by Cory Barclay
“He once asked, ‘Why does not the pope, whose wealth is greater than the wealth of the richest Crassus, build the basilica of St. Peter with his own money rather than with the money of poor believers?’ We are the poor believers, my brothers and sisters. Our wealth, our farms, our buildings—they do not dictate our faith, nor do they form it.”
Dieter set the book back on the pulpit and raised his arms wide. “As such, our building of this church was not a holy endeavor.” He held up one finger. “But it gives us a place to practice our faith, to commune, to repent. That is holy.”
Eyeing the three men who helped him build the church—Leon, David, and Grant—he continued. “This was a radical idea, one that was shunned by the Catholics. It still is, to this day. They called Martin Luther a heretic and a ‘demon in the appearance of a man.’ But I have learned, through my own studies, that Martin Luther was a man of resolve. A man of great piety. It is my hope that we may all learn from him.”
Sybil glanced to her right, where Martin Achterberg sat whispering quietly with Claire’s daughter. Though Bella was four years younger than Martin, and still a prepubescent girl, Sybil couldn’t help but feel a surge of hope in her heart for Martin. He had been through so much: his love for Dorothea, who was then murdered in Bedburg; the failed arranged marriage with her, the bride-to-be, orchestrated by Martin’s own father; the murder of his father; the burning of his mother as a witch; the crushing degradation he faced at the hands of Bishop Solomon; his months-long imprisonment.
Any lesser soul—especially one so young—would have long since given up hope, or become a shell. But Martin Achterberg was strong, and Sybil felt that Dieter’s words spoke directly to him.
But of course Martin wasn’t listening, his attention diverted to Claire’s daughter.
Sybil frowned, wondering whether she’d be any better at keeping the attention of her listeners when it was her turn to begin teaching. And unlike Dieter, she had never been a teacher or a speaker. Will I be any good at it?
‘You’ll do great, my love,’ she remembered Dieter telling her.
Soon, Dieter’s sermon was finished. The congregation closed with a prayer. As the adults filed out, conversing with one another, the children stayed behind. They were now Sybil’s charge.
Sybil faced Martin and said, “Will you be my assistant today, Martin? I could use your aid.”
With wide eyes, the young shaggy-headed man looked at Sybil. “Me?” he asked, pointing at his chest. “What could I possibly do?”
“Yesterday you said you wanted to help.”
Martin glanced at Bella. “But—”
“I would like to teach you your letters as well. Like these children.” If only to keep your distractions at bay!
Martin wrinkled his forehead, inspecting the six children left behind in the room. He was a head taller than any of them, and a handful of years older. “I think I’m too old to learn my letters, Beele. Besides, I have Lily to attend to, and her lame calf.”
“You can never be too old to learn to read and write, Martin. I’ll have Dieter tend Lily and the babe. Come now, I want to help you, and you can help me.”
Martin narrowed his eyes. “So . . . are you doing this for the children then, or for yourself?”
A good question, Sybil had to admit. But instead of answering, she grabbed Martin’s arm and pulled him to the front of the room, to the pulpit, where they looked out at those little innocent, smiling faces.
Finally, Martin relented. “They’re all waiting for you to say something, Beele,” he whispered, nudging his chin toward the children.
Dieter had left his copy of the Ninety-Five Theses on the podium for Sybil to use in her teachings. It was the only book they owned—probably the only printed book in a thirty-mile radius, not including Timothy Davis’ tax book.
It will have to suffice. Sybil rubbed her hand on the crinkled pages, a wave of sad memories washing over her, memories of her father and brother. Then Martin tugged her arm, returning her to the moment.
This might be more difficult than I anticipated . . .
Teaching proved easier than Sybil imagined. She discovered she had a knack for getting the kids to learn and already felt accomplished as her hour-long class let out.
She watched Martin run off with Bella, holding her small hand as the two exited the church.
From the back of the room, Dieter was walking toward her, clapping and grinning.
“Are you poking fun at me?” Sybil asked, faking a frown.
