by Cory Barclay
On the other hand, his killing of Baron Josef had been something else entirely—nothing personal, just a means to an end. The truth was, Heinrich simply couldn’t bear giving away his hard-earned land to a man he didn’t know. And though he hardly recognized the names of the villages he was supposed to be giving up, that still didn’t change the degree to which Heinrich abhorred the sense of entitlement that all high-born folk expected to receive.
He had also worried about the two barons for strategic reasons. They seemed to have become friends, more than mere acquaintances. And for Heinrich, that just wouldn’t do. He couldn’t be surrounded by powerful men who might collude with each other against him. Despite having no evidence to back that up, it was always better to be safe than sorry.
Heinrich smiled to himself as he reminisced about Lady Lucille that night, her precious expression of abject horror when her father’s brains and skull had splattered across her face. If only he could commission a painting of that wondrous moment so he could relive it at will.
With both barons gone, and the ink of their signatures still fresh on the wedding agreements, Heinrich’s position had improved greatly. He was still a married man—wedded to a Catholic wife—as Archbishop Ernst had wanted. But now he had two fewer potential enemies at his borders. And he could now take their lordships for himself, vastly spreading his influence. More importantly, with both Bergheim and Erftstadt under his control, he would be lord of the entire county.
And earn a new title: Count Heinrich Franz.
He liked the sound of that, grinning at the thought.
Before all that though, he had decided to travel to Cologne to discuss with Archbishop Ernst his next course of action, gauging Ernst’s reaction to his new proposals, which he assumed would be accepting.
He also wanted to discuss his future in Bedburg. After killing the barons, he needed to make sure he was still in good standing with the rest of the nobility—that a powerful man like Lord Alvin, or a Godly man like Bishop Balthasar, wouldn’t try to steal away his power or status.
Which was why he had invited Ulrich, Commander Tomas, and Bishop Balthasar to his wedding that night. They represented the three most influential people in the city and, thus, the most likely ones to potentially scheme against him. So he had needed to graphically illustrate to them what they were up against, that no one could keep secrets from Heinrich Franz.
And he was confident his plan had worked, noting the genuine fear on their faces that night despite their attempts to hide it.
It was a shame he’d had to arrest Rolf, but the old weasel had clearly outlived his welcome and worth. After all, it had been Rolf who had invited that madman, Salvatore, to his home. Then, when the lunatic’s attempt to poison Heinrich had failed, Rolf had allowed him to escape! As long as Heinrich ruled, there was simply no room for such treasonous incompetence.
Isn’t it strange how the people closest to you are the quickest to stick the knife in your back?
Ernst of Bavaria, the current archbishop of Cologne, had been born to the powerful Wittelsbach family. The youngest of three sons, he had been groomed for leadership and nobility his entire life. Usually, these were just the things Heinrich hated in a person, but not in the case of Ernst.
The oldest brother of the family, William, had become a powerful politician and the Duke of Bavaria. The next brother in line, Ferdinand, was a military man. But Ernst had instead chosen the ecclesiastic path. Perhaps it was because of that that Heinrich had always felt a sense of connection—as a man of God, Ernst was beyond Heinrich’s reach, beyond the reach of mere mortals.
But whatever the psychological reasons, over the years Heinrich had grown quite fond of the archbishop. First, he admired the fact that Ernst was a man of action, like Heinrich. Second, he was tall and handsome with the commanding presence of a born leader—which Heinrich liked to think, in certain respects, he shared with the man.
Heinrich wasn’t jealous of the man. To the contrary, he simply wanted what the archbishop had, to be a part of his inner circle. Although the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if maybe there was something more he wanted than just friendship and admiration.
Late in the afternoon, Archbishop Ernst’s courier came to gather Heinrich from the foyer of the castle. As usual, Heinrich had been kept waiting for hours. Apparently, there had been other matters that Ernst needed to take care of first.
