Borrower of the Night

We got back to the Schloss without incident, except for Tony running into trees and buildings and knocking down an occasional pedestrian. Irma decided he was faint with hunger, and after she had deposited him tenderly in a chair in the garden, she bustled off to get him sandwiches and beer.

When she had gone, Blankenhagen turned on Tony.

‘Now what is bothering you? You behave like a creature from a horror film. Is it so hard for you to be normal, for that child’s sake?’

‘Sorry.’ Tony stared dismally at us. ‘I’m stunned. I just found out what happened to the Countess Konstanze.’

‘Well?’ the doctor said, less angrily.

‘She was burned to death as a witch. Down there in the main square of Rothenburg, on the afternoon of October twenty-third, fifteen twenty-five.’

‘Herr Gott.’ Blankenhagen dropped into a chair.

I decided I might as well sit down, since everyone else was. I shared the general feeling of shock. The damned woman had become too real; it was like hearing of the ghastly death of an old acquaintance.

‘The trial records are in the town archives.’ Tony produced the notebook without which no aspiring scholar goes anywhere. ‘The evidence was conclusive – if you believe in witchcraft.’

‘But . . . witchcraft!’ Blankenhagen shouted. ‘This was the beginning of the Renaissance . . .’

‘The persecutions were at their height just then. Five years after the countess was killed they burned thirty- five witches in a single day, in Cologne. The mania gripped every country in Europe. By the time America was settled, the worst was over, but we had our Salem trials, and that was a century after Konstanze.’

Blankenhagen muttered something in a language that was neither German nor English. Tony gave him a surprised look, and translated.

‘“It is setting a high value upon our opinions to roast men alive on account of them.” Nobody ever said a truer word. But Montaigne came along too late for Konstanze, and the Essays were only the opening wedge of rationalism. If you think people are ever rational.’

‘So that is why she is not in the crypt with her husband.’

‘You bet your sweet life that’s why. She was accused of murdering him.’

‘You said witchcraft . . .’

‘Same thing.’ Tony turned pages. ‘She cursed him to death. The count fell ill the day after he got back from Wurzburg. At first they thought he had the plague or something. Here’s part of the testimony of the old woman who had nursed the count in infancy, and who tended him during his illness.

‘“On the Friday my lord was stronger and we dared hope for his life. My lady shed tears of joy. She had watched by his bed day and night, allowing no one else to take her place . . .”’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ I asked.

‘Wait. It gets worse. She goes on: “On the Friday at night I sat with my lord again. I was afflicted with a strange heaviness of the eyes.”’

‘So she was tired,’ I said. ‘An old woman, sitting up night after night . . .’

‘Sure, sure. But the judge said it was undoubtedly the countess’s black magic at work. Then, says the nurse, “When I woke I saw my lord standing by the bed. His face was strangely coloured and his eyes turned in his head. He was dressed in hose and shirt only, with the embroidered belt my lady had made for him. When in my affright I spoke to him, he laughed a fearful laugh and looked not to know me. I ran to fetch my lady and she came from her room all heavy with sleep, her black hair about her face. When he saw her, my lord went mad. He felt at his belt as if for his dagger, but it was lacking, and when he so found, he threw himself at her throat and would have strangled her. I could not move him, but my cries brought the two men-at-arms who slept in the next chamber, and together we dragged my lord from his lady’s throat and put him into his bed, where he fell into a swoon. The next day he was in great pain and took no nourishment save a cup of broth. In the evening the painful torments of the first days suddenly returned. He lay in agony, his body torn by spasms, until at midnight his soul left him.”’

‘How ignorant they were!’ exclaimed Blankenhagen.

‘What do you suppose was wrong with him?’ I asked.

Blankenhagen shrugged.

‘It might be any number of natural illnesses.’

‘That wasn’t all,’ said Tony, turning to another page of his notebook. ‘The countess’s maid, or tiring woman, tied the noose around her neck. She was even more verbose than the other witness, so I’ll synopsize. It seems that the week before the count returned she had to obey a call of nature in the middle of the night, and went to the privy – oh, yes, Doctor, they had them – near her mistress’s room. She was still in the darkness of the hall when she saw the countess’s door open and Konstanze standing there with a candle in her hand. Then – I’ll have to give you her own words, or you’ll lose the atmosphere – “There appeared from nothingness a Tall Man clothed all in black, with only darkness where his face should be. He went to my lady and caught her in his arms, and the folds of his black cloak wrapped her round like two great wings. He was seven feet tall, my Lord Bishop, and I heard the click of his hooves upon the floor of the hall

Tony closed his notebook.

‘At that point the wench fell down in a fit, frothing at the mouth.’

‘No doubt.’ Blankenhagen shook his head disgustedly. ‘The superstitions of the time encouraged hysteria.’

‘Oh, God,’ I said, suddenly sick. ‘Remember what Irma said at the seance? Das Feuer . . .’

Blankenhagen surged to his feet with an angry exclamation.

‘Enough of this morbidity! If that poor girl hears a word of this frightful story – ’

‘She already knows it,’ I said. ‘At least I would prefer to think that, rather than admit the alternative.’

I was right, of course, but it wasn’t the most tactful thing I could have said. Blankenhagen cursed splendidly in German, using a few expressions I had never encountered before, and went storming off through the shrubbery.

‘I don’t blame him,’ I groaned. ‘I’m beginning to lose my nerve too. You know something, Tony? This isn’t fun anymore.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I’m just trying to sound like a heroine,’ I said meekly. ‘I know I’m the wrong size, but I figured I could try to sound sort of imbecilic and clinging and scared . . .’

‘Ho ho,’ said Tony, baring his teeth. ‘Who says you’re the heroine?’

‘All right, I’ll let Irma be the heroine. But there are times when I think she qualifies for another role.’

It was Tony’s turn to swear. He wasn’t as inventive as Blankenhagen, but he was louder, and finally he stalked off, leaving me alone with my thoughts – which were not good company.

I was beginning to look forward to mealtime at the Schloss. A girl my size needs her nourishment, but that wasn’t the only reason. In the dining room I met friends and enemies and assorted suspects; I could study Irma to see how far she was from a nervous breakdown. Mealtime was when the Grafin sent forth her invitations. Oh, yes, mealtime was fun time, all right.

Dinner that night was comparatively dull. Irma looked pretty good, and there was no word from the Grafin, not even an invitation to a small intimate exorcism. Blankenhagen was still sulking; he practically bit my head off when I made a casual remark about the weather. Tony was just as mean. He was seething about something, and I gathered that the something involved George Nolan, from the way Tony ignored him. George was in a splendid mood. He babbled on, quite entertainingly, about Veit Stoss and Tilman Riemenschneider and other German sculptors. I got to the point where I thought if I heard Riemenschneider’s name pronounced just once more I would rise up and smite George over the head with my plate. To make the gloom complete, it started to rain, which ended my plans for a stroll through the quaint old streets of Rothenburg after dark.

When we adjourned to the lounge, I managed to take Tony aside.

‘What ails you? Somebody hurt your feelings?’

‘It’s that Nolan,’ said Tony, adding a few qualifying adjectives. ‘Do you know what that rat said to me today? This afternoon I met him in the Hall, and do you know what he said?’