The Beast Within

by Cory Barclay

  But he wasn’t. He had others to protect, especially his son. He couldn’t just open his door to strangers. And why would Aellin say this about him? Didn’t she realize how dangerous that kind of talk was with a man like Heinrich Franz as lord?

  It immediately put Dieter and his whole extended family in jeopardy.

  We’ll need to leave this place now. No doubt about it. Damnit, woman!

  The man at the door just stared at Dieter. Then, defeated, he returned his cap to his head and turned to leave.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Dieter said in a low, pained voice. “I just can’t help you.”

  The man put his hand on his still-weeping wife’s shoulder and walked off into the darkness.

  Who were those strangers? And speaking of strangers . . .

  Dieter spun around, his brow furrowed. “You, boy,” he said, pointing at Karstan. “You can stay just for the night. But we can’t help you, either. I want no trouble.”

  Karstan nodded. “That’s fine, Father. You won’t have any.”

  Taking little Peter from Ava’s arms, Dieter retired to the back room of the house. He had things to think about: Where will we go now? Why is Aellin making me out to be some sort of Protestant hero? I’m certainly not. I couldn’t even save my own wife!

  Dieter closed his eyes as Peter breathed softly next to him. At some point in the night, he heard soft voices seep through the thin walls of his room, recognizing them as Ava’s and Karstan’s.

  “Why are you here, Kars?” he heard Ava say. “Really? What’s your game?”

  “I have no game, Ava. I had nowhere to go . . .”

  “And you thought you could stay here by befriending Martin? The person who put you in jail? I don’t believe you.” When the pirate-woman Rowaine had caught Ava trying to steal from Dieter’s wife, it had been Martin who’d blamed the pilfering on Karstan, sending him to jail.

  “Well . . . I had a feeling I might find you here,” Karstan said, finally spilling his guts.

  Ava groaned. “I’m surprised Martin let you join him,” she said.

  “I hold no grudge against him,” Karstan said.

  But Dieter didn’t believe him. He’d known too many sinners, heard too many confessions, to believe this one.

  “He’s a good man,” Ava said.

  And where is this “good man” now? Dieter wondered. Why does he let Karstan speak with his woman?

  After some moments of silence, Ava whispered, “So . . . I can guess why you’re here, Kars. But I won’t go with you. I’m staying with Martin. I’ve put my old life behind me.”

  “No, that isn’t why I’ve come, actually. I came to ask a question. That’s all.”

  “Oh?”

  Karstan paused, finding it hard to find the words. Finally, he said, “Why did you do it, Ava? I thought we . . . were good together.”

  Ava sighed. “Severin was gone. Hugo was God-only-knows where. It had nothing to do with ‘being good together,’ Kars. It was a fantasy. What? Did you think I loved you?”

  Clearly hurt, Karstan mumbled, “I . . . I hoped so.”

  Ava’s voice took a mean tone, probably more than she’d intended. “We were going nowhere, Kars. Our gang was through. It was only a matter of time before we ended up dead in an alley somewhere—or at the end of a noose.”

  “I wish I’d known you thought that way, Ava. It would have saved me a lot of grief.” He paused for a moment. “And so you betrayed me because of that? Because you thought we were going to end up dead? How could I miss that in your eyes? How could I be so fooled?”

  “I don’t know, Karstan. I suppose I learned to be quick and witty from Hugo. And mean from Severin.” Then she softened. “And kind . . . from you. But you also taught me how to hide my emotions. The three of you taught me everything. And this is what I’ve become.”

  Dieter closed his eyes and the voices grew faint. Then he fell back asleep.

  The next morning Karstan was gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HUGO

  Hugo Griswold sat in a high-backed chair looking bored, one leg crossed over the other, his head tilted in his palm, as Bishop Balthasar berated him. Seated at the head of the council room, he was surrounded by bearded men twice his age and more, all born into families of high stature.

  Which, to Hugo, explained why everyone seemed so displeased with him: not being born into high stature. That, and perhaps his age. Few sixteen-year-olds wielded the power he’d been given.

