by Cory Barclay
The horses ambled along the road, which meandered through a slummy, filthy part of the city. All except Adrian rode two to a horse—eight steeds in all—forcing the peasants and merchants to step aside as they filled the width of the road. People eyed them, but said nothing.
Alfred, with Mia saddled behind him, came alongside Gustav. He nudged his chin toward a white church on the hill up ahead. “Dieter Nicolaus was a priest. Maybe he’d go there first.”
Gustav hesitated. “If he’s a Protestant traitor, they might not take a liking to him. On the other hand, it’s worth checking. A fine observation, Herr Eckstein.”
Alfred smiled. His big ears twitched.
They climbed the hill and gathered in front of the church. Gustav dismounted and the others followed. Ordering his men to stay put, he strode up to the stained-glass door, taking just Hedda with him.
They entered, stopping a few feet inside the doorway.
Rows of pews lined both sides of the nave; a large statue of Christ’s crucifixion stood behind the pulpit at the very front. A stout woman with a veil over her head was sweeping the floor by the first row of pews. Gustav swaggered down the center aisle toward her. The woman kept her eyes down until Gustav was directly in front of her, then she peered up from her broom.
Towering over her, Gustav said, “Sister, my name is Gustav Koehler. I am looking for a small group of people. It’s my belief that you may be familiar with one of them.”
The woman cocked her head, staying silent.
“What is your name, lady?” Hedda asked, walking up beside Gustav.
“I am Sister Salome, my lord and lady. Who is it you’re seeking?”
“His name is Dieter Nicolaus. He used to be a priest here.”
The nun tried to hide her surprise, but Gustav read her easily. “I know of the man, but have not seen him since he was excommunicated from this church. That was more than two years ago.”
Gustav stared into the woman’s eyes for several moments. “You’re lying,” he said flatly. “Perhaps you are confused,” he sighed, pulling his pistol from his waistband and pointing it at Sister Salome’s face. “Where is Dieter Nicolaus?” he enunciated clearly.
Salome took a step back, but did not appear scared.
“Gustav!” Hedda cried out. “She’s a lady of Christ, and this is a house of God!” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Have some control!”
But Gustav was not one to be told what to do, especially by a woman, especially with the laudanum fortifying him. He’d have no qualms splattering the brains of anyone defying him at this point, “lady of Christ” or not.
Through tightened lips, and with the gun barrel poised inches from the nun’s left eyebrow, he spoke slowly. “I have a legitimate decree stating my intent to arrest that man. And his wife. My father, Ludwig von Bergheim, signed the papers. I’m sure you know of his influence and power, sister. If you value your station in life, you will tell me what I need to know.”
“My station in life is as a woman of God, Herr Koehler. You’re going to have to bring your decree to Bishop Balthasar, but he does not stay here most nights. He is in Castle Bedburg. That is all I can tell you.” Then, as if to mock him, she gave a curt bow before calmly returning to her sweeping.
Gustav growled, realizing he was getting nowhere. They could be getting further and further away with every minute I waste.
Holstering his gun, he spun on his heels and stormed back out through the front door, striding quickly to his horse, Hedda hurrying along to catch up.
Shortly after, they reached Castle Bedburg. The brick-and-stone structure had been built with four spires pillared on each corner, like four giant exclamation marks punctuating its importance. Crossing over a short bridge above the River Erft, Gustav approached the guards at the front gate.
After flashing his paperwork, he and his intimidating gang were granted immediate entry.
Once inside, Bishop Balthasar Schreib met them at the door, ushering Gustav and Hedda into the main room. The rest of the group loitered about outside. The bishop was a short man, with a round belly and red, oval face. If not for his white bishop’s dressage, he may have been mistaken for a common drunk.
The bishop greeted them cheerily. “You are Gustav Koehler, son of Ludwig von Bergheim, I presume?”
Gustav grunted and nodded. He already knows my name?
Raising one eyebrow, Gustav glanced around the room. It was essentially bare, with simple wooden stools, nondescript tapestries and windows, and a small table with a carafe of wine and unadorned cups sitting on top.
