by Cory Barclay
Tomas moved a pebble beside the large rock that denoted Gebhard’s main force.
“We flank them,” he said, “by moving two small groups out from the eastern and western gates and circling around Gebhard’s lines.”
“If they’re seen, they’ll be surrounded and slaughtered,” Germaine said, frowning.
“That’s why we send them now, while they still have the cover of night,” Tomas replied.
Germaine crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know if we can afford to send out such troops. That would seriously reduce our forces inside the city walls.”
“As long as Gebhard remains oblivious to our numbers, we should be fine,” Tomas said.
“And how long do you think he’ll remain oblivious?” the young captain asked.
Tomas sighed. “The forces I’m considering sending won’t be footsoldiers. They will be cavalry. Skirmishers. It will be a lightning attack. Strike, then retreat—just enough to scare them, give them pause.”
Lord Alvin smiled. “I like that. Why didn’t you say that to begin with, Tomas? It’s a worthy plan.”
“I still don’t know if it will help us . . . in the long term,” Germaine said.
Tomas frowned at his most experienced captain. He didn’t want to argue with the man. The quickest way to lose morale was for soldiers to see their superiors bickering. But Tomas pressed on.
“If I die on this battlefield, Captain Germaine, you’ll be the one to take my place. And when that happens, you’re free to lead the army as you wish. But until then, what I’ve described is the plan. At the very least, it will buy us time.”
“Buy us time for what?” Lord Alvin asked.
“For me to think of our next plan,” Tomas said, frowning again. “Now, who will lead the charge?”
When no one spoke up, Captain Germaine sighed. “To make sure it goes without mishap, I will.”
Tomas smiled, resting his hand on Germaine’s shoulder. “Your loyalty and fearlessness is unfaltering, captain. I promise you your deeds will be remembered.”
Late into the night, Tomas sent his men out the eastern and western gates. The soldiers he chose were specialized for this type of covert operation. Riding into the countryside on steeds with padded hooves and no steel to clank, they moved with stealth and precision.
Germaine led the group from the eastern gate. If all went well, the two groups would move from Bedburg, forming the outline of a heart around Gebhard’s army and attack from the rear. Once they’d frightened the Protestant camps and killed a few men, maybe even captured a captain or two, they’d quickly flee into the night and return to Bedburg by dawn.
Tomas wasn’t expecting a major victory here, just something to reinvigorate his outnumbered forces and cause the enemy concern.
An hour after the men parted Bedburg, he heard the first cries of battle.
Clenching his teeth, he watched the horizon and saw smoke rising from the sound of guns, and the ringing out of steel-on-steel. But steel-on-steel was not what he wanted to hear. That meant swords clashing and the plan had been that his men would not engage in close-quarters combat.
As the next hour passed and the sounds of shouting and battle continued, Tomas grew more nervous. Two hours later, the cavalry returned to Bedburg and a soldier approached Tomas with a battle report.
“Captain Germaine is dead. The western attackers went unnoticed and hit Gebhard’s flank hard, but they were waiting for our eastern attack. Germaine was one of the first to fall, and when he did, it demoralized his men. We had to escape before we were massacred, sir.”
Tomas cursed under his breath. He’d forgotten that Bedburg was home to numerous Protestant sympathizers and turncoats. Clearly, Gebhard had gotten advance word of his battle plans.
He’d just lost his most experienced commander, and the morning had just begun.
How will I explain that to the men? That I sent Germaine to his death, even though he disagreed with my plan? I’ll face deserters, that much is certain . . .
Tomas paced the rampart, close to where he’d stood during Gebhard’s first charge. But before he had time to consider his dilemma, cannonfire rang out.
Gebhard’s forces were attacking again.
Depleted and exhausted, Tomas’ sword felt like an iron weight in his hand. His eyes could barely stay open. Covered in the blood of his enemies, he and his men had been fighting with valor and courage for three hours now.
The sun now fully illuminated the bloody battlefield. Between his nighttime fiasco and the morning’s battle, he’d lost nearly three hundred men, either dead or incapacitated. A third of his force. They couldn’t go on much longer.
