by Cory Barclay
The baron leaned on the table and coughed. “She was to marry my eldest son. Although my family was in better standing, Johannes—my son—felt a liking to this woman.” He spoke deliberately, as if trying to hold back tears. “I agreed to give the Griswolds land in exchange for cattle and pigs.”
Sybil almost rolled her eyes.
“Did that marriage transpire?”
Ludwig shut his eyes. When they opened, they burned with a fire. He pointed at Sybil. “She and her Devil-driven husband killed my son in cold blood. And then fled Bedburg.”
“I can attest to that,” spoke Tomas, seated on the inquisitor’s left. “I can attest to the woman fleeing Bedburg.”
Sybil gazed at the man and saw Hugo’s shoulders tighten.
Turning to Tomas, the inquisitor asked, “Oh, Herr Samuel, you know this woman?”
Tomas nodded. “I was under the employ of the chief investigator of Bedburg at the time. She fled the town during the height of a battle with Count Adolf’s Protestant army. At the time, she was imprisoned at the town jailhouse and under investigation.”
“For?”
“For colluding with the Protestants, trying to raze the town, my lord. It was my master’s belief that she had given pertinent information of our defenses to the enemy.”
“Is that so?” the investigator said, scribbling something on his parchment. “I suppose we should add treason to the list, if that is the case.”
“My lord, this is all extraneous.” Gustav was on his feet again, pointing at Sybil. “This woman is the son of the Werewolf of Bedburg. That man’s infernal blood runs through her veins. She is the daughter of that beast!”
“I heard that the Werewolf of Bedburg was never found . . . that there had been a mistake in the investigation!” one man yelled from the pews.
Sybil turned to see who’d spoken on her behalf, but didn’t recognize the man.
“I heard the same,” another man added.
A chatter of lowered voices began spreading through the courtroom.
“Silence!” the inquisitor boomed. “We have heard witnesses divulge her treason, her murder, and her devilish nature—marrying and breeding with a man of God. Her bloodline is irrelevant at this point. She has quite clearly strayed from God’s grace, so I would now like to hear her defense. What do you say to us, Sybil Griswold. And, more importantly, what do you say to God?”
The brooding rage building inside Sybil blazed through her eyes. With a low, steady voice, she began.
“I have heard my name and the name of my family slandered for years. This is nothing new to me—I heard it in Bedburg, among the fields and streets. I’ve heard it in this courtroom. It’s true, my husband and I eloped to England. We did so to escape persecution. For my husband’s conversion, he would have hanged. For whom I was born to, I would have burned. So I say to you, gentlemen, what was I to do? I have killed no one, I have lured no one, and I have brought no ill to any man. But that makes no difference. I was seen as guilty before I stepped into this room. No level of defense will change that.”
“You are guilty because God’s truth has shone upon you!” Gustav yelled from the back of the courtroom.
Sybil spun around, staring daggers at the man. She thought she saw him momentarily cower at the face of her gaze, which gave her a small measure of satisfaction.
Since a little girl, Sybil had trod delicately when confronted with God’s people. She was raised to fear them. Then she married one. A man she loved without hesitation, with all her heart. But scanning across the hard eyes of most of those in the courtroom, she suddenly realized where all the grief she’d suffered had come from. And in an astounding moment of clarity, it all made sense. Her misery, her constant persecution, her current situation—it had all derived from a single source. She turned back around to face her inquisitor.
“You ask what I say to God? I’ll tell you, gentlemen. I say that God is a poison, masked as an antidote to suffering, fed to already-sick men. And once the venom is inside you, you need more to feel satiated.” With a twisted snarl she pointed at each man on the dais—save her brother—one by one. “Then, like all sickness, it spreads like a plague to other innocent folk. Slowly eating away until you become a husk of false promises. And you die, empty and broken and weak from the poison. God is a poison,” she repeated. “And priests are His alchemists and administers—the assassins of reason.”
A hushed silence filled the room, as if everyone was holding their breath. Sybil inhaled loudly, then dipped her head, wiping spittle from her chin.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a frozen look of shock on her brother’s face.
After several long moments of silence, the crowd seemed to come alive all at once, yelling, screaming, jeering, cursing the heretic she-devil before them.
Finally, when the cacophony reached a fevered pitch, the masked inquisitor stood and raised his arms.
“You are indeed a cursed witch, you succubus—tinged with Lucifer in your eyes! Take this woman away, guards. She’ll burn on the morrow! Bring the biggest cross we have, and the wheel, and the rack!”
Sybil sat in her cell again, staring at the same wall, this time lost and despondent. All hope was gone. She was resigned to her fate. She wasn’t ashamed of her outburst. It was something all of them probably believed at one time but never had the grit to say.
Though she couldn’t help wondering . . . had she tried a different approach, might the result have been different?
She shook her head. That would have never happened. One of the judges was the same man whose son Dieter killed! He alone would have persuaded the others.
But why Tomas? Why was he so eager to curse me as well? He seemed like a reasonable man the few times I met him. Eager to please Heinrich, perhaps, but not vile.
I suppose he was paid to spout those lies.
