The Beast Within

by Cory Barclay

  Heinrich, however, had dismissed Hugo’s opinion of Salvatore, implying that Hugo’s belief that the “witch-man”—as Heinrich often referred to him—wasn’t intentionally trying to harm him was simply naïve. Hugo had silently fumed about that. To Hugo, such a casual dismissal of his opinion was like an insolent parent patting his child on the head before telling him to “run along and play.”

  The morning after Heinrich had spoken to him about Salvatore, Hugo prepared for his trip to Bedburg. His instructions were to personally invite Tomas, Ulrich, and Bishop Balthasar to join the wedding feast Heinrich had planned.

  Before leaving, he and Rolf had breakfast at the dining table.

  For several minutes the two ate in silence. Then Rolf said, “Heinrich asked you about Salvatore, I presume?”

  Hugo nodded, stabbing at his eggs and watching the yolks leak out.

  “What did he want to know, specifically, my boy?”

  Hugo narrowed his eyes at the old man.

  Why does he care? Is everyone becoming paranoid in this house?

  “He thinks Salvatore tried to kill him with that potion,” Hugo answered.

  Rolf chuckled. “He told me the same. What do you think?”

  Hugo took several more bites of food, then looked up. “About what?”

  “Do you think Salvatore tried to kill Heinrich?”

  Hugo put down his fork. “Well . . . my lord seems to be getting better now. Somewhat. If Salvatore were really the evil witch-doctor Heinrich claims him to be, I’m sure he’d have a better poison to use.”

  Rolf smiled. “You are wise beyond your years, my boy.”

  “I think Lord Heinrich is just being paranoid.”

  “And why do you think that is?”

  Hugo thought for a moment. “I’m not sure.” He began eating again, then stopped. “I suppose one can be justifiably paranoid, no?”

  “Meaning what?” asked Rolf.

  “Meaning he might have good reason to be suspicious.”

  Rolf shrugged. “Perhaps he believes his lordship is in jeopardy. He’s done so much to please Archbishop Ernst—punishing the Protestants, this marriage to Lucille Engel—that he hasn’t thought much about his own people. Perhaps the citizens of Bedburg are getting angry with him about that.”

  “It’s not the first time people would be angry with Heinrich Franz,” Hugo added.

  “True, my boy.” Then Rolf’s smile disappeared. Leaning forward on the table, he put his hands together. “He’s done many unforgivable deeds . . .” His words trailed off, his eyes turned sad. Hugo could tell the old man was fond of Heinrich—yet conflicted. He’d been helping Heinrich since Heinrich wasn’t much older than Hugo was now.

  “Heinrich turned into something I didn’t expect,” Rolf said in a soft voice.

  When he didn’t continue, Hugo prompted him. “Into what?”

  Rolf thought for a while, pulling on his white beard. Looking deeply into Hugo’s eyes, he said, “A fearmonger.”

  Hugo’s nostrils flared. He leaned back in his chair.

  “I suppose he learned that from me,” Rolf confessed. “He plays on the consternation of others to get what he wants. He molds people’s terror to suit his own needs. He’s a master manipulator—as I was once. So I suppose I shouldn’t be terribly surprised. No doubt, it’s taken him to great heights. He knows how to play the chessboard well.”

  Rolf’s words reminded Hugo of his own past. He’d started out an innocent boy, wide-eyed and believing. Then his father died and his sister left him. He’d grown up quickly after that, placing his trust in the wrong people: Severin, Karstan, Ava, Ulrich, Tomas. He’d watched the massacre in the mountains near Trier, where his new, dear friend Klemens had been slaughtered before his eyes. Which had forged a rage inside him he hadn’t known was possible, ultimately leading him to his own murderous ways—first killing Severin, a long-time acquaintance he’d never trusted; then progressing on to help Tomas and Heinrich kill many others in Trier under the guise of a witch-hunt and inquisition. Looking back, he realized that that first killing of Severin, instead of evoking remorse, had only served to reinforce his confidence, giving him a twisted sense of satisfaction knowing he was capable of such violence.

