by Cory Barclay
They arrived at the entryway to King’s Lynn in the morning. Two lackadaisical guards stopped their cart at the gate, demanding a penny payment if they intended to do trade. It was a common tax Reeve Bailey had warned them about.
Flipping one of the guards the money, the other guard asked Georg what he was bringing in.
“Vegetables, sir,” Georg said, gesturing over his shoulder to the covered cart. “Potatoes and yams.”
The guard walked to the back of the cart and threw back the blanket. Underneath lay four crates, three with potatoes, one filled with yams.
“Bringing them to the market, or for export?” the guard asked.
“To the docks, sir. Export.”
The guard hesitated, then nodded to his mate who allowed them entry.
King’s Lynn was a large town, responsible for most of the trade in West Norfolk, and the morning was a busy time for exporters, importers, and merchants alike. As their horses slowly pulled them down the road, Georg had to manuever their cart around groups of men and women pulling their own goods in wheelbarrows, crates, and carriages.
Most exports emanating from King’s Lynn were wool, grain, and salt. And even though there was nothing illegal about trading textiles, Sybil and Georg didn’t want to chance questions about where their textile stock was headed, so they’d simply hidden their cloth stacks beneath their vegetable crates. No one cared where potatoes went.
They passed the bustling marketplace and made their way north toward the docks. Reaching into his pocket, Georg pulled out a small map Clarence had given him. He scrunched his brow, studied the map, looked up, then down, then back up again. Finally he pointed off in the distance to a nondescript warehouse situated between several buildings.
“That’s it, at least according to this map,” Georg said. Handing the map to Sybil, he snapped the reins and whistled to his horses, setting course for the warehouse.
When they arrived, a man was stationed on a chair outside the building. He got up and walked toward Georg and Sybil.
“Do you head to land or sea?” he asked sternly.
“The sea, if the bishop permits it,” Georg said, reciting the code phrase Clarence Bailey had instructed him to use. According to Clarence, the town was once called Bishop’s Lynn, and had been a simple parish with a grammar school, market, and thriving import-export trade. In 1537, King Henry VIII took control of it because of its strategic location along the Great Ouse River, which spilled into the North Sea. He also renamed it King’s Lynn for obvious reasons. But old ways die hard and most local folk—including the underground exporters and illicit fences—missed the easygoing days when the town was run by a more lenient bishop.
The man nodded and walked back to the warehouse. Reaching down, he grabbed the bottom edge of the wall and lifted up, giving way to a garage. Georg and Sybil rode their cart inside as the man quickly slid the wall back down behind them.
Rushlights and torches lit up the interior, along with of a few small windows which allowed sunlight in. The structure was quite long, with a multitude of barrels, crates and stacks of random goods and accessories lining the walls.
“I recognize the cart, but not the people riding in it,” a man said, skulking out from the shadows, carrying a torch. As he approached, Sybil saw a middle-aged gent with a bald head and thick mustache, reminding her a little of Daxton.
Georg started to explain. “We’ve come on behalf of Reeve Clarence Bailey of Strangers Shire—”
“Yes, yes,” the man interrupted. “If you knew the password, then you’re all right by me. Come, get down off that thing and let me take a look at the two of you.”
Georg jumped off and held his hand out for Sybil. She took it and gingerly stepped down. The man with the torch was about her height, much shorter than he looked from the cart, at least a head smaller than Georg.
“You two married?” he asked.
Georg and Sybil looked at each other, then shook their heads. It made Sybil realize that they should have prepared their background details much better beforehand.
“Shame,” the man said. “Married folk seem to do the best work together.”
Sybil wasn’t sure what that meant. The man looked hard at both of them, making Sybil uncomfortable. She looked away and the man smirked, then held out his hand for Georg. “They call me Guy.”
Georg shook it. “Georg,” he replied. He nudged his chin to Sybil. “And this is S—”
“Beele. Please, call me Beele,” Sybil said quickly, shooting Georg a look. She certainly didn’t want everyone knowing her real name, especially if they were doing something illegal.
“So what do you have for me, Georg?” Guy asked, crossing his hairy arms over his chest.
“The same thing Reeve Bailey always has,” Georg said with a shrug. “Textiles.”
Guy nodded slowly. “Why didn’t he come himself?”
“Worried the town guards might notice him.”
“And where is he trying to send these goods? Amsterdam?”
Georg furrowed his brow, glanced at Sybil, then shook his head. “No . . . he’s trying to sell them to folks in Cologne.”
Guy frowned.
Noticing Guy’s changing expression, Sybil wondered what they were missing. Reeve Bailey led us to believe this was routine.
“Germany?” Guy asked.
Georg nodded.
“Rubbish,” Guy said. “The reeve of your little shire doesn’t have the money to send goods to Germany! Do you know how much trouble I’d be in if I got caught? I could hang.”
“I thought that’s what you do . . .” Georg began, getting frustrated. “You know, send things to places they’re not supposed to go.”
“To an extent, yes. But Germany’s too dangerous. The League would kill me if they found out I was lodging in their territory.”
“The League?” Sybil asked, giving Georg a look to calm down.
