by Cory Barclay
“You don’t think a hunt will raise alarm with Lord Werner?” Georg asked.
The man faced Georg. “I hope it does! We can claim it as a hunt to mark the beginning of winter and the end of autumn. Isn’t that what this town does every year?”
Georg had to admit that the man was quick on his feet, and he had conviction. He reminded the hunter of . . . himself. Perhaps the man’s idea wasn’t as foolish as it sounded. But Georg still couldn’t help but play devil’s advocate. “So we hunt as many wolves around the country as we can find, and hope that one of them turns into a man once it’s killed?”
The man frowned. “Do you have a better idea, Georg Sieghart?”
Georg raised an eyebrow. This man knows me? He eyed the soldier from head to toe, and after a pause he stretched his arms out wide. “I suppose not.”
More cheers erupted from the crowd.
The man with the eye patch smiled and sauntered over to Georg. “And it’s not a wolf hunt, Georg. It’s a witch hunt.”
“How do you know me, soldier?”
“How could I not?” The man clapped Georg on the shoulder. “Everyone knows Sieghart the Savage. Do you not remember me?” The man frowned, said, “I’m hurt,” but then smiled again and stuck out his hand. “Konrad von Brühl. We fought together when we sacked Westphalia.”
Georg nodded slowly and shook the man’s hand. “A bloody battle,” he said, “but no one calls me Sieghart the Savage anymore, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Fair enough. But it is true—you were a madman on the battlefield . . . and off.”
“That time has passed.” Georg looked to the ground and felt suddenly uncomfortable.
“Will you join us tomorrow?” Konrad asked.
Georg stayed silent for a moment, but finally nodded. “I will, but if you’ll excuse me, I have ale to drink, and I’d rather drink it alone.”
Konrad held his palms up in surrender. “Be the loner,” he said. “You always were.” Then he walked away to tend to his flock of eager comrades.
Georg watched Konrad walk away, then drank three mugs in succession. He turned to the blond barkeep. “You’re a praying man, are you not, Lars?”
Lars washed out an empty mug with a rag, then threw the rag on the table. He shrugged. “I tend Mass when I can, sometimes before I open up here, sometimes after. Why do you ask?”
“Can you tell me anything about the Achterberg family?”
Lars walked toward Georg and stared at the hunter. He rested his elbows on the table, leaned forward, and made a steeple with his hands. “I might,” he said, and then his gaze went to the empty table between them.
It took Georg a moment to realize the implication. He reached into his pocket and slid a couple silver coins across the table.
The barkeep nodded. “What is it you want to know? I’m not sure I know anything that isn’t already public knowledge.”
“Tell me what you can, maybe as far as five days back.”
Lars stroked his chin. “You’re here for that damn investigator, aren’t you? About the young girl’s murder?”
“I’m here on my own accord. Is my money not good here?”
Lars sighed, tucked away the coins, and put his hands on his hips. “Well, what’s there to know? They’re Catholic. Karl was accused of the girl’s murder, and then released. But everyone knows that.”
“What about Karl’s family?”
Lars hesitated and scratched his scalp. “Well . . .” he said, trailing off. “I’ve seen his son at church. He’s an altar boy. A bit too old to be one, if you ask me.” He leaned closer to Georg and whispered, “I can only imagine what that old bishop uses the poor boy for.”
Georg furrowed his brow. “An altar boy? Is there anything you can tell me about the family on the day of Dorothea’s death?”
“Let’s see,” Lars said, taking his time. “Five days ago . . .” he began, and then his face lit up. He eyed the table again.
Georg groaned and slid more coins to the barkeep.
Lars hungrily pocketed the coins and cleared his throat. “Like I said, I either go to church early or late. Sometimes in the earliest hours of the morning I see the altar boy there. It’s as if he sometimes stays the night.” Lars shrugged. “Maybe he’s forbidden from traveling at night, with all these murders taking place.”
Georg started growing impatient. “And on the day of Dorothea’s murder?”
