by Cory Barclay
“I know you helped free Dieter and Sybil. And I have an itching suspicion that you’re responsible for Konrad von Brühl’s disappearance.”
Georg shook his blood-caked beard. “Prove it,” he said. Then his face turned angry. “What are you going to do, Heinrich? Arrest me?”
The investigator shook his head.
Georg narrowed his eyes. “Then why are you telling me this? Justice truly is blind, eh?”
“Indeed it is, my good hunter.”
“You didn’t answer me, Heinrich. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be interrogating some poor sap in a damp, dark jail cell?”
“I’m here as a warning.”
“About what?”
“There is going to be a trial, Georg, and I expect it will be bigger than any we’ve had in this town before. I’m trying to tell you that, in the coming weeks, things are likely to get very . . . bizarre. You need to leave Bedburg, Georg, as soon as you can. Are you listening to me?”
Georg was directing more men to the ramparts, while sending off others to tend to wounded soldiers on the battlefield just over the walls. Without facing Heinrich, he nodded. “Why do I need to leave? I’m just starting to like it here.”
Heinrich hesitated and said, “Just trust me,” then started to walk away.
“Why?” Georg called out. When the investigator turned around, Georg added, “Why should I trust you?”
Heinrich twirled his mustache and thought for a moment. “Because you’re my friend,” he said, smiling.
Heinrich turned to leave again, but when he got about ten paces away, Georg called out: “You don’t have any friends! Remember?”
Heinrich held up his gloved hand and waved to Georg, but kept walking away. “Very true, my good hunter!”
“Say, investigator!” Georg called out again. “Did you ever figure out who the real Werewolf of Bedburg was?”
Heinrich sighed and turned one last time. Pinching his mustache, he shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps there never was one at all.” He raised his hand and gestured at Georg’s blood-caked face and tunic, his disheveled beard and hair, his paralyzed, bullet-riddled arm. Then he motioned to his own purple, bloated nose, which had been broken by Peter Griswold the night before.
Heinrich couldn’t help but chuckle. “Perhaps we all are, my good hunter!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
GEORG
The incoming reports were true. Reinforcements came within hours of the field scouts’ reconnaissance, to aid the defending Catholics. Georg stood at the top of the ramparts of the eastern wall, looking over the hills and woods. On the horizon, he saw bright yellow banners embroidered with a blue fleur-de-lis, approaching from the rear of the Calvinist forces.
Alexander Farnese, the Duke of Parma and Governor of the Spanish Netherlands, had been successful in his Dutch campaigns. He had arrived at Bedburg, to the surprise of every one except General Ferdinand. Farnese was already a war hero for his campaigns against the Dutch, and he’d come to further his reputation.
With Farnese’s army coming from the north and east, the Calvinists were all but trapped between the two forces: Ferdinand’s defenders at Bedburg, and Alexander’s regiments behind the rebels.
After his failed skirmish the night before, Georg had been very hard on himself. He took to drinking, as usual, until General Ferdinand approached him. Even after Georg gave a slurred apology for his failure, Ferdinand told him that the hunter’s defeat came at a massive price to the Calvinists. Though the individual outcome might have been a failure, as a whole, Georg’s mission was a success. His quick strike had left the bulk of Count Adolf’s army vulnerable and unbalanced.
Toward the start of the morning, Adolf suffered heavy losses against Arnold Baumgartner’s main force.
Georg still felt guilty for leading countless men to their deaths, but his courageous charge had not been a complete loss.
Still somewhat drunk, he’d gone to the jailhouse and rescued Sybil, Dieter, and Martin. He’d hoped he could at least do some good by breaking them out.
Afterward, Georg returned to his general. “What would you have me do, my lord?” he asked.
“Have a short memory, soldier. Don’t let your losses demoralize the men,” General Ferdinand answered. He pointed to Georg’s disheveled, drunken appearance. “And don’t let them see you this way.” He turned to leave, adding, “You still have over sixty men at your disposal. Get back on those ramparts and make use of them.”
