by Cory Barclay
Rowaine shook her head. Though she’d tried, she couldn’t hide the sadness in her voice. “I wish she were.”
Sybil put her hand on Rowaine’s shoulder, but quickly moved it away. “I’m sorry, Rowaine.”
Rowaine turned to her, her bright green eyes clear with resolve. “We’ve got a hundred-forty miles to cover, so we’d better get to it. But please, I think I’ll let ‘Rowaine’ die with her captaincy. From here on, please call me Catriona, or Cat, if you’d like. If I’m going to ever find my father, I want to spread a name he’d recognize.”
Sybil smiled, but with a heavy heart. While she admired Rowaine’s—or Catriona’s—hope and confidence, she feared that when she last saw Georg Sieghart, it might very well have been the last time she’d ever see him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HUGO
For three days the caravan bumped along Germany’s trade roads, passing travelers and merchants along the way, over wooded hillsides, through stinking marshes that dried into yellow flatlands, and whichever way they needed to detour to keep the carriage’s wheels turning.
On the first day, Hugo kept mainly to himself, awed by the wideness of the world outside his Bedburg bubble. The air was crisper, the pines finer, the hills bigger. He saw animals he’d never seen before, homeless souls on foot clothed in rags, and others on horses and in carriages dressed like royalty.
His eyes regularly strayed to Severin, whose expression never seemed to change—what Hugo saw as spiteful jealousy. Spiteful, Hugo assumed, for having to travel with Hugo in the first place. Jealous, probably because by the second day Hugo had formed a quick friendship with Klemens, the group’s cook and minstrel. And since Severin wasn’t treated as an adult by the others, he pretty much kept to himself. Which was fine with Hugo.
The only time they ventured even close to each other was when forced to sit at the fire during meals.
As for Hugo’s new friend, Klemens, they were both close to the same age and, as such, had several things in common, including their love for new adventure and their constant adolescent struggles to meet young women.
One big difference, though, was their respective upbringings. While Hugo had basically raised himself when his family abandoned him, Klemens remained close with his kin.
“A brother that I rarely see,” Klemens explained one night at the campfire, “is fighting for the Spanish right now. I miss him. And then there’s another brother I see too often and can’t seem to get away from,” he said, jokingly. On this particular night, their meal was over and Klemens, sitting cross-legged on the ground, was plucking his lute. He was quite good at it, brightening the darkness with his magical tones. “There’s a song somewhere in there, I’m sure,” he said, gazing off at the wispy flames of the fire.
As Klemens played, no one in the group paid much attention, except for Hugo and of course Klemens’ faithful companion, Mord, who always seemed to mellow and scoot in a little closer whenever he heard his master’s lute.
Hugo liked the boy for his easy attitude, his aptitude with both a skillet and musical instrument—things completely foreign to Hugo—and for his dog with whom Hugo had already sealed a special bond. In fact, he’d often find Mord stepping on his heels, trying to get him to throw something to fetch. And most times Hugo would oblige and the dog would happily bound off, almost always returning a few minutes later with tail wagging and ears flapping and the treasured item safely secured in his mouth.
The other three members of the group—Inquisitor Samuel, his wife Tabea, and Secretary Gregor—made small talk amongst themselves, but stayed away from the others. They were stingy, uptight folk, unused to traveling, especially with youngsters, riffraf, and dogs. So they griped constantly, especially Tabea, who never stopped haranguing her Samuel, to the chagrin of everyone else in the caravan.
Often, the others would hear Tabea bark out obscenities through the carriage curtains, to the point where Hugo almost felt sorry for Samuel.
Until he reminded himself what an inquisitor’s job was.
During the days, the young tracker Arne would ride ahead, then return hours later with useful news of what lay ahead. Sometimes he’d scout merchants on the road; sometimes he’d see highwaymen and bandits and warn Tomas of the upcoming danger so Tomas could guide the caravan down a different route, out of harm’s way. It was an efficient means of travel and, for the most part, kept them out of danger.