The bishop, noticing Gustav’s inspection of the room, explained. “Once the prior lord here was deposed, I took the liberty of relieving the castle of its frivolities. When a town can barely survive on its own merits, it’s a bit disingenuous to parade excessive accoutrements around, no?”
I’m sure the gold and silver are either hoarded in the basement or clinking in your pockets, Gustav thought, sneering.
“Quite,” Gustav said. “I imagine you know why I am here.”
The bishop nodded and reached out a hand. “Your letter of intent, please.”
Gustav handed it to him.
When the bishop finished reading, he folded the paper and returned it to Gustav. Then he slowly shook his head, forming a smile that showed no pleasure. “While it may be true that Dieter Nicolaus and Sybil Griswold are both fugitives of a crime, albeit long-past, and traitors to the true Christian faith, I’m afraid I can’t help you. The crimes they committed are hearsay at best, and, at worst, unfounded. And more to the point, they were both pardoned when it was discovered that the investigation leading to the Werewolf of Bedburg was tainted.”
“Tainted?” Hedda asked. “By whom? The former bishop?”
“Indeed, my lady. By Bishop Solomon. You are familiar with Bedburg’s history?”
“I am from Bergheim, Your Grace. As is Gustav here. We are your neighbors.” She nodded, as if that explained it. “I do find it odd, however, that you have no lord in this town?”
“We’ve not had a lord for over two years, yes.” The bishop sighed. “Archbishop Ernst would have it that way.”
“But Ernst is in Cologne,” Gustav said, “and you are here. Why do you let him control you?”
Bishop Schreib chuckled, but, again, there was no humor in it. “The archbishop controls everything in this principality, sir. That includes your own town—and your father.”
“So, you fancy yourself a statesman and a nobleman?”
“I am merely a humble servant of God, my lord,” the bishop said coolly, bowing his head. “Until we’ve found a suitable replacement for Lord Werner, I aid the town in fiscal matters. However, I am also the ecclesiastic head of Bedburg—not a political head. That would be the archbishop-elector.”
“Then you won’t help us?” Gustav said.
Balthasar said, “How can I give you answers I do not have? I have no idea where those two are. Last I heard, they’d escaped to England. I gave it no more thought after that, and, quite frankly, had not given them a moment’s musing until you came into town today speaking their names.”
“This is ridiculous,” Gustav muttered. It’s like they’re all trying to hide the priest. But why?
Without further exchange, Gustav left, Hedda again scurrying along to keep up. Once outside, he took another swig of his laudanum, then announced to the pirates, “It seems we’ll find no help here, boys.”
“We’ll reconvene tomorrow, Gustav, once we have rest and food,” replied Adrian, no longer asking for permission. “I’ll take my men to the brothel, where I’m sure they’ll make themselves at home. Will you join us?”
Feeling a new wave of drug-induced electricity engulf his body, he gazed lustfully at Hedda. “No, I’ve no need for whores or drink,” he said. “Hedda and I will go to the town inn.”
“I’ll go with you,” Mia said.
“No, you won’t,” Gustav answered quickly. “You’ll join the boys. You’ll fi
t in better at the brothel. We’ll meet at the tavern in the morning. ”
Mia’s icy glare followed Gustav as he and Hedda rode off.
The inn was near the slums in the eastern district, not far from the tavern. Gustav and Hedda both dismounted, tied off their horse, then walked to the entrance, nearly tripping over a homeless couple camouflaged against the brown wooden wall.
Inside, the lobby was warm and cozy. A hearth-fire blazing in the corner added to the ambience. An old man sat behind a desk, his head slumped. In his arms a small toddler wiggled and whined.
Gustav’s boots thudded loudly against the wooden floor as he trudged toward the desk. The old man’s eyes blinked open. Though bloodshot and blurry, his smile was welcoming.
“One room, clerk,” Gustav said with a grunt. He yawned and stretched, longing to be upstairs and inside Hedda.
The old man tapped the desk with his fingers and pointed to a sign that indicated the price of the room.