Lord Alvin had recommended Tomas forfeit the city to Gebhard—opining that it was a lost cause. But Tomas had pushed the fat lord aside and gone on to personally lead his troops.
Now he was in the thickest part of the fight, fending for his life, fighting back-to-back with his fellow soldiers. He’d charged the ground troops with twenty men, trying to defend this side of the gate, but was now down to six. They’d fought hard, but as he blinked sweat and blood from his eyes, he glanced over his shoulder and saw another comrade fall, this time from a spear to the neck.
Taking a step back, he almost tripped over a fallen comrade. Instead, he crashed into the city wall, dropping his sword and sinking to his knees in total exhaustion. The scene around him got fuzzy, the sun stifling. He could not go on. He was resigned to his death.
Then came the sound of angels. Or at least something unworldly.
At first he thought he was staring up at the sun, or God. But as the image slipped back into focus, he saw the face of the young captain whose name he’d forgotten, smiling down at him jubilantly. As the young soldier helped Tomas up, he exclaimed, “It’s a miracle, my lord! God has sent us his favor!”
Tomas blinked and his mouth opened, but nothing came out, his throat too parched.
Guessing his question, the young captain explained. “Reinforcements have come from Cologne. Archbishop Ernst’s nephew, Ferdinand, leads the charge. Bedburg is saved, my lord!”
Tomas coughed and laughed at the same time.
Then his blinking slowed, the face before him blurred out, and he fell backward into blissful unconsciousness.
Upon Ferdinand’s arrival, Gebhard Truchsess von Waldburg, former archbishop of Cologne, current bishop of Strasbourg, France, was forced to retreat.
Bedburg’s new savior shared the same name as his predecessor, his uncle Ferdinand, who had saved Bedburg from destruction back in 1589 during Count Adolf’s attack.
And once again, Gebhard was foiled by his nemesis, Archbishop Ernst, this time for the last time.
Upon realizing that his army was sandwiched between the hearty defenders of Bedburg and the fresh army from Cologne, Gebhard abandoned all promises he’d made to his subordinates—of wealth and land—and fled. In fact, he’d been one of the few to make it away safely from the battle. Most everyone else was butchered or captured.
With his conquest for Cologne foiled yet again, Gebhard disappeared from Germany as quickly as possible—in shame. He returned to France, never to engage in another campaign as his name was high on the list of dangerous Protestants to watch out for.
By the time Ferdinand came to the rescue, Tomas had lost five hundred soldiers, half of Bedburg’s entire garrison. Of those still alive, many were put up inside the city’s church. Others received accommodations wherever there was room: at Claus’ inn, the jailhouse, the tavern, and the houses of other obliging citizens.
It would take many months for the city to recover from Gebhard’s vicious assault.
But, much to Archbishop Ernst’s satisfaction, Bergheim and Bedburg were safe.
Which meant his bishopric was safe as well.
On the night of that final battle, there was no celebratory feast. Too many people had died, too many were still recovering, and no one was sure if the battle for Bedburg was truly over.
There was,
however, one ceremony that night.
A large contingent of peasants arrived in the city at dusk, bringing with them a cart carrying the bodies of three men: Anthony the blacksmith, Cristoff the tavern owner, and Dieter Nicolaus the revolutionary.
The procession was led by none other than Sybil Nicolaus, a woman feared as the Daughter of the Beast, lauded as the Pale Diviner, and loved by the masses for her honesty and never-ending battles against tyranny. In the months since Dieter had been helping the Protestant refugees and sympathizers, her name had become legend in its own right.
Cradling her son Peter in her arms, she marched solemnly through the streets of Bedburg where she faced both frightened and awed gazes. No one tried to stop the ceremony, despite the fact that she was known to have supported the very people that Tomas and Bedburg had just fought.
Until they reached the church.
When they did, and the wounded men surrounding the hill stared at the fiery woman with both fear and admiration in their eyes, Bishop Balthasar came out and stood in front of the church.
