by Cory Barclay
“Did I ruin your dreams, Dax?”
Daxton thought about that. Then he smiled. “Actually, you might have made them better.”
He raised his mug and loudly finished off the beer. As the liquid dribbled down his chin he grinned foolishly, exclaiming, “Here, here, captain! Always full of surprises!”
“What do you have for me, love?” Rowaine asked Mia. They finally had the table to themselves. They’d been at Dolly’s for hours. Many of the men had long since passed out or given in to their fantasies. Among those still remaining, fights were breaking out. At the far end of the bar, several others were playing music.
Rowaine had her arms stretched out on the table, holding Mia’s hands.
“I have nothing on the person in your picture,” Mia said. She shook her head and frowned. “I haven’t seen him. This place is too damn big, Row—too many people.”
“I know. It’s okay, I’ll find him. What else? My crew is here for a week while we fix the Pride.”
Mia looked over her shoulder, then leaned in close. “There’s a wool merchant leaving in a week—small boat, huge load. They’re trying to leave under the cover of darkness, I hear, since they have no backup.”
“Perfect timing,” Rowaine said, holding up Mia’s hands and lightly kissing them. “I knew I could count on you. Oh, there’s something else I need from you.”
“Name it,” Mia said, eyes alert.
Rowaine told Mia about the mutiny against Captain Galager, what had happened to Dominic, and her own new station in life. Mia wasn’t surprised—she expected great things from Rowaine. But she was surprised to hear that the field of possible traitors had been narrowed to three of Rowaine’s closest advisers.
“Keep an eye out for me, will you?” Rowaine said. “I expect the culprit will be talking to Adrian Coswell, Galager’s first mate. Know what he looks like?”
“That weasel?” Mia scoffed. “You should have killed him and dumped his wretched body at sea, Row.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“It isn’t smart keeping him alive. One more person you have to watch out for. I’ll keep an eye out—hopefully I’ll find something for you. But it will have to wait a while. At least an hour or two. You see, I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment.”
Rowaine furrowed her brow. “With what?”
Mia batted her eyes, then gave Rowaine a salacious grin. She nodded her head toward the stairs at the far end of the room.
With no further words needed, the two women stepped around a passed-out drunk, then proceeded hand-in-hand up the staircase.
CHAPTER TEN
SYBIL
Playing with her thread and distaff, Claire looked up at Sybil. “Do you have any idea what he wants?” The two mothers sat on chairs outside Claire’s house, watching Martin and Bella running across the grass enjoying the sunlight.
Martin seems so young and innocent when he’s around her, Sybil thought. If that girl knew the horrors he’d been through . . . if anyone here knew . . .
“Beele?”
Sybil snapped out of her daze. “Pardon me. What does who want?”
Claire smiled, dimples forming on her young face. “Are you sure I’m the only one here who’s pregnant?” She grinned. “You’ve been so faraway all day.”
Sybil shuffled her feet, embarrassed. “I’m not sure what Herr Koehler wants. He didn’t invite you and Leon to dinner?”
Claire shook her head. “I don’t suspect he invited any of the farmers. Only you and Dieter.”
“That’s odd. I suppose it’s got something to do with the church. I’m afraid that place may end up causing more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Nonsense,” Claire said, “you and Dieter have been a godsend to us all. The church, too. I know working on it gave Leon something to do all day.”
Sybil considered the sweeping green countryside before her, spanning all the way to the horizon. Boredom, she thought. ‘Idle hands are the devil’s plaything.’ She thought she’d read that in the Bible, but couldn’t be sure.
Her thoughts wandered to more exciting times: The thrill and danger of sneaking away to meet Dieter in the dead of night. But that was a different life, she reminded herself. One that almost got Dieter, Martin, and I killed.
And that made her think of her son Peter. And how there would be no Peter at all if her time years ago in that cold jail cell had turned out as it nearly had.
She forced her thoughts back to the present. She watched Peter try to catch Bella and Martin, only to wobble in the grass, then fall flat on his rump.
