixties whose Mediterranean constitution has begun to suffer the bite of the northernwinter, stands in the spartan room the Jesuits have given him and shivers. The confidence and magnetism of the canon Archbishop Maximilian Heinrich has sent makes the inquisitor nervous. There is an arrogance to Detlef’s blond beauty, a supercilious intelligence behind the eyes that the Dominican finds untrustworthy.
Solitario has visited Germany before, but in the far east, in Breslau. There he discovered that the phlegmatic nature of the Prussians gave them a strategic advantage over his own Latin emotiveness: in matters of diplomacy they could deceive where he could not. This time the inquisitor is determined not to compromise one degree of his mission. He leans forward and deliberately adopts a grin of utter naivety.
Unperturbed the young canon smiles blandly back. Stalemate.
Gesturing, Detlef gives permission to his assistant to speak for him. Clearing his throat pompously Groot begins.
‘Canon Detlef von Tennen is not a servant. He is a Wittelsbach prince, cousin to the archbishop himself. Therefore it is an honour that the archbishop has sent a member of his family to receive Monsignor Solitario.’
‘Especially as the aristocracy wields such power in Cologne,’ Carlos replies cynically in perfect German.
Groot is startled by the inquisitor’s deliberate insult at choosing not to speak German until now, but also by the Spaniard’s knowledge that the local aristocrats, once hugely powerful within Cologne, are now to their great chagrin barely tolerated by the bürgers. Groot swings around to Detlef to determine his reaction, but the canon’s cool mien is unaffected.
Behind the inquisitor a hood suddenly falls down from a black robe hanging next to a travelling chest in the corner of the whitewashed cell. Beside it stands a viola da gamba. The unfolded cowl heralds a scent of ambergris which floats through the room.
‘I have friends in Breslau. They send their regards and regret that it would be unsafe for them to cross Saxony to welcome you,’ Detlef replies in good Spanish. They are the first words he has uttered since entering the chamber.
A faint expression of anxiety crosses the inquisitor’s face. It is his turn to be worried; the envoy speaks his native tongue fluently and appears to know his background. Detlef has deliberately reminded him of the mortification he faced in that inhospitable eastern city and his enforced exodus. He has also reminded him of the fall of Saxony to the Lutherans, a conquest that still chafes Rome.
For a second Carlos wonders what this man would look like under torture, whether his face would retain the same luminous quality. The thought excites him—the execution of power always does—and his sense of inferiority fades.
‘As we both speak the same languages, it is safe to assume that we have good grounds for a diplomatic relationship,’ Carlos offers.
‘Sharing the tongue is not the same as sharing the heart.’
‘Archbishop Maximilian Heinrich can ill afford either tongue or heart.’
‘I am no judge of my master.’
‘But there is a master over your master, and he must answer to the Holy Roman Emperor himself—not France.’
‘Is Leopold unhappy?’
‘We are
Please write back, there is a Dutch ship nearly every week and your wisdom would be of great encouragement to me. Always yours, ‘Felix van Jos’
‘I am sorry to see that his royal highness the archbishop does not grace me with his majestic presence but instead sends a servant.’
Carlos Vicente Solitario, inquisitor, Dominican friar and advisor to the great emperor Leopold I, listens intently as Juan, his secretary, translates the sentence from Spanish into bad German. Both parties have refused to speak Latin; it is an unspoken signal that their discourse is of a political not spiritual nature.
Carlos, a short bald man in his sixties whose Mediterranean constitution has begun to suffer the bite of the northernwinter, stands in the spartan room the Jesuits have given him and shivers. The confidence and magnetism of the canon Archbishop Maximilian Heinrich has sent makes the inquisitor nervous. There is an arrogance to Detlef’s blond beauty, a supercilious intelligence behind the eyes that the Dominican finds untrustworthy.
Solitario has visited Germany before, but in the far east, in Breslau. There he discovered that the phlegmatic nature of the Prussians gave them a strategic advantage over his own Latin emotiveness: in matters of diplomacy they could deceive where he could not. This time the inquisitor is determined not to compromise one degree of his mission. He leans forward and deliberately adopts a grin of utter naivety.
Unperturbed the young canon smiles blandly back. Stalemate.
Gesturing, Detlef gives permission to his assistant to speak for him. Clearing his throat pompously Groot begins.
‘Canon Detlef von Tennen is not a servant. He is a Wittelsbach prince, cousin to the archbishop himself. Therefore it is an honour that the archbishop has sent a member of his family to receive Monsignor Solitario.’
‘Especially as the aristocracy wields such power in Cologne,’ Carlos replies cynically in perfect German.
Groot is startled by the inquisitor’s deliberate insult at choosing not to speak German until now, but also by the Spaniard’s knowledge that the local aristocrats, once hugely powerful within Cologne, are now to their great chagrin barely tolerated by the bürgers. Groot swings around to Detlef to determine his reaction, but the canon’s cool mien is unaffected.
Behind the inquisitor a hood suddenly falls down from a black robe hanging next to a travelling chest in the corner of the whitewashed cell. Beside it stands a viola da gamba. The unfolded cowl heralds a scent of ambergris which floats through the room.
‘I have friends in Breslau. They send their regards and regret that it would be unsafe for them to cross Saxony to welcome you,’ Detlef replies in good Spanish. They are the first words he has uttered since entering the chamber.
A faint expression of anxiety crosses the inquisitor’s face. It is his turn to be worried; the envoy speaks his native tongue fluently and appears to know his background. Detlef has deliberately reminded him of the mortification he faced in that inhospitable eastern city and his enforced exodus. He has also reminded him of the fall of Saxony to the Lutherans, a conquest that still chafes Rome.
For a second Carlos wonders what this man would look like under torture, whether his face would retain the same luminous quality. The thought excites him—the execution of power always does—and his sense of inferiority fades.
‘As we both speak the same languages, it is safe to assume that we have good grounds for a diplomatic relationship,’ Carlos offers.
‘Sharing the tongue is not the same as sharing the heart.’
‘Archbishop Maximilian Heinrich can ill afford either tongue or heart.’
‘I am no judge of my master.’
‘But there is a master over your master, and he must answer to the Holy Roman Emperor himself—not France.’
‘Is Leopold unhappy?’
‘We are
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