  But all that death and darkness had begun to take a toll on him. He no longer felt right about himself, and didn’t like what he’d become. When he’d finally seen his sister Sybil again, years later in that jail cell, instead of feeling anger over her abandoning him, or joy over just seeing her alive again, he’d felt . . . nothing.

  And on the rare occasion he did feel something, it was always a confusing, conflicted tangle of both empowerment and fear. Empowered by what he was capable of, and fearful for what he was capable of. He was turning into a younger version of Heinrich, and that both excited and petrified him.

  Rolf interrupted his thoughts. “There are two ways to lead your people, my young friend. The first is through fear, as Heinrich does. But as you can see, that can lead to troublesome times.” He held up a finger. “He is untrusting and paranoid.” He held up a second finger. “People are angry with him.” He held up a third finger. “And that means he must always be fighting back.” Rolf took a sip from his glass of water before setting it back down and continuing. “He is never in a position of comfort—should he try to get comfortable, another thing comes along to destroy his peace. You see?”

  Hugo nodded.

  “And the second way to lead is through love. Trust. Loyalty. Friendship. I believe if Heinrich could see that, things might be better for him. But it’s much too late for that.”

  “Are you loyal to Heinrich?” Hugo posed out of the blue.

  The question clearly took Rolf by surprise. His mouth opened a bit, showing tiny yellow teeth. “Of course I am. I’ve known him since he was a young pup.”

  That doesn’t speak to whether you’re loyal to him now.

  Rolf waved his hand at Hugo. “All I’m saying, my boy, is that when it’s your time to lead, I implore you to lead by example. Lead with your heart, not your sword.”

  My time to lead? When did that become part of the deal?

  Rolf gazed into Hugo’s dark eyes. “Can you do that, Hugo? For me? And if not for me, then for the people?”

  Hugo stared back at the old man, then slowly nodded.

  “I think I can do that, Rolf.”

  After breakfast, Hugo left the dining room and finished readying himself for his trip to Bedburg. He strapped on his hiking boots and shrugged into his winter coat.

  But something was nagging him, in the back of his mind. Also, Rolf’s words kept rolling through his head.

  Was that Rolf’s intent? To distract me? No . . . he just thinks he’s helping. Senile old fool. Doesn’t he know how busy I am?

  He went down to the library, where Salvatore had been forced to stay. The library was one of the largest rooms in the mansion, with shelves built into each wall up to the ceiling, every one packed with old books and manuscripts. A rolling ladder allowed for easy access to the upper-most shelves. Salvatore was on the ladder, leafing through a section of books near the top.

  “Hello, Salvatore,” Hugo announced.

  With his back to Hugo, Salvatore reached out and grabbed a book, then started down the ladder. “Salutations, young master,” he replied, stepping off.

  “What’s that you have there?” Hugo asked, nodding at the book in his hands.

  “A treatise on necromancy,” Salvatore said with a gap-toothed smile. It was a thick volume and he cradled it like a baby. “The art of communicating with the deceased.”

  Hugo’s face darkened. He didn’t like these superstitious things, especially when they involved a crazed warlock like Salvatore. “You wish to speak with the dead?” Hugo asked.

  Salvatore shook his head. “I can already do that in my trances. I wish to control the voices speaking with me. Perhaps this book can help.”

  “Why don’t you let the dead rest? Haven’t they already been throug
h enough . . . in life?”

  Salvatore shrugged. “Yes, young master, they have. But there is much to learn from the dead. You see, though the dead are dead, they’re also alive. They form our opinions and ideals—their deaths make us who we are.” He waved his arms out to his side, as if that explained his theory. “I see them in my mind. Their spirits wander the seas and the trees and the plains. I wish to cultivate their knowledge so I can incorporate their learnings into my own spiritual adventures.”

  Hugo scratched his head. This was not the conversation he wanted; he’d come to Salvatore with a purpose, not to discuss dead people and their spirits.

  So he changed the subject. “How do you like staying here, Salvatore?” he asked.

  The witch-man shrugged. “Though my body is a prison, my mind is free. Therefore, I can be anywhere and be content in this world, you see? There is no trapping Salvatore.”