The mothers giggled.
“I hope little Rose can be friends with Peter,” Claire said, rubbing her belly.
“Rose? What if it’s a boy?”
“It’s a girl,” Claire said, shaking her head. “I can feel it. Come, put your hand here. She’s kicking.”
Sybil hesitated, then softly touched Claire’s bulging stomach.
“Oh my!” Sybil exclaimed, “you’re right!”
In truth, she hadn’t felt a thing. But it didn’t do to steal away her friend’s excitement like that. She smiled at Claire, who still watched Martin and Bella in the distance. “I wouldn’t worry,” Sybil said. “Rose and Peter will be great friends.”
Nighttime brought a cold chill that swept in from the west. Sybil bundled herself in a wool coat and laid Peter in his little bed. She spoke to Martin. “Are you sure you can handle everything here? If Peter gets antsy, there’s a fresh bottle of Lily’s milk outside.”
Martin put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Beele. We’ll be fine. I’ve done this before.”
“If anything out of the ordinary happens, you know where to go?” Sybil told him.
Martin bobbed his head.
“Right,” Sybil said. “We’ll be back in a couple hours, if that. I’m not too keen on staying out.”
Through the window, Sybil noticed a carriage coming to a stop outside the house.
“I’ve been sent to escort Dieter and Sybil Nicolaus to Herr Gustav Koehler’s abode,” the driver yelled into the night.
Sybil kissed Peter on the forehead. Hesitating, she eyed Martin one last time, then she and Dieter left the house and stepped into the carriage.
Once the coach was on its way, Dieter asked, “Do you remember the last time we were in a carriage?”
Sybil stroked her chin, nodding. “When we were getting carted off to jail in Bedburg.”
Dieter stared out the window at the darkness, a faraway look overtaking him. “I built this church here . . . because—”
“I know, my love,” Sybil said, putting a hand on his knee. “You long for your calling—I saw it in your eyes at Mass. You belong on the pulpit.”
Dieter sighed. “I just pray things won’t be the same here as they were in Bedburg.”
If only we could be so lucky, Sybil thought. But not wanting to dishearten her husband, she simply said, “They won’t.”
Sybil watched Dieter for long while. She felt that, deep inside, there was a part of him missing what they’d left in Bedburg—the sermonizing in front of a legion of supporters, the gardens, helping the poor. Much as she missed the sneaking around and nightly rendezvous. How could he not? He was an important man in Bedburg. And surely the reason why he built the church here in the first place—he missed his calling.
Sybil could only hope Dieter would leave the past alone. That he could be happy in the present. With what they both now had. We might be in a strange new land, but not everything has changed. We have much to lose, even more than what we had in Bedburg.
Peter.
Each other.
“Is everything all right?” Dieter asked.
She hadn’t realized she’d been staring at Dieter the whole time, almost through him.
She blushed. “Y-yes, everything’s fine. I was just wondering what Gustav might want to talk to us about.”
“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”
When they arrived, Gu
stav took Dieter and Sybil on a short tour of his gardens. As they zigzagged through the cloister, they’d occasionally stop, taking in the vibrant colors and arrangements.
Along the way, Gustav rattled off the names of the various species, then explained his goals with the transplants.
“The toxicology of these plants,” he told them, “is what especially draws my interest—what they can offer science and medicine.” Cradling a purple, bell-shaped flower, he added, “And I also like using spices and such from my own garden.”
Dieter nodded. “You do have quite a collection. I used to have some of my own, such as that violet hibiscus, a time ago.”
“Did you?” Gustav asked, eyebrows arching. He seemed much cheerier than when they’d first met.
Sybil walked behind the two men while Hedda lurked a few steps behind, her big book under her arm.
Dieter eyed another plant. Biting down on his lip, he spoke casually. “Being a man of science, what is your take on religion, Herr Koehler?”
Gustav grinned at Dieter. “I try to stay away from religion and politics whenever I can, Father Nicolaus.”