Lars drummed the table with his fingers. “I think . . . ah, yes, five days ago you said? I do remember going for an afternoon prayer, before opening up here. The boy was being dropped off at the church, by his mother.”
Georg leaned forward. “Did the mother stay with him throughout the day?”
“Oh, no,” Lars said, “only for a short while. She left after a quick prayer, but the boy stayed.”
Georg knew he was onto something, but he didn’t know what. It would take a more powerful mind to add up these clues, someone whose “job it is to know.” But he felt a sense of pride and worth just by getting possible clues from the greedy barkeep.
“Much obliged, friend,” Georg said after a pause. He handed another coin to Lars and said, “For your troubles.”
Lars nodded to the hunter, and his eyes gleamed as he palmed the coin.
Georg stood from his stool and left the tavern, heading toward the nearby inn.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DIETER
In the early morning hours, Dieter Nicolaus plodded around the outside grounds of the church, sweeping away leaves that had gathered from the rain the night before. Then he tended the communal gardens, which he’d planted himself.
He was proud of his gardens. On the western wall of the church was a floral arrangement, with vibrant roses, fire lilies, and pink houseleeks. These were rugged flowers that would be tested by a difficult winter. On the eastern side of the church was the vegetable garden, full of beans and rye and wheat, that would help feed the church staff and Bedburg’s poor community.
He smiled at the gardens, and then looked to the sky. It was an overcast morning, and would likely stay gray until the skies turned white with snowfall. Wrapping his robe tight around his body, Dieter made his way to the front of the church. Due to the changing seasons, he expected a big turnout at morning Mass.
He heard a faraway voice, and then turned and looked down the hill from the church’s doors. Strangely, at least ten people were gathered near the base of the hill, surrounding a single man.
The man was thin, robed, and had long hair and a dark beard. He stood atop an overturned fruit crate, and his hands were gesticulating toward the heavens, as if beckoning God.
Curious, Dieter walked down the hill. He frowned when he realized what he was witnessing.
“We are all sinners, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters! Salvation can only come through His word, through righteousness of the Holy Spirit. No man, in his fallen grace, can lead you away from sin—only God can! And not everyone is assured a place in heaven, whatever you may have been told.
“Do not place your faith in the idolatries of Man, and the pope! You cannot buy your atonement, but must work faithfully, through Scripture, and through the teachings of Jesus Christ. But fear not, my brethren, for once you are saved, you will always be saved. Read the teachings of Martin Luther and find the truth. Escape from the road of eternal perdition, which you are sure to travel down if you are led by Man, and not God.”
Dieter felt his ears go hot. It wasn’t that a Protestant was preaching at the base of his church that angered him, but the fact that people were listening to him—Catholic faithful—nodding their heads. And this man was in the open, unafraid, speaking with sincerity and enthusiasm.
Who is this man, and where does he come from? Dieter wondered. Are things so dire that people would listen to him, unafraid of retribution from Lord Werner and Archbishop Ernst? Is Bedburg losing its Catholic faith right under its nose?
Without listening to the man any further, Diete
r shuffled back up the hill and burst into the empty church. He sprinted toward the back of the room, passed the altar, and stormed down the hallway leading to the bishop’s quarters.
He rapped at the door, hard, and a voice from the other side called out, “Hold.”
Dieter shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. He could still hear the preacher’s booming voice from outside.
After an agonizing moment, the voice said, “You may enter,” and Dieter obliged.
Bishop Solomon was at the end of the room, rising from his bed and tightening his robe. The same distraught altar boy from the day before stormed by Dieter as the priest entered.
“We have a problem, my lord,” Dieter said after the boy brushed by him. “There’s a man outside, preaching—”
Bishop Solomon raised his hand. “Yes, yes, I know, my son.” He clasped his hands behind his back and meandered over to his oak desk. He looked down at the table and sifted through a stack of parchments. “There’s a Lutheran preaching in our courtyard.”
Dieter nodded. “Who is he? Where did he come from?”
