by Cory Barclay
“Like hell you can’t.” Georg put his one good hand on his hip. “Now is not the time to act prideful, Father. Just take it and leave. Try and stay hidden as you travel through the countryside. Take the woods if you must, but stay away from the roads.”
Dieter looked to the ground, and his body seemed to deflate. “Thank you, Herr Sieghart.” He suddenly reached out and embraced the hunter, who looked baffled, to say the least.
Dieter pulled back once Georg gave no sign of returning the embrace. “Why are you helping us?” he asked.
Georg shrugged and scratched his head. “I’m not sure. I guess I might . . . sort of . . . like you people.” He frowned. “I suppose I might see something in you two that I once shared with someone, a long time ago. Get out of this cesspool and make a life for yourselves.”
Dieter and Sybil both smiled at the hunter. Dieter asked, “Where will you go?”
“I have a few errands to take care of.”
Georg didn’t elaborate, so Dieter simply nodded to him. Then he took Sybil’s hand, and Martin’s, and the trio ran past Georg and headed for the stairs. When he was at the bottom of the stairs, Dieter turned and said, “By the way, Herr Sieghart. I overheard you talking with Heinrich and the clerics earlier . . . and I know you’re wrong.”
Georg furrowed his brow. “About what?”
“You’re not a coward, or a savage. In fact, you might be guilty of being a good man.”
Georg smiled at the priest, and then Dieter disappeared up the stairwell.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
HEINRICH
Heinrich and Tomas arrived at the jailhouse with Peter Griswold and Katharina Trompen. The place was in disarray. Ulrich was sitting on a chair, hunched over and nursing a nasty lesion on his forehead. His tools were scattered on the ground.
Heinrich took one look at the torturer and then surveyed the rest of the hall. Dieter Nicolaus’ and Sybil Griswold’s cell was open, and they were gone, as was Martin Achterberg. Heinrich cursed under his breath. He had wanted to use Martin as a witness against Peter, since he knew the Achterbergs hated the Griswolds. Now he would need to force a confession out of Peter, unless Martin was found. And since Sybil was also gone, he couldn’t threaten the farmer with Sybil’s well-being.
Unless Peter never learns that she escaped . . .
Heinrich kept Katharina and Peter upstairs, in the care of Tomas, while he asked Ulrich, “Why are your tools on the ground? Who ordered you to use them?”
“Bishop Solomon came in with that ugly nun. The priest really pissed off the bishop. Solomon wanted me to squeeze information out of the priest and then kill him and the girl.”
“I’m assuming you didn’t?”
“Didn’t get the chance.”
Solomon really believes he can take the law into his own hands, Heinrich thought, shaking his head. Only I can do that.
Heinrich looked at the floor and noticed dried spots of blood around the turned-over table. “Who helped them escape?”
Ulrich groaned as he massaged his tender, bruised forehead. He shrugged. “It happened so fast. I’m not sure. As you can see, someone bumped my head pretty good.”
“You’ll live,” Heinrich said. He twirled his wispy mustache. After a brief moment of silent contemplation, he thought he had a good idea of who rescued the priest and the girl. It didn’t matter right then, though. He had to move quickly.
“Pick up your tools and put them away,” Heinrich ordered. “The table, too.”
Ulrich nodded, slowly rose from his chair, and went about retrieving his pliers and scissors and knives.
“Tomas, bring down the prisoners,” Heinrich shouted once Ulrich’s table and utensils were stowed away. The soldier came down the stairs with Peter and Katharina in front of him. The captives’ hands were bound behind their backs.
Heinrich pointed to the cell where Sybil and Dieter had been. “Put Herr Griswold in that cell.” Then he motioned to the door at the end of the hall, which led to another room of jail cells. “Put the woman in that room.”
Tomas nodded, pushing Peter into the cell and slamming the gate shut. He took Katharina to the end of the hall, then disappeared into the next room.
“I, uh, don’t have my keys,” Ulrich said, feeling around his tunic. “They must have taken them.”