Unknown to Sybil, an almost identical scene had occurred in that very spot not long before—when two Protestants had been killed by Heinrich and their burials at the church had been denied.
And once again, Balthasar repeated his last rebuke.
“You cannot enter the church with those blasphemers.”
Then he pointed a lumpy finger toward Sybil. “And I won’t have a witch entering my holy house! There is a public cemetery just outside the gates of Bedburg. Take your procession there, if you wish.”
But this time Balthasar did not have the support of Tomas or his garrison, as the commander was off being treated for his wounds. Also, one of the men in the cart was a much-loved figure to all—no doubt more respected than the bishop himself.
“Dieter Nicolaus was a staunch supporter and citizen of Bedburg,” Sybil announced, fighting back tears. “My husband only sought to do what he believed to be right for the city. He fought against tyranny and oppression. He has done more for God than you could ever hope to achieve, bishop.”
Balthasar brought his hand to his mouth. “You’d dare disrespect me in front of a house of God? I shan’t condone this heresy, especially coming from the lips of a known witch and blasphemer!”
“You forget, bishop, that Dieter was once a man of the cloth belonging to this very congregation. He has a right to be given prayers.”
“Before his sacrilegious and impious actions caused him to be excommunicated!”
A few peasants in the group grumbled, but none louder than Georg and Rowaine. Having heard enough, the big man and his daughter stepped forward.
“Heinrich Franz is dead, bishop,” Georg said, putting his hands on his hips. “And Tomas is injured.”
“You have no one to defend you,” Rowaine added. “So step aside.”
Then Sybil spoke. “Unless you plan to condemn all of our souls for eternity,” she said, gesturing to all the peasants behind her.
Balthasar’s lips twitched. Seemingly on the verge of an outburst, Sybil offered a compromise. “I don’t plan to bury him here, beside your revered saints and tomes,” she said. “But he deserves to be consecrated, so his journey beyond this place can be blessed . . . so that he may arrive safely to his new home in Norfolk—where he will be buried.”
With a show of great reluctance, Bishop Balthasar moved aside, allowing Sybil and her company to enter the church.
Inside, the ceremony was bittersweet. The people who had faced persecution from their lords every day, the people who had lived in the darkness of evil for so long, all prayed and wept and gave thanks for Dieter Nicolaus, their savior and champion. The man thereafter known to all as the Martyr of Bedburg.
EPILOGUE
1595 (Two Years Later)
Awaiting his guests, Prince-Provost Ferdinand of Bavaria sat behind his lavish oak desk, moving papers and signing letters in one of his many decorated conference rooms at Cologne Cathedral.
He’d recently taken over most of his uncle’s ecclesiastical and secular affairs, acquiring everything Archbishop Ernst had worked for with the exception of his title. All in all, Ernst’s twelve-year reign as one of the Holy Roman Empire’s most powerful men had been exceedingly trying. Following the near-loss of the three territories of Bedburg, Bergheim, and Erftstadt, as well as nearly losing Cologne in the surprise attack by the hated reformer Gebhard von Truchsess, the archbishop’s blunders had forced him into early retirement.
And now Ferdinand, his eighteen-year-old nephew, was in charge—a situation not particularly endorsed by many of the region’s other powerful players. For not only was Ferdinand young and inexperienced, he was also callous and hellbent. While most of the other six electorates of the Empire were striving for peace treaties—and actually offering mercy and forgiveness to many of their opponents—Ferdinand remained on a warpath against all Protestant rebels. He’d already expanded the witch-hunts and overseen many new executions.
And soon, whenever his uncle died, his power and influence would become even greater, covering huge sections of the country—Bonn, Berchtesgaden, Cologne, Hildesheim, Münster, and Liège.
But what was done was done. Ferdinand was Ernst’s replacement and there was little to be done about it. He had appropriate family ties and it was now too late for an election. Ernst had seen to that, using his considerable influence to ensure that the power remained in the family. Some suggested that, since the Protestants were so strongly opposed to just this sort of blatant nepotism, Ernst had intentionally acted as he had to thumb his nose at them.
