by Cory Barclay
Of course, Dieter thought, nodding slowly. The bishop’s using his fancy for Martin to proclaim the boy’s innocence, even during his own mother’s execution. Perhaps this is why the bishop wanted to give the speech in the first place.
“It isn’t true! None of it is true!” Bertrude wailed. “I killed no one! I seduced no one!”
But the people weren’t listening. The bloodthirst of the crowd was absolute and unrelenting. Nothing could sway the mass opinion that she was evil—a true instrument of the Devil.
“Repent, and let the power of Christ save your soul!” the bishop screamed. “You cannot save your body, but you can save your spirit! You can save the soul of your son! Do not bring your son with you into the depths of the abyss, witch!”
Bertrude would not give up. Her cries became inaudible, and she was racked with heaving sobs. Before long, the throng of watchers grew restless.
“Strip her, and show us the Witch’s Mark! Show us the Mark of Satan!” Bishop Solomon announced.
The executioner walked up to Bertrude and tore off her filthy gown, exposing her large, naked body. He pointed to her collarbone, where a big black mark that looked like a mole—or a burn—was visible.
The crowd gasped, and their frenzy grew louder.
“Then let it be done,” the bishop said, “and let your cursed ways die with your body and your soul.”
Solomon nodded, and Ulrich the executioner produced a burning torch. The flames whistled and licked at the rainy sky, sending clouds of steam billowing into the air.
The executioner touched the corners of the kindling, and within moments the flames were at the feet of Bertrude. The woman cried out in agony and looked to the sky as the acrid smell of burning flesh met with the crisp rain.
As the fire engulfed her body and the cross, her bloodcurdling cries could be heard throughout Bedburg, ricocheting off buildings. As her skin blackened, her cries turned to wheezing gasps, and the echoes of her howling could still be heard. The crowd loved it. They cheered and hollered and clapped.
But Father Dieter Nicolaus bowed his head and turned away, before the ghastly image could become tattooed on his mind for eternity.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SYBIL
Sybil’s eyes were clenched shut throughout the execution. As she gripped her father by the waist, tears trickled down her cheeks. Peter put his arm around her and brought her close. After the execution, he pushed her to arm’s-length and she opened her eyes and stared at his stern face.
“That woman was evil, Beele. Her punishment was just. It’s okay to cry, but know that her soul might be saved in the afterlife,” Peter said.
Sybil shook her head and wiped the tears from her face. “That was awful, father! How can you say those things when you barely knew the woman?” She stole a glance to her side and saw the embers of Bertrude’s corpse. She quickly regretted looking. The body was a crisp, blackened shell. “She was Martin’s mother,” Sybil muttered. “We knew the Achterbergs, and now that family is gone.”
“That is why you must be careful in everything you do, Beele. We aren’t safe in this town—do you see that now?”
“But the Achterbergs were Catholics! If they aren’t safe here, who is?”
Peter stood to his full height and looked away from his daughter. Sybil followed his eyes. Two men approached. One of the men was the tall, lanky magistrate who had arbitrated the execution, Baron Ludwig von Bergheim. Beside him was a younger, handsome man who had twitchy eyes and a perpetual scowl on his face. The young man had fair hair and wore the linen regalia of a nobleman.
Peter bowed to the men as they approached, while Sybil stared back and forth from her father, to the nobles, and back to Peter again.
“Herr Peter Griswold,” Baron Ludwig said, holding out his hand. Sybil expected her father to shake the man’s hand, but was shocked when Peter bent and kissed his knuckle.
How does father know such esteemed men?
“Lord, it is my honor. That was a fine execution,” Peter said.
Ludwig nodded. “May her wretched soul be damned.” The baron looked down his beaked nose at Sybil. “Is this the girl?”
“It is,” Peter said. “This is my daughter, Sybil. Beautiful, is she not?”
“Pretty, at best,” the shorter man said. He had a rather high-pitched voice, and Sybil realized he was probably close to the same age as she was.
Peter eyed the noble boy with a frown, and then turned back to the baron. “Will you need a place to sup before the ball, my lord?”