“Where? I don’t know. Sister Salome tells me that he’s a traveling pastor named Hanns Richter.”
“What’s he doing outside of our church, my lord?” Dieter spoke with a bit more flare than he’d intended.
The bishop slowly looked up from his table. “What do you think he’s doing? He’s undermining our faith, of course.”
“Shouldn’t he be stopped?”
Bishop Solomon nodded. He lifted a piece of parchment from the stack. “We are not to take action until this takes place. It’s the archbishop’s orders,” he said, tapping the yellow paper with his fingers. He held out the parchment to Dieter, who mouthed the words as he read aloud.
It is with a joyous heart that I say, Bishop Solomon of Bedburg, that I will be sending a group of Jesuit priests to aid in your continued quest to rid Bedburg from the scourge of Martin Luther’s and John Calvin’s followers. As their numbers grow and their rebelliousness builds, I ask that you not partake in any ill-thought measures to reproach these sinners—either violent or peaceful—until my men have arrived.
Archbishop Ernst
“So he’s sending us Jesuit missionaries . . .” Dieter’s voice lowered.
Bishop Solomon nodded. “You read the same thing as I, did you not? The Jesuits are highly educated and persuasive. I fear what they might accomplish, and I fear that things will get worse before they get better.”
Dieter handed the letter back to the bishop, scratching his head. “Why do you fear what they might accomplish, my lord? Is this not good news? We will have reinforcements to turn back the tides of rebellion.”
Bishop Solomon sneered and waved a hand at Dieter. “Don’t you see what this is?” he said. “I have worked years to quell any uprisings, nearly since the Cologne War first broke out. I came from Cologne to bring back the rightful faith—and I have succeeded, have I not?”
“You have,” Dieter said, but was still confused.
“And now, at the first sign of trouble, the archbishop wishes to send his men into my domain—the place I’ve worked so hard to maintain. He wishes to take my glory and be the savior of Bedburg.”
Dieter cocked his head and fumbled his words. “But . . . isn’t it God’s glory, Father? That is what you’ve always preached.”
Solomon narrowed his eyes at the young priest. “You are young and naïve, my son. But it’s no matter, there are other things we must attend to. Sister Salome tells me that you’ve had her keep an eye on that barbarous huntsman. Why is that? Is he a threat?”
“Georg Sieghart?” Dieter asked, taken aback by the quick change of subject. “I wanted to find out more about our congregation. There was no ill intent.”
“Salome tells me that his family was killed by the Werewolf of Bedburg, and that he is here seeking revenge.”
Dieter nodded.
“Well, then he is a dangerous man. Revenge is a dangerous motivator.” The bishop began pacing around his table, and then wagged a finger toward Dieter. “I would like you to keep an eye on him a bit longer.”
“Why, my lord?”
“To see if revenge is his true motive,” Bishop Solomon said. “What if he holds deeper secrets? Do you not find it coincidental that these murders began reoccurring as he came into town?”
Dieter scratched the stubble on his chin. “I suppose. But how would we account for the murders that took place before he arrived?”
“Do we really know how long he’s been here?” Solomon asked. “And why are we so sure there’s only one murderer? What if our killer is conspiring with others? Maybe talk to that nosy investigator—he seems to always have an opinion on things.”
Dieter bowed. “Very well, my lord. Is there anything else? I must prepare my sermon.”
“One last thing,” the bishop said. “It’s come to my attention that a large group of men are going on a hunt following Mass—to bid autumn a farewell, and to ‘take matters into their own hands,’ as they see it.”
“What matters, my lord?”
Bishop Solomon shook his head. “Don’t you listen, boy? The same things we’ve been talking about—wolves, beasts, monsters! They want justice for those dead girls, and I don’t blame them. So give them a powerful sermon, Father Nicolaus. Outshine that Lutheran mongrel and give our people something they can cheer for. It is your words that could sway the opinion of our congregation back in the right direction. Don’t let me down, and don’t let that pastor damn our faith’s righteousness.”
