The Beast Within

by Cory Barclay

  Sybil quickly grew fond of the newest members of Strangers Shire—her guests, Mary, Wilhelm, and Salvatore.

  Mary and Wilhem were a very close mother and son. Wilhelm’s kindness and support for his mother reminded Sybil of a younger Dieter. It seemed everything reminded her of Dieter these days, now that he’d been missing for so very long and was likely dead. Wilhelm was also physically similar to Dieter, both lean and tall, with handsome faces and brown, short-cropped beards.

  And Salvatore, the tattooed druid who spoke in unintelligible riddles, was unlike anyone Sybil had ever met. Though his words held more flare than substance, he seemed a kind man. And when he explained that he was a benandanti—a “spirit wanderer”—Sybil couldn’t help wondering if maybe he might be more suited as the village’s soothsayer than she was.

  Mary spent most of her time either preoccupied with Claire and her child, Rose, or working with her fabrics. Since she was already well versed in threading wool, she was a fast study in textile-making, staying indoors most days, head bowed, hardly uttering a word, working her distaff.

  Sybil found Wilhelm sitting on the grass behind Claire’s house, working with his dyes. His new responsibilities included extracting the natural reds, oranges, and browns from unused tree bark and other plant parts, and he seemed to relish his work. Sybil watched over his shoulder as he mixed a bucket of color. Next to it was another bucket filled with clear liquid.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” Sybil asked, startling him.

  He stopped stirring and, without turning, submerged his hand into the bucket of clear liquid. “I was apprentice to a man in my hometown,” he said, dabbling a few drops of the colored dye onto the knuckles of the hand he’d just dipped into the clear liquid. Sybil was mesmerized. He then reached down to a flint stone laying beside him and sparked it against some wood pieces, creating a small flame. Quickly, he touched the hand he’d dabbled the dye onto across the tiny fire, and it exploded over his hand into a bright blue flame.

  Sybil gasped, but Wilhelm seemed unperturbed, closely studying his flaming hand. The fire seemed to curl around the red dots on his knuckles. Then he shook his wrist in a quick, practiced motion, and the fire was instantly gone, leaving his hand apparently unburned.

  “By God!” Sybil exclaimed, covering her mouth. “What did you just do?”

  Wilhelm chuckled. “Seeing how flammable the dyestuff is. This solution”—he nudged his chin toward the colored dye bucket—“must be more flame retardant before I apply it to the textiles. That way, the resulting fabric will be, too.”

  Sybil cocked her head to the side. “How does your hand not burn?”

  With another light laugh Wilhelm explained. “The clear liquid is alcohol and water. The water is drawn to my skin, conducting the heat away from my hand, while the alcohol keeps the flame lit.”

  Sybil was amazed. “And you can recreate that?”

  Wilhelm nodded. “I can’t keep it going for long, or else the water will evaporate and my skin will be the only surface underneath the fire . . . but yes, I can recreate it. Why do you ask?”

  Sybil just shook her head. “When Daxton called your family the ‘stonemasons,’ what did he mean? Stonemasonry has nothing to do with what you’re doing here.”

  Wilhelm sighed, slumping his shoulders. “My father was a master stonemason, but I was never passionate about that, so I became a dyemaker. At first he disapproved, thought it a foolish endeavor, until he realized I was earning almost as much as he was. Then he became supportive.”

  Sybil smiled. “Is that why your mother is so downcast? Because your father is not here?” she asked, as diplomatically as possible. From the bits and pieces she’d heard about Wilhelm’s father, she surmised he was either dead or missing. She walked around and sat beside the young man on the grass.

  Wilhelm nodded without looking up. “Father is missing. He helped us escape, but I worry he didn’t make it out alive, though I don’t have the heart to tell mother that. It would crush her. I just pray for the best.”

  “You’re a good son,” said Sybil, causing Wilhelm to finally turn to her. “When you’re in a foreign place like this, it’s definitely best to keep hope alive. If you’re a worshiper, direct your questions to God.”

  Sybil had her own feelings about God but thought it best to keep them to herself. It would do no good to dishearten this nice young man.