Guy turned to her. “The Hanseatic League.” He tilted his head a bit. “Did the reeve not tell you who you’d be working with?”
They both shook their heads.
“Please explain,” Sybil demanded.
The man chuckled. “We go back centuries, my dear. That story would take the whole day. Basically, we’re a confederation of guilds, formed to help merchants against the overbearing nobility, protecting them from tyrannical trade laws.”
“If you’re such a powerful underground organization, why have I never heard of you?” Sybil asked.
Guy’s proud smile evaporated. “We aren’t as prevalent as we once were. I’m the only Hansa representative here, and this warehouse is one of our last strongholds in England. But if we’re caught dwelling in the waters of Germany—where the League began and where its roots hold strongest—it would be disrespectful and dangerous. I won’t risk my ships.”
Georg threw up his hands. “Then how does this work? You’re telling me we’ve come all this way for nothing? Christ, we have a ship—we could deliver the damned stuff ourselves if we just knew the way!” He turned and stomped back to the cart, leaning against it.
Sybil could tell that something Georg said had sparked Guy’s interest. She looked at Georg. “Is this tavern really worth it?”
Before Georg could answer, Guy said, “You have your own ship?”
“Why?” Georg asked with a shrug.
Sybil saw the wheels spinning in Guy’s mind. His nose seemed to twitch, causing his mustache to quiver. After a long pause, Georg grabbed a potato from his cart and began tossing it from hand to hand as Guy stepped forward.
“If you have the means to deliver the goods, I have the instructions,” he said in a low voice. “Routes, amicable ports, taxmen, traders to contact . . . all in my ledger.”
Sybil had known enough greedy people in her life to know what was coming next. “But you won’t give us your ledger, will you?” she asked sarcastically, hands on her hips.
“I will,” Guy said, lifting his finger, “if you’ll do something for me first.”
“What?” Georg asked, pushing himself from the cart, tossing the potato back.
“My ledger is a valuable commodity. People would pay a hefty sum for—”
“Just get to it, man,” Georg growled. “I’m growing tired of your jabbering.” He stepped forward and Guy backed up. Even at his age, Georg was still an imposing figure, especially when angry.
Fidgeting for a moment, Guy cleared his throat. “A nemesis of mine has stolen goods from me. He’s taken them on his ship, the Silver Sun, and anchored off the coast of Wells-next-the-Sea—a seaport in North Norfolk. I don’t know where he plans to take my goods. Perhaps he doesn’t either and is now realzing how hard it is to sell things that aren’t his . . .”
“And you want your goods back,” Georg stated.
Guy nodded.
“What’s this man’s name? The thief who stole them.”
“Corvin Carradine.”
Georg looked at Sybil for approval.
Sybil slowly began shaking her head.
This plan is growing too convoluted. And all so Georg can get a license to get drunk when he pleases?
“We could talk to Daxton . . .” Georg muttered, noticing that he was losing Sybil’s support.
“Why would he want to do this?” Sybil asked.
“For Rowaine,” he answered. “This is all for Rowaine.”
As Sybil started to protest, Guy put up his hand up. “Wait, wait,” he said. “You just mentioned Daxton and Rowaine?” His eyes narrowed. “What ship exactly are you . . . part of?”
Sensing a shift in power, Sybil straightened her back. “Judging by your look, I think you know what ship we’re talking about, Guy.”
Guy’s face blanched. He started nodding profusely.
Apparently the Lion’s Pride’s reputation precedes us, she thought.
“If we can convince our colleagues to look for Corvin Carradine and the Silver Sun, to get your goods back,” Sybil asked, “you promise to give us that ledger?”
“And more,” Guy said excitedly. “With the Lion’s Pride at the front of my fleet . . . no one will trifle with that. I’ll personally lead your expedition to Germany, if you’d like.”
Georg shook his head. “We won’t be flying the Pride’s colors, you fool. Talk about unwanted attention.”
Guy nodded again. “Right, right, of course not.” He stuck his hand out for Georg and Sybil. “Do we have a deal?”
“We’ll have to talk with our friend,” Sybil said.
Guy beamed. “Of course. Captain Daxton Wallace!”
Both Sybil and Georg were surprised at the level of respect this man was showering on Daxton. To them, Dax was still the loud-thinking, quick-talking carpenter of the Pride, not some feared, important pirate captain.
“We’ll either return here in a week with what you want,” Georg told him, “or you’ll never see us again.”
Sybil hopped into the driver’s seat of the cart, wheeled the horses around and waited for Georg. Then she heard whispering. Glancing over, she saw Guy speaking quietly into Georg’s ear.
And during the whole ride back, no matter how hard she tried, Georg would not tell her what the man said.
CHAPTER NINE
HEINRICH
It was nighttime and Heinrich was roused by the relentless sound of shouting and a deep orange glow coming from his small window.
He peeked out. To his shock, a large gang was gathered in front of his house, carrying pitchforks and torches. A moment later, Heinrich’s mother, dressed in her robe, burst onto the scene to confront the angry mob. She raised her hands, shouting over the din of the protestors. “What is the meaning of this?”