On their third day, the sun shone brightly as the caravan made its way through a thinly wooded copse of pine and birch trees. Tomas sat at the driver’s seat, reins in hand, eyes searching the flat road ahead. Klemens and Hugo were bantering near the back of the caravan; Mord, as always, by their side. Grayson and Severin both flanked the group, eyes peering into the trees. Samuel and Tabea—the precious human cargo—were tucked away in the coach, blinds pulled to shield them from the sun and the lower life forms around them.
About thirty yards off, the trees shivered. Tomas knew the breeze wasn’t strong enough to cause that. He instantly reached for his sword, as did Grayson and Severin.
But it was just Arne, popping through the foliage, streaks of mud and grass acting as his camouflage. The young man approached the horses, putting his hand on one of their manes.
“Any trouble ahead?” Tomas asked, moving away from his sword.
Arne shook his head, his face emotionless and unreadable—fine traits for a tracker. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he said, “I reckon we have three more hours of daylight. What say you, Gray?”
The older man drew in his green cloak and stepped in from his position alongside the carriage. He frowned. “Why do you ask?”
Arne smirked. “There’s a rowdy cottage up ahead. I believe it’s a traveler’s tavern. We could stop in for the night—actually have some beds to sleep on.”
Tomas weighed the options, shifting his head side to side. “I’m sure the inquisitors would like that.”
On cue, the handsome face of Inquisitor Samuel poked out of the carriage’s drawn blinds. “A rest-stop, you say, boy?”
At hearing the word “boy,” Arne’s lips curled downward. “Yes, my lord,” he answered flatly. “You could say that.”
“How many people are in this place, Arne?” Tomas asked.
“At least ten. It’s big, though. I’m sure there’d be enough room for all of us.”
Tomas looked over his shoulder at the carriage. “I’m not worried about the roominess, but I’d like to keep these people’s identities private.”
“Why?” Hugo asked, walking alongside the carriage.
“I doubt they’d be well-liked if people knew who they were—especially a group of sauced-up travelers. Who knows who those people are. One of them could be a spy ready to warn bandits lying in wait up ahead.”
Grayson chuckled, scratching his peppery beard. “I think you’re giving the drunks too much credit, my friend.”
Tomas shrugged. “I still vote no.”
Severin came into view, eyebrows arched. “Vote, you say?”
“I don’t run a dictatorship, nephew. We can all have a say.”
As Tomas prepared for a vote, Tabea’s sunken face popped through the carriage window over Samuel’s. From the outside, it looked like their heads might belong to the same body.
“I won’t have a vote,” she said in her shrill voice.
All eyes converged on the hyena-woman, unsure what she meant. Tomas began to speak, then thought better and closed his mouth.
Tabea pushed the curtain back all the way, nudging her chin pompously toward the sky like she were the Queen of England. “The ‘vote’ is decided. I’ll be sleeping in a bed tonight, sir. I won’t spend another night in a tent.”
Tomas spoke softly. “Frau Tabea, for your safety—”
But the woman was already shaking her head. “I won’t have it, sir. Bring us to the tavern.”
Arne wasn’t exaggerating. “Rowdy” definitely described the place. The second Hugo stepped inside, the famil
iar stench of body-heat, booze, and tobacco nearly crushed him.
Reminds me of Bedburg, he thought.
Rather than being put off by the boisterous scene and sour smells, the familiarity actually comforted him. Even at his relatively young age, he’d already seen his share of brothels and taverns, and they all smelled and looked the same.
Grayson also wore a wide smile, for the first time in a while. Almost like he’d found his way home.
Tomas was the only one with his guard up, eyes scanning the big room, searching for danger.
The tavern was a large, two-story cottage, nestled behind a cloister of trees. Built from brick and thatch and stone, it bordered the woods.