Georg went to the inn. He asked Claus for a pot of coffee, which sobered him up quite nicely.
With Ferdinand’s encouraging words giving him renewed vigor, for the next two hours Captain Georg Sieghart commanded and directed crossbowmen from atop the wall, raining hell on the enemy.
When reports came of Alexander Farnese’s imminent arrival, the Calvinists went into a panic. Count Adolf foolishly forced many of his men to charge Bedburg’s walls, in a last ditch effort to raze the town and steal it from the Catholics.
Georg and his sixty men were ready. Hundreds of Protestant soldiers were shot down and lay dead and dying, splayed on the bloody plains of Bedburg’s countryside. Their moans drifted with the wind—in all directions—to the ears of soldiers on both sides of the battlefield. Crows circled the fields, preparing for a feast.
As Alexander Farnese’s army became visible in the distance, the men on Bedburg’s ramparts pumped their fists toward the sky and cheered.
Georg was relieved, but not cheering. He was puzzled why Count Adolf would direct his army to such desperation—charging the walls—rather than spare countless deaths by just surrendering.
Then he remembered seeing a man on the Calvinist’s front lines, minutes before Adolf’s order to charge. The man had shouted, “We will not be forgotten! Praise God!” then rushed the walls with a group of like-minded soldiers behind him.
Georg’s eyes drifted just down the hill, to the body of that suicidal Protestant, now dead on the battlefield alongside his men. On closer inspection Georg realized it was someone he knew: the recently released pastor, Hanns Richter.
When Count Adolf’s orders went largely unheard, it was Pastor Richter who gave the men the morale and zeal to make a final stand. And now he lay dead on the battlefield—surrounded by countless others—sure to be forgotten. It was Georg’s crossbowmen who had struck him down.
With Pastor Richter dead, Count Adolf’s army lost all order and cohesion. The surge came to a screeching halt, and the Protestants who still lived threw down their weapons. With their spiritual leader dead, all hopes of victory were gone.
If he’s remembered at all, Georg thought, he’ll surely be remembered as a martyr to his people.
Somehow, Count Adolf von Neuenahr managed to escape General Farnese’s approaching army. General Ferdinand and Commander Baumgartner weren’t thrilled with that, so they sent a troop to scour the countryside for the fleeing general.
But whether Adolf was caught or not, the siege of Bedburg was over. The Catholics had prevailed. They took many prisoners, but some of the adrenaline-fueled mercenaries still had a bloodlust that needed to be sated. They went about the battlefield, butchering Protestants and putting others out of their moaning misery.
Such were the horrors of warfare and Georg could do nothing about it. For every two prisoners the Catholics took, a third was slaughtered.
Men became relegated to beasts—savage and barbaric—to the dismay of the many gallant soldiers who showed restraint.
Georg was one of those gallant soldiers. He wanted no part in the angry, bloodthirsty killings. He remembered his talk with Heinrich, his multiple confessions with Father Nicolaus, his killing of Konrad.
His savage heart had been fed. Moral depravity no longer coursed through his veins. He looked at his rough, right hand, turned it over a few times, and hoped that he would never have to kill again. Then, shifting his gaze to his useless left hand, he realized he’d probably never be able to anyway—which was fine since he felt like
he’d finally found his true purpose, or at least a spiritual reckoning of sorts.
Maybe now I can stop being a soldier and actually focus on my faith. He wanted to find God more than anything else. Perhaps the battle would serve as the conduit.
It’s time to rebuild my God-forsaken life and start anew, just as Father Nicolaus is hopefully doing. That is . . . if he made it out of the city alive.
As the battle concluded, the sun began to wane. Georg found himself face-to-face with General Ferdinand.
“You fought well,” Ferdinand said. “And you led even better. What do you say in joining my regiment as a regular lieutenant, Herr Sieghart? I could use you.”
Georg looked down at his hand, and then to the general. “With all due respect, my lord, I’m tired of being used. I’m afraid I’ve seen enough blood for a lifetime.” He gestured to his dangling left arm. “Besides, I doubt I’d be much use with this ruined arm of mine.”