Somehow I doubt that. Sybil still didn’t trust the man. He didn’t invite us here to marvel at his floral arrangements and spices. There was a darkness about Gustav Koehler that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Gustav mock shivered. “Shall we head inside? Getting a bit chilly. I’m sure our dinner is ready. Yes, Hedda?”
The secretary nodded. “We have duck soup tonight, and a spiced chicken.”
“Excellent,” Gustav replied, bending his neck at an odd angle and eliciting a sharp crack.
Inside, a fire flickered on a wall-hearth next to the table. It was a quaint house, about the size of Dieter and Sybil’s, but empty of most normal amenities. Where the land surrounding Gustav’s home was lush and vibrant, the inside was starkly barren.
Staring at Gustav, Sybil couldn’t help but wonder if this empty home and lush garden somehow served as a metaphor for Gustav’s life.
Gustav pulled a seat out from the table for Sybil, as Hedda escaped to the kitchen to prepare the soup.
When everyone was seated, he said, “Though I try to avoid talking of religion, especially with a priest present, I suppose you understand that is why I’ve called you here.”
“You’re referring to my church,” Dieter stated.
“Quite. I understand you received permission to build it from Reeve Bailey and Timothy Davis.”
“Yes,” Dieter said. “And speaking of Herr Davis, when will our regular taxman take his routes?”
“I couldn’t say.” Gustav raised a finger. “But, your church, sir, is a more expensive endeavor than your parishioners might know.”
“Meaning?”
Gustav cleared his throat and pulled a piece of parchment from his tunic. “The laws in Norwich—the same laws which dictate the land belonging to the Strangers—require a double subsidy to pay for the parish priest and the land tax for the church.”
Dieter craned his neck. “I don’t ask for money from the people. They struggle enough as it is.”
“Even so,” Gustav continued, unfolding the parchment in front of him, “it is a requirement. If your church is to be officiated as a place of worship for the Lutherans here, the tax must be paid. And I don’t know how the people—or you—will afford it.”
Hedda brought a tray holding three bowls of soup from the kitchen.
“Thank you, my dear,” Gustav said, briefly touching Hedda’s elbow.
Sybil watched with half-lidded eyes at the exchange. She seems more of a servant than an assistant.
“Can this wait?” Dieter asked suddenly. He was squinting at the soup, breathing it in. “Can we do this another time?” He had a strange look in his eyes.
Gustav glanced up from his soup, spoon halfway to his mouth. “What was that?”
“I can agree to help the people with the taxes, if it will make your father content.”
Sybil was ready to start eating, but now she peeked at Dieter with uncertainty. Dieter widened his eyes for a quick moment, fast enough so that Sybil was the only one who noticed.
“What’s the problem, Herr Nicolaus? Does the soup not suit you?” Hedda asked from the kitchen.
“No, no, I’m sure it’s fantastic,” Dieter said, “it’s just that our son, he’s . . . ill, and I feel ashamed for eating now while he is left alone. Sybil and I must take your leave, Herr Koehler.”
Gustav dropped his spoon on the table with a clang, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “This is most unordinary, Herr Nicolaus.” His voice was flat, the cheeriness gone.
“We can reschedule for tomorrow, if you’d like,” Dieter said, rising from his seat. Quickly, he grabbed Sybil by the arm, hard, lifting her to her feet.
Gustav sighed, shrugging. “If you’re trying to escape your duties, sir, I do not appreciate it. Neither will my father.”
“It’s nothing like that.” Dieter and Sybil were already halfway to the door. Sybil glanced back at Gustav, who still sat at the table, hands forming a steeple as he watched them.
“Have a safe trip home,” Gustav said, spite in his voice. “I’ll have Hedda reschedule our appointment.”
Dieter stormed out of the house, into the night.
Sybil followed, but heard Gustav say, “I’ll be seeing you two soon, I’m sure.”
“What in God’s name was that, Dieter?” They were safely away in the carriage, heading home.
