Devil in the Countryside

by Cory Barclay

  “Beele, are you all right? What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Beele?” Peter said, coming to stand next to Dieter. “Only her friends and family call her that.”

  Dieter glanced at Peter, and then turned back to Sybil. “I know that.”

  “Father,” Beele said, sniffling, “please give us privacy.”

  Peter sighed, crossed his arms over his chest, and then slowly nodded and ambled out of the room. He closed the door behind him.

  “I missed you so much,” Dieter whispered to Sybil. “When you didn’t show up for today’s Mass, I grew worried.”

  “I’ve been sick,” Sybil said, and then tried her best to smile. “But I’ve missed you, too.”

  There was a lull in the conversation as the two just stared at each other. Sybil seemed on the verge of tears, and she finally said, “Oh, Dieter, I’m so sorry. I am to move with Lord Johannes, and to become his bride.”

  Dieter shook his head furiously. “That can’t be. I won’t let that happen.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” Sybil said. “It’s already been decided.”

  Dieter closed his eyes, and then he ran a hand through Sybil’s damp hair. When he opened his eyes, he was on the verge of tears, just like Sybil.

  Sybil leaned forward and touched her forehead to Dieter’s. “There’s something else,” she whispered. “But you must promise to keep it a secret from my father.”

  Dieter wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “Of course, you can tell me anything.”

  Sybil opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. She stammered, blinked a few times, and then decided to just blurt it out. “My cycle is very late.”

  The priest looked confused as he craned his neck. Then he took on a look of revelation, and his eyes opened wide. “You mean . . .”

  Sybil nodded, half-smiling. “I believe I’m with child.”

  “My God!” Dieter shouted, much too loud. He frowned, then smiled, and then seemed like he didn’t know what to do with his mouth. He stood from the bed, and his eyes took on a distant look. As he stared through Sybil, his lips slowly turned into a straight line. “The sign . . .” he muttered.

  “What? What sign?”

  “Through tragedy or epiphany,” Dieter said, still with a faraway look in his eyes. After a long moment, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Beele. I must go do something. It will benefit both of us!” Dieter sounded ecstatic and nervous, like Sybil had never seen him before.

  “I’ll find a way to stop that damn noble brat,” he said.

  “W-wait, Dieter, there’s something else.”

  But Dieter was already halfway to the door, bubbling excitedly. He was nearly skipping and hopping. “Hold that thought, Beele! I’ll return shortly. Everything will be fine!”

  Peter was standing on the other side of the door with his arms over his chest. He grunted as Dieter nearly bumped into him. The priest nodded to Peter and said, “Herr Griswold,” and then rushed out of the house.

  Once he was gone, Sybil broke down and started bawling. She brought her knees to her chest and put her head in her hands as the tears flowed. She felt weak, like she’d betrayed Dieter’s trust.

  Peter walked into the room and watched his daughter weep. “So, you couldn’t tell him about your escapades with Johannes?”

  Sybil shook her head, and lifted it from her knees. “It’s not that, father. You don’t understand.”

  “I think I understand quite perfectly,” he said, frowning. “What I don’t understand, is how you could know so soon that you’re pregnant. And why would a priest be happy about that?”

  “You were eavesdropping?” Sybil shouted, smudging her tears on her red face.

  “We can both play that game, Beele.” Peter cocked his head. “But why are you so sad? Shouldn’t this be a joyous occasion?”

  Sybil shook her head. “I said you don’t understand.”

  Peter pointed a finger toward the roof. “Ah, your humors are unbalanced. Right. I saw this with your mother.”

  Sybil was shaking her head profusely. “Oh, stop it!” More tears dripped down her face. “Don’t you get it? What Baron Bergheim and the physician told you? Are you that blind?”

  Peter tilted his head as he walked to the side of her bed. “Make me understand, Beele. I can’t stand to see you like this.”

  “I . . .” Sybil began, but couldn’t continue.

  Peter leaned closer to his daughter and nudged his chin forward, trying to coax the words from her. “You . . .”