Dieter gave her a shocked look. “Me? No! I’m applauding your effort. You were a natural, Beele, as I knew you would be.” He kissed her on the cheek. “The kids loved you,” he whispered in her ear, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling.
“I hope I wasn’t too harsh with them . . .” she whispered back, nestling her head in the crook of his shoulder.
“Not at all.”
Someone in the room cleared his throat.
Dieter and Sybil jumped back from their embrace.
A tall, blond man stood at the back of the room. He had a smooth, handsome face and wore a perfectly-tailored, gorgeous gray outfit, unlike anything Sybil or Dieter had seen since arriving in the shire.
Clearly a nobleman.
The man had his hands behind his back. A petite woman with spectacles stood behind him, a large book in her hands.
The man leered down his nose at Sybil and Dieter. “You two must be the Nicolaus’,” he said. The man stood a full head taller than Dieter.
Dieter narrowed his eyes, moving to stand in front of Sybil. “That’s correct,” Dieter replied. “I don’t believe I’ve seen your face before. You are?”
The man held out a large gloved hand.
“No, Herr Nicolaus,” the gentleman said, shaking Dieter’s hand with such force that Dieter involuntarily winced. “You have not seen me before. My name is Gustav Koehler. This is my assistant, Hedda.” The girl behind the man bowed slightly.
The man appeared to be waiting for his name to be recognized. But neither Dieter nor Sybil showed the slightest recognition. The gentleman parted his lips slightly, then sucked them together.
“How can we help you, Herr Koehler?” Dieter asked.
“Well, I came to admire this new church of yours.” He gazed at the ceiling and the plain walls. “It’s marvelous. I believe it’s the only church in quite a distance.”
“It is,” Dieter said. “If you would like to join our Sunday Mass, I’m afraid you’ve just missed it. But we’ll be having another next week.”
“I’m not much of a religious man.”
“A shame.”
“Perhaps.”
A tense silence ensued as the two men stared at each other. Sybil looked from face to face, while Hedda simply gazed through her large spectacles at the book she held.
Finally, Gustav broke the silence. “I am the new tax-collector for Reeve Bailey.”
Dieter furrowed his brow. “Where’s Timothy Davis? He’s our usual man.”
“Indisposed.”
“Well, you’re early.”
“Early is a relative term, Herr Nicolaus. In fact, I am right on time. Tax season is upon us, and this church will be quite an addition. After all, it is built on my father’s land.”
“Your father’s land?”
“Yes. This church is on our property.”
“Who is your father?”
“That’s not important, Herr Nicolaus.”
“I disagree.”
Gustav shrugged.
Dieter continued. “We received permission to build this church from Timothy Davis, and from the reeve himself. Where did you say the regular taxman was?”
“Indisposed.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve taken his position. Temporarily. I don’t believe he was being as truthful to the reeve—or to my father—as he claimed.”
“He always seemed like an honest man to me.”
“Not to me.”
Dieter squinted into the taxman’s steely blue eyes. Sybil could tell her husband didn’t like him. She didn’t either. In fact, he seemed completely out of place in this rural part of Norfolk. And he definitely wasn’t English.
His name, his blond hair, the blue eyes, his height. Clearly this man was German.
A nauseating feeling rolled over Sybil, but she didn’t know why. “Must we do this here, gentlemen, in a holy place?” she asked, trying to break the tension in the room.
“Your wife is quite right,” Gustav said, keeping his eyes on Dieter the whole time. “This may not be the best venue for discussing these matters. But I will ask to see you. Hedda, when am I free?”
“See us where?” Dieter asked.
“Tomorrow night, sir,” Hedda said, peeking from her book.
“At my home,” Gustav said.
“Your home? You said you were only here temporarily.”
“I am aware of what I said.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Please, if we could speak tomorrow night at my temporary home, Herr Nicolaus, I would be most obliged. It’s the one behind Reeve Bailey’s.”
“I’ll be there.”