Heinrich sighed and frowned. “Get creative,” he told Ulrich. Then he walked to the end of the hall and went into the next room, where Tomas was closing the gate on Katharina. He took a step toward the soldier and grabbed him by the arm. “I want you to retrieve Peter’s son from his estate,” he whispered. “He’s young, so it should be simple. Bring him here.”
“Yes, my lord,” Tomas said, saluting. He left the room.
“I’ll deal with you in a bit,” Heinrich told Katharina. The gray-haired woman stayed quiet and pursed her lips.
As Heinrich watched her for a moment, a thought came to him. He pondered it while continuing to gaze at her for nearly ten more minutes. Finally, he returned to the room where Peter was jailed.
Staring at the man through the bars, Heinrich sighed. He took Ulrich's chair, set it in front of Peter's cell, and sat down.
“Where’s my daughter and son? I want guarantees that they’ll be safe,” Peter said. He looked exhausted.
“It’s too late for that, Peter. I can’t guarantee those things.” Heinrich stretched his arms out wide. “I don’t know how to say this easily . . . but your daughter and Father Dieter Nicolaus were killed in the initial Protestant attack.”
Peter’s face remained stoic and blank. “I don’t believe you.”
“My men identified their bodies before we came to your sister’s house.”
Peter tried to stay strong for a long while, but his lips finally started to quiver. His narrow eyes grew wide and looked suddenly soft and dejected. “I failed her,” he said. “I pushed her right into that bastard’s arms, and now I’ll never be able to tell her I’m sorry. Please, tell me you’re lying. Tell me she’s alive.”
“Which bastard would that be?” Heinrich asked as he pulled a piece of parchment from his tunic.
“Johannes von Bergheim.”
Heinrich raised an eyebrow. “And now your own people have killed her,” he said, referring to the Protestants. He felt a slight pang of guilt—The things I do to uncover the truth—but it quickly subsided.
Peter studied Heinrich’s face as the investigator scribbled on the parchment. He cocked his head and said, “I still don’t believe you. For a man who claims to seek the truth, you aren’t a very good liar, Herr Franz.”
“Believe what you will,” Heinrich said, shrugging. “But if you want a different fate for your son, you will cooperate.”
“Hugo?”
Heinrich nodded. “Your son is probably alone and scared at your estate, as we speak. We have you, Peter, and if you cooperate, I will promise that Hugo will be safe. Your time in Bedburg is finished, but your legacy doesn’t have to end here.”
Peter sat down against the back wall of the cell. “Katharina?”
“She told me everything. I know you were abetting, feeding, and funding the Calvinists. You’re much more significant to their army than I originally realized.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Even though you might not be a violent person.”
“Katharina would never say such things.”
“I was surprised, too, that she spoke so easily. Maybe she’s just tired of all this madness.”
Peter leaned against the wall and scratched the back of his head with the grainy stone. “What is it you’re charging me with, exactly?”
“Well, treason, of course. And the murder of Margreth Baumgartner—you’re the only person I’ve found who had a motive to kill the noblewoman.”
“You know I did no such thing,” Peter growled. “She was just a silly girl.”
“It doesn’t matter, Peter. How do you think Arnold Baumgartner will react at trial? That ‘silly girl’ was the daughter of our ga
rrison commander . . . a man fighting for our city’s survival, as we speak. Do you really think the word of a traitor will outweigh the testimony of such an esteemed leader? He will be seeking vengeance, and he will get it.”
Peter spat on the ground. “You’re a dog.”
Heinrich ignored the farmer and raised both hands, palms facing up. “Or, on the other hand, you could save your sister and son by confessing to the multiple crimes you’re charged with. Why not save the ones who you hold most dear? Would you really let your own kin suffer for your transgressions?”
Peter shook his head and shouted, “I killed no one, dammit!”
Heinrich responded by raising his voice, too. “Don’t be so blind, Peter! You practically slept with the enemy!” He stood from his chair and grabbed the cell’s bars. He was seething—a rare moment of discomposure for the investigator—but he quickly calmed himself.
Peter paused, a smile slowly forming on his face. “And what if the Calvinists take your city, Heinrich? What then, when you have no trial to conduct?”