“I’m asking for your mind, Georg, not your body.”
Georg shrugged and smiled. “I’m flattered, but I’m still going to have to decline your honorable offer. I’m sorry, my lord.”
Ferdinand sighed. “Very well. It’s a shame to lose someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”
Georg didn’t think of himself like that. Even though he felt he’d found a new lease on life, he still felt lost. If he had known what he was doing, he would have never led his men into a deadly ambush. If he had known what he was doing, he would have never befriended Heinrich Franz or Konrad von Brühl. “Tell that to the families of the men I got killed last night, my lord,” Georg said, shaking his head.
Ferdinand placed a hand on Georg’s shoulder. The general tried to smile, but failed. “I want you to report your casualties and opinion of the battle to Lord Werner, before you leave,” he said, and then started to walk away.
“Lord Werner will have my report by sundown, my lord.”
“Take your time, Herr Sieghart. You’ve earned it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
DIETER
Dieter, Sybil, and Martin stepped out of the jailhouse into what could have been a scene from Hell. Shielding their faces and squinting as their eyes adjusted to the blaring sunlight, they silently surveyed the utter chaos before them.
The city was in total turmoil. People darting from building to building, dazed soldiers meandering aimlessly, shouts and screams and other unidentifiable noises bombarding them from all directions.
A woman was crouched over a man, weeping—her tears dripping onto his bloody, soulless face. Dieter witnessed a gang of homeless children breaking into a vacant mansion.
At the foot of the hill below the church, men stacked corpses, the pile growing at an alarming rate. Families surrounded the mountain of bodies, some waiting for news that their husband, or father, or son had been killed; others searched through the gray, blank faces of the dead on their own
It was as if the Devil had visited Bedburg overnight—and didn’t plan to leave anytime soon.
“Good God,” Dieter said, watching the turmoil. He still wore his ragged priest’s cassock, and people ran up to him and cried hysterically, begging for his blessing, asking why God had done this and demanding answers that he couldn’t give. He was weary and famished and overwhelmed. He made the sign of the cross with his bloody, bandaged hand, and looked at Sybil.
She was frowning at him. “We can’t be seen out here,” she said.
Dieter nodded. He felt helpless. I can do nothing for these people. He was baffled as to how religions could cause such pandemonium and catastrophe. He could only imagine how the Protestant side of things looked, but couldn’t dwell on that for too long.
From the jailhouse, the trio waited for a lull in the action, then they ran into an abandoned house nearby.
Dieter felt a tugging and noticed Sybil pulling at the bandage on his hand. “This will get infected,” she said, unwrapping the cloth. Finding a pot of cold water, she used it to clean Dieter’s hand.
“They’re just fingernails, Beele. They’ll grow back,” Dieter assured her with a crooked smile.
“Don’t try to be a hero.”
Dieter winced. It was as if the girl he’d known in the previous months had suddenly grown into a woman, overnight. Her face had a hardness he didn’t recognize, and her words came out short and choppy.
“Martin, try and find us some food,” Sybil ordered.
The boy perked up and ran off. He returned a minute later with a stale slice of bread. He gave it to Sybil, and she handed it to Dieter, who frowned.
“You should eat it,” he said, “or we should split it.”
“None of us have eaten for days, but you look the worse for wear,” she said.
They waited in the house for nearly an hour, resting and gathering their wits. Dieter sat on the floor, his back against a wall. He closed his eyes and almost immediately fell asleep.
He awoke to the sound of cheers.
“How long was I asleep?” he asked. It was still light outside.
“Something’s changed,” Sybil said. She poked her head outside the house. “People are hugging each other.”
“Maybe we’ve won,” Dieter said. He quickly realized “we” meant the Catholics, who he was no longer affiliated with. It was a strange thing for him, being caught in the middle of two beliefs. He was recognized around Bedburg as the church’s preacher. If anyone realized he had betrayed that faith and become a Protestant . . .
Georg was right—we need to get out of here. “I suppose now is our chance,” he said.
