The Beast Within

by Cory Barclay

  “I don’t see it in your character,” Corvin said with a smirk. “And besides, you’ve just learned Guy’s fate . . .”

  “Georg,” Sybil said, “you’re not actually considering this, are you?”

  “Father,” Rowaine added, “I think it’s a bad idea.”

  Georg held his hands up to both women. “It could benefit us all,” he pointed out, “and the whole shire. This may be exactly how to gain the people’s trust!”

  “If all goes smoothly, you’ll be a wealthy man,” Corvin said, trying to sweeten the offer.

  “But imagine the people you’ll be dealing with,” Sybil said. “Thieves, highwaymen, bandits.”

  “I’ve dealt with worse,” Georg reminded her. “You forget, I fought for the Spanish.”

  Corvin nodded. “My job will be to make sure you interact with the least number of undesirables as possible. I will also be captaining the Silver Sun, of course.”

  “What about the tavern?” Rowaine asked. “I thought that was your dream.”

  Georg snorted. “It’s a means to an end, Cat.” He smiled. “I can do just as much drinking in King’s Lynn as I can here.”

  “And you can make a lot more money while doing it,” said Corvin.

  With the seed now planted and watered, it was clear which way Georg was leaning.

  But Sybil wasn’t finished. “So you’re just going to give up on the alehouse? After all we’ve been through to get that damned license?”

  “Of course not, Beele. I’ll promote Leon from chief architect to master builder. Claire will love that. It can be my way of thanking them for allowing us to live here, like heathens, for so long.”

  Everyone thought about it for a while, until Georg finally spoke.

  “I accept your offer, Herr Carradine. When do they want me?”

  Corvin smiled. “Immediately, my good man. Your first task is to join me in King’s Lynn to oversee the shipping of Reeve Bailey’s textiles. Along with some other merchandise.”

  Once Georg was gone, activity at Claire and Leon’s estate slowed considerably, though there was still much to be done. Sybil continued with her divine consultations, Daxton took on the head carpenter position for the ongoing tavern construction, Leon Durand managed the project, and Rowaine slowly began re-training her legs, though her back remained quite sore. Sybil’s theory was that when Rowaine was initially injured, the bullet had pinched something in her back or spine, paralyzing her, and the fall from her bed had unstrained the pinched nerve and fixed her legs. But she still needed to exercise her legs after not using them for so long.

  A few days later, Georg returned to Strangers Shire looking much different. Gone were his rugged beard and long hair. Except for some pockmarks and facial scars—which he’d vaguely attributed to his “rough-and-tumble” time in the Spanish army—his face was now smooth and his scalp close-cropped. The only thing still bearing witness to the “old” Georg were his clothes—grimy and ragged, more the attire of a beggar or wild man than that of the new shipping representative of King’s Lynn.

  And he’d returned with a large advance of money—enough to complete his tavern.

  “Unfortunately,” Georg told his comrades, “I won’t be here to see it finished. And neither will you, Daxton.”

  “What are you raving about?” Daxon asked. “Has that city deranged you so quickly?”

  Georg shook his head. “I’m going to need another boat to ship the goods to Germany—through Amsterdam and down the Rhine. I’d like to use the Lion’s Pride.”

  Rowaine stepped forward. “It’s not yours to use.”

  Georg frowned at his daughter. “I know that, Cat . . .”

  Daxton put his arm around Rowaine. “Come now, Row, don’t take your anger out on your poor old father.” He smiled. “I was getting bored of building that damn tavern anyway.”

  “Then I’m coming with you,” Rowaine answered, gazing around at the faces in the room. “I’ve been cooped up here for far too long. I miss the sea.”

  Daxton nodded, then thought of something. “Does that mean you’ll want to be captain again?”

  Rowaine smiled, shaking her head. “I’ll never be captain of the Pride again, Dax. That is your job now.”

  Sybil joined in. “I’d like to go with you too, then.”

  Which stopped the conversation cold.

  After a moment, Georg, Daxton, and Rowaine all shook their heads in unison. Sybil’s mouth fell open. “And why not?” she asked.