“I suppose this will all have been for naught. But I wouldn’t count on that so soon, for your family’s sake. A lot can happen between now and Bedburg’s fall . . .” Heinrich trailed off and watched as Peter’s wry smile turned into a disheartened frown.
Peter stayed silent for a moment, and then cleared his throat. “If you can promise me the safety of my son and sister, what would you have me say?”
Heinrich nodded firmly, feeling like he was finally getting somewhere. He rolled the cuffs of his sleeves to his elbows, and sat back down. “I’d have you confess to killing Margreth Baumgartner. Your motive was to eliminate her from interfering with the marriage between your daughter and Johannes von Bergheim. We both know, Peter, that sooner or later, with her clout, she would have gotten what she wanted. If that happened, she’d have Johannes, and your daughter would still be the daughter of a farmer—without prospects or title.”
Peter sighed and ran his head up and down the wall again, massaging himself. “Is that all?”
“Admit to assisting the Calvinist forces, with your sister as your liaison.”
Peter’s brows went high on his forehead, and he said, “Is that everything?”
Heinrich coughed and said, somewhat under his breath, “And confess to murdering Josephine Donovan.”
Peter chuckled. “Josey? She was a friend of mine—”
“It will help cover up loose ends,” Heinrich admitted. He blinked a few times and said, “She was also a player in your scheme. Lars was, too.”
Peter tilted his head. “What happened to Lars?”
“He died when you were running from me and my men. Don’t worry, though, he tried his damnedest to kill me.”
The farmer’s shoulders slumped. He shook his head. “Katharina will be devastated.”
“Yes I know. They were lovers.”
Peter glanced at the walls of the cell. “As far as Josephine—not even you could spin that story, Heinrich.”
“Don’t worry about that, Peter, I’ll make it work. Perhaps she denied your advances.”
“She was a prostitute!”
Heinrich pretended to yawn. “Trust me, Peter.”
Peter seemed to snap, and his calm demeanor turned biting and loud. “What will you say to God, you monster—”
“I doubt I’ll ever meet Him.”
“You think you can just lump all of these murders under my name?”
Heinrich bobbed his head from left to right, as if thinking. Then he nodded.
Before the investigator could open his mouth to say anything, Peter hissed and said, “Wait, don’t tell me—you’re a seeker of the truth.” He let out a rumbling laugh, and it echoed through the hall.
They both went silent, staring at each other for some time. Eventually, the door upstairs opened. A ray of sunlight lit the dark room. Tomas came down the steps guiding Hugo Griswold by the shoulders. Heinrich motioned for Tomas to bring Hugo in front of Peter’s cell.
Peter jumped to his feet.
“See,” Heinrich said, presenting Hugo as if the boy was a prize. “Unharmed, as I promised.” He grabbed Hugo’s shoulders with his spindly hands.
Peter rushed to the front of the cell. “Get your hands off him,” he yelled, then faced his son. “Hugo, did the soldier hurt you, my boy?”
Hugo had his horse doll in his hands. He looked back at Tomas, then to his father. He shook his head. “What’s going on, father? Why are you in there? And where’s Beele?”
Peter’s hand started shaking. “I’m so sorry, son. I promise that everything will be okay.” He turned back to Heinrich and stared into the investigator’s eyes with a look of pure hatred. His eyes were so intense that Heinrich felt unnerved for a moment.
Heinrich cleared his throat and said to Tomas, “Take the boy into a different room.”
“To a jail cell?” Tomas asked.
Peter growled. “Why you basta—”
“No . . . just to a different room,” Heinrich said.
Tomas nodded and led the boy away.
Peter tried to stick his head through the cell’s bars, to watch his son go. “I love you, Hue!” he shouted.
Then the boy was gone. The door slammed shut.
Heinrich watched Peter stew with rage. Then, without much hesitation, Peter blurted out the words that Heinrich had been waiting to hear. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt my son.”
Heinrich bowed his head. “You know this won’t be pleasant, Herr Griswold . . . don’t you?”