They left the house and prowled through the streets, trying to stay out of sight. Dieter had no idea who might have seen them enter the jailhouse as prisoners. It won’t do us any good to be seen outside of the jail.
They stuck to the shadows, eventually making their way to the west side of town, where it wasn’t quite as chaotic. They hurried past a stable and the town’s tannery toward the western gate.
We’ll still need to get through the guards somehow, Dieter thought.
Before he had that opportunity, fate caught him. The cacophony from the northern district of town had become a faint echo. It was eerily quiet as they neared the western walls. Dieter looked over his shoulder, then stopped dead in his tracks. He held his hand out in front of Sybil. His eyes narrowed.
Sybil furrowed her brow, looking confused. “What is it?” she asked. Then she followed his eyes and let out a small yelp.
Johannes von Bergheim stood no less than thirty feet from them, hiding in a shadow behind a building. The nobleman looked frightened. He was doubled over, panting, as if he’d just fled from someone.
It came as no surprise to Dieter that Johannes would be so far removed from the battle that raged on the other side of town.
“There’s no time for this,” Sybil pleaded. “Please, Dieter, let’s just go.” She put a hand on his shoulder and tried to pull him away.
But Dieter stayed still as a stone.
He didn’t hear her words, and he couldn’t feel her touch. It was as if Dieter’s soul was in the sky, looking down, unable to control his body.
And Dieter’s body was already storming toward the nobleman.
Whatever sense of forgiveness and mercy and repentance Dieter had ever felt . . . vanished. The qualities that had made him a caring and loving person were replaced by thoughts of toxic rage and violence.
As he laid eyes on the bastard who’d harmed Sybil, everything outside of Dieter’s senses—the smell of smoke, the sounds of screams and cheers, the taste of blood—fell away.
“Johannes von Bergheim, you coward!” he called out as he neared the young man.
Johannes turned and had a look of utter confusion on his face, which quickly turned into a look of utter disbelief. It seemed as though he pointed at Dieter, but his finger seemed to loom past the former priest, and was aimed at Sybil. “What are you doing with my woman, priest?” Johannes called out in his high-pitched voice.
; “She’s no one’s property, you filthy troll.”
Johannes smirked.
Dieter’s blood boiled even hotter.
“You can have her, priest. She’s a lying whore, anyway.” His gaze fell on Sybil. “You lied to me, you bitch! You weren’t even a virgin!”
Clenching his fists, Dieter felt warm blood trickle down his bandaged hand. He glanced over his shoulder—the western gates were just forty paces away—their freedom so close. There were no guards at the post—they could simply walk out of Bedburg and be free.
“But that child is still mine,” Johannes said.
Sybil gritted her teeth.
“What, you’re shocked? The physician who attended you told my father you were pregnant. The baby in your womb is still my heir . . . it’s just too bad you won’t be there to see him grow.” Johannes turned his gaze back to Dieter. “You can keep the whore,” he goaded, “but that baby is mine. And with it, her father’s beloved pig farm.”
Dieter’s legs moved like the wings of a hummingbird. Within seconds he closed the gap between himself and his target.
Johannes’ self-indulgent smirk faded as he realized what was happening. His eyes went wide. He fumbled in his belt for his sword, and unsheathed it as Dieter closed in.
Dieter clenched his jaw and gnashed his teeth, charging Johannes with fists flying. He thought of everything that had derailed him from his glorious path of righteousness.
It would have been easy for Dieter to turn the other cheek, to forget all that had transpired in Bedburg. It would have been easy for him to just start anew—a new life, a new beginning. Hate, he’d been taught long ago as a boy, was one of the worst sins.
But he was no longer that boy. In fact, he was no longer even the same man he’d been just one night ago. And at that moment, he no longer felt God’s calling or His loving embrace. The hate in his heart had taken over the once-treasured values he’d preached.
Johannes, sword in hand, crouched for impact, his blade pointed forward so that Dieter might skewer himself. But the nobleman didn’t expect Dieter to charge with such force, the former priest lunging forward while still five paces out.