Gustav strutted away, his boots echoing off the newly-laid floorboards. When he got to the doorway, he turned. “And please, Herr Nicolaus,” he said with a smile, “don’t forget to bring your lovely wife.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
HUGO
After wiping his grimy eyes, Hugo curled into a fetal position. He tossed and thrashed in his ragged cot, listening to the rain pelt on the tin roof overhead. Silver moonlight streamed into the room through a single window, blanketing the upper half of Hugo’s body in murky light.
The jeweled ring he’d stolen for Ava lay next to his cot, on the ground, along with a few copper and silver pieces, some knickknacks, and a half eaten slice of hard bread. The moonlight lit the emerald ring as if it were on display at a jeweler’s shop. He touched the ring, rolling it across the ground, watching the shadows dance on the dusty floor.
Then he cursed himself.
He’d forgotten to give the ring back to Ava before she was captured.
Images played in his head of Ava crying out for help, from him in particular. What a way to spend her birthday—scared and alone. He knew the feeling well, reflecting on his own time in jail.
A few feet away, his big friend Karstan snored soundly on his own undersized cot, legs spilling over the end of the bed. Severin was asleep as well, near the front door of the small room they called home.
Hugo frowned as he watched Severin sleep. If that weasel had given us a warning, Ava might still be here right now.
He closed his eyes. Red and green colors battled behind his lids. Before long, he drifted off, the image of a terrified Ava his last conscious thought.
He wasn’t sure if it was a dream, but he felt something . . . someone . . . reach for Ava, grabbing her by the arm, then her fingers. The hand pulled her until he could see her no more.
Then in her place, a faint ruffle. Hugo’s eyes shot open. Craning his neck, he saw a blur reaching out of the shadows, into the sliver of moonlight where his coins and ring lay.
A hand. Like a spider, slowly creeping toward its prey.
The hand closed around the ring and descended back into the darkness. Hugo’s eyes widened.
He wasn’t dreaming.
He rolled off his cot and reached out, snatching a wrist and tugging it forward.
Severin’s ugly, hawkish face came into focus, utterly shocked as Hugo cried out and cocked his free hand back.
Severin tried to pull away, but too late.
Hugo’s fist crashed into his face with a thwack and the taller boy reeled back against his cot.
Hugo let go of Severin’s hand and the ring fell to the ground with a ping. As Severin’s hands flew to his bruised face, Hugo leaped on top of him, grabbing around his neck with both hands and growling like a rabid animal. He squeezed Severin’s throat with all his might until the taller boy’s face turned purple.
Severin desperately tried to grab Hugo’s arms, pulling back toward the front door, which swung open.
The two young men spilled onto the muddy alleyway outside, Severin on his back, Hugo still raging on top of him.
Hugo released Severin’s neck, yelling, “You thieving wretch!” as he kicked him in the ribs, again and again, then in the face. Severin wheezed and curled into a ball, defeated and rain-drenched to the bone.
Panting and still crazed, Hugo stepped away and closed his eyes tightly. The greens and reds behind his eyelids were no longer fighting. The red had won. He turned back to Severin on the ground and raised his foot, ready to crush down on the boy’s windpipe.
Then a great tendril wrapped around Hugo’s waist like a python, lifting him off the ground.
“Hugo, stop!” Karstan shouted, pulling Hugo away. “You’re going to kill him!”
“Let go of me, you bastard!” Hugo yelled, writhing and flailing his arms and legs. But Karstan held tight, his grip too strong.
The more Hugo struggled, the less he could breathe or move his limbs.
Karstan carried Hugo into the house, then threw him to the ground like a rag doll.
“He tried to steal Ava’s ring while I slept!” Hugo screamed, red rage still in his eyes.
“We’re all thieves here,” Karstan said with a strange calmness. “That’s no reason to kill him, Hue. Are you really that surprised?”
Hugo slowly crawled on hands and knees until he found the ring on the floor. He swept it up and held it with white knuckles.