  “We need someone here to look after our enterprises, Beele,” Georg said. “Don’t you see?” He motioned out to the countryside beyond.

  Sybil eyed the group suspiciously. “Did you all plan this?” she asked.

  Georg shook his head. Raising three fingers, he ticked off the reasons: “We could count on you to oversee the building of the tavern. Second, you’d be close to Claire so we’d have a place to stay when we return.” And with a small grin, he said the third. “And of course you get to continue spiritually uplifting your followers in the shire.”

  “Grow the legend,” Daxton added with wider grin.

  “Your job will be more important than any of our’s, Beele,” Rowaine added.

  But it certainly didn’t feel that way to Sybil. She turned away, disappointment in her eyes. Yet in the end, she had to agree with Georg’ assessment.

  She’d do much more good staying than going.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  HEINRICH

  It would be a misty, gloomy night at House Charmagne. The winter winds blew bits of grass across the courtyard, while leaves swirled outside Heinrich Franz’s window. Standing in his room by the windowsill, watching the fog seep through the last remnants of daylight, Heinrich tapped his feet as he waited for his guests to arrive.

  The first carriage pulled in just as the sky darkened. He couldn’t make out who was inside from up high in his room. All he could see was the orange glow of the lanterns atop the carriage, growing brighter as it drew closer to his mansion’s front door.

  Heinrich turned toward his mirror. He straightened his cuffs and smoothed out the wrinkles of his black jacket. Clearing his throat, he took a deep breath, then headed downstairs to his guests.

  Hugo and Rolf were standing at the foot of the stairs, their hands clasped behind their backs. Both were dressed in dapper attire. When they saw him appear at the top of the stairs, they both smiled up at him. He didn’t return the smile. He had too much on his mind—chaos, swirling inside him like the leaves outside.

  “Where’s the madman?” Heinrich asked as he descended the stairs.

  Rolf frowned. “Don’t worry about Salvatore, my lord. This is your day.”

  “Yes,” Heinrich agreed, “and I want to make sure it isn’t disrupted by an insane man’s schemes. Where is he?”

  “Gone.”

  Heinrich narrowed his eyes at the bearded old man. Rolf seemed a bit more hunched than usual, more slow-moving of late. Age had definitely caught up with him, physically at least, since his brain still seemed sharp.

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “Where did he go?”

  “Escaped—dashed out in the night, last evening it appears.”

  Hugo nodded. “Didn’t want to be part of your illustrious wedding, apparently.” He smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Who let that happen?” Heinrich growled.

  Just then, three loud knocks cracked against the oak doors in the foyer. Beauregard, the butler, dressed in his most splendid celebratory garb, opened the door, bowing to the new arrivals—Baron Ludwig von Bergheim and his assistant, Hedda, the first to arrive.

  Heinrich had not planned a large ceremony. The wedding would take place behind closed doors—literally—as per his wish. Lady Lucille Engel had had no objection to that.

  He wanted to get the wedding over with so he could go about his business of terrorizing Protestants and punishing the rebels.

  Beauregard led Ludwig and Hedda down the red-carpeted hallway to
the dining room. From the shadows of the walkway, Heinrich watched. As usual, Hedda held a large book under her arm, though the rest of her appearance had decidedly changed. With her curly hair hanging loosely over her bare shoulders, she wore a gown so lavish it looked more like she was the one getting married. Heinrich felt a slight animal tingle pulse through his body as he eyed the young woman.

  “Shall we present you to your guests?” Rolf asked from behind Heinrich, startling him.

  Heinrich shook his head. “Not until the rest of them arrive.” He wanted to judge their dispositions from afar, when they were unaware of being watched.

  A few minutes later, more guests arrived. This time, Tomas Reiner and Bishop Balthasar Schreib.

  Balthasar was dressed for tradition, ceremony, and significance. He wore his finest black cassock, with a purple sash denoting his position in the diocese, a fuschia skullcap, and a pectoral hanging from his neck. Shivering when he entered the house, he rubbed his hands together as his eyes darted around the room. He didn’t notice Heinrich watching him from the shadows.