A man stepped forward. “It’s your fault, witch!” He pointed to several people in the crowd, one by one. “Her daughter! His nephew! Her cousin! My son!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Edith screamed.
“Of course you do!” a woman yelled back. “You cast a hex on them all, for losing your son!”
A rumbling chorus of agreement rose up from the crowd. Heinrich ducked from the window and crept to the front of the house.
“We are here to arrest you for the murder of Jacques, the first to fall ill from your tainted, sorcerous wool!”
Heinrich gasped, holding his breath. He was standing behind his mother now. For once, he felt protected. She seemed so strong and resilient.
“I still have no idea what you mean!” she told the man.
“Every person who has laid hands on your pelts,” he shouted, “has fallen ill and died. First, Jacques, the transporter. Then, Mary, the tailor. Last, a spinstress and a maid.”
“We thought it was a pox at first,” another woman yelled. “Then we found out the sickness was isolated—from a single source!”
“From you!” someone else shouted.
“Mother?” Heinrich called out.
Edith turned, pushing Heinrich back toward the front door. “Go inside,” she whispered before turning back to the crowd. “Don’t hurt my child!”
It was the first time Edith had shown concern for the boy.
But to Heinrich, it was too little too late. It couldn’t wipe away all the years of abuse. And now, finally, he saw the way to be rid of her.
And not even of his own making!
The gang of angry peasants took Edith prisoner, waving their sizzling torches as they led her away into the misty night.
The next morning, Heinrich traveled to the city alone to look for her.
A trial had already been set for that day. When a shackled Edith looked out into the crowd and saw her son, she screamed, “Tell them, my son! Tell them I’m innocent—that I would never do something like this!”
But Heinrich just stared.
He could have said something, but he didn’t.
As he listened to the testimony at his mother’s trial, he realized that it had been him.
He’d been the one who’d gotten all those people sick.
By wrapping the carcasses of the dead animals he’d killed into his mother’s stacks of pelts in the shed—all the birds, the mice, the rats he’d slaughtered every time his mother had made him angry.
They must have rotted and become infected, poisoning all the people who’d then worn them. His mother was innocent. She had no idea she’d been selling tainted, diseased wool.
And he could have spoken up. He could have saved her.
But he didn’t.
He wanted her gone.
And so on a glorious springtime afternoon, Heinrich sat stone-faced as his mother was tied to the cross and the kindling was lit.
And he watched the heat grow in intensity, feeling it sear his face, but wouldn’t look away.
And he watched his mother’s screams turn to cries, and her cries turn to incoherent wheezes.
And he watched her skin transform from a molten red-hot crust to a gooey, slippery paste as it slid off her bones.
And he watched to the very end.
When it was over, a beautiful woman came up to him.
“My dear, you’re the last one here. Why don’t you come with me?”
Gently touching his shoulder, she turned to lead him away.
But he just stood there, silently staring off at nothing. Finally, he said quietly, “That was my mother.”
The woman wrapped him tightly in her arms. “You poor, poor thing.”
But he didn’t cry. Instead, he felt the beautiful woman’s breasts push up against him and a strange stirring tingle inside.
Then the woman moved him back to arm’s-length and smiled. Her hair was blonde like the sun, her eyes blue like the sky.
“Do you have a father?” she asked.
Heinrich shook his head.
“Well I’ll make sure you don’t starve,” she said softly.
Heinrich thought she was an angel.
“Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you doing this? I don’t deserve it. I should join my mother on the fire.”
&nbs
p; “Nonsense, my sweet,” she replied, wrapping her hand around his and leading him away from the carnage. As they left, Heinrich turned back, catching a glimpse of his mother’s smoldering ashes.
He squeezed his radiant angel’s hand tighter as they walked away.
“My name is Odela, my dear,” she told him, “and I’m going to take care of you . . .”
“I’m going to take care of you—damned horse, I swear!”
Heinrich shot up, gasping for breath. His heart raced, sweat lined his face. Quickly, he knocked on the top of the carriage.
“Yes, my lord?” Felix said from the driver’s seat, sounding frustrated.
“Where in God’s good graces are we?” Heinrich asked, his voice muddled with confusion.
“Almost to Bedburg, my lord.”
Heinrich sunk back in his seat. He knew he must rid himself of these frightful dreams.
Felix guided the carriage to the stables. Once there, Felix stayed with the carriage while Heinrich ventured off into the city. He had work to do.
Walking through the streets, he held his head high, glancing away each time a peasant would pass too closely. For the most part people avoided him like a plague, fearing his wrath. Which was just how he liked it.
In fact, he hated being in Bedburg—its muddy roads filled with excrement, the unpleasant odors of the tanneries and slaughterhouses, the poor pathetic people.
He’d gotten used to a way of life far beyond the means of most everyone in the city. And he loved it that way. At first he hadn’t wanted a big mansion in the country. He’d thought that staying near town would help him keep a closer eye on his constituents . . . and his prey.
But Archbishop Ernst had insisted on giving him House Charmagne, as a reward for his deadly work regarding the Werewolf of Bedburg. And then the archbishop had awarded him the lordship of Bedburg, for his even deadlier work in Trier.