by Cory Barclay
“There’s gon’ be an execution!”
Holding Peter tightly, he shot out of the house and took off running. Through alleys, down small streets, around curves, using every short cut he knew, to the town square.
The closer he got, the more people there were. And all heading in the same direction. Everyone knew. The news had been spread.
Which could mean only one thing: someone was sending a message to the city.
Watch these people die. Know that the next could be you. Or your family. Or any rebellious protestor or follower.
And that kind of message could come from just one person: Heinrich Franz, the only one with both the motive and power—the motive to send such a message and the power to bring everyone together like this on such short notice.
As he passed groups of people, he began hearing the murmurs and whispers.
“I hear he massacred them all,” said someone. But when Dieter spun around to inquire, whoever said it was gone. He caught more bits of conversation.
“Murdered them in their sleep, is what I’ve been told.”
“That Heinrich Franz is one cold bastard.”
Frustrated, he touched a woman’s shoulder with his stump. “Excuse me, Frau . . .”
The woman turned. It was Aellin from the tavern. Her black hair was damp with sweat, the curls plastered to her shoulders, like she’d run all the way from the tavern. Dieter smiled at the familiar face.
“Ah, Aellin! Nice to see you.”
But for once, she didn’t smile back. “Under the circumstances, priest, I think not.”
“What’s going on?”
“So . . . so much, it seems. You haven’t heard? Where’ve you been?”
Dieter frowned. “Please, just . . .” he started.
“There’s an execution underway—”
“So I’ve heard,” he said. “But what’s happened? I hear just bits and pieces, of deaths and massacres . . .”
“Heinrich Franz killed his rivals last night, at House Charmagne. The word is he invited them over for a feast and slaughtered them.”
“Who? What rivals?” Dieter asked.
Aellin shrugged. “No one knows.”
“Then how can you know it’s true?”
Aellin stared at him as if he were a simpleton. “Because it’s Heinrich Franz, Dieter.”
Dieter paused, then nodded. “True enough.”
Aellin began to walk away, but Dieter kept by her side as they both walked toward the square.
“This isn’t anything the young pup should see, you know,” Aellin said, nudging her chin toward Peter.
“I have nowhere to leave him—nowhere safe.”
Aellin shrugged and turned away. She was done talking. Near the square the crowds grew denser and Dieter, looking to his side, realized he’d been separated from Aellin. As he made his way through throngs of people, a million thoughts raced through his mind. Nothing Heinrich might do, or had done, would shock him. After the man’s earlier actions in Bedburg, while he was chief investigator, and then again during his triumphant witch-hunt in Trier, no level of violence or viciousness from the man would surprise him. In fact, in its diabolical way, everything Heinrich had done, and was doing, made complete sense.
He aches for power. But as a recluse he wants to rule from afar, behind closed doors, free from retaliation—from that dark, Gothic castle he calls home.
But what is his true goal? Power for power’s sake? Or something more? Is there a master plan beyond just power and mayhem?
Dieter stood on his tiptoes to peer over the crowd. There, in the center of the square, he saw the familiar, ominous scaffold. On it, two nooses hung from two poles and two people were positioned behind each, their hands tied behind their backs, their faces hooded.
And there was Ulrich, standing between them.
Where is Heinrich Franz, the great lord of Bedburg? If this is his doing, he should be here!
Then Dieter remembered that Heinrich hadn’t been at the last hanging either.
Perhaps he’s given his trusty torturer Ulrich absolute authority over the city.
And perhaps I can use that against the both of them . . .
The hoods came off.
Dieter let out a stifled gasp and his knees buckled. If he hadn’t been holding Peter, he would have fallen over.
Standing helplessly behind either noose was William Edmond and Jerome Penderwick—William, upright and stoic; Jerome, frightened and trembling.
Ulrich looked out at the crowd and began the spectacle.
“For any of you wishing to cause a commotion—that ends here!” he bellowed, stepping forward. Slowly, he fastened the nooses around each neck while he continued speaking.