“Something wasn’t right, Beele.” Dieter’s voice was edgy, his eyes darting as he looked out his window toward the sky and back toward Gustav’s farmstead.
“He seemed much nicer than when we first met him,” Sybil said.
Dieter leaned close to her. “That was his plan. You don’t understand.” He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “He was trying to poison us!”
Sybil’s eyes bulged. “Why would he do that? And how do you know?”
“That man isn’t who he says he is. I’m sure of it. And I could smell it in the soup. When we were walking through the gardens I recognized some of those plants. The ones he didn’t name. I saw wolfsbane, deadly nightshade, spotted hemlock!”
“Why would the man try to kill us if he’s trying to get taxes from us?” she scoffed. “You’re not making sense.”
Dieter breathed heavily. “If we’re dead, our land and our church go back to the landowner—his father. Perhaps he wants the church—I don’t know. But we have to go.”
“Go where, Dieter? You must calm down.”
“Away from here! We have to leave Norfolk.”
Alarmed, Sybil said, “Absolutely not. We have Claire and Leon and the congregation. I’m supposed to help Claire with her baby, and teach those children, and you’re supposed to give Mass. We have obligations here, Dieter.”
“I’m sorry, my love.”
The frustration overwhelmed Sybil. “We can’t let this man get the better of us. Not so soon! Why don’t you report him, if what you think is true?”
“No one would believe us, Beele. He has the law on his side. Didn’t you hear him?”
They reached their home on the outskirts of the flat farmland. It was eerily quiet as they jumped out of the carriage into the windy night.
As they entered their home, their worst fears were realized.
Sybil gasped. Dieter groaned.
Martin and their son were gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HUGO
The torturer and his apprentice stood in a jail cell, across from a prisoner who sat upright on a cold chair. The man’s eyes were bloodshot and weary.
Ulrich pointed at the prisoner. “What is that called, boy?”
Hugo glanced at the object on the prisoner and gulped.
A double-sided, metal pronged instrument stretched from the prisoner’s exposed breastbone to his throat. The prong resembled a fork but with sharper points, like a horned devil. It was attached so that every time the man’s head droppe
d forward from fatigue, the points stabbed into his throat, causing him to jolt awake in pain.
Simple, yet exquisitely cruel.
“A Heretic’s fork,” Hugo said.
“And what does it do?”
“It forces the man to stay awake.”
“And why would we force the man to stay awake?”
Hugo paused for a moment. He tugged at his chin, then faced Ulrich. “So he’ll give a tired confession?”
Ulrich rocked back on his chair. “Good. Let’s see how it works, shall we? Just listen.” The prisoner moaned and flinched when Ulrich ambled to him. Ulrich patted the man’s head, leaned over him, and undid the straps of the fork, pulling the apparatus away.
The man gasped.
Ulrich slapped the man lightly across the face. “Are you with us, Sturl?”
The two pinpricks on the lower half of Sturl’s neck trickled with blood. Apparently he’d tried to sleep.
He looked up at Ulrich, his eyes glazed, wild, angry.
“Where were we?” Ulrich began. Calmly, he sat across from the prisoner, resting one leg over the other. “If you tell me what I want to know, no more fork.”
“Burn in Hell, punisher,” the man’s voice like sandpaper, his lips cracking as he spoke. Tiny rivulets of blood continued trickling down the man’s chest.
Ulrich smiled cruelly, the scar on his face moving with his mouth. “I’m sure I will. Now, the archbishop of Trier, what was his name, Sturl?”
Sturl shrugged. “I don’t know the archbishop of Trier.”
Trier was one of the seven electorates of the Holy Roman Empire, located south of Cologne.
“Ah,” Ulrich said, raising his index finger. “Johann von Schönenberg. That was his name. So, Archbishop Schönenberg wants more inquisitors for his witch-hunt.” Ulrich turned to Hugo. “Since Trier is having a bit of a witch problem lately—dozens of people have been killed already, I hear. The place is ripe for the killing. It would be a good place for an executioner, I suspect . . .” he trailed off.