  “Great . . . I guess,” Hugo said. “And how do you like Heinrich—my master?”

  “He is as troubled as the next man. Though he cannot be blamed for that. I do think, however, that his dreams no longer ail him.”

  “He thinks you tried to kill him.”

  “I know he does.” Salvatore stopped smiling. “And I know I didn’t.”

  “Then why do you stay?” Hugo asked.

  Again Salvatore shrugged. “Curiosity. I want to see what happens. And I don’t suppose he’s too keen on seeing me leave.”

  “You want to see what happens?”

  Salvatore nodded. “I’ve seen a great feast in my dreams—a premonition, I suspect.”

  “Well, he is planning a celebratory feast for his wedding party,” Hugo said.

  Salvatore raised a finger in the sky. “Then my suspicions are confirmed!”

  Hugo sighed. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to stay here any longer. I don’t think you should be here for the feast.” Hugo was trying to give this crazy man a hint, but it just wouldn’t take.

  “Was I not invited?” He frowned, looking a bit confused. “In my dreams I was. How strange.”

  “You are invited, Salvatore, but I don’t think you should attend.” Hugo spoke his words slowly, hoping the man would understand.

  Salvatore moved to a chair by the desk and sat, opening his book. Licking his finger before placing it against the edge of the first page, he began reading, apparently done with the conversation.

  When Hugo continued standing there staring, Salvatore finally looked up. “You’re probably correct, young master,” he said. “Perhaps I will go then.”

  “When?”

  The madman smiled his gap-toothed smile again. “When you least expect it, of course.”

  A messenger advised Hugo that the wedding party would arrive by nightfall. He’d spent too much time talking to Rolf and Salvatore, and was running out of time. It was almost midday and he needed to be on the road if he intended to invite the guests whose presence Heinrich had requested and return to House Charmagne in time.

  He called for his carriage. On his way out, Rolf tried to speak to him again but Hugo brushed him off, telling him he was too busy. Rushing out to the carriage, by the time he was seated inside, Felix already had the carriage moving, on its way to Bedburg.

  Hugo carried three letters with him, tucked in his tunic, one for each guest he was tasked with inviting to the wedding festivities. He was expected to deliver them and return by nightfall to greet the wedding party and make them comfortable at House Charmagne. He mentally calculated that, as long as there were no further delays, they’d make it in time.

  Once they reached Bedburg’s eastern gate Hugo implored Felix to go faster. They barreled down the road toward their first location, pushing aside merchants and peasants. When they arrived at the garrison, Tomas was outside training with his men. Hugo noted that, just as when he’d trained with Tomas, the men didn’t use wooden swords. Tomas insisted that training always emulate actual combat, so the harsh sounds of steel blades clashing, while a bit jarring, was no surprise to Hugo.

  As Hugo stepped out, Tomas looked neither pleased nor displeased to see him—his face a blank canvas. Walking up to him, Hugo handed Tomas the letter, saying, “A message from Lord Heinrich Franz,” then turned and abruptly left.

  Quickly, Felix wheeled the carriage around, traveling back the way they’d come, and headed for the church. At the base of the hill Hugo told him to stop, got out of the carriage, then raced up the incline alone. Barging through the front doors, he was met by Sister Salome and a nearly empty church. Salome told him Bishop Balthasar was not present.

  “Where is he,” Hugo asked, “if not in his own church?”

  “At the castle to speak with Lord Alvin,” Salome replied, blushing. Unable to lie, she’d shared what Hugo knew was information Balthasar would rather keep private. Lord Alvin had been the inhospitable, old landowner who’d loudly disapproved of Hugo’s role under Heinrich’s regime. Not a likeable character at all.

  Remember to tell Heinrich about thisBalthasar speaking with Lord Alvin.

  Hugo bolted from the church, in too much a hurry to bless himself on his way out.

  The next closest destination was the jailhouse. When they arrived, Hugo jumped out, entered through the front door, then rushed down the damp, cold steps to Ulrich’s room, where Ulrich sat half-asleep. Hugo handed him the letter. “A message from Lord Heinrich Franz,” he repeated, then turned and left before Ulrich could respond.