Meanwhile, Karstan walked back outside to tend to Severin. Hugo gazed out the open front door, eyed Karstan helping a disheveled and bloodied Severin up off the ground, then crawled back to his bed and carefully placed the ring on his own little finger. Then he clenched that hand into a fist, closed his eyes, and imagined Ava’s face smiling at him.
The rain stopped before dawn. As the inhabitants of Bedburg rose, the morning sun peeked through the gray clouds and showered the village with warmth.
By the time Hugo woke, Severin was gone and Karstan was up, humming to himself.
“Where’d he go?” Hugo asked.
“Out,” Karstan said. “He didn’t want to be here when you awoke.”
Good, Hugo thought. Maybe getting beaten half to death will make that snake think twice next time he tries laying hands on what’s not his.
“You showed him little mercy last night,” Karstan said. “I had to stitch his forehead. He may never look the same.”
“He won’t be missing much—he was already ugly enough.” Hugo leaped up from his cot, Ava’s ring still wrapped around his little finger.
Karstan chuckled. “I’m pretty sure it would look better on Ava,” he said, reminding Hugo he was still wearing it. Quickly, Hugo slipped it off and put it in his pocket.
“I’m going to get Ava back,” he said, his voice strong and steady, his eyes tense.
Karstan’s chuckle faded. He studied Hugo, a perplexed look on his chubby face. “How do you plan to do that? Just traipse into the jailhouse and ask for the key?”
“Something like that,” Hugo said. He rummaged through his stash of coins and accessories, grabbing something and pocketing it.
As Hugo moved for the front door, Karstan stopped him. “Wait, Hugo, honestly . . . what are you doing? Trying to get yourself killed?”
“I told you what I’m doing,” he answered, determination written on his face. “Goodbye, Kars. I hope I see you again.” Then he walked out the door, leaving Karstan reaching out for him, speechless.
Hugo breathed in the crisp air that always followed a storm. Weaving through trash-filled alleys, he made his way up the hill toward Priest Circle and Bedburg’s church.
At this time of day, the area was relatively free of preachers and beggars since Mass had already let out and the poor had already been fed. Which also means no more carriages will be riding through, Hugo reckoned.
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Making his way to the town square and marketplace, he passed through an alley, ignoring several straggling beggars. He pulled his half-eaten piece of bread from his pocket and bit into it. When he finished, he dusted his hands off on his dirty tunic and scanned the square.
The market was in full bloom. With the new sun came a new lease on life for the townsfolk. Tents and carts were spread out in ragged columns, merchants and farmers hocking their wares, while a plethora of shoppers rummaged around.
Nobles and peasants alike perused the goods.
Hugo turned as a loud commotion caught his attention. A farmer and old woman were scuffling. Shouts became shoves, until a town guard arrived to split them up.
For several minutes, Hugo kept his eyes on the guards circling the square in their gray-and-black liveries. Like bees buzzing near the hive, they scurried about making sure things stayed orderly.
Then Hugo narrowed his attention to a lavishly attired nobleman who was scrutinizing a merchant’s stock of dresses. Two guards surrounded the aristocrat, insulating him from all who passed with a five-foot circle of protection.
Hugo didn’t care who the nobleman was. He reached into his pocket, tossed something into his mouth, then headed toward the man.
Usually, Hugo had the requisite grace and subtlety while thieving to get away without being detected. By the time a mark realized his purse was gone, Hugo was already counting his winnings in an alley three blocks away.
This time, however, after passing the guards Hugo clumsily bumped into the nobleman, then didn’t pull hard enough when attempting to dislodge the purse from the man’s waistband.
“Hey!” the aristocrat cried, raising alarm. “Thief!”
Hugo made no move to dodge the guards. They quickly clenched his arms. “Not so fast, boy,” one of them said. “You’re not so good at this, eh?”
Hugo let himself be pulled along like a marionette.
“Ost, keep watch on Herr Clifton,” the one guard said. “There might be more where this ruffian came from. I’m bringing him to Old Ulrich. Maybe he can set this delinquent straight.”