Gustav finished stretching, then flipped a coin onto the desk. The old man gave him a key, and Gustav turned to leave.
Then he did a double-take, spinning back around to the old man and the child.
His throat caught in his chest. “It can’t be,” he muttered.
Hedda gave him a curious look. Gustav nudged his chin forward, but Hedda was still confused. Then she followed his eyes and realized they were not on the man, but on the boy. Her eyes widened.
“Fine boy you have there,” Gustav said, resting his hands palm-down on the desk.
The clerk softened immediately. “My grandson.”
Gustav flashed a smile. “And what a precious thing he must be to you.”
Gustav could scarcely believe his good fortune. He recognized the child. The same one Martin Achterberg had brought with him earlier. The same curly hair—there was no doubt about it. This boy had been on the Willow Wisp and the Lion’s Pride.
Practically handed to him on a silver platter, this was Dieter and Sybil’s son.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ROWAINE
The estate of Heinrich Franz was located on a large, secluded plot of land not far from the eastern side of Bedburg. To get there, Rowaine, Sybil, and Dieter traveled most of the night through winding, heavily wooded trails that blocked out what little moonlight there was.
Riding up to the main structure, Rowaine wasn’t quite ready for what she saw. For several moments she just sat there on her horse, frozen in place, marveling at the sheer opulence before her. Even in the dark, it was stunning. Its immense size, its gothic style with twisting spires, vaulted roofs, and flying buttresses arching into an enormous dome in the center. She could only imagine what it might look like during the day.
Dotting the perimeter of the monolithic main structure—which more resembled a cathedral than someone’s living quarters—were several bridges and a handful of small, much newer stone houses that looked strangely out of place when contrasted against the gothic mansion they surrounded.
A large black gate blocked entrance to the main quarters, but creaked open when Rowaine nudged it. Once inside the courtyard, the horses hoofed their way along a tiled roadway bordered by perfectly aligned, towering bushes on both sides.
And the closer they got to the main structure, the more foreboding it seemed.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed, then planted itself on a single leafless tree. It gazed at Rowaine as she passed and, even in the darkness, its black beak and yellow eyes set on her like a living nightmare.
“He couldn’t have picked a more frightening house for himself,” Sybil whispered from the back of Dieter’s horse.
“It does seem fitting,” Dieter muttered.
Eventually, they reached the grand entrance.
They tied off their horses as close as possible to the large double-door fronting the building, just in case a quick exit was required. The massive door handles were in the shape of two snarling wolf-heads.
Since the place looked dark and uninhabited, rather than knocking, Rowaine simply pushed in on one of the handles. And as with the front gate, the door swung open. She gulped, took one last look back at her two companions, then entered. Sybil and Dieter followed.
It was surprisingly bright inside, the main foyer lit by torches on all sides. A far cry from the desolate view from outside. They walked down a red-carpeted hallway, passing several stairways that led to darker places they couldn’t see. Murals, paintings, and tapestries adorned the walls.
“Hello?” Rowaine called out, her voice echoing through the huge, domed space.
To their right, a man poked his head out from behind a door. He was small, with a long white beard, a bald head, and beady little eyes. He wore a simple brown tunic that swept to the ground, hiding his legs and feet. In his hands he held what appeared to be a bleeding piece of uncooked meat.
Rowaine’s eyes immediately focused on the large chunk of meat.
“Guests?” the man squeaked in a high voice. “We have guests! Oh my, Beauregard, we have guests!”
Another man leaned over the upstairs railing, equally exuberant. He wore a white suit and slacks and came running down the stairs, nearly tripping several times on his way.
“Hello, travelers,” the bearded one with the meat said, shuffling toward them. “This is Beauregard, butler of House Charmagne.” He pointed to the other man in white.
“My name is Catriona Donnelly. This is Sybil and Dieter Nicolaus. You must be Rolf Anders?”
The bearded man smiled, showing two perfect rows of tiny white teeth. “I must be.”
“We are looking for Heinrich Franz.”