A bit nervous, Heinrich followed the courier down the long hallway leading to Ernst’s favorite conference room. Along the way, he examined the battlefield paintings and tapestries on the walls. As they approached the conference room, a small sheen of sweat formed on Heinrich’s upper lip and mustache.
The courier pushed open the doors, then made the formal announcement of Heinrich’s arrival. Archbishop Ernst stood next to the window, his back to Heinrich, his hands clasped at his waist. When he turned around, Heinrich’s smile vanished. The archbishop’s expression was grim, his frown pronounced, the skin around his eyes and lips tight.
It was an expression new to Heinrich. One that frightened him.
Could I have misread the situation this badly?
“Heinrich,” the archbishop said in a stern voice.
“Your Grace,” Heinrich answered, bowing his head.
Ernst motioned for him to sit in the chair facing his desk, which he did. Trying to appear calm, Heinrich couldn’t stop his right knee from jiggling, exposing his apprehension. For a long while, the archbishop remained quiet, standing there with a gaze that penetrated Heinrich like a spear. Then he slowly walked to his desk and sat, still not speaking.
Say something, dammit!
But the silence continued, the archbishop’s eyes never leaving Heinrich’s.
He’s enjoying this. Me suffering. Oh, how I covet that!
Another full minute of excruciating quiet went by before the archbishop, steepling his fingers in front of him, finally spoke.
“You’ve doomed us,” he said, his tone deathly final.
Heinrich’s eyes bulged. His mind reeled. “P-pardon, Your Grace?”
Ernst pounded his fist on the table, sending Heinrich’s pulse racing.
“What were you thinking?” Ernst demanded. “Killing those two barons?”
Heinrich tried to speak but couldn’t.
“You can’t just go killing everyone you disagree with, you damn fool!” Ernst shook his head and looked down at the table. “I knew it was a terrible idea electing you as lord. I should have seen that it would reflect poorly on me.”
Heinrich’s heart sunk. “B-but . . . I did what you asked . . .” he said meekly.
The archbishop threw his head back in disgust. “What I asked? I never asked you to kill anyone! Especially not your neighbors!”
“I married that woman . . . a Catholic woman . . .”
“And killed her father!”
“They were planning my doom, Your Grace!” The instant his words flew out of his mouth, Heinrich heard how pathetically hollow they sounded.
Then another long moment of silence, the archbishop staring at Heinrich, blinking slowly. “Can you prove that?” he asked.
Heinrich hesitated, then gently shook his head, his shoulders drooping.
Waving an angry hand, Ernst bellowed, “I’ve had to deal with this catastrophe all day, and more. Why have you even come here?” Then thinking more about it, he added, “It’s a good thing you have, so I can show the people the target of their ire.”
Heinrich gulped. “I was hoping you’d be happy. That’s all I wanted, Your Grace, to please you.”
Ernst joined his hands on top of the table, then shook his head. “You could have done nothing more to make me less pleased, Heinrich, you foolish, foolish man. Was it your plan to just take their cities and call them your own?”
“It had crossed my mind.”
“With no forethought into how you might do that?” Ernst shook his head again. “Imagine all the noblemen in Bedburg, vying for your position, scheming against you—
”
Heinrich nodded. “I have. It is easy to imagine . . .”
“And now imagine twice that many people in cities you’ve never even stepped foot in doing the same! For every Baron Ludwig you kill, three more noblemen will replace him willing to fight for his power and position! You’ve completely fractured the infrastructures of Bergheim and Erftstadt. Where I once had stable allies in place in those cities, I now have”—he threw his hands up in the air, flustered—“I don’t even know what I now have! Madness! Chaos!”
He squinted at Heinrich. “And for all we know, whoever rises to the top of the heap now may not even be Catholic!” In a lower voice, he said, “And all this because of your . . . your . . . insane paranoia!”
Heinrich was tired of being berated. His fear and self-pity were quickly morphing into something dangerous. It made him feel like a child again, his mother chastising him, beating him, for every small mishap. Clearing his throat, he sat up straight and spoke.