  Tomas Reiner wore a uniform of stiff leather and dark boots, with armbands and lapel pins denoting his military position. With his blond hair oiled back and trimmed, he looked like a regal nobleman. He surveyed the interior of the house with an eye of suspicion, as if the walls were cursed. As Beauregard led them into the dining room, Heinrich made a mental note to pay particular attention to Tomas and his generally suspicious nature.

  Next to arrive were the crown jewels of the occasion, lord and lady from Erftstadt. Baron Josef Witten von Erftstadt wore a too-tight lavender tunic with a cloak that swept the ground. His white beard was braided. His daughter, Lady Lucille, looked stiff and uncomfortable in a puffy white dress that clung tightly against her body and accentuated her abundant curves. She wore no veil, but one wasn’t required because no formal ceremony was scheduled. Clearly trying to alleviate her discomfort, her father held his hand to the small of her back as he gently led her down the hallway.

  The last to arrive was Ulrich, the most underdressed participant of the bunch. Not owning a decent suit, he wore a plain tunic, waistcoat, and out-of-style jacket. At least he’d left his blood-soaked apron at home. He was surrounded by an entourage of five armored soldiers, their weapons visible but sheathed.

  In all, it took slightly over an hour for the short list of guests to arrive. At the sight of Ulrich and his men entering, Heinrich emerged from his shadowy alcove and approached them.

  To Ulrich, he said in a low voice, “Keep your guards outside of the dining room, but close at hand.”

  Ulrich eyed him curiously. “Will they be needed, my lord?”

  Heinrich shook his head. “I shan’t think so. Just a precaution.”

  Ulrich bowed. “Of course.”

  Beauregard escorted the jailer and his soldiers down the hallway, their armor clanking and creaking while Heinrich discreetly followed ten paces back. Once everyone but Heinrich was in the dining area, Rolf did the honors—announcing his host’s arrival as Heinrich stepped through the entranceway.

  “May I present to you the lord of Bedburg, Heinrich Franz, a true friend to the diocese of Cologne,” Rolf declared, dramatically sweeping his hand around to complete the unnecessary introduction.

  Heinrich made his grand entrance, stepping in with open arms, warmly smiling in his most regal way, while his guests—all seated around the long, formal dining table—pretended to be happy to see him. Flipping the hem of his coat away, Heinrich then took his seat at the head of the table, slowly eyeing each guest with a tight smile and nod of the head.

  To his left sat Baron Ludwig, with Hedda next to him, followed by Commander Tomas. To his right sat Baron Josef, followed by Lady Lucille across from Hedda, and Ulrich across from Tomas. And seated at the foot of the table was Bishop Balthasar, with two chairs left empty on both side of him.

  The plan was to conduct business before pleasure. Specifically, they’d proceed first with the necessary paperwork, followed by a large feast, and ending with dance and drinks. Then Heinrich and Lucille would disappear for their private consummation ceremony.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Heinrich began. Wiggling his white-gloved fingers, he said, “I know you’re all busy people, so shall we begin?”

  Some nodded, some didn’t.

  As the first order of business, Bishop Balthasar pulled out several pages from his cassock and stood. He laid them out on the table, pushing them forward for all to see.

  “This first agreement,” he announced, touching the page closest to him, “will be signed by both the groom and the bride’s guardian, Baron Josef Witten von Erftstadt. It agrees that, in exchange for his daughter’s hand in marriage, the barony of Erftstadt will receive the land titles of three hamlets from Bedburg: Kirdorf, Oppendorf, and Millendorf.

  “The ownership of all three villages—and all estates and properties in said villages—will thus be transferred upon the legal union of the bride and groom. Conversely, the agreement is null and void if said matrimony does not take place.” He looked around the table. “Is that understood?”

  Baron Josef nodded, as did Heinrich. The page was then sent down the table, person by person, until it reached Heinrich. At the same time, Beauregard appeared at the dining room door with a jar of ink and fountain pen, which he set down next to Heinrich. Heinrich pretended to quickly read the document—which wasn’t necessary since he’d personally prepared it—then with a flourish signed it at the bottom. After blowing his signature dry, he handed the document and pen to Baron Josef, who likewise skimmed through it, then signed it. Setting the pen down, he turned to his daughter and, with a kind smile, gently squeezed her shoulder. But she did not reciprocate her father’s smile. Instead, she pursed her lips with a display of icy indifference.