  “I was violated!” Sybil shouted at last, able to see clearly for the first time since she’d woken. She saw past the embarrassment and the guilt and the shame. “That bastard you would have me marry, father! He defiled me!”

  PART III

  The Werewolf of Bedburg

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  HEINRICH

  1589 – Bedburg, Electorate of Cologne

  A week passed in relative quiet, bringing strong snowfall and a new year. People stayed huddled in their homes, hoping that their autumn yields would outlast the cold winter.

  Investigator Heinrich Franz stood in the opulent throne room of Lord Werner. Rays of sunlight gushed in through the stained-glass windows, brightening the room with colors of green, purple, and yellow.

  “We must fortify the town, my lord,” Heinrich urged.

  The small lord was flustered and red-faced. “Don’t you think I know that, Herr Franz?” He thrust a thin finger in Heinrich’s direction. “As much as I’ve tried to keep things calm, your drunk, loud-mouthed friend has been scaring the townsfolk all week!”

  Dammit, Georg, Heinrich thought. He massaged his temples and said, “Then why don’t you do anything?”

  Lord Werner grabbed a piece of paper from his desk and shoved it in Heinrich’s face. “Do you know what this is?”

  Heinrich stepped back to focus on the writing, but Lord Werner snatched the paper away before Heinrich could read it.

  “This is a letter I received two days ago from Archbishop Ernst. He’s sending an army from Cologne, to aid us. He doesn’t want us to make any actions against the Protestants until the army arrives. There’s nothing I can do.” The lord threw up his arms and looked dejected.

  Heinrich cleared his throat. “With all due respect, my lord, we have a whole garrison of Spanish and Catholic mercenaries. Shouldn’t we at least create a barrier around the town? We wouldn’t be making an action against the Protestants, and we must defend ourselves in case we’re attacked. Spring is coming fast, and I fear the Protestants have been waiting for just that time to strike, once the snow has thawed.”

  Lord Werner tapped his chin. “Even though they’re less than ten miles from Bedburg, I can’t circumvent the archbishop’s orders.”

  Heinrich looked to the floor and shook his head. What a weak, pitiful man.

  “And besides,” Werner continued, “I want something from you. The Protestants are none of your concern.”

  The Protestants are my only concern at this point, you fool. Heinrich played with his mustache. “What would you have me do?”

  “I want you to do what you’ve been tasked to do, investigator. Find the Werewolf of Bedburg, and bring faith back to our people. Otherwise, I fear, we’re lost.”

  Heinrich ran a hand through his dark hair, frustrated. “My lord, that won’t mitigate the threat of the Calvinists and Lutherans. The entire town believes Georg Sieghart killed the beast. You had a ball to honor his name and celebrate him as a hero!”

  Lord Werner spat on the green and yellow colored tiles, and said, “I know what I did, Heinrich. But do you really think that wolf was responsible for those grisly murders? Come now . . . first it was an overweight woman, and now an overweight wolf?”

  “That’s what people believe, my lord.”

  Lord Werner frantically spun his hands in circles. “I want you to find me a more suitable candidate, Herr Franz—one that looks and plays the part. You and I both know that no cr
eature, acting alone, could have killed those two girls in such gruesome ways.”

  Heinrich agreed, but it didn’t change his opinion. If the search for the werewolf stalled, it would be merely a hiccup. But if the Protestants besieged the town, it could be the end of them all—and the end of Catholicism in Cologne. “My lord,” Heinrich said, softly, “there won’t be an investigation if the Calvinists take Bedburg.”

  But the little lord seemed unnerved and confused about his priorities. He wanted to look good to his people, but didn’t realize that he might lose his lordship before he had that opportunity.

  He needs a suspect that will frighten the Protestants, Heinrich thought. Then his eyes opened wide. Or, maybe he just needs a suspect that will scare the Catholics into action . . .

  Heinrich twirled his mustache and hummed. If that is the case, then I might be underestimating this devious little man. Fear brings out the savage in everyone, and maybe Werner is just trying to capitalize on that fear.