She heard the creaking door somewhere above her open. Soft footsteps padded down the stairs, then across the hallway.
Hugo stood on the other side of her bars.
Sybil vaulted to her feet and lunged toward him.
“Hue!” she screamed.
“Why did you say all that, Beele? You doomed yourself.”
Sybil clenched her eyes shut. Then she looked at him, her face twisted in anguish. “Are you angry with me?”
A million thoughts flashed through her mind—all the things she’d wanted to tell her dear brother for the past two-and-a-half years, now drifting away, replaced with heartache.
“Does it matter, Beele? I’m not the same person I was when you left me.”
“I swear, my brother, I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to leave you or our father. I was swept away in—”
“You did hurt me. It may not have been your intent, but it happened. I had to grow up fast. We lost our home, Beele. We lost everything after father . . . I was so confused . . . I had no one. The one person I cared about, the one person I needed most, deserted me.”
Tears were rolling down Hugo’s soft cheeks. Sybil wanted to reach through the bars and wipe them away. But he was too far away, both physically and emotionally.
She began sobbing. “I’m sorry, Hue. You’re right. My excuses are worthless.”
He brushed away the droplets from his face. “Now I’m here, under false pretenses, and I have no idea who I can trust.”
“You can trust me, Hue!”
He scoffed. “You’ll be dead tomorrow!”
Sybil shrank back.
In a lowered voice, he said, “That time has come and gone, Beele. I just came to say goodbye. I can do nothing for you. I just don’t understand why you doomed yourself with your own words.”
“They would have killed me either way, Hue. You don’t understand what’s going on around us.”
“You’re right Beele, I don’t understand. And unlike you, maybe I don’t have to.”
Sybil opened her mouth, hestitating. If this was the last time she’d ever see her brother, he deserved to know his true lineage.
&nbs
p; But will that really help anything? What will he gain from knowing the truth? It would only confuse and sadden him more.
“What is it?” Hugo asked, tilting his head.
Sybil smiled warmly, wiping her face. “It’s nothing, Hue. I’m simply admiring the man you’ve become. I’m . . . I’m so sorry I couldn’t do more for you, my brother. That I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.”
Hugo started to say more, but then just clutched one of the steel bars. Sybil put her hand over his. They stood like that for a moment, regarding each other.
Then Hugo turned to leave.
“I love you, Hue. If there’s one last thing I can promise you—a promise that I can keep . . . it is that I love you and always have and always will.”
Hugo paused in his tracks, closed his eyes for a brief moment, then walked away.
Hours passed, but Sybil, lying on the floor, remained awake. Her eyes were closed and behind her lids she saw the red and green blending into the black. She began mentally checking off the names of those she loved, realizing her list was short.
Peter—both her son, and the father he was named after.
Dieter.
Hugo.
The four men in her life. The only ones that mattered.
Her mind raced through various scenarios. What if she’d never met Dieter? What if she’d tried to defend herself in court? What if she’d returned for her brother?
But as with all hypotheticals, it was a futile, depressing exercise, serving no purpose other than making her feel worse.
After a time, she heard the door at the top creak open again.
She jolted upright, her heart pounding, her vision fuzzy.
Is it already morning? Could the last of my time have passed that quickly?
Boots stomped down the stairs. Each new step spelled her doom.
As the bootsteps drew closer, the form of a large man appeared. Her body trembled and her heart seized in her chest.
Something landed at her feet with a plop.
A dark hood. More like a sack that might hold apples.
Her eyes moved up to the figure near the bars.
“Put that on, girl. It’s time to go.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
HUGO
The day of Sybil Griswold’s execution was a bright and crisp morning—a respite from the recent rains. The town square of Trier was crowded with throngs of eager and bloodthirsty citizens. Peasants, beggars, and nobles congregated together to witness their one common interest: the execution of the Daughter of the Beast.
Hugo’s first thoughts were tinged with anger.
How could my sister have allowed herself to end up here? How could she let herself be caught? Is she so gullible as to believe any man with a golden coin?
He frowned. Staring out at the angry mob, he recognized the irony of his thoughts. Here he was, his dark robes covering his filthy jerkin and tunic, holding his leather-bound notebook to write down anything that Tomas demanded of him.
I am a fraud . . . I am the gullible one. What am I doing here?
Is there nothing I can do to save my own sister?
He took a seat and put his hands and head between his knees, trying to block out the thunderous crowd. As the morning dragged on, the mob swelled. Huge white crosses had been set up along the perimeter of the square to ward off any evil spirits that might attempt to intervene in the “justice” about to be carried out.
The conflicted thoughts in Hugo’s mind intensified.
How can I just sit here while my sister burns?
I never bargained to be a witch-hunter.
All Hugo ever wanted was to distance himself from his old life, from his juvenile gang of thieves. To learn a trade—one that would give him honest work.
As an orphan and a thief, he had imagined that working the jails might be suitable for his lifestyle. Which is how he met Ulrich—the man who’d tortured his father and sister years before.
What did I ever see in that bastard? How could I let him mold me?
Hugo took a deep breath, holding it in for a moment before blowing out hard.
But I sought him out—Ulrich.
