by Cory Barclay
Dieter saw what was happening and called out from the confessional. “Please, investigator, leave my congregation alone. The girl has done—”
Investigator Franz held up his palm and cut the priest off, without looking in his direction. “Just a few questions. Nothing more.”
Sybil stood and folded her hands in front of her stomach. “Y-yes, my lord?” She glanced at the investigator’s narrow nose and thin mustache, and her face burned.
“Your father denied the marriage between yourself and that altar boy who just walked by you, correct?”
“Who, Martin?” Sybil said.
“I saw you speak with him as he walked by. So you have some sort of relationship with him, correct?”
Sybil nodded sheepishly. “What are you getting at, if I may ask, my lord?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” the investigator snapped. He hunched over and put his hands on his knees, so that he was eye level with Sybil.
The investigator’s bruised face was only inches from hers, and Sybil could feel his warm, stale breath on her cheeks. His dark eyes darted around her face, as if he were searching her soul, trying to find something. It took all of Sybil’s nerves to keep from recoiling from the man.
“Despite the failed marriage,” Heinrich said at last, “did you have feelings for Martin?”
“What do you—”
“Did you love him?”
Sybil finally did recoil from the man’s gaze, and nearly tripped on herself as she took a step back. Her cheeks flushed.
“W-what? No! Martin is just a friend of mine.”
Investigator Franz studied her for a long moment, and then stood to his full height. “Dorothea Gabler was your friend as well, correct?”
Sybil nodded.
“And she was a friend of Martin’s, too?”
“Yes,” Sybil said, “we were all friends.”
“What was their relationship like? They were a bit younger than you—closer in age to each other—correct?”
Sybil’s eyes went to the floor and she hesitated.
“Frau Griswold?” Heinrich probed.
Sybil’s face shot up, and her eyebrows were scrunched. She narrowed her gaze at the investigator. “It was no secret that Dorothea and Martin had feelings for one another,” she said. “I wanted them to be happy. I don’t care about our difference in ages. And now poor Martin seems so sad! It’s heartbreaking.”
Sybil sniffled and wiped her nose with her forearm.
The investigator waited for a moment, and then reached into his tunic and came out with a piece of parchment and a quill. He wrote something in it, and then patted Sybil on the shoulder. “Thank you for your cooperation, Frau Griswold,” he said, and then turned and took off at a brisk pace toward the exit of the church.
Just then, Father Nicolaus approached Sybil and put his hands gently on her arms. He shook his head. “What did that insufferable man say to you, my dear?”
“I-it’s nothing, Father. Nothing important.”
“Please, call me Dieter.” The priest smiled and put his palm forward. “Come, will you walk with me?”
Sybil nodded, gave her best half-smile, and took the priest’s hand. They sauntered down the aisle and through the stained-glass doors, out into a crisp morning full of bright, white clouds that stretched to the horizon. From the hill of the church, the day seemed so peaceful, despite the howling men that were headed toward the town’s gates.
Dieter led Sybil to the western side of the church, where they came upon a luscious grove of flowers that lined the church wall.
Sybil couldn’t help but smile, but it was a sad smile. She stared at the lilies and roses and poinsettias, their colors vibrant and luminous, and she faced the priest.
“Did you do all of this?”
Dieter nodded. “There’s a vegetable garden on the other side of the church, too.” Pride echoed in his voice. He watched Sybil lean in to the roses and smell them, but when she came away from them, her bottom lip was trembling.
Dieter frowned and said, “Do you not like them?”
Sybil shook her head. “N-no, it’s not that. They’re stunning. It’s just that . . . it reminds me of my mother. My mother had rosebushes, and I loved them as a child. She died giving birth to my brother, Hugo, and my father let the roses die with her. He said that there was better use of the land . . .” Sybil’s voice trailed off, and she sniffled again.
Dieter put a hand on her back. “I’m so sorry, Beele, I did not know. It’s a shame that such beautiful things can bring back such painful memories.”