“From here on out, any notions of revolution or uprisings will be dealt with swiftly and surely. Heinrich Franz has seen enough madness. And while he sincerely wishes for these executions to stop, they won’t until all Protestant insurgents have been found, or have fled the city.”
Jerome whimpered as Ulrich tightened the rope around his neck. His beady, bulging eyes took in the crowd. Somber and conflicted—unsure whether to silently acquiesce to, or be terrified by, what was happening.
Things are out of control here. Fear is pervasive. These hangings, once entertaining for the masses, no longer are. The citizens have had enough. If this proceeds, Heinrich Franz has made a tactical mistake.
Dieter wanted nothing more than to step forward and offer himself in place of the stonemason and surgeon.
After all, isn’t it me they are after?
But then he glanced down at Peter. Stepping forward would mean more than just his own end.
Who will raise my boy? Sybil is gone. Aellin? No. Claus? No. And Martin and Ava are nowhere to be found.
But if I do nothing, I’m the worst kind of coward. I will have done nothing for these people who were my friends, who relied on me. And what of William Edmond’s family? I promised them, swore an oath to rescue, shelter, and protect anyone who came to my door . . . Protestant, rebel, or other innocent.
Instead, I stand here sick with fear.
“Do you have any parting words before you meet your maker, Herr Penderwick?” Ulrich asked the shivering surgeon.
For a long moment, the man was silent. Then his quivering stopped and the fear on his face was gone. He looked up, clenching his jaw, and began speaking in a shaky voice:
“Do not d-d-despair, friends! My d-death is but one muh-muh-minor setback! Do w-what—”
Ulrich shoved him off the scaffold and the man dropped, his neck snapping in midsentence.
The crowd collectively gasped. Many cried out, a few fainted.
“His muttering was taking too long,” Ulrich scowled to himself, now re-focusing his attention on William.
The grumbling from the crowd grew louder. This was no witch-burning. The rules had changed and the rulers had clearly lost their people’s support.
“This is cold-blooded murder!” Dieter screamed before realizing what he was doing. Immediately, the crowd’s eyes turned toward him. He’d made a grave mistake. His rage had overtaken his better judgment. Watching that poor doctor die, for no reason . . . it tore Dieter’s heart apart.
But Ulrich ignored the outburst and looked at the stonemason, “And you, master mason? What do you have to say?”
William glowered back at the torturer, his eyes piercing through the man, so strongly that Ulrich actually looked away. A small victory, but something that would not be forgotten by the crowd or the historians who would later retell this sad, but defining, chapter of Bedburg.
“To my family, Mary and Wilhelm,” William spoke to the crowd, “if you can hear me . . . I say to live on. I love you both more than life itself. God will take my soul and we will all one day be united in Heaven.” Surprisingly, Ulrich let him continue. “I cannot be sad about that. I am only sad that I shall never again gaze upon your mortal faces.”
Ulrich put his hands on William’s shoulders for the final
push, but as he hesitated, William gazed out at the sea of worried, horrified, weeping faces, and said firmly, “To all of you, know that this is but a fleeting moment! History will happen. And rest assured that Bedburg will be its battleground!”
Then he looked to the sky, his voice taking on an unworldly resonance.
“Resist. The. Iron. Fist!” he shouted, as Ulrich shoved him off the edge.
And while his body dangled, his battle cry seemed to stay in the air, reverberating throughout the land.
Something had most definitely changed.
And as William’s final message spread—remembered and repeated by the masses—the phrase was whispered and re-whispered. Every time a man was recruited for the cause, every time the cause was pursued, every time people gathered to seek justice and freedom, a new anthem was born.
From the simple mason who’d built the walls around the city.
From the man who’d been friend and family to all.
From the brave and peaceful warrior who’d died for the cause.
The battle cry of an unstoppable movement.
Resist the Iron Fist.