  After a moment of tense silence, Lord Werner said, “I’ll focus on defending the city, Herr Franz, and you focus on your job.” He walked back to his large table and slammed the letter from Archbishop Ernst on the desk. With a wave of his hand, and without looking up at Heinrich, he said, “We’re done here.”

  Toward the end of 1588, the Protestant, former archbishop, Gebhard Truchsess, formally relinquished his title as the elector of Cologne. He retired to a city called Strassburg.

  The Calvinist reformer had fought for five long years, razed many cities and won many battles, but the Cologne War between himself and Ernst grew tiresome. The stalemate between the two archbishops was crumbling on the Protestant side. The Catholics went on a bloody rampage to reacquire their lost strongholds and towns.

  Most people thought the vicious war was nearing its end.

  But, even though Gebhard retired from war, he handed over his army to some formidable allies: Count Adolf von Neuenahr, the able-minded former lord of Bedburg, who had been replaced by Lord Werner; and the brilliant soldier-general, Martin Schenck.

  Adolf provided the funds, and Martin Schenck provided the army. But now Martin Schenck was busy fighting in the Dutch province of Nijmegen, trying to salvage the last strongholds of Cologne’s Protestants.

  The Catholics rejoiced because the top military mind of Gebhard’s reformers was away, and the Protestant army was splintered. But the rest of the armies were left in the capable hands of Count Adolf, who had the support of Gebhard’s brother, Karl Truchsess, among others.

  Even without Martin Schenck, Count Adolf had a powerful force, and Heinrich was certain it was Adolf who knocked on Bedburg’s door in a last ditch effort to snatch his former lordship from Werner.

  On the other hand, Archbishop Ernst had the military support of the Spanish army of Flanders, led by the indomitable general, Alexander Farnese. Ernst’s older brother, Ferdinand, also aided in Ernst’s Counter-Reformation.

  Ernst hailed from the Bavarian House of Wittelsbach, which had been a German royal dynasty for over four hundred years. His claim to the Cologne Electorate was strong.

  Heinrich guessed it would be Ernst’s brother, Ferdinand, who came to the aid of Bedburg, since Alexander Farnese was currently in the Netherlands on a different campaign.

  Either way, whoever came, Bedburg was slated to become the pivotal fight for the Calvinist Protestants’ hopes of Reformation.

  Arnold Baumgartner, the commander of the Bedburg garrison, went about preemptively fortifying the town as he prepared for Archbishop Ernst’s army to arrive with help. He decided he didn’t need Lord Werner’s permission to protect Bedburg.

  On the same day that preparations began, Pastor Hanns Richter was unceremoniously released from prison. It was a baffling event, and a crowd of townsfolk settled around the jailhouse to witness his release. Many believed the Protestant pastor would be assassinated right upon his release.

  With his arms folded over his chest, Heinrich watched as the pastor was unchained and pushed out of the jailhouse. Hanns stumbled a bit, and people booed and jeered at him. Heinrich furrowed his brow when he noticed the pastor and Father Nicolaus share a look, and the pastor gave a slight nod to the young priest.

  Interesting, Heinrich thought, scratching his head. He didn’t know what to make of the nod between the Catholic and the Protestant.

  Pastor Richter made it through the vicious crowd and was immediately exiled from Bedburg. He would give no more sermons from his overturned fruit crate—not while Catholics still held power.

  The pastor was given a horse. He headed north, away from Bedburg. Heinrich watched the pastor leave, toward the woods and valleys, where the investigator was certain the Calvinist army was preparing for battle.

  That night, the reinforcements from Cologne arrived. Thousands of soldiers poured into Bedburg, led by Archbishop Ernst’s older brother, Ferdinand of Bavaria. The people of Bedburg appeared from their homes and watched in awe as the army paraded into town.

  Ferdinand was a tall, bearded man. The general met with Lord Werner and Commander Baumgartner in the garrison, which overflowed with soldiers.

  Though all eyes were turned toward the garrison, and the army that congregated within, Heinrich was busy at the tavern. He sat with Georg Sieghart and Konrad von Brühl, and they were getting their last drinks of the night.

  “You’re actually going to fight for Ferdinand?” Heinrich asked Georg.

