by Cory Barclay
Ava frowned. She took no part in the boys’ altercations.
Noticing her expression, Severin sighed, then finally relented. “Fine . . . the stone looks fake anyway,” he said, letting the ring fall from his hand to the wet ground. Hugo quickly snatched it up, rubbing off the grime as Severin sauntered away.
The next morning the quartet gathered at the town’s marketplace, an open-air bazaar where merchants hawked their wares. Today however, bystanders filled the area, waiting to watch the public execution set to begin shortly.
It was the third witch burning in less than a month. It seemed that more and more witches were popping up every day. So common had they become, Hugo hadn’t even bothered learning the name of this newest offender.
Instead, he sat on an overturned fruit crate, eating an apple and watching the crowd grow. A scaffold had been raised in the center of the marketplace. On it stood a wooden cross—man-sized. The town’s bishop, Balthasar Schreib, stood next to the cross, waving his arms as he announced the multiple charges the witch faced.
All four thieves now occupied strategic locations along the perimeter of the marketplace. They waited patiently for rich stragglers to come riding or walking by.
The Bird Coup was a particular ploy requiring all four of them.
The Owl was the lookout, responsible for keeping an eye out for patrolmen or guards. At any sign of trouble, he’d give a hoot. He also was responsible for picking the mark, but was otherwise relatively free from harm or exposure. Today, Severin played the Owl.
The Falcon did the mugging, because he had the fastest wings—or in this case, hands. Hugo was the designated Falcon.
The Eagle was the decoy and, if necessary, the muscle, because he was the biggest and most flamboyant. Not surprisingly, Karstan always played the Eagle.
The final part was the Raven. This role was the trickiest and required the most skill since the Raven took the handoff from the Falcon. Ava played the Raven.
The set-up was straightforward: The Owl chose the target and kept watch. The Falcon dove in, snatching the goods, while the Eagle distracted the mark. The Falcon would then hand off the goods to the Raven, who’d disappear into the shadows.
And if anything went wrong, and a mark or bystander suspected foul play, it would be the Falcon they’d go after, who would innocently show he had nothing on his person.
The group had successfully pulled off the ploy countless times.
As Bishop Schreib finished off his grand proclamation, the crowd parted to make way for two guards who escorted the witch toward the scaffold and cross.
Which was the cue for the Bird Coup to start.
Sitting nonchalantly on a stack of flour bags, Severin nodded toward an incoming merchant. Seeing Severin’s sign from across the market, Hugo bobbed his head, the sign that the target had been picked. The merchant carried a large purse over his shoulder, wore lavish clothes, held a smaller knapsack on his hip, and had a woman clinging to his arm. The perfect mark.
The woman will be my best advantage, Hugo thought, watching the rich lady almost melt into the laughing merchant. They were probably drunk, arriving right as the execution was set to begin. A few people stood between Hugo and the merchant, but all faced the scaffolding, their backs to Hugo.
Hugo’s heart hammered. He was twenty paces from the merchant, trying to meld into the crowd. His eyes shifted from the scaffold, back to the merchant, then back again to the scaffold.
The screaming witch was being dragged through a row of onlookers. Hugo passed her with his head down.
When Hugo was fifteen paces away from the couple, Karstan calmly nudged in behind him, keeping a few paces back. Meanwhile, Ava remained out of sight. Hugo could literally hear his heart thumping as he closed within ten paces of the merchant.
Bells and whistles abruptly sounded in his head. He stuttered a step as a man walked up alongside the merchant. A man Hugo hadn’t noticed—middle-aged, blond hair, stern face. Most telling, though he wasn’t outfitted like a patrolman, he carried a sword at his waist.
He looks strangely familiar, Hugo thought. But with no warning from his Owl, there was no reason to scrap the plan, so Hugo quickened his pace.
When he was within five steps of the mark, he stopped sharply, pivoting to his side so Karstan could pass. Karstan bumped into Hugo, causing Hugo to stumble into the merchant.