  “What could Lord Franz possibly see in this boy,” one of the councilmen cried, a white-bearded gentleman wearing an embroidered tunic over his fat body. Though directing his ire at Hugo, he spoke to the other noblemen in the room as if Hugo weren’t there.

  But Hugo didn’t mind. In fact, he gave his attacker a smug smile, knowing the man couldn’t do anything about it. The truth was, while Hugo wasn’t sure exactly what Lord Heinrich Franz saw in him, he certainly didn’t dwell on it, gladly accepting the rewards that came with such “royal” support.

  Hugo waved the letter in his hand—the one with the red-waxed stamp of approval from Heinrich’s own pen. That was all Hugo needed to justify his current position of power at Castle Bedburg.

  Heinrich had placed Hugo in charge while away on “urgent business” in Cologne. And as surprising as that might have been to Hugo, it utterly boggled the minds of these nobles and parliamentarians, who couldn’t stop yelling and whining and getting red in the face.

  Perhaps it’s because I’m so far removed from the goings-on at Bedburg that Heinrich gave me this authority, Hugo pondered, staring at the indignant face of Bishop Balthasar.

  “I’m going to have a talk with Lord Heinrich about this madness, young man,” Balthasar said, shaking his head, his multiple chins wobbling. “You can be sure of that.”

  “Of course you will, Father,” Hugo muttered. “That’s your prerogative.”

  Several noblemen groaned.

  “Prerogative!” the white-bearded man shouted. “He thinks because he uses big words, that gives him power over us!”

  Hugo shook his head. “No,” he said, again waving the stamped letter. “This gives me the power, Lord . . .” he paused, stroking his chin as if trying to recall the man’s name. “What was it again?”

  Of course he knew he was Lord Alvin, a man with many acres of land and two grain mills along the Erft River. But this was just too much fun. As Alvin’s cheeks puffed and his nostrils flared, Hugo worried the old man might drop dead on the spot.

  “I’m Lord—”

  “. . . Alvin,” Hugo finished, lifting his head and snapping his fingers. “Right. Now I recall. Well, Herr Alvin, when Lord Heinrich returns you can go to House Charmagne and plead your case.”

  Which instantly stopped Lord Alvin’s yammering. Hugo knew none of them would ever go to Charmagne voluntarily. The place was dark, foreboding, and intimidating. No, these men just liked complaining and Hugo was an easy target.

  Besides, Hugo hadn’t really done anything to complain about since Heinrich’s departure. Heinrich’s instructions had been clear: “Make sure the town doesn’t implode while I’m gone.” So Hugo had done precisely as instructed: exactly nothing. Bedburg was doing just fine, so there was virtually nothing to do. It was the nobles who were in jeopardy of imploding.

  In fact, Hugo’s only real project was to oversee the Town Fair scheduled for the following day.

  The large door at the end of the hall swung open. Two guards stepped in momentarily to allow the newest visitor’s entry. In the hallway, boots echoed as a scar-faced, giant of a man confidently stomped down the red carpet and into the council room.

  An eerie stillness enveloped the room as Ulrich—Bedburg’s torturer and executioner—leered at the gathering.

  Smiling back, Hugo rose from his chair. “Ulrich! A pleasant surprise,” he lied.

  It was never pleasant to be in the company of Ulrich. He was gruff, sadistic, and downright evil. Three months earlier, he’d tricked Hugo int
o joining a group of traveling inquisitors to the city of Trier, in the guise of an escort, only to end up slaughtering the group and stealing their identities so that Heinrich—under an alias—could force guilty verdicts on hapless souls.

  It had been a diabolical plot, orchestrated entirely by Ulrich, though probably at the behest of Heinrich. And not only had it reaffirmed Ulrich’s immense depravity, it had also convinced Hugo that the man could never be trusted.

  Still, at the moment he’d rather look at the torturer’s ugly, pock-marked face than spend one more minute with these relentless, noble windbags.

  “What are you doing here, boy?” Ulrich asked, his eyebrow raised.

  Hugo smiled. “Heinrich’s put me in charge while away on business.”

  “You?” Ulrich scoffed. Surveying the gaggle of frightened noblemen, he then shrugged, choosing not to press the issue. “Interesting,” was all he said.