If Sybil was confused before by the exchange, now she was absolutely flabbergasted. What ball? What is going on?
Baron Bergheim made a hoarse sound in his throat, somewhere between a cough and a chuckle, but from someone who clearly hadn’t chuckled much in his life. “No, no, I’m sure Lord Werner will provide us with more . . . adequate means.”
“Of course,” Peter said, bowing his head. He gritted his teeth while he faced the ground. “My apologies.”
“Then we will be off,” Ludwig said. He turned to leave with the young man and waved nonchalantly at Peter and Sybil. Before he got too far, he shouted over his shoulder, “Make sure she is dressed appropriately, Herr Griswold. That garish gown simply won’t do.”
“Of course, my lord,” Peter said. He crossed his arms over his chest as he and Sybil watched the two noblemen saunter away, into the parting crowd.
Peter ducked and barely avoided the clay mug as it flew over his head and smashed into the wall behind him. “Stop this nonsense, Beele!”
Sybil was already reaching for another plate. “You can’t make me go, father! It’s not fair!”
Although Sybil was angry that her father was forcing her to go to a ball, she was angrier that she’d miss her nightly meeting with Dieter.
“Johannes von Bergheim is a nobleman’s son, Sybil. He has power and influence, and one day will inherit his father’s entire wealth,” Peter said, throwing up his arms. “It will be fun!”
“Fun?” Sybil screeched, as if her father had never uttered the word before. “They talked about me like I wasn’t even there. I won’t be seen in the presence of that boy for a single minute!”
Peter ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Nobles weren’t raised like us, dear. Wouldn’t you like to be pampered for once? Wouldn’t you like to own land and power—things that I can never give you? I may have some money, but that is nothing compared to what these people can provide. I’m trying to help our family, Beele.”
“You can’t force me to love someone,” Sybil said. She put her hands on her hips and stuck out her chin.
Peter’s mouth fell open and he was momentarily mute. “Love?” he said. “You think this is about love? Don’t be naïve, girl, and stop thinking only about yourself. What about your brother? This is to help our family cement our legacy, for years to come.”
As it was, Hugo was locked away in his room. Sybil imagined the nervous boy was hiding with his head between his legs, scared at the arguing between his father and his sister.
Legacy . . . years to come . . . Sybil’s eyes opened wide. “Wait, wait. Do you expect me to . . . marry that sod?”
Peter cleared his throat and looked away. “If all goes well . . .” he muttered and trailed off.
Sybil threw the clay plate in her hand and Peter dodged to the side, avoiding the object as it exploded into fragments behind him.
“I’ll never do it!” Sybil said. She crossed her arms. “I could never love such a pig.”
“You don’t even know the man! Give him a chance, Beele.”
“I’ve seen men like him before, father. He’s the kind of man you warned me about. They’re all the same, remember?”
Peter smiled stiffly and tried to take a different approach. “Wouldn’t you like to be a lady of the court? Our family could have real influence—something that has never been possible! You could have your own handmaidens and servants, with fluffed pillows and silk sheets on your bed.”
Sybil would not relent. She closed her eyes, arms still crossed, and breathed heavily.
Peter’s smile turned into a snarl. “Stop being so selfish, girl!”
Sybil was about to open her mouth to continue fighting, but then Peter dashed in front of her and had a finger pointed at her face. “I’ll hear no more of this,” he growled. “You are my daughter and I am your father. This is bigger than yourself, and hopefully one day you will see that. If not, then I am ashamed to say I’ve raised you wrong.”
Sybil tried to stay strong, but her bottom lip began to quiver and she could feel the tears start to build—a common occurrence in the recent days.
Peter must have regretted his sudden outburst, because he kneeled in front of her and grabbed her small hands with his one big hand. His voice softened. “Do this for your family, Beele. See what it’s like. That’s all I ask. You’ve told me that you’re not a child anymore—that you’re a woman. Well, then be strong and prove it.”