“Oh my!” Karstan said, shoving Hugo out of the way and facing the merchant. “My apologies, sir,” Karstan said as Hugo walked away with the merchant’s knapsack.
The merchant growled in protest.
Appearing from the shadows, Ava passed by Hugo as he handed off the knapsack to her. Head down, she quickly disappeared into the crowd.
Hugo exhaled as he strolled away. His heart slowed.
Until he heard a yelp.
Spinning around with panic in his eyes, he scanned the faces of the crowd.
Someone was dragging Ava by the arm through a cluster of people. As she cried out, Hugo focused across the way to the flour-stack. Severin was gone.
Coward!
He could see Karstan trying desperately to shove people aside to get between Ava and her captor.
Which was when Hugo realized her captor was the same blond-haired man who’d been beside the merchant. As the man reached for Ava’s chest, as if to grab her breasts, Ava screamed.
“Pervert!”
Undeterred, the man ripped open the front of Ava’s shirt and out tumbled the merchant’s knapsack, which he raised in the air.
By this time, several members of the crowd had turned from the execution to face the growing commotion between Ava and her captor. When the man raised the knapsack, they collectively gasped.
Karstan finally made his way to Ava and appeared ready to bull-rush her captor, just as the man drew his sword and leveled it at Karstan’s throat. Karstan gulped and put his hands in the air.
“Back, thief,” the man shouted, “she’s coming with me!”
He then backed into the crowd, dragging Ava behind him with the knapsack over his shoulder. As he passed the intended mark, he handed the bag to the man. “Your purse, sir,” he said.
“Ava!” Hugo shouted, reaching out but clutching air.
The last thing Hugo saw was Ava opening her bright green eyes, gazing through the crowd and locking onto him, her hands outstretched.
And then she was gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
GUSTAV
Gustav Koehler doubled over in his seat, his head in his hands. He groaned. His insides felt like a snake had coiled around a porcupine and couldn’t untangle.
His carriage bumped along the shoddy dirt road, twisting his intestines even more.
Gustav glanced to his right, at the legs of his scribe, Hedda. He lifted his eyes, taking in the rest of Hedda’s petite body. His pain momentarily subsided. Her face was buried in a book, her large, round spectacles almost reaching the tip of her small nose.
“How you can possibly read during this treacherous carriage ride is beyond me,” he said, wincing at her.
“It was your idea to come here, Gustav,” Hedda replied, her eyes never leaving her book. Her light hair bobbed on her shoulders with every bump of the carriage.
“It was my father’s idea,” Gustav reminded her.
Hedda put her book on her knees and watched his pained face. “You didn’t have to come here. You could have stayed in Germany.”
Gustav snorted. “Not if I’m to show my father I have what it takes to carry this family onward without him.”
“You give him too much credit,” Hedda said. “Do you think he really cares what you can or can’t do?”
Gustav ignored her, instead turning left to watch the rolling green countryside out his window.
Hedda went back to her book.
“How far are we from Norfolk?” Gustav asked.
“I don’t know, Gustav.”
Silence followed.
Gustav took the opportunity to reach into hi
s tunic, very casually so as not to draw attention. He fumbled around until he felt the glass bottle. Then, after glancing to his right to make sure Hedda wasn’t watching, took a quick shot of the laudanum tincture. Quickly, he stowed his secret potion back in his tunic.
Within seconds the warm sensation surrounded his head like a fluffy cloud, separating his mind from the outside world. His intestines smoothed out, the imaginary snake unwinding itself from its prickly prey. Again he groaned, but this time in satisfaction. His muscles relaxed; his mouth fell open. A bit of drool dribbled from his lips, which he wiped with the back of his hand.
Gustav closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “What are you reading?” he asked, eyes still shut.
“Paracelsus,” Hedda said, “what you should be reading, if we have any hope of keeping these plants alive.”
Gustav opened his eyes and followed Hedda’s to the cart behind them. A blanket covered an assortment of plants, flowers, and herbs. He smiled. This menagerie of plants went everywhere with him—even across the seas from the Netherlands to England. His collection of medicinal plants, herbs, and spices was his prized possession. He considered himself somewhat of an amateur botanist and herbalist, and dreamed of one day sprinkling the world with his green gifts.
