trumped-up accusations, you know it!’ Voss protests, his baritone voice ringing out with false confidence. But Detlef, inwardly mortified by the speciousness of his commission, has already slipped back into the shadows.
Meister Voss looks around wildly. For the first time in his life there is no one to defend him. Instinctively he reaches down for his sword, forgetting that he is still in his nightshirt. The soldiers move forward and grab him roughly by the arms. His wife, screaming, throws herself at him, clinging to his waist.
‘Nein! Nein! Nicht mein Mann! No! Not my husband!’ she cries out, oblivious to her unclothed state. Several of the soldiers turn their faces away in embarrassment as they drag the merchant out.
Voss, now frail with shock, remembers that in his dream the frogs were not singing but shrieking. As he is pushed down his own ornate wooden stairs, he realises in a moment of stark clarity that he has always known that time and fear would eventually collide like this and render meaningless all of the life he lived before.
Outside, back on his horse, Detlef presses his hand across his eyes. Shaking with rage he is trying to control an overwhelming desire to strike down the squat Spaniard who watches triumphantly as his first captive is loaded into the gaol cart.
The cat lies stretched across a bolt of Indian bombazine that arrived in Cologne on a ship belonging to the East India Company. The first streak of the morning sun falls across the feline’s belly. Delighted, it purrs in the warmth.
Suddenly glass fragments scatter over the animal’s fur. Terrified, it tears across the shopfront window as the soldiers burst through the entrance. Somewhere above a door slams as Hermann Müller’s sons run to wake their father.
The younger, fourteen years old, hauls himself up the narrow staircase leading to the attic and his father’s bedchamber. His brother, sixteen, is just in front of him. Terror pounds against the back of his throat as both boys throw themselves into the darkened room. But Hermann Müller is already on his feet. A widower with only his sons to live for, he pulls both young men to his chest.
‘Listen, you must leave, both of you. Go to your uncle in Paris. Tell him to go to the king. Whatever it takes! I have been betrayed…’
The hammering of the soldiers’ footsteps draws closer. The younger boy begins to weep; the other, conscious of his approaching manhood, moves to protect his father.
‘No, Günter, they will take you too. Go now!’
Herr Müller pushes his two sons towards a small window. Thrusting open the shutters he reveals the roofs of Cologne, a grey mountainous range of glistening slate and brick.
‘Whatever I have done, forgive me.’
Unable to look at their shocked faces fragmenting into grief, Müller grabs the younger one and pushes him through the narrow opening. Following, the elder son turns to kiss his father briefly on the lips then climbs out after his brother.
Herr Müller watches them clamber over the slippery tiles, his heart squeezing with sorrow. His breath catches as the smaller boy slips and his brother reaches out to steady him. Terrified this will be the last time he will ever see hischildren, the merchant leans against the wall to stop his legs from buckling beneath him.
A moment later, scurrying up the steep slope, the two youths hear the muffled shouts of their father as he struggles with the soldiers.
By the time the prison cart has rumbled off the barge and onto the muddy track that leads to the small Calvinist outpost of Mülheim, the village children are already dancing along behind it.
Hungry for beauty their thin dirty faces stare at the soldiers’ crimson sashes, at the golden horn hanging from the trumpeter’s neck, at the lush fringed purple of the Hapsburg banner. Turning to the wheeled cage, the ragged urchins begin to mimic the bewildered faces of the two prisoners who shiver in their nightclothes, clutching the bars to
Meister Voss looks around wildly. For the first time in his life there is no one to defend him. Instinctively he reaches down for his sword, forgetting that he is still in his nightshirt. The soldiers move forward and grab him roughly by the arms. His wife, screaming, throws herself at him, clinging to his waist.
‘Nein! Nein! Nicht mein Mann! No! Not my husband!’ she cries out, oblivious to her unclothed state. Several of the soldiers turn their faces away in embarrassment as they drag the merchant out.
Voss, now frail with shock, remembers that in his dream the frogs were not singing but shrieking. As he is pushed down his own ornate wooden stairs, he realises in a moment of stark clarity that he has always known that time and fear would eventually collide like this and render meaningless all of the life he lived before.
Outside, back on his horse, Detlef presses his hand across his eyes. Shaking with rage he is trying to control an overwhelming desire to strike down the squat Spaniard who watches triumphantly as his first captive is loaded into the gaol cart.
The cat lies stretched across a bolt of Indian bombazine that arrived in Cologne on a ship belonging to the East India Company. The first streak of the morning sun falls across the feline’s belly. Delighted, it purrs in the warmth.
Suddenly glass fragments scatter over the animal’s fur. Terrified, it tears across the shopfront window as the soldiers burst through the entrance. Somewhere above a door slams as Hermann Müller’s sons run to wake their father.
The younger, fourteen years old, hauls himself up the narrow staircase leading to the attic and his father’s bedchamber. His brother, sixteen, is just in front of him. Terror pounds against the back of his throat as both boys throw themselves into the darkened room. But Hermann Müller is already on his feet. A widower with only his sons to live for, he pulls both young men to his chest.
‘Listen, you must leave, both of you. Go to your uncle in Paris. Tell him to go to the king. Whatever it takes! I have been betrayed…’
The hammering of the soldiers’ footsteps draws closer. The younger boy begins to weep; the other, conscious of his approaching manhood, moves to protect his father.
‘No, Günter, they will take you too. Go now!’
Herr Müller pushes his two sons towards a small window. Thrusting open the shutters he reveals the roofs of Cologne, a grey mountainous range of glistening slate and brick.
‘Whatever I have done, forgive me.’
Unable to look at their shocked faces fragmenting into grief, Müller grabs the younger one and pushes him through the narrow opening. Following, the elder son turns to kiss his father briefly on the lips then climbs out after his brother.
Herr Müller watches them clamber over the slippery tiles, his heart squeezing with sorrow. His breath catches as the smaller boy slips and his brother reaches out to steady him. Terrified this will be the last time he will ever see hischildren, the merchant leans against the wall to stop his legs from buckling beneath him.
A moment later, scurrying up the steep slope, the two youths hear the muffled shouts of their father as he struggles with the soldiers.
By the time the prison cart has rumbled off the barge and onto the muddy track that leads to the small Calvinist outpost of Mülheim, the village children are already dancing along behind it.
Hungry for beauty their thin dirty faces stare at the soldiers’ crimson sashes, at the golden horn hanging from the trumpeter’s neck, at the lush fringed purple of the Hapsburg banner. Turning to the wheeled cage, the ragged urchins begin to mimic the bewildered faces of the two prisoners who shiver in their nightclothes, clutching the bars to
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