Sybil faced the priest with red-rimmed eyes, but she was smiling. “Not painful memories . . . bittersweet ones. And as long as these flowers can add a little brightness to people during these dark times, that makes me happy.”
Sybil started thinking about how Father Nicolaus had called her ‘Beele,’ her nickname that was only used by her friends and family. She started to blush, and then said, “Oh, I almost forgot! I have something for you.” She grinned and rummaged through the front pocket of her dress. When she lifted her hand, she held an amulet. The amulet was a pair of wooden crosses, nestled side-by-side, hanging on a thin brown thread. She handed it to the priest, whose mouth was slightly agape. “I made it,” she said, “from oak.”
Dieter opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He gently took the necklace, clasped his hands around it, and brought it to his chest, over his heart.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s the most precious gift I’ve ever received,” he finally said. “Honestly.”
Sybil smiled from ear to ear, and dimples formed on her cheeks. “It’s to show that, even though people may have different beliefs and values, all Christians should be able to get along.” She shrugged. “That’s what I think, anyway.”
“You are wise beyond your years, my dear. I love it. But why make this for me?”
Sybil shrugged. “I was hoping for a favor in return.”
Dieter stared at the girl’s fair face, and noticed that the innocence he’d come to love was replaced by a mischievous grin. “Wise . . . and cunning,” he said. “Name it.”
“I was hoping that you could teach me to read and write.”
The priest hesitated. “What would your father think of that?”
“He doesn’t need to know. You could teach me at the church, or somewhere else. It could be our secret.”
Dieter grimaced. “I don’t know, Bee—”
As if on cue, a booming voice from the front of the church reverberated through the hillside. “Sybil!” it called.
“Uh oh,” Sybil said.
Peter Griswold rounded the corner of the church and growled. “What the hell are you doing with my daughter, priest?”
Dieter managed to clasp the amulet in his hands, behind his back, just before Peter noticed. “I was showing Sybil my gardens, Herr Griswold.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed. “I told you to stay away from her,” he said, tugging at his dark beard. Then he faced Sybil and said, “And I told you the same, young lady. Let’s go. We have a visitor, and you’re going to help cook.” He turned and stomped away.
Sybil took one last look at Dieter, and then started to leave.
Before she could get far, Dieter took her arm and leaned in close. “Yes,” he whispered in her ear, “I’ll do it. I’ll teach you.”
Sybil sat at the dining table with her brother, her father, and their guest, Pastor Hanns Richter. The man was as thin as a twig, with long brown hair and a beard that made him resemble Jesus Christ, which Sybil assumed was intentional. She glanced at her steaming bowl of potatoes and eggs, and then turned her gaze to the Lutheran pastor.
“You aren’t to be seen at that church again, Sybil,” Peter said, ripping off a chunk of bread from his plate. “Do you understand? I won’t have you disobey me again.”
Sybil looked back down at her plate and nodded meekly. “Yes, sir.”
“Teenage angst,” Pastor Rich
ter said, and then eyed Peter. “It often leads to disobedience. If I were you—”
“And who are you, pastor? You’re not my father,” Sybil spat. She frowned at the holy man. “And isn’t it dangerous to be seen with you?”
Peter paused with his bread just inches from his open mouth. He threw the bread down onto his plate, and said, “By God, did I not teach you manners, girl? Hanns is our guest, and my friend. You won’t speak to him that way.” He shook his head and pushed his plate away. “In fact, take your food and go to your room. You too, Hugo.”
Sybil and Hugo began to protest, but Peter held up his palm and turned away from them. The two children slid off their chairs and disappeared into Sybil’s room.
Inside, Sybil held her ear against the door, ignoring her bowl of food.
“You aren’t supposed to eavesdrop, Beele. Father told you that already,” Hugo said.
Sybil put her index finger up to her lips. “Shh,” she said.
The doors in the house were paper thin, something Peter didn’t realize.
Pastor Hanns Richter spoke first. “It’s been four years since Archbishop Gebhard was deposed by Ernst, in Cologne. Ever since, our people have lived in fear, Peter. Once Ernst replaced Lord Adolf with the Catholic Lord Werner, here in Bedburg, I knew I’d have to take action. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to arrive.