“Remember, my friends, that this monster killed two of our own—two of our beautiful faithful! I look in each of your faces and see courage. I see the same courage that Jesus showed in the face of utter diversity.” Dieter paced back and forth on his platform. He made sure to stare at each person’s face as he moved.
He was pleased that Sybil had returned, and she looked beautiful in a blue dress. He passed over her face the longest, then moved on to Investigator Franz, who lingered in the back of the church; to the barkeep Lars; to Georg Sieghart and his new patch-eyed friend; and to everyone else.
“Be the children of God that I know you can be. Salvation is nigh! Bring justice to our dead, and allow their souls peace in Heaven. Show the might of your Catholic faith, and strike down the monsters who would do us harm.” Dieter raised a finger in the air and stopped pacing, turning to face the congregation. “Don’t rely on the false promises and lies of outsiders,” he said, looking around the room for Pastor Hanns Richter. The Lutheran was absent.
“You are stalwart Christians, so remember to be resilient, obedient, and righteous in your resolve. Through your actions and remorse, and His teachings, you will repent and be saved. So go on this hunt with God’s steely virtue in your heart, and don’t slay this beast for your own namesake, but for God’s glory!”
Dieter ended his sermon on a triumphant high note, and was pleased to hear a round of cheers from the room. He could tell the men were antsy and bloodthirsty. Nothing he said would have changed that, so instead of damning the hunt, he encouraged it, encouraged the killings, and thanked God for the people’s bloodlust.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SYBIL
After Father Nicolaus’ sermon, the congregation cleared from the church in a hurry. Every man leaving had dark grins on their faces, eager for the morning hunt. Sybil sat in a pew with her hands folded on her lap, waiting for the church to clear out.
A few people stayed—mainly the women giving confessions to Father Nicolaus, and those too young to hunt. One of them was Sybil’s friend, Martin Achterberg. The altar boy was the first of three people to give penitence, and as he walked out of the confessional, Sybil stood from her pew.
Martin faced the ground, and as he passed by Sybil he looked up with big, tearful eyes. “Hello, Beele,” he said, wiping his wet cheeks.
Sybil smiled warmly. “How are you holding up with everything, Martin?”
The boy remained silent for
a long moment. Finally, he said, “I-I’ve got to go, Beele. It’s nice to see you coming to church.”
As the boy walked past her, Sybil turned to watch him leave the church, and started fidgeting inside a pocket of her dress. As she turned, Investigator Franz came from a corner of the room and stormed past her, toward Father Nicolaus. The investigator pushed past the next parishioner in line and started talking with the priest. Sybil furrowed her brow and crept forward, curious about what they were talking about.
Investigator Franz pointed a finger in the priest’s chest. He seemed angry, or in a hurry, or both. Sybil sat in a pew next to the investigator and priest so she could listen to them talk.
“. . . You need to tell me, priest. What did that boy just confess to?” the investigator asked in a low voice.
The priest raised his arms in surrender. “You know I can’t do that, investigator. His confession is between him and God, and no one else. I can’t, in good conscience, forsake that boy’s trust.”
Investigator Franz stamped his foot on the tiled floor, and kept waving his finger at Father Nicolaus. By his body language, Sybil could tell he was becoming increasingly frustrated.
“That’s horseshit. I am a man of the law, priest. You need to tell me if he confessed to knowing a crime. I am trying to keep this town safe, goddammit!”
Father Nicolaus took a step back. “Please, Herr Franz, this is a house of God. Heed your words! You know that God, and God alone, is above the law. That boy’s repentance is between him and God.” The priest motioned to the elderly woman Heinrich had pushed away. “Now, please, I have confessions to take.”
The investigator growled like an angry dog, spun around, and stomped down the aisle toward the stained-glass doors. When he reached Sybil, he stopped and towered over her. Sybil had her head bowed, as if in prayer, but as the investigator’s shadow loomed over her, she slowly looked up.
“I must speak with you, Frau Griswold.” Investigator Franz had his hands on his hips. “It will only take a moment.”