Bedburg’s nobility didn’t host ballroom celebrations often, especially during winter. Only the rich and affluent—and their dates—were welcome. Most of the townsfolk lived quiet lives, were too poor to afford fine dresses and suits, and were too busy to partake in the frivolities of court life.
The official occasion was to celebrate the successful hunt from the day before. Lord Werner, not wanting to be outdone or appear uninformed, retroactively decided to host the event to show his support of the hunt—a hunt he’d never known was happening.
The ball was a means to quell the hysteria overtaking Bedburg, and to give the people a night of laughter, drink, and dance.
Sybil was certain she wouldn’t partake in any laughing, drinking, or dancing. She wore the only fine thing owned by her father: a silk, purple gown that had belonged to her mother. A horse-drawn carriage picked her up from her estate and took her to Castle Bedburg. Other girls were in the carriage—daughters of lords and officials—and they all frowned, scoffed, and turned their noses at her.
Sybil longed to rip off her gown and flee to the Achterberg’s cold, dark house, where she knew Dieter waited for her.
The carriage let Sybil and the other girls off at the front gates of the castle. She’d never been inside, or even seen the castle, and it was an imposing sight. Torches lit with dancing, colorful flames brightened a carpeted walkway. The noblewomen giggled as they passed by the blue, green, and yellow flames, and made their way to the castle’s front doors.
Sybil stayed in the shadows of the noblewomen. She stared up at the spires and then turned and looked over her shoulder, at the carriage, and debated whether to quit the ball before it even started.
Before she could make up her mind, a high-pitched voice rang out. “Frau Griswold!”
Johannes von Bergheim stood in the large doorways of the castle. He wore a bright turquoise tunic with folded cuffs. His hair was oiled and slicked back. He smiled at Sybil with a snide look, as if to say, No need to tell me how great I look, I already know.
Sybil thought he looked ridiculous.
The nobleman walked up to Sybil and looked at her from head to toe, like she was a steak dinner that wasn’t quite cooked right. He bobbed his head from side to side, and said, “I suppose that will do. Come.” Then he took her arm in his and walked to the front of the castle.
Inside, Sybil could feel other girls staring and glaring at her. She assumed Johannes must have been somewhat of a prize, and that the girls were perplexed as to why his arm was entwined with a farm girl’s arm. It must have been beyond their understanding, Sybil figured, as it was beyond her own.
Does father actually know these people?
“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to all the stares,” Johannes said, apparently reading her mind. “It happens every time I attend court.”
Sybil turned away from the nobleman and rolled her eyes. “Is that so, my lord?”
“Don’t call me ‘my lord.’ I’m not a lord until my father croaks. Herr Bergheim will suffice.”
Sybil nodded, and they continued to stroll past a few hallways and into a large ballroom. The ballroom was decorated with lights, flowers, a table of cakes and desserts, and a group of musicians.
Sybil couldn’t believe how extravagant the entire affair looked. Lord Werner must have gone bankrupt putting this together.
In the center of the room was a wide, circular platform, shielded on all sides by a red curtain. Groups of well-dressed nobles mingled with each other in cliques of three or four. Lord Werner was in a corner of the room, dressed in a flowing gold robe that was ridiculously oversized for his small frame. He held the attention of six nobles and regaled them with a tale that seemed to require wild, lavish hand gestures.
Johannes led Sybil to a large table full of appetizers—shrimp, fruit, fine bread, cakes, wine, and other edibles Sybil didn’t recognize. She felt awkward and out of place, and could still feel the eyes boring down on her from all sides.
She wondered, fleetingly, what she would become if she married this dud of a man. Then she shook the thought from her head and frowned as she imagined Dieter alone in that cold room with the bloodstained floorboards, waiting for her.
“Eat something,” Johannes ordered, throwing a piece of shrimp in his mouth. “You could use it—you’re thinner than a tree branch.”
“I’m not too hungry, my lord—er, Herr Bergheim.”
Johannes shrugged. “Fine. Want to dance?”
“I don’t know how,” Sybil said. “And . . . there’s no music.”