“Give me an army and I’ll march into Bergheim and Erftstadt and establish peace,” he said. “You have my word, Your Grace. I will win you back your cities.”
The archbishop was shaking his head again, this time with eyes closed, as if Heinrich were an idiot to even consider that. “You don’t understand the situation, Heinrich.”
From outside the room, a familiar voice called out. “Uncle? Uncle!”
At the sound of the voice, Ernst looked up, then hurried to finish his conversation with Heinrich. “I don’t have the authority to do such a thing—”
“Of course you do!” Heinrich retorted.
The voice outside was now shouting, getting closer. “Uncle!” But Heinrich ignored it, trying to make his point before he lost the archbishop’s attention.
“You’re the Prince-Elector and Archbishop of Cologne, for God’s sake! One of the most powerful men in the Holy Roman Empire!” he told Ernst.
The door to the conference room burst open and a young man with a slight resemblance to Ernst stepped into the room. Heinrich recognized him. Ernst’s nephew Ferdinand.
Before the nephew crossed the room, Ernst leaned toward Heinrich. “My constituents don’t trust me with that much authority, Heinrich. Not after I let your debacle take place. Now, I would never win the votes in parliament to award me an army.”
Heinrich scoffed. It had been Archbishop Ernst himself who had set up the parliament to begin with—to help streamline and better organize Cologne. And now he was telling Heinrich that his own creation would betray him? Heinrich made a mental note of that irony, vowing never to do anything so foolish, never to create something that could diminish, even eliminate, his own power in his own cities.
Heinrich switched to another tact. “I have two seats in Cologne’s parliament that I’ve never been present to use. I can use my votes!”
By now Ferdinand was standing at the edge of the desk near his uncle. Smirking, he said, “While an amusing gesture Heinrich, it would not be nearly adequate.”
Furrowing his brow, Heinrich stared at Ernst’s young nephew.
I’d give anything to run my blade across that arrogant pup’s thin neck.
Then he turned back to Ernst, his expression pleading.
The archbishop sighed. “Unfortunately, my nephew is correct. I’m growing old, Heinrich—”
“You’re the best man to ever step foot in Cologne,” Heinrich blurted, then blushed.
Ferdinand smirked. “Oh, isn’t he adorable when he fawns, uncle?”
Heinrich stared daggers at the young man, as Ernst closed his eyes. Whatever the archbishop was preparing to say would be difficult.
“In light of what has transpired within the last few weeks,” Ernst began, “I have decided it would be best if I stepped down from the archbishopric for a time . . . at least until things have calmed a bit here.”
Heinrich was dumbfounded. Leaning forward, he said, “You’ve been forced to retire? By whom, the pope?”
Ernst chuckled. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. I’d just like to see how my nephew can handle things. I will be watching intently, but from the peripheries.”
Heinrich studied Ernst’s expression. He looked tired, defeated. But he still didn’t believe what the archbishop was telling him. Ernst was not a man to give up so easily—not unless forced to. And Heinrich could tell that the archbishop did not want this.
Could this really all be . . . my doing?
Suddenly Heinrich felt like crying. He hadn’t wept in a long time, not since witnessing Odela burn at the stake in Trier. But now was not the time to show weakness or vulnerability. While he could do that in front of Ernst, a man he trusted completely, he certainly would never do it in front of his toadish nephew.
“Tell me what I can do,” he asked Ernst in a harsh whisper. “Tell me how I can change your fate, Your Grace. I’ll do anything.”
“Come now, uncle, let’s go,” Ferdinand interrupted. “We have a meeting with those sugar sellers. I think I’ve brokered a deal, but it still needs your signature.”
Archbishop Ernst stood. He eyed his nephew, then turned back to Heinrich. “You said you thought Baron Ludwig von Bergheim and Baron Josef von Erftstadt were colluding against you, to steal your authority?”
Heinrich nodded quickly.
“Then prove it,” Ernst said with finality. Thrusting his finger in Heinrich’s direction, he added, “Find me proof that they were a danger to the Empire—that they wanted to destroy Christendom as we know it, and maybe I can help you.”