“This is where the bandits, fools, and thieves must go,” Klemens whispered, walking past Hugo and tugging Mord on a leash behind him. The dog didn’t look happy—leashed and frightened by all the people, his tail was stretched straight out like an arrow as he snorted through thick pockets of smoke.
Drunken travelers eager to get drunker occupied four of the tables, as scantily-clad women paced around them, eager for their money. Every so often one of the wenches would latch onto a target and scurry upstairs with him.
Hugo wondered where the women came from—the nearest city was many miles away. Were they dragged from the forest, or plucked right off the road?
Still, despite the debauchery and loudness, it was a homey, inviting atmosphere to most of the men from the caravan.
“Can I get a beer, Tomas?” Hugo asked his designated mentor.
Tomas chuckled. “I’m not your father, Hue. I reckon if you can make it to the bar, you can order yourself a drink. The staff don’t seem like the scrupulous type.” He motioned toward the bar where a heavy-breasted woman was pouring two different bottles of liquor directly into the mouths of two raucous young men, spilling it down their necks and shirts.
Taking a seat next to a hooded fellow, Hugo ordered a mug of ale. He glanced over at the man but couldn’t see his features. A few seconds later, the familiar twang of Klemens’ lute glided softly through the room’s noisy chaos. Hugo turned to see his friend at the other end of the tavern by the hearth, instrument in hand and trusty dog patiently resting by his feet.
As Klemens fingered the strings, the effect was magical, gradually calming the room until the music became the prominent sound.
“Isn’t he worried someone might wreck his instrument?” Hugo asked as Tomas came to sit next to him.
Tomas leaned back against the bar and spread his arms out. “I’m sure Klem figures the opportunity outweighs the risk. There’s money to be made here for someone with his skills.”
Hugo watched as the mostly drunken crowd collectively focused on the young musician. One man mumbled out a request for a certain ballad, but Klemens was already deep into his own selection. His head was bent low, his scruffy hair flowing with the rhythm, his fingers moving faster and faster until they became a mesmerizing blur.
As the audience quieted even further, the orange-tinged smoke from the hearth cast an eerie glow across Klemens’ image, adding even more fire to his blazing performance.
At that moment Hugo realized that he was watching a true artist. His friend was better than “good.” He was a master at his craft.
As Klemens’ crescendo built to a frenzy, he maintained it for the proper interval before abruptly stopping, his fingers frozen above the strings like a statue.
The ensuing silence was deafening.
And suddenly the crowd broke into spontaneous applause and cheers.
“Come on, boy, enough showing off! Play us something!” a man shouted, hands cupped to his mouth.
Klemens smirked. Then his middle finger plucked a single string, the warm sound resonating across the bar. His other fingers started moving, and a slow mixture of chords emerged. A few seconds later his voice joined in, softly at first, then building to a richer, more confident tone—high in pitch, yet not shrill. Firm and pretty.
There once was a young lass,
Who could have held kingdoms in her grasp.
The men hollered, a few pounded their mugs on the tables. Klemens was playing to the crowd, the subject matter perfect.
Broken dreams, damsels, and chivalry, Hugo thought.
Klemens sang on.
So light was her kind laugh,
So fair was her skin of gold.
But her soul had another plan,
And from her queenly fate this girl ran,
For she loved a poor and lonely man,
And her heart could not be sold.
“That bitch!” a man yelled, drawing a few laughs. One of the tavern women standing behind the man smacked him on the back of the head, drawing more laughter.
Her father tried to stop her,
By forcing her on someone proper,
‘You can’t marry this pauper!
My daughter won’t be so bold!’
Klemens’ fingers rose up the neck of the lute as he strummed and sang the final lyrics:
But her heart outweighed her soul,
And though his skin resembled coal,
The poor man made her whole,
And so together they grew old.
The furious strumming became a living thing—the music gasped and grew into another crescendo, this one even more transfixing than the last. The crowd marveled until the final notes slowed, then stopped.