  When they reached the castle, their last stop, where Sister Salome had said Bathasar was, Hugo considered handing his third letter to a guard, but decided the task was too important to leave to subordinates. Since he was well known here, no one stopped him when he entered the castle, quickly finding Bishop Balthasar Schreib in a small room seated across from Lord Alvin.

  “What’s this?” Balthasar asked when Hugo handed him the letter.

  Hugo eyed the bishop and the lord suspiciously, from one to the other.

  “A message from Lord Heinrich Franz. He wishes you to officiate the wedding ceremony between himself and Lady Lucille Engel von Bergheim. And he wants you at the wedding feast afterward. Do you accept?”

  Bishop Balthasar frowned. Clearly this was a major inconvenience. Hugo almost smirked. Finally, the bishop sighed. “Yes, tell Lord Franz I accept.”

  Hugo bowed. “He expects you to witness the trade agreements and proposals as well,” he added.

  “Fine, fine,” he said. “When does the wedding party arrive?”

  “Tonight.” Hugo peeked out the window. The sun was ready to set. “The wedding is in two days’ time.”

  The bishop nodded. Hugo bid him and Lord Alvin a curt farewell, then left the castle.

  They rode out the eastern gate back to House Charmagne. As the carriage picked up speed, a sudden impulse overtook Hugo. He ordered Felix to turn at the next road.

  When they’d ascended, then descended, a hill, Felix asked, “Where are we going, my lord?”

  “Don’t ask questions, Felix, just steer.”

  They came to another hill, in a wooded area, overlooking an old house.

  Hugo’s old house.

  Though nearly a hundred yards away, Hugo clearly recognized the young man out front, axing firewood, the sky blazing orange and pink behind him.

  Martin Achterberg.

  Looking much older than last time Hugo had seen him. Now with a beard, he was taller and broader, his muscles glistening with sweat from his work. Only two years Hugo’s senior, he looked much older.

  “Come on,” Hugo whispered to himself, tapping his feet impatiently on the carriage floor.

  “My lord, the sun is setting,” Felix said through the window. “We should be go—”

  “Quiet, Felix,” Hugo said, raising his palm.

  He just wanted a glimpse. He’d been dreaming of her ever since that day, seeing her at the Achterberg estate, opening the door for Dieter as he returned from the Town Fair.

  He only wanted one lasting image, something
to satiate his mind.

  And then the door opened and she appeared. Beautiful as ever.

  Ava Hahn stepped through the doorway and handed Martin a clay mug of water.

  Hugo’s throat went dry, his voice caught in his chest. He heard a low groan come from deep within. And he felt himself getting aroused, his pants tightening in a certain area.

  Then Martin grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close. They embraced. Then kissed.

  Hugo’s mouth fell open. He was dumbstruck. His fists clenched. He blinked rapidly, unbelieving.

  It was not Ava Hahn and Dieter Nicolaus together, as he’d originally assumed.

  Of course not. Dieter still loved Sybil.

  It was Ava and Martin Achterberg!

  Which made even less sense.

  Doesn’t Ava know that Martin is a murderer? That he killed his own father?

  Doesn’t she know he was a former prisoner and fugitive of Bedburg, that he’d escaped his justified arrest and execution? That his mother had burned as a witch in the public square? That he’d been an altar boy for the former bishop of Bedburg, and had probably taken part in grave, disgusting habits with the old man? Does she not know any of that?

  How could Ava love such a man?

  No. She must not know any of it. She wouldn’t love him if she did.

  Then a strange thought occurred to Hugo.

  Would she love me if she knew my past?

  It didn’t matter.

  Hugo looked away, staring out the opposite window of the carriage. Suddenly he caught a glimpse of someone else.

  A hooded figure on a horse, flying down the road away from them, heading back toward Bedburg.

  Hugo had been followed. Ava and Martin’s presence were now known.

  But he didn’t care.

  Let them be caught!

  Heinrich Franz had his enemies.

  And now Hugo Griswold had his.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SYBIL