PART III
Savior of the Condemned
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HUGO
Hugo sat on the bed of his small room in House Charmagne, alone. Two weeks had passed since the violent events in the dining room below, followed the next morning by the hanging of Jerome Penderwick and William Edmond in Bedburg’s town square.
It was clear to everyone that Heinrich Franz was making a major vie for power around the territory. And the townsfolk of Bedburg were frightened.
Of more concern, a rising resistance had begun to take shape. Highway banditry was noticeably increasing around the city as Heinrich repossessed farms and estates from landowners unable to pay his steep taxes. Thievery and robbery had also reached new heights, along with a much higher murder rate.
And with much of the upheaval traceable to Heinrich’s reign of terror, it was no surprise that most of the victims were Catholics.
Hugo ran his hand over the small carved horse he’d kept ever since he was a little boy. His sister Sybil had given it to him many years ago. Looking at the rough edges of its peg legs, and its soulless black dots for eyes, brought back a rush of memories. Peaceful times, living with his father and sister. Fearful times, when Tomas Reiner came to steal him away. And sad times, watching his father falsely accused of despicable crimes.
He was just a small boy when his life had been turned upside down, plunging him from the heights of a beautiful family childhood to the depths of misery and despair in the blink of an eye. His father tried, convicted, and brutally executed as the Werewolf of Bedburg. His family home abandoned, then reclaimed by Lord Werner and the county. His sister gone.
One day he hadn’t a care in the world; the next day basic survival defined his entire existence. Still just a child, he was driven to the life of a beggar, rummaging around Priest’s Circle and Tanner Row.
And then he met Karstan Hase and Ava Hahn and everything changed. He found a new family. They too were beggars and orphans, living on the fringes of society, which only brought them even closer. Three fast friends. Then they joined with another young scrounger named Daniel Granger, whose sharp mind and lofty ambitions helped give them a purpose. And with the addition of another lost lad, a lanky boy named Severin, the Vagabond Five was born.
For years they found success stealing from the rich, until Daniel got caught. Once he was gone, Severin took the lead, becoming more malicious, more dangerous, more careless. And the gang’s downward spiral quickly snowballed.
Then one day Hugo spied his best friend Karstan kissing Ava, the woman Hugo considered his soul mate. And once again Hugo’s world shattered. From that day on, he would never again trust Karstan. The affable, jolly, fat boy Hugo had once called his best friend became his enemy—and more like Severin, a truly dangerous force, a man to watch out for.
And now it seemed Karstan had become an operative of Ulrich, a position Hugo had once held. Hugo surmised that Karstan, apparently jailed for a crime he didn’t commit, must have been offered freedom by the torturer in exchange for doing his bidding. At least everything pointed in that direction: Karstan had sounded the alarm when Dieter Nicolaus and his group were hiding in Martin Achterberg’s family estate, forcing them to flee. And Karstan had also orchestrated the raid on Hugo’s family estate after following Hugo and spotting Dieter and his company there.
And since the hangings of Jerome and William two weeks ago, Dieter’s group had fallen quiet. Apparently, the deaths of the surgeon and stonemason had weakened the group’s bonds. Dieter had gone missing, as had two of his followers that most concerned Hugo: Ava Hahn and Martin Achterberg. Ever since seeing those two embrace, Hugo’s hatred for them had only intensified.
Sighing, Hugo laid his toy horse down on the bedstand. He’d done enough reminiscing and wallowing. It was now time for action. With Heinrich Franz absent and Bedburg in turmoil, the time was right for Hugo to resume his role as the city’s temporary man of authority. Because Heinrich was the only person who could stop him, and he wasn’t around . . .
He hopped from his bed, put on his coat, and headed out to the courtyard where he found Felix.
“Please bring the carriage around,” he told the driver. “We’re off to the Bedburg jailhouse.”
Standing in the lobby of the decrepit jail, Hugo thought back to the interrogation of Jerome Penderwick several weeks back, shortly before the doctor met his unfortunate demise. As he’d watched Ulrich torture the man, he’d learned much about his friend-turned-nemesis, Karstan Hase. Most of all, that Karstan was apprenticing for Ulrich, but not for any love toward Ava, but rather to gain his freedom.