Klemens looked up and smiled. “At least . . . that’s how the story’s told,” he said, brushing through one final flurry of notes.
The entire bar broke into cheers, shouts, and whistles.
One of the prettier ladies crept up behind Klemens and grabbed his arm, trying to pull him upstairs, but he fended her off and instead began another tune.
This one perked Hugo’s ears. It seemed familiar. Not the melody, but the words.
It was about a man—a legend, actually—by the name of Sieghart the Savage.
Hugo had heard that name uttered around Bedburg. He was sure of it. Something about a ghost, a beast-slayer, a hero.
But in Klemens’ song the man was a murderer.
Hugo listened carefully to the lyrics. The man’s brother was killed in a war, which drove Sieghart the Savage insane. He then went on a killing spree, first murdering his family, then going after young women.
The song ended by identifying this Sieghart the Savage as the Werewolf of Bedburg.
When Klemens stopped singing, a man yelled out, “Peter Stubbe was the werewolf, you fool!” Then other patrons began shouting out other comments.
Hugo’s eyes danced around the room. The crowd was becoming unruly, the song causing considerable disagreement.
“Not Peter Stubbe—Peter Griswold!” another man argued. “They were two different men!”
Hugo looked at Tomas, who simply shrugged.
Soon, two of the shouters were engaged in a fistfight, crashing through several tables. Klemens’ eyes bulged. He searched for the pretty girl who had touched his arm earlier, but she’d disappeared.
The hooded man seated next to Hugo quietly rose and moved toward Klemens. In a slow, booming voice he spoke. “The Savage was neither of those men. But he did kill his brother.”
A fourth man piped in. “Why in God’s name would he do that, you fool? They fought together—did everything together!”
The hooded man said, “Maybe he was a coward. Perhaps he still held a savage spirit in his heart.”
The other man leered drunkenly at the hooded man, then laughed. “You talk like you know the man, beggar! Well I did know the man. I can tell you he never did that.”
The hooded man looked at the drunk with serious eyes. “I don’t suppose anyone ever really knew the man, my friend. For how can you know anyone when you don’t even know yourself?” He then drew something from his pocket and handed it to Klemens.
A coin.
As Klemens looked down at it, the man said, “For your song . . . about the priest and the girl. I liked that one.” Then he turned an
d walked toward the door.
Klemens cocked his head, eyeing the man’s back as he walked away. “I never sang about a priest, sir. But thank you for your generosity.”
The hooded man stopped and turned back around. His mouth formed an unsettling smile. “My mistake. Many thanks, regardless.”
And then he was gone.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” Tomas said in a low voice, “bringing the inquisitors to this place. I’d better go check on them.” He stumbled up and headed for the stairs.
Hugo nodded absently, his mind elsewhere. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Klemens ascending the stairs with one of the girls, and Tomas not far behind. But his gaze remained fixed toward the front door. There was something strangely familiar about the hooded man—the way he spoke, the way he carried himself.
But he couldn’t put his finger on it. He shuddered. Probably just my fuzzy brain from the alcohol, he reasoned.
Finally, he looked away, focusing on one of the bar wenches nearby.
Which did the trick.
He quickly forgot all about the strange turn of events—his immediate base needs taking priority.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
GUSTAV
It hadn’t taken much persuading for Captain Jergen’s salty crewmen to convert to Gustav’s cause.
A little coin and a little savage violence do wonders convincing desperate men.
The down side to that, of course, was worrying that one of the crew might learn a little too well from Gustav’s actions and slit his throat in the dead of night. He’d just have to remain vigilant, as a man in his position tended to be.
Gustav moored the Willow Wisp into a neglected cove, away from the tradeships and galleons stationed in the Port of Amsterdam. Earlier, while guiding the ship into port, he’d noticed the blood-red hull and leonine flag of the Lion’s Pride glaring back at him. So he had steered clear.