  Clearing his throat, Balthasar continued. “The second agreement . . . will be signed by both the groom and the bride’s warden, Baron Ludwig Koehler von Bergheim. It states that, upon the groom’s marriage to the warden’s charge, Lucille Engel von Erftstadt, a single seat on the parliament of the Free Imperial City of Cologne, currently belonging to the city of Bedburg, will be forfeited to the barony of Bergheim. Thusly, upon the transfer of ownership of the parliamentary seat, the baron of Bergheim may do whatever he wishes with said seat—whether filling it himself or with a delegate. Is that understood?”

  After both Baron Ludwig and Heinrich nodded, Balthasar repeated the process of sliding the page down the table for everyone to witness. While it made its way down the line, Hedda continued furiously scrawling in her book, apparently transcribing the bishop’s every word, including his description of the contents of the papers.

  Once Heinrich signed it, he handed it to Baron Ludwig on his left who, with lips moving, appeared to read each word to himself before signing it. Then he looked up at Heinrich with a wicked smile.

  As soon as Baron Ludwig laid down his pen, Balthasar cleared his throat again. “Having witnessed the signatures of both agreements, under God, there is one final agreement that must now be executed in order to validate the two agreements just signed. This final document—to be signed by both groom and bride—outlines the legal rights of both parties, under God, and finalizes their union of matrimony.” With a fatherly smile, he passed the remaining page down the line.

  By the time it got to the head of the table, something had clouded Heinrich’s eyes. Momentarily lost in thought, he stared down at the paper as if not sure what it was, then glanced up at everyone before quickly regaining his senses. With an odd smile, he looked back down at the document, then signed it and passed it to Baron Josef who handed it to his daughter.

  An awkward silence followed as Lady Lucille, leaving the paper on the table in front of her, gazed at it for what seemed like an eternity. For a full minute the only audible sounds were the whirling wind outside brushing tiny tree limbs against the windowpanes. Finally, Lucille picked up the pen and, bending over to sign, allowed a tear to slide down her
cheek onto the page, before brushing it aside and signing the agreement.

  Almost immediately the crowd broke into subdued applause. Then all eyes returned to Balthasar.

  “As God’s witness,” he pronounced to all, holding his hands together, “I declare the both of you—Heinrich Franz and Lucille Engel—husband and wife.”

  Muted cheers erupted from the audience, then quickly died down as Heinrich smiled and held up his arms.

  “Now then . . . let’s begin the feast, shall we?”

  And what a feast it was, a truly lavish affair. Beauregard began it with platters piled high with meat pies filled with duck and lamb set in front of each guest. Then came the garlic potatoes, and snails from France, and oysters, and other fine delicacies—some from the continent, some from the far reaches of the world. Bowls overflowed with exotic fruit in rainbow colors along with dishes of tantalizing pastries and glossy cakes, plus barrels of ale and casks of wine imported from the finest sources throughout Europe.

  Everyone ate to their heart’s content, with the exception of one: Lady Lucille Engel. The new bride ate like a dainty child, poking at her food, glancing distractedly off in the distance, ignoring the whispered encouragements of her father.

  She was simply unable to fake delight. And was clearly depressed by the whole affair—the feast, the loud conversation, but most of all, her marriage to Lord Heinrich Franz of Bedburg.

  As everyone but she enjoyed the food and festivities, Heinrich eyed his new bride severely. Truthfully, he wasn’t at all upset witnessing her obvious misery. In fact, since he basically felt the same as she did about the marriage, seeing her distress seemed to somewhat alleviate his own gloom. He felt no personal animosity toward the woman. It was just that he hated all nobles and people of high birth. But for the time being he would play the role of the happy groom for his audience, conversing exuberantly and feigning giddy satisfaction.

  When most of the food and drink and desserts had been consumed, the festivities and energy level began to wane. Conversations got quieter as the guests began leaning back in their chairs, their eyes glazed, their bellies full.