Perhaps he’d learn even more about the man here.
Looking around at the stone walls he pondered how most everything bad about the city seemed to always trace back to this horrible place. Hugo’s thoughts were interrupted when Ulrich appeared at the top of the stairs, a lighted torch in his hand. Looking down at him, Ulrich said, “What is it you want, Hugo? No one has told me of your coming. And since you seem to be such an important presence around these parts nowadays, I find that a bit odd.”
Hugo couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or threatening.
“I’d like to speak with your prisoners,” Hugo said.
“Which ones? We’re like a revolving door, this jailhouse. Old guests always vacating, making room for the new.” The torturer smiled, the lines of his scar highlighted by the orange glow of the torchlight.
Staring up at Ulrich reminded Hugo of something else about the man: how shocked he’d seemed when Heinrich had gone on his slaughtering spree the night of the wedding. Judging from Ulrich’s expression that night, it was plain to Hugo that the torturer had not been complicit in that.
“You seem to have fallen into your position as Heinrich’s subordinate rather easily, Ulrich,” Hugo taunted his former master. “Despite how obviously shocked you were at his excessive display of violence that night.”
Ulrich’s smile twisted away. “You’re one to talk, boy. You seem to follow in the man’s shadows wherever he goes.”
Hugo sighed. “I suppose we all walk in the shadows of Heinrich Franz . . .”
Ulrich nodded. “I suppose so.”
“But I’m not here for that, Ulrich. May I speak with Rolf Anders? He’s old, I know he can’t be doing well, and likely won’t last long.”
Descending the stairs, Ulrich said, “You’d be surprised at what that man is capable of.” As he walked toward the cells, he added, “You don’t give the man enough credit. You clearly don’t know where he’s come from or been.”
Hugo followed Ulrich past the first room at the bottom of the stairs. Glancing inside, he saw a girl in the corner of a cell, Hedda, Baron Ludwig’s bespectacled scribe. She seemed so small and helpless, her knees pulled up against her chest.
“How’s the girl getting on?” Hugo
asked, motioning toward her as he passed.
“She’s squirrelly but stout. I don’t think I’ll learn much from her.”
“What could you possibly want to learn from her?”
Ulrich shrugged. “It’s Heinrich’s idea. To learn as much about Bergheim as he can from her. He seems to think she’s the secret to it all, the answer to his political and military problems. So far, I’m not seeing that.”
“If she has nothing to give, will you kill her?”
Ulrich shrugged again, indifferently. “That’s up to Heinrich. If up to me, no. But, as you know, it’s not.”
They continued down the dark hallway, Ulrich waving his torch around, until they came to one of the last cells. Ulrich pointed inside. “There’s the old man. I can give you five minutes with him.”
“I appreciate it, Ulrich,” Hugo said sincerely.
The torturer nodded and walked back the way he’d come.
Grasping the bars, Hugo leaned in as far as he could. “Rolf, can you hear me?”
There was movement in the far corner of the cell. Then Rolf’s face appeared from the shadows. He looked like he’d aged ten years in the two weeks he’d been there. His white beard was filthy, the lines of his face deeper and longer.
“Ah, Hugo my boy, what brings you to my humble abode?”
Hugo’s eyes lit up at Rolf’s light attitude. “I wanted to see how you were, Rolf, how you’re being treated.”
Rolf let out a throaty chuckle, shuffling in closer toward the bars. When he got within a few feet, a rattling noise told Hugo that the old man had reached his limit from his chains.
“It’s a jail, Hugo,” Rolf said with a shrug. “Where the truth goes to die. But I’m well enough. And how are you, my boy?”
Hugo shrugged. “Heinrich is gone again, so at least that’s a relief.”
Rolf smiled kindly. “Do you remember when I told you to rule with love, not fear? Do you see why, now? Do you see what fear has done to that man’s soul?”