Johannes scoffed and shook his head. “You are pretty, girl, but your attitude is quite insufferable. I suppose that comes from being raised on a farm, with the animals.”
Sybil felt her cheeks grow red with anger, and she turned away so Johannes couldn't see her scowl. As she turned, she faced a tall, elegant woman with a gown that pushed her breasts so far out that Sybil had to back into Johannes, lest she be smothered by the woman’s bosom.
“I still don’t see what father will gain from an alliance with your father, but I suppose there’s a certain freshness to you . . .” Johannes trailed off as Sybil accidentally stepped on his foot. “Dammit, girl, watch where—” and then his eyes moved and he was looking at the tall noblewoman who had approached. He frowned and said, “Ah, Margreth . . . you’re here.”
The buxom noblewoman put her white-gloved hands on her hips. She flipped her long, brown hair to one side, revealing a small mole on her thin neck. Despite the noblewoman’s extravagant gown and hair and physique, Sybil couldn’t take her eyes away from the woman’s breasts, which were at eye level.
Then the woman caught Sybil’s stare and Sybil’s cheeks went beet-red. “M-my apologies,” she stammered, her eyes darting to the red curtain in the center of the room.
“Who’s the child, Johannes?” the noblewoman asked in a sultry voice.
Johannes motioned to Sybil, and then to the noblewoman. “Sybil Griswold, this is Margreth Baumgartner, the daughter of some lord here in town.” Johannes craned his neck. “What is it your father does again, Margreth?”
Margreth frowned and crossed her arms under her ample chest. “Don’t be an ass, boy.”
Johannes smiled for the first time, and it wasn’t a genuine or happy smile. “Ah, right, the daughter of the garrison commander.” He leaned closer to Sybil and said, just loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, “She wants to marry me, but doesn’t realize my father could buy her father’s entire estate. That, and she’s too old for me.” The nobleman looked back at Margreth with a self-indulgent grin.
Somehow, Margreth managed to frown even more severely, and her lips took the shape of a horseshoe.
Sybil had to keep herself from giggling. This is how the nobles talk to each other? With no respect . . . just . . . pretentiousness and scorn?
She decided right then that her original assessment was correct: all nobles were the same. If this foul banter is supposed to impress me . . . well . . . it’s doing quite the opposite.
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“She’s wanted my seed for years,” Johannes continued. “But look at that face.”
This time Margreth’s mouth actually dropped open, and she looked astonished. “By God, Johannes, you really are such a little shit. Don’t forget that one time you were so drunk we—”
Johannes raised his hand close to her face and looked away. “I did forget, Margreth. I was drunk.”
Margreth was about to retort, but then a spoon tapped on a wineglass and everyone turned toward the noise. Lord Werner stood in the center of the room, next to the raised platform and red curtain.
The little lord waved his hands and took an exaggerated bow. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. And let us all thank Baron Ludwig von Bergheim for his assistance in putting this ball together.”
Eyes turned toward Johannes, since Ludwig—his father—wasn’t present. Johannes’ face held all the glib satisfaction of a toddler who’d taken his first successful shit without soiling himself.
Ah, so the magistrate put this on. All the staring eyes make sense now, but what is the baron’s connection with Lord Werner . . . and with my father?
Lord Werner continued. “We are gathered tonight to celebrate the hunt from yesterday, and, more importantly, the work of a single huntsman. We believe he is responsible for finding . . . well, I’ll just show you! Without further ado, let your hearts be warmed and your minds terrified! I give you, Georg Sieghart and the Werewolf of Bedburg!”
The red curtain plummeted to the ground. In the center of the stage stood the large hunter Sybil had seen before, as well as a huge, stuffed black wolf with fiery red eyes and excessively long claws. The wolf was made to look like it was lunging and snarling at a person.
The entire room of nobles gasped in unison. Sybil heard more than a few wineglasses shatter on the floor. One noblewoman even fainted, falling to the ground with a thud.
Sybil narrowed her eyes. If this is the Werewolf of Bedburg . . . then why in the world did Bertrude Achterberg have to die? Are people so quick to forget that she was burned alive just this morning?