  The big hunter belched loudly and nodded.

  Heinrich was bewildered. “The same army that released you from service for being too . . . savage? What has Bedburg ever done for you? You owe them nothing.”

  Georg squinted at the investigator. “Who told you I was released from service? I left on my own volition.”

  “Never mind that,” Heinrich said with a wave of his hand. “Why are you fighting?”

  “I’m no coward, investigator. Konrad is fighting as well. Isn’t that right?” Georg turned to Konrad, who adjusted his eye-patch and nodded.

  “Maybe we’ll be in the same regiment,” Georg said, smiling. He turned in his seat and faced Heinrich. “I’m fighting for the way of Catholic life. You should understand that.”

  “You aren’t even Catholic!”

  A few patrons in the tavern looked at Heinrich with suspicious eyes.

  “Jesus, quiet yourself! Of course I’m Catholic. Are you saying you won’t fight?” Georg scowled as he looked over his shoulder.

  Heinrich frowned and stared down into his empty mug. “I have other things to attend to. My investigation is still ongoing.”

  “Bah,” Georg said, but he might as well have called Heinrich a coward. “You won’t have an investigation if the Protestants take the town. This battle is for our very survival. Your investigation can wait.”

  “According to Lord Werner, the investigation can’t wait.”

  “Screw Lord Weasel,” Georg grumbled. He drained the rest of his ale and stood from his seat. He stretched his arms and groaned. “In any case, gentlemen, if we never meet again . . . have a good life.”

  The hunter smiled and left the tavern. Konrad grunted to Heinrich and followed the hunter, and Heinrich was left alone to ponder his future, which he knew involved more ale.

  Next morning, all eyes were still on the garrison, which made it all the more shocking when another person turned up dead in the city.

  It was Margreth Baumgartner, the daughter of the garrison commander. She’d been murdered, and people wept openly in the streets.

  She was found in the southern, poor district of town, ironically next to where all the beggars stayed. Her corpse was hanging and swinging from the gable of the tanner’s workshop. She had a slashed throat, as well as numerous other gashes and bruises. She’d been drained of most her blood, which seeped down her curvy body and pooled at her feet. She hanged in front of the tanner’s door, about four feet off the ground. She was naked, and her eyes were open and bulging, giving her a surprised, frightened look.

&nbs
p; “Such a tragedy!” peasants said. They hugged each other and consoled one another.

  “She was so beautiful and young! How could this happen?” cried others.

  There was no doubt in Heinrich’s mind that Margreth’s murder would be a declaration of war for her father, Arnold. Maybe the death of his daughter would even blind his strategic mind. Perhaps he would be inconsolable—that was probably just what the Protestants wanted.

  Georg stood next to the investigator. Both of them shook their heads and had their arms folded over their chests.

  “Maybe Lord Weasel was right,” Georg muttered. “Maybe the investigation can’t wait.”

  Heinrich shrugged.

  “I have a question, though.” Georg pointed to the top of the peaked roof, where the rope around Margreth’s neck was tied off. “How did the werewolf manage to get so high up?”

  Heinrich frowned at the hunter. “I don’t know if this is a time for comedy, Georg. Arnold Baumgartner will be seeing red because of this.”

  “I know, I know.” They stayed quiet for a moment, and then Georg said, “Do you think it was the Protestants? Maybe there are spies in Bedburg.”

  Heinrich shrugged again.

  Another long silence, and then Georg continued, saying, “I heard she was quite a bitch. A pretty one, though. Everyone at the ball the other week seemed to be ogling her.”

  “Have some decency,” Heinrich said. “This could be the beginning of a terrible thing. I mean, who cares about a murdered girl, or a fat witch, or a prostitute.”

  Georg’s eyes bored into the investigator when Heinrich said the word “prostitute.”

  “My apologies,” Heinrich said with a sigh. “But . . . a noblewoman? Imagine what kind of storm that’s going to bring. A woman of such high class, found in the slums of Bedburg.”

  “I guess you were right when you said that no one was safe,” Georg said. “Anyone can be a victim.”

  Heinrich was right about the storm, too.