Gustav glanced over at Hedda’s book cover perched on her lap. The Doctrine of Signatures—a reference book explaining the medicinal uses of some plants and their connection with the Creator.
“I’ve already read that one,” Gustav said, “so you don’t have to.”
Ignoring him, Hedda picked up her book and continued reading.
Gently, Gustav placed his palm on Hedda’s cold knee. He began rubbing the warm flesh behind her kneecap, before moving his thumb up her thigh.
“Come now, put the book down,” he said. “We have time before we reach Norf-f-folk . . . ” His mind was swirling in a euphoric haze from the laudanum, his speech slurred.
Hedda slapped his hand away. Gustav winced. “I don’t like you when you’re like this,” she said.
“Like what?” Gustav asked, kneading his hand and pouting.
“In a fog.”
Hedda studied his glazed, rheumy eyes, then returned to her book. “We’ll be at Norfolk shortly, Gustav. Try to clear your head and get ready for what you have to do.”
A few hours later, they reached the rural community of Norfolk just as the sun was setting. As their carriage rolled by the farms and small houses, Gustav noticed a church on the horizon that wasn’t quite finished. The only hint it was a church was the man standing on its roof erecting a white cross. Compared to the legion of bland houses and farms they passed, the stark-white church stood out like a beacon—the most memorable landmark they’d seen thus far.
The carriage continued on. Gustav directed the driver to the largest house in the vicinity, a two-story structure with a bit more flair than most of the other buildings. Clearly, the residence of someone important.
Gustav’s brain had long since shaken off the effects of the laudanum, the cloudiness now replaced with a dull aching. His insides had begun hurting again, but he hid his discomfort.
Gustav stepped out of the carriage first. He was a tall man and had to duck down so as not to bump his head on the carriage roof. As he stretched his arms over his head, then grunted and yawned, Hedda stepped out. Under her arms, she held a different booklet than the one she’d been reading.
Gustav perused the green scenery. “Dull place,” he said.
Hedda didn’t reply.
A man came out from the large house. He was middle-aged and wore a ridiculous, frilly outfit with a puffy shirt. His face was gaunt yet cheerful, almost like it couldn’t decide whether to be happy or suspicious.
“Hello, good sir,” Gustav said, meeting the man halfway. He stuck out his hand and flashed a charming grin.
Eyeing Hedda, the man cleared his throat and hesitated. Finally, he put out his hand and shook Gustav’s hand. “Can I help you? I was just sitting down for supper.”
“My apologies,” Gustav said, “but are you the proprietor of this land?”
The man slowly nodded. “I am the reeve, yes. Clarence Bailey. And you are . . .”
“Gustav Koehler.” He spoke his name as if expecting recognition. When none came, Gustav cleared his throat as Hedda sauntered up alongside him. Reaching into her booklet, she produced a sealed letter with a red stamp across it and handed it to Reeve Bailey.
“That letter is proof of who I am, Herr Bailey,” Gustav announced. “My father owns these lands. So, in turn, you work for him.”
The reeve looked baffled. Before opening the letter, he asked, “And your father is?”
“Read the letter, good sir,” Gustav said, shivering. “Seems like it’s to be a chilly night.”
With narrowed eyes Clarence Bailey stared at the letter in his hands. A few seconds later he muttered, “Yes, yes, we’d better take this inside. I’ll introduce you to my wife and child, and it so happens I was sitting down with my taxman, too. Tax season is upon us, after all.”
“I am aware,” Gustav said. He and Hedda followed the reeve inside the house.
They wandered through a living room and came to a large table where a young woman and child sat on one side and and an overweight man with puffy red cheeks sat at the head. The fat man’s face reminded Gustav of a squirrel with nuts in his cheeks.
Clarence Bailey gestured to the man. “This is Timothy Davis, my tax-collector.”
The plump man finished off the chicken leg he was eating before staggering up from his chair and holding out a greasy hand.
