Dancing in the Palm of His Hand Read Free Page A

trying to throw off a burden. There were risks to this errand. He’d like to serve on the prestigious Upper City Council, but he was reluctant to come under the close scrutiny of the Prince-Bishop, or to annoy him. And there was the added danger that His Grace might assume Lutz was interested in prosecuting witches and appoint him to the
Malefizamt
, the office in charge of investigating capital crimes. Lutz knew almost nothing about capital crimes and didn’t particularly want to. He’d go with his friend, but speak as little as possible.
    Lutz and Father Herzeim stopped in front of the Sander Tower, the south gate into Würzburg, and waited for the watchman at the high narrow window to acknowledge them. Father Herzeim looked toward the Prisoners’ Tower in the distance. The circular tower was built into the inner city wall and stood at least five stories high, its conical roof pointing into the slate sky. Dark green ivy crept over the grey stone walls. The priest closed his eyes.
    He’s spent too much time within those walls, thought Lutz, far too much time.
    At the watchman’s nod, the men passed through the gate and into the city. They continued in silence, walking at a slower pace, much to Lutz’s relief. His feet hurt from standing all day, his stiff breeches had begun to chafe his thighs, and the lacings that held his breeches to his doublet were beginning to come loose.
    The Angelus bells rang out from Saint Kilian’s Cathedral just as they reached
Domstrasse
. Father Herzeim turned toward the cathedral, paused a moment to make the sign of the cross, then he and Lutz headed the opposite direction toward the bridge. Beggars hunched against the walls of the closed shops. Now andagain, one called out, “A
pfennig
.
Bitte
, just a
pfennig
for bread.” When the petitioner was a child, Lutz reached into the pouch in the lining of his breeches and tossed a coin, then he and the priest hurried away before other beggars could pursue them.
    As they passed the Rosen Bakery, Father Herzeim gave a slight nod, then smiled, the first smile Lutz had seen from him in weeks. Lutz followed his friend’s gaze and caught a glimpse of a girl at the window. Then she was gone. The image behind the thick circles of glass was so fleeting, so pale, that Lutz would have thought the child, with her white-gold hair, a ghost, or an angel, but he’d often seen the odd little girl before, standing at the bakery window, watching.
    In front of the town hall, the priest stopped and made the sign of the cross on the very spot where the public trial had been conducted, just below the Green Tree of Justice painted on the outside wall of the imposing stone building. While listening to the lengthy
shrift
that morning, Lutz had committed to memory every line and shading of the painting, as if holding the image in his thoughts could protect him from witches and their crimes and the terrors of the end-time. A respected citizen and a beautiful young girl in league with the Devil? He’d been so shocked, his heart beating so fast, that he’d had to find a place to sit down. Lutz still found it hard to believe, even now, and would have liked to sit down again, but Father Herzeim continued on.
    The two men climbed the slight incline to the stone bridge spanning the River Main. Halfway across the river, the priest stopped and adjusted the broad brim of his hat to shield his face from the mist that had begun to fall. “I am in need of courage,” he said, “before I face the Prince-Bishop.” He bowed his head and began to pray, too softly for Lutz to hear. The light wind off the river ruffled the cassock’s billowing sleeves. Blue-backed swallows twittered and dipped over the dark water.
    Lutz dutifully recited his own evening prayers. Finishing longbefore the priest, he leaned against the thick stone wall and studied his friend’s sharp profile. He’d known Father Herzeim since the