Peter squinted. “Do you want me to change my mind?”
“I’m just warning you.”
Peter half-smiled. “How gallant of you.” He shook his head. “Just get on with it, coward.”
Heinrich nodded and walked toward the stairs. Before he reached the bottom of the steps, he turned around and pulled at his mustache. “For your cooperation, Herr Griswold, I’ll give you one last truth, for your peace of mind.”
Peter looked at the investigator expectantly.
“You were right. I am a shoddy liar. Your daughter is still alive . . . I think.” The investigator bowed to his prisoner, then disappeared up the stairs.
Peter Griswold closed his eyes, breathed out, and smiled.
Outside the jailhouse, the normally quiet town of Bedburg was in a state of upheaval. People ran in all directions. Smoke filled the sky, billowing from the eastern gates. Several buildings lay in ruins.
It was enough to make Heinrich dizzy. Until then, he hadn’t seen the full extent of the chaos and the sight of it was disorienting and shocking.
He stumbled by a few soldiers, staring up at the bitter, black sky. He made his way to Bedburg Castle, where Lord Werner was huddled away in the confines of his safe-room, surrounded by an envoy of guards.
The little lord seemed terrified at everything happening around him. Seated in an oversized chair, he seemed flustered at the investigator’s arrival, tapping his hands on his knees.
Heinrich told Werner that he’d finally obtained a confession for the murders of Margreth Baumgartner and Josephine Donovan.
“Oh, like you obtained the confession from the ‘witch,’ Bertrude Achterberg? Do you have any idea how that farce made me look?” Lord Werner whined.
Heinrich scratched his neck and tried to ignore the annoying little man. “I’ll have a public trial prepared.”
Lord Werner mumbled inaudibly, and then said, “Who cares about that at a time like this?”
Heinrich sighed. “You were the one who wanted me to continue my investigation, my lord.”
Waving off Heinrich, Werner asked him to report on the battle outside. But Heinrich had no news, emphasizing that he’d been chasing shadows in the night and questioning suspects for many hours.
Lord Werner screeched. “I want you to go to the front lines and get me a report, dammit!” he yelled, obviously unimpressed by the investigator’s endeavors.
Heinrich scoffed, staring down
at the shivering little man. Ignoring the lord’s order, he decided he had one more thing he needed to accomplish before his investigation was complete.
Heinrich found Georg Sieghart near the eastern wall. The soldier-turned-hunter-turned-soldier was at the helm of a group of young men, directing their crossbow volleys at the enemy line, far beyond the gates.
“Are you hitting anything?” Heinrich asked, walking up to the hunter. He put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun, and looked over the ramparts. Bodies lay scattered on the plains, torn apart by cannon blasts.
Georg shrugged. “I doubt it. Just trying to keep them at bay. General’s orders.”
Heinrich smiled. “Ah, so you’re a commander now? How quickly you move up the ranks, my good hunter.”
“I didn’t ask for it.”
Heinrich slapped the big man on the back and smiled.
“Did you hear the news?” Georg asked.
Heinrich furrowed his brows.
“There’s been a report that more Catholic reinforcements are en route, coming from behind the Protestants. We may be able to trap them.” Georg said. Though ecstatic, he looked on the verge of exhaustion, his adrenaline somehow keeping him upright. “It’s a miracle, Heinrich. We might be saved!”
Heinrich smiled. I suppose that’s a report, but I’ll let Werner sweat a little more. He stared at Georg, who kept yelling and ordering and cursing at the soldiers. Heinrich thought, I’ll miss this man.
He put his hand back on Georg’s shoulder and said, “Georg, it’s done.”
Georg looked at him with a blank stare.
“I’ve got the confession we’ve been searching for—for Margreth’s death, and . . . for Josephine’s. My case here is finished.”
“That’s great news, Heinrich. I’m happy for you, but I’m a bit busy here.” Even though Georg was shouting at his men and throwing his hands in the air, his face had a subtle look of relief.
Heinrich sighed and said, “I know it was you, Georg.”
Georg’s hands froze in midair. He squinted at Heinrich. “What was that?”