VERONICA

BAMBERG, FRANCONIA, 1628

We ran until our feet ached, fleeing deep into the forest from the witch-hunters. Hans tried hard to keep up with me but more than once I had to stop, panting, to help him to his feet after a stumble. His knees would have been raw beneath his breeches but he soldiered on, teeth clenched. The pine trees flowed over hillsides and down into valleys, forming a blanket of forest. Between the trees, patchy and always pleasantly surprising, lay open fields running alongside blue-green streams speckled with mossy rocks, lichen-draped trees and apple groves with knotted branches sporting red-green fruit, some spoiled and bored out by hungry birds.

We stopped in one particularly wide and open oasis, catching our breath. There was little chance of the men finding us, even if they had a mind to. It was more likely that they would sit astride their horses, stamping and steaming in the shadows, awaiting our return to the horse and cart. They might have been any soldiers or journeymen but something, some glimmer of knowing, had told me otherwise and it was just as well that I had listened to my inner voice. It rarely disappointed me. I was sure that we were safe from them. From bears and wolves, I was not so certain.

I love the scent of apples. We feasted on them, Hans and me, until our bellies were full and we felt slightly ill. Then we dipped our hands as cups into the cold running water and slurped at it until our shirtfronts were damp. I looked at us, me with brambles and catching burs on my papa’s fine coat and Hans with his shock of blond hair and badly scuffed boots. We had nothing. Nothing except the clothing on our bodies. I had little doubt that our names, as the children of Rosa and Johannes Junius, condemned and confessed witches, would now be on a list of wanted fugitives. Even in Würzburg, if we ever made it there, we would need to be careful and keep our heads down. It would be best to keep off the roads and stick to the forest, although I had not yet come across any walking trails that might lead to villages or hamlets nestled here and there.

‘Where will we sleep tonight?’ Hans asked me as we lay back in the grass and let the warmth of the sun dry our shirts.

‘We will need to find some shelter, perhaps a hunter’s cabin,’ I told him, thinking of the beasts that stalked the forest at night. ‘Or if we are lucky we may come across a Gemiende or even a larger farming village.’

I heard a noise and startled, my nerves seizing into a knot. I turned my head toward it, sitting up sharply. A boar grunted at the edge of the pines, looking at us with curious annoyance. His sharp curved tusks told me he was an adult male.

‘Just keep very still and quiet,’ I cautioned Hans who was up beside me, crouched as if ready to leap at the first sign of movement from the ugly creature.

We had, as a family, come for walks in these woods and taken our midday meal under the sun. Papa had told us to be most wary of the wild sows that might be protecting a litter of piglets in spring. They were more aggressive and threatening than the males. But summer was just fading away and it was too late for young pigs. Until then I had only ever seen boars and pigs on roasting spits with apples wedged into their gaping mouths in the marketplace.

‘He’s a big one,’ Hans whispered.

The snout was twitching, picking up our scent among the other smells of the forest. We all sat there eyeing one another until the beast lost interest and padded back into the dark stretch of pines.

‘We’ll go the other way.’ I laughed with relief at Hans and helped him to his feet. ‘I don’t think we need to run anymore. They wouldn’t know where to find us. In this forest we are simply as small as the pine needles.’

I patted Hans on the back and took his small hand in mine. We crossed through and under the wild apple trees and moved back into a shadow of firs and beech. The wind carried the fragrance of jasmine.

With no way of knowing where we were going, I tried to catch a glimpse of the sun when the ceiling of branches thinned. I guessed that we were headed south-west. Feeling bilious from my apple feast, I occasionally stopped, thinking I might be sick. But I swallowed hard and kept up the pace again until eventually my stomach calmed. We walked for an eternity as the sun dipped over the hills and the shadows grew longer. Just when I thought we might need to climb a tree to be safe from wolves for the evening, I smelled the comforting smoke of a wood fire.

In the next parting of the trees, I looked down to see a cottage with a small dilapidated fence enclosing it, a rusted gate and a clatter of chickens fighting one another for worms out the back. Between us and the house was a narrow ribbon of a stream, shallow and dotted with smooth stones. Behind the house was a shed, bursting with rotted, decaying wood. We would announce ourselves and beg to seek shelter from the forest in the shed and in return we might be able to do some work for the owner. A coil of smoke drifted up from the one small chimney and I could smell garlic on the afternoon breeze.

We walked down the hill and removed our boots, carrying them aloft as we navigated our way from rock to rock, the cold water dancing between and over our toes. As we sat on the other side and restrung our boots to our feet, a voice called out to us, ‘Guten tag to you, kinder.’ We turned to see an old woman, stooped and frail with years, walking toward us. She held a beautifully carved walking stick to balance herself. ‘Are you lost? Where are your parents?’

Her face was kind, her eyes merry and she had a veil of snow-white hair falling to her shoulders. She was dressed in a colourful shift, loose and flowing. I was so relieved that we had not been met by an angry man, I wanted to run to the woman and embrace her.

‘You look a sore sight.’ She smiled as she came to stand beside us. ‘Come and share some supper with me. I am Frau Berchta and you are most welcome in my home.’