The task seemed impossible. Now Heinrich’s face shared the same look of defeat. His cheeks sagged and his mouth fell open. But as Archbishop Ernst began to walk away, Heinrich regained his vigor.
“I’ll do it,” he called out. “You have my word, Your Grace! I promise I’ll make this right!”
From across the room, Ernst turned to face Heinrich. “Good,” he said, then his face turned dark. “But until you do, don’t dare show your face here again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DIETER
Dieter sat on the cold stone curb, his knees bent, his feet slightly hanging over the edge of the muddy sewer floor. He tried to keep his boots dry, but his present living conditions made that next to impossible. He bounced Peter on his knee, trying to keep the child calm, holding him close to his chest with his good arm. The nub of his other arm was buried beneath his dirty tunic to stave off the freezing chill. A few slivers of moonlight provided their only light.
“When can we leave here, papa?” Peter asked. “It stinks and I’m cold.”
Dieter sighed. He looked left and right, where the tunnels continued in both directions into darkness so complete it looked like black curtains had been drawn. That, and the perpetual drip, drip, drip of rainwater and sewage leaking from above, kept Dieter edgy, uncomfortable, and scared.
His voice cracked. “Soon, son. Soon.” Though he didn’t know if that was true.
He felt like a coward, hiding away in his underground labyrinth of wet pathways and filthy tunnels. The place was a city under the city, offering nothing good—just nauseating refuse, sickness, and death. He worried for his son’s health; if they didn’t leave soon, Peter could easily catch something and never recover.
And if anything happened to Peter . . . his life would be pointless.
But as scary as it was down here, he was even more fearful of showing his face aboveground. That, too, would put his son in jeopardy as surely as a deadly disease.
He no longer knew whom to trust. He was relieved that he’d helped Mary and Wilhelm to escape the city, but heartbroken about William and Jerome’s capture and executions. Especially since he’d been the one to direct them on their fateful journey—instructing them to use Claus’ underground entrance and exit at the tunnel’s secret outlet under the jail. Of course he had no way of knowing that the jailhouse opening had been paved over. Still, in his mind he was directly responsible for their deaths.
I should have told William to go with his f
amily. Instead, he ended up a helpless decoy. He didn’t know the extent of Heinrich Franz’s evilness—that the man would stop at nothing to get his way. I should have warned him better, emphasized the danger.
The only consolation had been the cityfolk’s reaction to the public executions. The resistance movement was growing, due in no small part to William’s now-notorious final words: Resist the iron fist.
Despite the people’s understandable fear of Heinrich Franz, William’s death had pushed them one step closer to the realization that the city was theirs. And that their only, and best, defense against such a ruthless, amoral ruler was to band together.
But Dieter knew his limits. He was no orator, nor a born leader. He didn’t possess the fiery rhetoric of his predecessors, such as Pastor Hanns Richter. If he had such skills, he’d be able to rally the townspeople to his cause. A cause that was no longer a Protestant-Catholic fight, or power grab for land. This was a battle for freedom and life itself.
The revolution had definitely started, but it would have to proceed without Dieter. His personal situation was dire: Martin and Ava were both missing, ever since the executions of William and Jerome two weeks ago. And so he was literally alone—save for his thoughts and his child. And now living in the cavernous depths of Bedburg’s underground tunnels.
The cold, hard truth was that Dieter was in no position to lead anything, much less a revolution.
But the people needed nudging. They needed someone who could help them see that they were indeed active, capable masters of their own destinies.
Hearing footsteps coming from the darkness, he tensed. He knew he was cornered. Even with Claus’ map in hand, he’d been afraid he’d get lost in the underground maze, so had kept close to this end of the tunnel where at least there was some light. But it also gave him nowhere to run.
He moved farther into the shadows, trying to hide as best he could, his hand over his son’s mouth.
As the figure stepped into the dim light, Dieter sighed with relief. It was Claus, carrying a tray of food scraps with two cups.