And he warned me from the beginning that his was not a pleasant life. I should have heeded his warning.
Now I am here, staring into the wild eyes of madness itself.
What these people see as entertainment . . . is my sister, dammit! Yet I am powerless and can do nothing.
He looked to his right. Joining him on the raised platform was Tomas, Ludwig von Bergheim, Bishop Binsfeld, and a robed man who he assumed to be Archbishop Schönenberg—the mastermind of this fiasco.
Hugo seethed quietly at Ludwig, sitting so properly and primly, proud of his “accomplishments,” watching the spectacle unfold before him.
A wooden white cross on top of a scaffold was wheeled out through the crowd and delivered to the middle of the square.
Hugo continued staring at Ludwig, who paid him no mind.
She had no one to defend her . . . not even her brother.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, then his eyelids.
“What’s the matter, boy?” Tomas asked, leaning over.
“What do you think is the matter?” Hugo said, speaking through his hands. “My sister is about to be burned before my eyes.”
Tomas leaned back and arched a brow. “I thought you never cared for her? All I’ve heard from you is outrage at her abandonment of you.”
Hugo finally looked up at Tomas with red-rimmed eyes. “It doesn’t mean I wish her dead. She’s my sister.”
Tomas put a hand on Hugo’s knee. “You heard the testimony and evidence—”
“It was complete drivel. She never had a chance.”
Tomas sighed. “Nonetheless, she isn’t going to get out of this. If you’d spoken up during the testimony, our identities would have been revealed. We could be the ones tied to a cross right now.”
“We deserve it,” Hugo muttered. He remembered thinking a similar thought right before shoving Severin off the mountain. Try as he might to forget that night, it just wouldn’t go away.
I’m as much a murderer as Ulrich or Tomas or Heinrich or Gustav or the Lord Inquisitor Adalbert.
And now I’m unable to even save my own kin . . .
He remembered a time when life was so simple.
Work the farms during the day, alongside father. Play in the fields when work was finished. Watch the sun set. Watch the moon rise. Eat and laugh at the dining table with father and Sybil.
Where did it all go wrong?
The crowd hushed as Lord Inquisitor Adalbert marched up the dais steps, parading forth like Jesus giving His Sermon on the Mount.
“We’re here to witness the execution of Sybil Griswold, a young but powerful witch hailing from Bedburg. She is a murderer—”
Hollers and jeers erupted from the crowd.
“Satan’s whore and succubus—”
People lifted rocks and heads of lettuce, shaking them.
“A traitor to Christianity—”
The jeers grew louder, fusing together like rumbling thunder.
Inquisitor Adalbert raised a finger to the sky, silencing the crowd. He knew his power and worked the stage masterfully.
“She is the Daughter of the Beast. For her transgressions, she must die.” He faced the sky and clasped his hands together. “God, please cleanse this evil soul and forgive her trespasses. She will no longer stain your beloved earth with her darkness, so I ask that you admit her spirit to your side. Show her the path of forgiveness.”
As he spoke, the crowd collectively raised their arms.
Hugo watched the mob grow frenzied and shook his head in disgust.
Like wolves in sheep’s clothing . . .
He gazed across the obscene display—the “annointed” on the dais, the nobles and ladies below the platform, the hooded executioner next to the pile of kindling, the cross in the center.
A grand and genuinely evil play.<
br />
I am caught in the company of wolves.
And always have been.
His feet tapped the wooden floorboards. Tomas glanced at him, but Hugo did not look back. Once again the crowd parted like Moses at the Red Sea as two guards led a hooded figure in a white dress toward the cross.
The crowd hissed and booed, then started throwing their lettuce and rocks, forcing the guards to shield themselves with their hands.
Arms crossed, Lord Inquisitor Adalbert sat on his large, straight-backed chair like a king surveying the progress of his carnival.
Hugo could see the devilish grin beneath the man’s mask.
“What will you do?” Tomas asked, noticing Hugo’s shaking hands.
Hugo’s head began swaying. “I can’t let her die like this. She doesn’t deserve it.”
The guards led the hooded woman to the stairs in the center of the square. She did not struggle as Hugo had seen others do during previous executions.
She walked calmly, one foot in front of the other, up the stairs. She allowed her hands to be tied behind her back, then secured against the thick poll of the cross.
She’s resigned to her death.
Hugo gritted his teeth and jumped from his chair. The others on the dais glanced over. Tomas tried to tug Hugo back down but Hugo shoved him away. His heart beat in his throat. The crowd’s thunder was too loud for Hugo to hear whatever Tomas was trying to tell him. With the woman securely fastened, the hooded executioner faced the dais and waited for a nod from the lord inquisitor and the archbishop.
In unison they both nodded.
The executioner took his lit torch and in a fluid motion flung the hood from the prisoner’s head.
Cheers swept through the square.
Hugo covered his eyes with sweaty palms.
“She shows her true form!” a voice in the crowd bellowed.
“The crone is revealed!” chimed another.
Hugo peeked through his hands.
Surely his eyes had deceived him!
An old lady with long white hair stood on the scaffold, tied to the cross.
Hugo stared in disbelief.
The executioner bowed and moved the torch over the kindling.