Gustav looked at the hand with disgust, not moving to shake it. “A pleasure,” he said, feeling just the opposite.
Timothy Davis rubbed his hands on his trousers, then turned to Clarence. “Friends of yours, sir?”
“Er, no,” Clarence said, clearing his throat. “This man claims to be the son of the owner of these lands.”
“And what is he here for?” Timothy asked, as if Gustav weren’t standing in the room.
“Yes, what are you here for, Herr Koehler?” Clarence echoed.
Gustav inspected the small room, leering at Clarence’s young wife and child. He was somewhat taken aback by the selfish attitude of the reeve—not offering his weary guests any food after their long travel. Both men seemed tense, as if trying to hide something.
“In all honesty,” Gustav began, “I am here to take over the tax routes of your man.”
The reeve glanced at Timothy, whose fat cheeks jiggled about, flabbergasted. “What ever for?” Timothy mumbled with a full mouth. “I’ve never cheated a soul.”
Hedda positioned her spectacles on her nose and thumbed through a page of her book. “Unfortunately, that’s not what these numbers say.”
“Who’s that woman?” Timothy asked.
“My scribe and assistant,” Gustav said, “and you’ll refer to her as Frau Hedda.”
“Just hold on here,” Reeve Bailey said, “I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this amicably. Timothy, take this letter and confirm its legitimacy.”
“But . . . I’m eating, sir,” the taxman complained, blinking sadly at his half-eaten plate.
The reeve simply stared at the round man. Timothy whined, then snatched the letter. “Tomorrow I’m supposed to go on my routes to collect the taxes,” he added.
“Oh?” Gustav said. “Well, since I can guarantee that you will find my letter authentic, I shall be taking over your duties.”
“You can’t simply barge in here and take over my assignment,” Timothy said, his floppy cheeks turning red.
But Gustav was an imposing character, tall and stoic in front of the out-of-shape taxman. “I can, and I have,” he said, “because this land belongs to my father. I am here to make sure everything goes smoothly from here on out. I would like to meet the people of this shire. I will also need a place to store my plants—wherever I’m staying will be fine.”
“Your . . . plants, my lord?” Re
eve Bailey asked.
“Yes, Herr Bailey. My plants. If you’ll come outside with me, you’ll see what I mean.”
Gustav and Hedda led the way out, but not before Gustav dipped his eyes to the small woman and child at the table and said, “Excuse me, ladies,” as politely as he could.
Outside, the carriage-driver was feeding the horses. Gustav walked to the back of the wheeled cart. He grabbed the blanket inside and dramatically flipped it off his herbs and spices. “These are my plants. Is there somewhere nearby I can stay, so that I might come here in the morning? I’m an early riser.”
Clarence scratched his sunken cheeks. He motioned toward the flat horizon. “The closest farmstead over there has been vacant for a time. There is a small plot of land where your plants should fit nicely.”
“Yes,” Timothy added. “The couple who lived there weren’t able to pay the proper taxes, so they were ousted.” He smiled, clearly pleased with himself.
“Now, now, Herr Davis, there’s no need for that,” Clarence said, putting a hand on his taxman’s shoulder. “I’m sure Herr Koehler doesn’t plan on staying overly long. Correct, sir?”
“I’ll stay as long as I need to,” Gustav said flatly.
Timothy Davis grunted. He put his hands on his round belly and tucked the letter he held into the band of his trousers. “I’ll see if I can verify the legitimacy of this letter, Clarence.”
And with that, the fat man waddled off.
Once Timothy was gone, Clarence asked, “What is it you think my taxman has done, exactly? I’ve known him for years. He’s as trustworthy as they come.”
Gustav faced his scribe. “I’m here to audit your acreage’s expenses and taxes, Herr Bailey. Believe me, if there’s foul play afoot, Hedda will find it. She’s the brightest auditor I know.”
“And what brings you here, if I may ask?”
“I’m here on my father’s bidding. Yours is not the only land I’ve come to check. So in that, you are right, I won’t be making myself comfortable for too long.”