  “I appreciate that, Frau Sybil,” Wilhelm said, “and I believe our rescuer would agree with you. Prayer is best in situations such as these.” He smiled sadly. “Who knows, my father could come walking down that road any day now.”

  Sybil nodded. “Yes, don’t lose hope. It could just be that it takes your father longer to get here than it did you and your mother.”

  “Aye,” Wilhelm agreed, “thanks to meeting Daxton, Georg, and Rowaine in Amsterdam, we were lucky to get here so quickly.” Wilhelm smiled, as if thinking back to when he and his mother had first met their rescuers. “We’d been instructed by our original rescuer to seek a ship to Norfolk, from Amsterdam, then go to a shire lorded by a reeve named Clarence Bailey. But at first, no one knew where that was . . . until ‘the Pale Diviner’ was mentioned.”

  Sybil’s face reddened, blushing at the speed with which her new reputation had apparently circulated. Changing the subject, she asked, “You sought refuge here from persecution, you’ve said?”

  Wilhelm nodded. “The Lion’s Pride happened to be at the right place at the right time.”

  As it had turned out, Daxton, Georg, and Rowaine had just finished transporting their first batch of goods belonging to Reeve Bailey to Amsterdam when they’d run into Wilhelm, Mary, and Salvatore. From there, the textile shipment would continue down the waterways to Germany and ultimately to Cologne. The archbishop in Cologne would never know that his best clothing shipments had come illegally from England.

  And since Wilhelm, Mary, and Salvatore were seeking passage from Amsterdam to the same harbor in England that the Lion’s Pride crew was headed, it had seemed like divine intervention when they’d crossed paths. Especially when it turned out that, not only were they all headed for the same port, but for the very same shire as well.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Sybil said. “So keep your prayers alive, just like I’m sure your father is doing right now.”

  Wilhelm smiled. “It certainly is what our liberator would have sought from us—to keep praying. He was a priest, after all.”

  Sybil nodded slowly, then furrowed her brow. “The man who originally rescued you was a priest?”

  Wilhelm grinned. “Well, a former priest, I suppose. But everyone still called him that and treated him as one. I think once you’ve lived that life, you never truly escape it.”

  Sybil was quiet for a moment. Then, as she watched Wilhelm stir his dye, her adrenaline began to pump. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Where was it you said you escaped from, Wilhelm, before arriving in Amsterdam? Your hometown?”

  “A place called Bedburg, madam. A small city in Germany.”

  It couldn’t be him.

  With her heart racing, she said, “And the man who rescued you was a priest . . .”

  Wilhelm nodded, focusing back on his bucket. “Yes, madam, a one-armed priest,” he said nonchalantly.

  One arm? Then clearly it could not have been my two-armed husband.

  But she asked the question anyway. “What was this one-armed priest’s name, Wilhelm? The one who rescued you.”

  “Well, I never learned his surname. But his first name was Dieter.” He looked up. “Are you all right, Sybil? You look ill.”

  It took several minutes to regain her composure. After lying to Wilhelm that she was fine, she stood up and walked around the grass, gazing out at the countryside, trying to understand how the impossible could be possible. Finally, she sat back down and quietly watched Wilhelm work for a while.

  After a time, she asked, “I hope you don’t take this badly, Wilhelm . . . but what was this
man trying to accomplish by saving you?”

  Wilhelm scratched his neck, then shrugged. “I’m not sure. I suppose he was simply a good man. We weren’t the first people he’d rescued. He is somewhat of a legendary figure in Bedburg, my lady.”

  With a bemused look, Sybil chuckled. Hearing all this now—after so long hearing nothing, after thinking her husband dead—it was all so difficult to process.

  Several minutes passed, then Sybil spoke in almost a whisper. “Legendary? How so, Wilhelm? Please, tell me everything.”

  Wilhelm stopped working and looked at her carefully. Clearly, there was more to her questions than simple curiosity. He thought for a moment exactly how to answer her. Finally, he said, “There’s a nasty uprising happening in my homeland, I’m afraid. One side calls it a rebellion, the other a revolution. Dieter is one of the leaders of that revolution.”