  “I thought the same,” Hugo replied. Pointing to a paper in Ulrich’s hand, he asked, “What’s that you have there?”

  “Something I’ve been working on . . .” Ulrich held up a note.

  “Sounds devious,” Hugo said with a smirk. He took it from Ulrich and read it aloud. “Adam and Martha Jacobo. Signed, Mord.”

  He glanced up at Ulrich. “What does it mean? Who are these people?”

  “Protestants.”

  Hugo’s brow jumped. “You’re sure?”

  Ulrich nodded. “Secret ones. I’ve been keeping a ledger, listing possible Lutherans and Calvinists in Bedburg, in case Heinrich wants to take action against them.”

  “Do you have proof that they’re conspiring against the Catholics? Or even that they’re really Protestants?”

  Ulrich scratched the scar on his cheek. “Well, no . . . that’s why my ledger isn’t official.”

  “And what’s the significance of these two names? Who was this note intended for?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m guessing they were somehow taken from my ledger and someone’s trying to save them.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Or at least warn them. But I have no idea who wrote it . . .”

  “And how did you come by this note?”

  Ulrich stifled a laugh. “You’re sounding more and more like Heinrich everyday, boy—”

  “Don’t call me boy. I’m not your boy. Just answer the question.”

  Ulrich’s smile disappeared. “I have an operative—”

  “Who?”

  “That’s none of your concern, my lord,” Ulrich spat. “That’s between me and Heinrich.”

  Looking into Ulrich’s face, Hugo suddenly realized that, in his eagerness to appear in charge, he may have overplayed his hand and angered the executioner—the last thing anyone wanted to do. Ulrich was not one to provoke. Phrasing his tone more respectfully, Hugo asked, “And what will you do about these two?”

  “Also none of your concern.”

  Hugo pursed his lips. They were at a standstill. Despite technically being in charge, dealing with Ulrich was always touchy. Hugo had once served as the man’s apprentice, so trying to now act superior—to a psychopath nearly twice his size—didn’t really work.

  “Then why are you showing me this?” Hugo asked.

  Ulrich snatched the note back from Hugo. “To be honest, I had no idea you’d be here. I expected to see Heinrich.”

  Hugo crossed his arms. “Then is that all?”

  Fascinated by the ongoing power struggle playing out, the noblemen listened in rapt silence. For a long moment the two men stared each other down, until Ulrich finally seemed to relent.

  “I suppose so,” he replied.

  Hugo gave a curt nod and Ulrich did the same. Clearly, there would be no bowing. Then Ulrich turned and left.

  As Hugo faced the noblemen again, Ulrich paused at the door.

  “Hugo?” he called out.

  Hugo turned. Ulrich was smiling, the scar on his cheek nearly piercing his upper lip.

  “Yes?” Hugo replied.

  “I’m glad to see you landed on your feet.”

  The next morning—the day of Bedburg’s Town Fair—was breezy and sunny, a perfect autumn day. This would be the last market before the town’s brutal winter set in, when Bedburg’s inhabitants would brave their months-long, self-imposed hibernation.

  Traders, merchants, farmers, and vintners came from all over to take part in the fair. Whether buyer or seller, it was a day to prepare for the long, bitter winter, drawing people from well beyond the city—Jülich, Elsdorf, Bergheim, Erftstadt, and further south.

  Even before dawn broke, Bedburg was bustling as merchants set up stands and tents, loading crates of apples and onions, cartloads of wool and linens, wine from various vineyards, mead and ale from the breweries, freshly baked and ornamented breads, confections, cakes and pies, roasted pigs, chickens, ducks and cattle.

  Hugo watched from the steps of Castle Bedburg as Tanner Row was transformed into a vibrant marketplace. Even the stink of the hides and animal flesh had been washed away, giving the area a pristine appearance. It looked nothing like it used to, when Hugo and his gang were begging and running schemes on unsuspecting victims. The entire region—not just Tanner Row but other typically seedy areas such as Priest’s Circle—had been cleared of the beggars and miscreants one usually found roaming around.

  The epicenter of the fair was the town square. From there, the activity cascaded outward—all the way to the taverns and inns and residential districts bordering the eastern end of town.