On this day, Bishop Ferdinand had formally invited two couples to his chambers to discuss their obedience to the Church and to make sure he could still trust them.
His usher escorted in the first two, formally announcing them.
“The lord and lady of Bedburg, Your Excellency,” the guard proclaimed.
The young man, about Ferdinand’s age, entered the room, limping slightly, accompanied by a timid woman with large spectacles. Ferdinand stood and, shuffling out from behind his desk, held his hand out, palm down. The couple bowed, then kissed the young bishop’s ring.
A few seconds later, the guard ushered in the second couple.
“Your Excellency, the baron and baroness of Bergheim,” he announced, then took a position near Ferdinand’s desk.
A fair-haired, thin woman stood beside an elderly man who may have been her grandfather, her arm wrapped around the man’s waist. They too approached the bishop and kissed his ring, though the older gentleman had trouble bowing.
Ferdinand motioned for both couples to join him at the table on the other side of the room. “Please,” he said, leading the way. He sat at the head and, when everyone was seated, joined his hands together. “Now, please remind me of your names, my lords and ladies. So that my scribe here might not forget who you are.”
He well knew their names, having specifically ordered their presence. But in his immature mind, this formality elevated his status as a man too important to remember such trivia.
“I am Hugo Griswold, lord of Bedburg,” the younger man said, “and this is my wife, Lady Hedda Griswold.” He smiled and turned to the other couple across the table from him. “Though I did not expect to see such . . . familiar faces, Your Excellency.”
The older man returned the smile, then cleared his scratchy throat. “And I am Baron Rolf Anders, and this is my wife, Lady Lucille Engel von Erftstadt und Bergheim.”
“Superb,” Ferdinand said, parting his hands. Wasting no time, he leaned over and read from a parchment in front of him. “It is my understanding that, two years prior, all of you took part in the events surrounding the traitor Gebhard von Truchsess in and around Bedburg and Bergheim. Is that correct?”
The four nodded hesitantly.
“And you each acted on the side of the True faith,” he said, smiling. “With the exception of . . .” He looked up and pointed to Lady Lucille. “. . . you.”
The blonde heiress inhaled deeply but her elderly husband spoke quickly on her behalf. “Originally, Lucille sought to marry into a Catholic union. With the former lord of Bedburg, Heinrich Franz. In order to expand and solidify the Catholic’s reach, Your Excellency,” Rolf said, clearly trying to minimize the young bishop’s implication.
“But,” Ferdinand continued, “when that marriage was”—he tilted his head, searching for the right word—“nullified . . . did you not flee Bedburg and take refuge with the enemy? Gebhard von Truchsess?”
Rolf started to answer, but Ferdinand held up a finger. “I’d like to hear it from the lady, if you will.”
Lucille stammered, then took in another breath and composed herself.
“I was taken prisoner before my marriage to Heinrich Franz,” she explained. “Locked in his dungeon after he killed my father and my warden. It was only from . . . fortunate circumstances”—she glanced at Hugo—“that I was able to escape. And although I did flee to Bergheim, my home, I had no way of knowing Gebhard’s army was entrenched there.”
Ferdinand frowned. “As lady of Bergheim . . . I find that hard to believe. How could you not know that Gebhard had taken your city?”
“It’s God’s truth,” Lucille replied. “I was imprisoned—how was I to know? Though once I reached Bergheim and advised Gebhard of my predicament, I will not lie, he offered me sanctuary.”
“So you assumed Gebhard would win the city? You wagered against Catholicism? Against God?”
Lucille shook her head. “I was in no position to deny him, Your Excellency. Though I was pleased to learn of his defeat,” she lied.
For several seconds, Ferdinand studied her. Then, changing the subject, he asked, “And how long after your ‘escape’ did you give birth?”
Lucille’s face flushed red. She looked down at the tabletop and opened her mouth, but no words came. When Ferdinand’s gaze stayed on her, she managed to finally say, “I gave birth to my son eight and a half months after my escape.”