“The battle rages, Peter, in every principality in Germany. We haven’t lost. Even Queen Elizabeth of England has given our people financial support. The Catholics have Spain, and King Philip, however, and that is worrisome. But Philip is still embattled with the Dutch, which gives us an opportunity around Cologne. It’s a small window, but it’s there. All eyes are focused on this pivotal moment in history, Peter, and by God’s strength, we will come out the victors.”
“Amen,” Peter said. “But what are you getting at, Hanns? Is the fight coming here, to Bedburg?”
“I’m afraid there’s a strong possibility that it is,” Hanns said. “But I am here now, so we don’t have to hide like rats in a cellar. Enough is enough. I will vocalize our faith, we will join our English allies, and we will take back our rightful outposts and cities.”
“Tread lightly, my friend,” Peter said. “It is still dangerous for us. Bedburg Castle is a garrison for Catholic soldiers. Lord Werner is no tyrant, but he will only be pushed so far. If our brothers and sisters come out of hiding now, I fear that it will result in terrible losses.”
“Yes, but we must gain morale. We are in hiding, but we can’t be for long. From Bavaria to Münster, Lutherans are fighting—in every corner of the Roman Empire. We’ve even gained alliance with the Calvinists in some regions. It’s only a matter of time before the fight comes here. But I need your help, Peter.”
Sybil heard her father sigh loudly.
“I am a simple farmer, Hanns—”
“You have influence with the Bedburg Protestants, my friend. They hold you in high regard.”
“Even so, I’m no fighter. I don’t wish to participate in violence. I am simply trying to live my life the best I can, for me and my children.”
“So you would be overrun, living your life in fear for the rest of your days? That pains me to hear, Peter.”
“I’m sorry,” Peter said, sounding tired and defeated. “But there are people here who share your vision, Hanns. I can introduce you to them. Perhaps you can stir their emotions like you did in front of the church this morning.”
“Your aid would be greatly appreciated, my friend,” the pastor said. “That is all I can ask. If you could introduce me to these people, I would be indebted to you.”
“I can introduce you tonight.”
“Thank you. You are a good man, Peter Griswold.”
Sybil leaned her back against the door and slid to the ground. She tucked her knees into her chest and thought, What are you getting yourself into, father?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HEINRICH
Heinrich felt a tingle run down his spine. His leads were starting to add up, and he felt hot on whatever trail he was headed down. Sybil Griswold had given the investigator more than she knew: She corroborated Martin Achterberg’s story and confirmed that he and Dorothea Gabler had intimate feelings for one another.
The night before, Georg Sieghart had given Heinrich more information. Martin, though fourteen years of age, was Bishop Solomon’s chief altar boy, and he often stayed long hours at the church, including the day of Dorothea’s murder. Martin’s mother had dropped the boy off and then left.
Heinrich played the newest timeline in his head. After leaving Sybil Griswold’s house, Dorothea went to Martin Achterberg’s, hoping to meet with the boy. But Martin’s father was the only person there.
Heinrich tapped his chin. He let Sybil leave his sight, and then sped out of the church, trying to chase down Martin, who had hurried out after giving Father Nicolaus his confession.
Martin’s confession is the key piece to this puzzle, Heinrich thought. I can feel it.
He pushed through the stained-glass doorway with both hands, and Georg Sieghart was waiting outside.
The hunter startled Heinrich. “Where are you going in such a rush, investigator? Are you not joining the rest of the men on the hunt?”
Heinrich rolled his eyes. “You barbarians have your fun,” he said. “I have leads to follow.” The investigator squinted and looked over Georg’s shoulder, where a large man with a patch over his left eye was standing. Heinrich had seen the man sitting next to Georg during Father Nicolaus’ sermon, but other than that, he’d never seen him before. The investigator gave Georg a curt nod, and then took off down the hill.
“Investigator!”
The voice came from behind Heinrich, as he reached the bottom of the hill. Frustrated and annoyed, Heinrich spun around and faced his guardsman, Tomas.