  Hugo watched from Castle Bedburg as the eastern and southern gates were opened. Because of the festivities, they’d remain unguarded for the rest of the day. As the early morning sun warmed the streets, travelers began trickling in from all around. With no specific duties to attend to, Hugo decided to wander around for a while like just any other fair-goer. Heinrich wasn’t scheduled to return until later in the day and, even then, was unlikely to come into town. So Hugo could while away his time as he pleased.

  The first thing he noticed were the town guards vigilantly patrolling every block, ready to quash the occasional quarrel or disturbance. Hugo knew that as the day progressed, the number of guards would increase, likely double, as the crowds got drunker and wilder.

  He walked past a row of stands bearing different varieties of fruit, marveling at the level of salesmanship the vendors exhibited. Vying for the wandering eyes of passersby, they’d offer free samples, then hawk their wares as potential customers savored their free treats. As he passed a peach vendor, he plucked a small morsel and plopped it into his mouth, drawing the silent ire of the merchant who instantly recognized that he wasn’t there to buy anything. Unfazed, Hugo just smiled and walked on.

  He probably thinks I’m here for the free food, waiting for nightfall to rob drunk fair-goers, Hugo thought. Once upon a time, that is exactly what he’d be doing. Such festive occasions presented the perfect opportunity for the town’s petty criminals. Something he’d learned first-hand.

  But those days were over.

  Proceeding further down the street, Hugo ducked into an alley, re-emerging on the west side of the town square. This was the city’s busiest section, with hundreds of vendors crammed row after row, in their individual stalls. While Hugo pondered which direction to go from there, a commotion on the far side of the square caught his eye.

  Pushing through the crowd, wondering why the guards hadn’t stopped the disturbance, he realized it was the guards causing the ruckus. Five of them, led by one who towered over everyone else, were harassing two frightened peasants. When he got closer, he realized the lead guard was Ulrich.

  Hugo stayed back in the crowd to watch, his curiosity piqued. By now a large gathering had formed, all eyes intently focused on the spectacle.

  “Adam and Martha Jacobo,” Ulrich yelled to the couple, “I place you under arrest for conspiring against the lordship of Bedburg.”

  So these are the two from Ulrich’s little note, Hugo thought. What fools to come here in broad daylight
. . . But how did Ulrich find them so quickly in this massive crowd?

  The man under arrest was middle-aged, thin and bony, a cap gripped in his hands. He looked absolutely terrified. Even from a distance Hugo could see his whole body trembling. His wife, a bit wider and also middle-aged, was pulling on her husband’s arm, trying to yank him away as if they could escape into the crowd.

  But there was nowhere to run. Guards and spectators surrounded them.

  “W-what have we done?” the woman cried out, finally stepping forward to speak for her frightened husband. “We’ve conspired with no one! We’re innocent.”

  Ulrich snapped his fingers, then pointed at the two. Instantly, the guards descended on them. The husband, resigned to his fate, slumped his head. But his wife continued to struggle. “We’ve done nothing wrong, you animals!” she screeched. “Unhand me!”

  Calmly, Ulrich walked off, pushing through the crowd which seemed to melt away as he passed. Twenty paces away, he stepped onto a raised scaffold that the city’s carpenters had erected for the big auction scheduled for later in the day. His guards followed, dragging the two peasants along. Ulrich stood at the auctioneer’s podium and looked out at the sea of faces. On both sides of the podium two vertical poles stood—wooden stakes pounded into the ground to serve as columns for the scaffolding.

  Ulrich again snapped his fingers and a guard handed him two lengths of rope. The torturer’s fingers moved swiftly and expertly as he formed a familiar loop with one of the ropes, then tied its end to the top of the pole on his left. He then repeated the process with the second rope, attaching it to the pole on his right.

  Gasps could be heard from the crowd.

  Without preamble, Ulrich took the husband, tied his hands behind his back with a bit of torn cloth, then looped one of the nooses around his neck as the the man wailed in agony. He then did the same to the wife, who stood stone-faced and petulant.

  Hugo’s first thought was that this was all for showa sadistic, yet effective, way to terrify the populace. Surely he can’t do something so rash without even the semblance of a trial? What would Heinrich say if he knew of this?