Dancing in the Palm of His Hand Read Free Page B

Jesuit first came to Würzburg eight years ago, but they’d become intimately acquainted only recently. Last fall, Lutz had gone to the university to seek advice on a complex contract between two merchants, one in Augsburg and one in Würzburg. At the university, he was directed to Father Herzeim, who impressed Lutz with his quickness of mind and breadth of knowledge. The consultation ranged far beyond mere contract law, and at the end of two hours, the priest invited Lutz to return.
    Father Herzeim’s lips continued to move. Shivering, Lutz pulled his hat lower to keep the drizzle off the back of his neck. Just a few months ago, their friendship deepened when they discovered that they shared a secret dislike for the work of the poet Martin Opitz, who’d just been crowned poet laureate by Emperor Ferdinand.
Too stilted and cold
.
No passion, no feeling
, they’d agreed, then quoted to each other lines written by Walter von der Vogelweide. Father Herzeim even recited a poem he’d composed himself. Emboldened, Lutz had asked the priest his Christian name. Lutz never used it, of course, even in private, but he knew it: Friedrich.
    Lutz scanned the grey clouds, so low they seemed to merge with the dark river. A barge loaded with wine casks approached, then passed through a granite archway under the bridge. The Prince-Bishop’s castle, Marienberg, as stern and forbidding as His Grace’s perpetual scowl, stood across the river, high on the mountain overlooking the city. Lutz lifted his hat and ran a hand through his shaggy hair, then jammed the hat back on his head. He should tidy himself before he met with the Prince-Bishop. He examined his white cuffs. Smudged. Nothing he could do about that now. He reached down to pull up his sagging hose, then retied some of the loose lacings between his breeches and doublet.
    â€œ
Dei glorium
, amen,” said Father Herzeim. His dark eyes searched the misty twilight to one side, the other, then behind him. No one, not even a beggar was near to them on the bridge. “There is more to this errand, Lutz, than just the new opinion from Ingolstadt,” he said quietly. “On the way to the fires, Frau Basser pleaded with me to speak to the Prince-Bishop. She was terrified of having innocent blood on her immortal soul.”
    â€œInnocent blood?”
    â€œShe claims that none of the five she accused is guilty, that she accused them only to end the torture.”
    â€œDid the other two witches accuse the same five people?”
    The priest nodded.
    â€œThen it’s simple,” said Lutz. “The witch was lying to save her accomplices, so they could continue their evil work.”
    â€œI am not so sure.”
    â€œWhy, then, did all three witches give the commissioners the very same names? If they wanted only to end the torture, they’d give the first names that came into their heads.”
    â€œFrau Basser said those names were suggested to her.”
    Lutz took a step back. “Suggested to her! By whom?”
    â€œI cannot tell you that.”
    â€œIt can’t possibly be true. She’s lying.”
    â€œAnd her final confession,” the priest whispered. “I can say nothing of it, except that it leads me to believe that Frau Basser was innocent.”
    â€œInnocent!” Lutz crossed his arms over his chest. “The men who serve on the commission are learned jurists. They’d never commit such a grievous error. Nor would God allow it.”
    He leaned closer and peered into Father Herzeim’s pallid face. “I’m concerned about you, Father.
Bitte
, ask His Grace to relieve you of this appointment.”

4
14 April 1626
    Herr Doktor Wilhelm Hampelmann raised the silver goblet to his lips and sipped clear white wine. He stared out the open window, at the wisps of grey smoke curling and twisting over the tile roofs. The heavy clouds held the smoke low, close to the earth. It was only right and