Heinrich sighed. “Not now, Tomas, I have matters that need taking care of.”
“But sir, Lord Werner has summoned you.”
The investigator grunted. “I said not now. The lord will have to wait.”
Tomas readjusted the helmet on his head. “Where are you going? I’m supposed to accompany you until you go to the castle.”
Heinrich cleared his throat and was about to say something. Then he paused and narrowed his eyes at the guard. “Fine then, come, come,” he said, waving Tomas forward.
The two made their way through the winding dirt roads of Bedburg, and passed by the center marketplace. All the while, Heinrich’s eyes darted around buildings and wagons and people. At the southern end of town, he finally noticed Martin Achterberg in the distance, hurrying toward the farmlands outside Bedburg’s walls.
“Halt, boy!” Heinrich called out.
Martin’s body went taut and he froze in his tracks. Then he decided to keep walking, as if he hadn’t heard the voice calling his name.
“I said stop, boy, or I’ll have you arrested!” Heinrich shouted.
The threat was enough to make Martin turn around. His face was red and his eyes were wide open.
Heinrich put his hands on his hips as he neared the boy. An unbearable stench caused him to gag, and he realized they were standing next to the town’s leather tanner. “I have a few questions to ask you, Herr Achterberg, concerning Dorothea Gabler.”
“I’ve told you everything I know, my lord,” Martin said.
Heinrich frowned and looked down his nose at the boy, trying to seem as authoritative as possible. “I think you’re lying,” he said, “and I hate liars. At the very least, I think you’re keeping things from me, which is also bad, if not worse.”
The boy started trembling like a nervous wreck. “What do you mean, sir? I-I’m not keeping anything from you.”
Heinrich crossed his hands over his chest and slowly started pacing in front of the boy. It was, of course, another tactic designed to scare Martin. “Yesterday, when I was at your estate and mentioned that Dorothea had come to your house the day of her murder, you seemed . . . surprised.�
� With that last word, Heinrich stopped in his tracks and faced Martin.
The boy looked at the ground and started shaking his head profusely. “N-no, no, I wasn’t surprised.”
The investigator leaned forward and with one finger he lifted Martin’s face by his chin, so they were looking eye to eye. “I said I don’t like liars, Martin. You didn’t know Dorothea had been by your house . . . because you were at the church, with Bishop Solomon.”
Martin started fidgeting, turned his head away from Heinrich’s hand, and opened his mouth.
“Think carefully about your next words, Martin,” Heinrich said.
The boy kept shaking his head, and then his shoulders slumped and he sighed. “No . . . I didn’t know she had come.” He looked up at the investigator, and the rims of his eyes were wet. “Why would my parents keep that from me? How did you know I was with the bishop?”
“It’s my job to know,” Heinrich said. He bobbed his head from left to right, debating if he should clarify what he meant. “And I have witnesses who place you at the church.” The investigator coughed and cleared his throat, and then put his hands behind his back. “Your father, Karl, was the only one present at your house when Dorothea arrived.” Martin started to open his mouth again, but Heinrich cut him off. “I know that because your mother took you to church.”
Martin slowly nodded. “I guess so,” he said with a meek voice.
Heinrich wagged a finger in Martin’s face. “No, son, I know so.” Then the investigator raised his voice and said, “And just what do you think your mother found upon her return to your estate?”
Martin shrugged and took a step back.
“I’ll tell you, Martin. Your mother found your father and Dorothea alone.” Then Heinirch said, “In bed, perhaps?” to test the boy’s reaction.
The tears kept welling in Martin’s eyes. “No! That’s not—that can’t be true!” he shouted, and started clenching his fists.
Heinrich took a step back, somewhat alarmed by the boy’s sudden outburst. He stifled a smile because his claim had the effect he desired. Martin was rattled. He would say anything. And the fact that he had responded so angrily gave Heinrich all the firepower he needed. The investigator felt a tinge of remorse for picking on such a youngling, but that remorse quickly faded.