Rolf Anders’ smile evaporated. “I’m afraid you won’t find him here. However, this is his house.” He stretched his arms out to show them they’d come to the right place. “Did he invite you here?”
“Er, no,” Rowaine stammered. “We were made aware of this place by the Lady Odela.”
Rolf coughed, which became a laugh. “The Lady Odela, eh? How is that senile old crone?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Come, come, I was going to feed the hounds,” he said, beckoning them with the dripping meat. “We can talk while we walk.”
After sharing a bewildered look, the trio followed Rolf through the doorway and down another long, red-carpeted hallway lit by more wall torches.
The trio stayed far back from Rolf as they walked. Rowaine tried to gauge his demeanor.
“Come now, I won’t bite,” Rolf called over his shoulder, flashing his tiny white teeth.
I’m not so sure of that, Rowaine thought.
Moving up alongside the man, Rowaine asked, “What is your capacity here, Lord Rolf?”
The old man chuckled as he shuffled along. “I am the steward of Herr Franz’s estate, my dear. Beauregard and I watch after this place in his absence. But as a steward, please, do not refer to me as ‘lord.’ Rolf will suffice.”
“How do you know Heinrich?”
“I suppose I should be asking you the same question.”
“We are friends of his,” Rowaine replied.
Rolf laughed at that. They rounded a corner in the hallway. The path seemed much the same as the last, like they were navigating through a labyrinth.
“Is that what you told Odela?” he asked.
Rowaine scrunched her brow but said nothing.
“My dear,” Rolf said, elaborating, “Heinrich Franz has no friends. He’d be the first to tell you that.”
Our secret is out, Rowaine thought.
“If you’re here to kill him, that’s no matter. I suppose he’s brought many people a life of agony.” Rolf opened a door at the end of the hall. “But I have no idea where he is. I haven’t seen Herr Franz in months.”
They entered a small room, then headed down a stone staircase, the temperature growing noticeably colder. A few dozen steps later, they descended into a basement, or cellar, or possibly a dungeon. Unlike the grandeur above them, the walls here were grimy and the air stale and damp—sufficiently un
pleasant enough to make the three visitors instantly leery.
“How did you come to know Herr Franz, Rolf?” Dieter asked, looking around nervously.
“I taught him how to inflict that agony, good sir.”
The three shared another look.
Rolf led them to a barred gate. Rowaine took a closer look and realized it was actually a cage. Rolf wedged the piece of meat between the steel grids and flung it into the enclosure. It slapped to the ground as dark forms emerged from the shadows.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Rolf watched the forms attack the piece of meat. “I was a one-time acquaintance of Ernst of Bavaria,” he explained, obviously enjoying the feeding spectacle before him. “We met through him.”
As the creatures devoured the food, Rowaine realized they weren’t hounds at all. They were wolves. Four of them, growling and nipping each other as they fought for the meat.
“The Archbishop of Cologne?” Rowaine asked, staring wide-eyed at the raging beasts.
Rolf leaned his forehead inches from the cage. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they? So majestic in their wildness . . . Yet they actually turn quite docile when Heinrich is near.”
Rowaine couldn’t believe she’d heard correctly. “These are Heinrich’s . . . pets?”
One wolf snapped at another, then grabbed a chunk of the meat and retreated to a dark corner.
“Indeed. He took two of his favorites with him the last time he was here. That was . . . maybe six months ago.”
Dieter, also with eyes locked onto the feasting frenzy, asked, “What do you mean, you ‘taught him how to inflict that agony,’ Rolf?”
The old man sighed. The original chunk of meat now gone, each animal peacefully chewed remnants in separate corners. Rolf looked away and faced Dieter. “He was an obsessive investigator. I can only imagine the hardships he brought upon his interests.”
Rowaine tilted her head. “But that’s not all you mean, is it, Rolf?”
Again Rolf sighed, his gaze turning severe. “I only speak of these things because I am no longer a part of that life. But you are a clever lass, and you are correct. I taught Heinrich the noble, diplomatic ways of . . .” he waved his hands in the air, contemplating the right word. “Politics.”