  He always wanted a calling. Perhaps this is God’s answer to his cries!

  Wilhelm tilted his head. “Your demeanor has changed, my lady, if you don’t mind my saying. Why are you so curious about this priest?”

  Sybil sighed. “Because, Wilhelm, Dieter Nicolaus is my husband. “And thank you,” she added, leaning over and planting a big wet kiss on his cheek before hurrying off.

  Rowaine was equally ecstatic hearing the news about Dieter.

  Lying in bed, nursing her sore back, she jubilantly sat up. “If he’s in danger, we must rescue him!”

  “I agree. We must!” Sybil said, turning to Daxton who’d been eavesdropping in the doorway. “How quickly can we set sail on the Pride?”

  Daxton scratched his favorite spot on his bald head. “Er, well, Georg is with the ship in King’s Lynn, preparing it for their next voyage.”

  Rowaine nodded. “Father told me he had a huge shipment to arrange, headed for the same place.”

  “Amsterdam?” Sybil asked.

  Smiling, Rowaine nodded. “And Germany beyond. But if we hurry, I’m sure we could get to King’s Lynn before he sends it off.”

  Sybil’s mind was still reeling, thinking of seeing Dieter again. “I can be ready by nightfall,” she said, unconsciously clenching and relaxing her fists. “I have little to pack.”

  “We could make it there within a day if we hurry,” Daxton said. “Perhaps we can catch Georg before he sends the ship off.”

  “We?” Sybil asked. She and Rowaine were both staring at him.

  “Of course,” Daxton replied. “Obviously I’m going with you. The rough seas are no place for an excitable, beautiful wom—”

  “Don’t even finish that sentence,” Rowaine barked, holding up her hand. Daxton knew enough to heed her warning. Rising from her bed, Rowaine put a hand on Sybil’s shoulder. “I’m joining you as well.”

  Sybil smiled sadly. “It will be dangerous . . .”

  “More dangerous if you go alone,” Daxton countered. “And besides, even though I passed off the Pride to Georg for our work in King’s Lynn, that was just temporary. I’m still her captain. And you won’t be sailing anywhere without me!”

  “Nor me,” Rowaine added.

  Daxton spoke with finality. “I can use this opportunity to gather up Darlene and Abigail, my wife and daughter. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen them. I’d like to bring them here so we may settle in Strangers Shire.”

  “And I,” Rowaine said, her eyes growing dark, “still wish to serve justice to my mother’s killer. And now I can resume that quest, with my legs working again.”

  Sybil smiled. How could she deny her friends? Especially when their reasoning was so sound? Besides, it was naïve to believe she could rescue Dieter by herself, knowing nothing of the sea or the rivers leading to Bedburg. Then her face grew serious.

  “Wilhelm tells me the Protestants are rising up,” she said.

  “As they always will, so long as there are any of them left alive,” Daxton added.

  Rowaine looked out the room’s single window. “We’d better get ready. We’ve only an hour or so of daylight left.”

  So the trio set to work packing their things for their trip to King’s Lynn and, eventually, on to Amsterdam and Germany.

  And hopefully their final voyage across the North Sea.

  As it turned out, everyone seemed to want to join Sybil on her adventure—despite the dangers. And those dangers would indeed be great:

  First would be the trip up to King’s Lynn to the Lion’s Pride. Then, the sail across the North Sea to Amsterdam. And finally, navigating through the rivers that snaked through Germany to eventually extract Dieter from a war-torn city.

  Yet no one was deterred, each having his or her own agenda:

  Daxton wanted to captain his ship again, and retrieve his wife and daughter.

  Rowaine sought vengeance against her mother’s killer, as well as a chance to polish up her navigational skills.

  Wilhelm and Mary wanted to rescue their father and husband, William—and if he wasn’t in Bedburg, at least find out where he might be. Plus, they felt a strong kinship and indebtedness to Dieter for all he’d done for them.

  And then there was Salvatore, who had found Strangers Shire entirely too dull, and also wished to follow Sybil to learn more of the Pale Diviner’s ways—while staying far away from Heinrich Franz.

