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concerned about the archbishop’s allegiance, but would be happy to feign ignorance if he were prepared to expedite a request of our own.’
    ‘What evidence does the papal council have that the archbishop may have French tendencies?’
    ‘Trust me, Canon von Tennen, our spies are as efficient as your own.’
    Carlos nods to his young secretary, who pulls a scroll from under his copious scarlet robe. He unfurls it and stretches itacross the bare wooden table before them. Detlef does not have to lean towards it to recognise the flowery calligraphy which is the mark of the archbishop. Nor does he have to confirm authorship: the imprint of Maximilian Heinrich’s seal pressed next to the stamp of King Louis XIV is evidence enough. Inwardly cursing the archbishop’s carelessness he swings back around to the inquisitor.
    ‘What is your request?’
    ‘There are two citizens of Cologne and two of its surrounds whose activities have been brought to the attention of both Leopold and the Grand Inquisitional Council. Activities which are not only unCatholic but speak of devilry.’
    ‘Monsignor Solitario, be warned that the bürgers of Cologne are not renowned for their tolerance of outside interference, even from Leopold himself. They are particularly resistant to any meddling which would come in the way of their bartering. A more cynical man might think that commerce was the God in these parts.’
    ‘A more cynical man would be wise to value his life over his opinions.’
    ‘I value both.’
    ‘Good, in that case we might reach a compromise.’
    ‘Who are the citizens?’
    Detlef can already see the excitement in the inquisitor’s eyes, the spittle forming at the corner of his mouth. God pity the accused, the canon thinks, knowing that he himself oscillates between believing in the physical manifestation of evil as opposed to the sheer culpability of human neglect. But how powerful is faith when men imbue it with superstition, he ponders, remembering how he has seen a peasant wished to death and the fields of a hated man suddenly blighted by witchcraft. The terrified face of a female merchant who was executed as a witch years before comes to his mind. Detlef’s father, determined to strengthen the sensitive five year old’smoral backbone, took him to the burning. The voyeuristic hysteria that filled the faces of the onlookers engraved itself on the child’s memory. As did the horror which shook his whole body as he perceived the agony of the convulsing woman as her skin blackened.
    Frustrated fanatics are the most dangerous of men, he observes again now. Here is a man who smells of hate and so the Inquisitional Council of Aragon will have its way. The canon shifts his gaze from the inquisitor, whose innocently smiling demeanour is betrayed only by a slight twitch beneath one eye, and reluctantly nods to Groot, who lifts his quill ready for dictation.
    The inquisitor’s cleric steps forward and begins reciting the names from memory.
    ‘Hermann Müller, cloth merchant of Cologne. Secret Lutheran and wizard.
    ‘Matthias Voss of Cologne, silversmith. Secret Lutheran and wizard.’
    The feather’s nib scratching against the parchment sounds like a death sentence to Detlef.
    ‘And the individuals outside of the city?’ he asks.
    ‘Jan van Dorf of Mülheim, spice merchant. Charges of consorting with the devil to improve his trade. And the Jewess Ruth bas Elazar Saul.’
    ‘What is her charge?’
    ‘Witchcraft.’
    ‘And the evidence?’
    Solitario pushes Juan aside and speaks directly to the canon. ‘Do you doubt the sources of the Inquisitional Council itself?’
    ‘It is not my place to doubt. I merely wondered whether there were actual witnesses.’
    ‘My order has many eyes.’
    ‘They say her mother was Spanish, from your own province of Aragon.’
    ‘What of it?’
    ‘I have a fascination with coincidence. The woman you accuse is one of the most respected midwives in the Rhineland. There are many who would