  And lastly there was Corvin Carradine, who simply thought the adventure sounded exciting. He likely maintained hopeful thoughts of seducing Sybil along the way.

  Early next morning, after riding hard all night, when the seven of them arrived at Georg’s dark warehouse in King’s Lynn, he was rolling barrels and placing them onto a cart.

  “Perfect,” he said, once the situation was explained to him. “Then I’m going too.” Within minutes he’d found a local friend who gladly accepted his offer to lease his position as the Hanseatic League’s port representative, pending his eventual return.

  As the group stood in the warehouse, ready to load the ship, Georg slapped the side of one of the barrels. “I have plenty of these filled with sugar, headed for Cologne. Apparently it’s another commodity the archbishop would rather buy in secret—for cheap—from rivals across the sea.”

  When the barrels were loaded onto the Pride, the group was shocked to discover that the hold was already crammed with caskets and chests loaded with arquebuses, pistols, spears, and armor.

  “Where is all this headed?” Corvin asked, gesturing to the weapons.

  Daxton bent down to inspect one of the tags. “Let’s see . . . Bergheim, Germany.”

  “That’s Bedburg’s neighbor,” Sybil said.

  “Seems someone is expecting a war,” Rowaine said.

  “I suppose we all should be expecting one,” Daxton said with a smirk, cracking his knuckles.

  An hour later, with the sun just emerging above the horizon, waiting to spring another day, the crew of eight set sail out of King’s Lynn, toward their fate.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  HEINRICH

  Heinrich sat at the window, staring out into the darkness. He was alone in a small cabinet room in Cologne Cathedral that overlooked the city. Below him, dots of flickering orange light lit the foggy streets in random places, like faraway stars twinkling.

  He’d never much cared for the bustling metropolis, but this was where the power was. Appeasing the city’s masters was the only way for him to get what he wanted.

  And what were his wants?

  Originally, to placate and impress Archbishop Ernst, one of the most powerful and influential men in the entire Empire.

  But once Heinrich was given his lordship of Bedburg, his greed and ambition swelled, becoming unstoppable like lava flowing down a volcano. He realized that he was destined for much more than just Bedburg. He needed to grow his lordship, conquer the surrounding cities, and rise in the ranks of nobility.

  Yes, rise to the ranks of that same nobility he’d always despised. But he rationalized that it was different in his case because, unlike the noblemen he hated, he had earned his authority—on his
merits, not through birthright.

  But right at that moment, staring off into the vast expanse of the sleeping city, his wants felt different. As did his emotions.

  He’d never known his father, and his mother and brother had both died when he was young—it was irrelevant to him that he may have been the cause of both deaths; all that mattered was how lonely he’d been for so much of his early life. Originally, that void had been filled by Odela Grendel, all those years ago when she took him in after his mother was burned at the stake.

  But ever since then—maybe because of the family he never had, maybe because of his fondness for power, or maybe a little of both—he realized that someone else had filled that void. A man. A man he cared for dearly.

  Ernst.

  And he also knew it was far more than just caring. Far more than respect and gratitude for all he’d done for him. No, that tug at his heart, that ache in his soul, was something different. Something much stronger.

  Love.

  And even if that love wasn’t reciprocated, it still burned with such passion that he knew he must defend the man at all costs.

  For it had been Heinrich’s blunders and violent impulses that had caused the archbishop to now face dethroning. This great man—who had fought a war to earn his high position in the Counter-Reformation, who was an unparalleled champion of the Catholic cause in Germany, who had fought his entire life against the teachings of Martin Luther and John Calvin, who had given Heinrich everything, and yes, who had turned Heinrich into a monstrous killer—this great man was now in jeopardy of losing everything because of Heinrich.

  Which left Heinrich no choice. He had to ensure that Ernst’s power was restored. That his name was returned to its rightful place of glory.

  This was more than a mere assignment or obligation.

  This was his responsibility. His reason for being.

  To seat Ernst back on his throne. To return him to his proper place of respect.

  For now, and for all of history.