by Cory Barclay
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 fit 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 p
ossible 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 unpleasant 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.”
“What does that mean?” asked Rowaine.
“Diplomacy, disguise, inspection,” Rolf said, rattling the words off as if they meant nothing. “And the darker arts involved in those things—espionage, assassinations, and the like.”
“You taught him all those things?” Dieter asked, taken aback.
“You have to understand . . . when he was sent to me as a young man by the archbishop, he was a wild, unpredictable knave.”
“I’m afraid to say it,” replied Dieter, “but he was an unpredictable man even past his youth.”
“That may be true.” Rolf shrugged, wiping his hands on his tunic. “I tried my best.” He started walking back toward the steps. “Come, my friends, it is chilly down here. I’ll have Beauregard prepare us supper.”
They climbed back up to the grander sections of the mansion. On their way, Rowaine nixed the dinner invitation. “That won’t be necessary, sir.”
She glanced behind, realizing for the first time that Sybil hadn’t spoken a word. The girl’s face was stricken, ghost white and pale.
“We won’t be staying,” Rowaine added.
Rolf frowned. “That’s a shame.”
“But before we go, please continue your fascinating tale. I wish to know all you can tell us about Heinrich Franz.”
With his signature chuckle, Rolf nodded. “It is quite fascinating, isn’t it? I plan to write a memoir and release it upon my death.” He smirked, adding, “Since releasing anything before then would likely result in my somewhat premature demise.” Another chuckle, this t
ime followed with a wink.
They made their way into the main foyer, where Beauregard waited, as stiff as a statue, arms tucked behind him.
“When Heinrich came to me,” Rolf continued, “he was an agent for Count Adolf of Bedburg. At the time, Bedburg was a Protestant stronghold, and Adolf answered to Archbishop Gebhard of Cologne. Of course, once Archbishop Ernst defeated and deposed Gebhard, he replaced Adolf with his own Catholic man, Lord Werner.
“Heinrich wanted no part of this, however, as he was never a religious man. When working for Count Adolf, he never cared much for his Protestant master.”
“Is that why he so easily switched sides to the Catholics and Archbishop Ernst?” Rowaine asked.
“You are quick, my dear. And correct. Plus, Heinrich wanted to help that dear old girl, Odela, who was quite a beauty at the time, if I may say.” He ambled to another room near the back of the hall. As he walked, he rubbed his hands across his stomach while talking. “He learned who the enemies of his enemies were. Namely, I showed him who the archbishop hated in parliament, and in the aristocracy. It was Heinrich’s task to do something about those folk.”
“By whatever means necessary?” Dieter asked, reaching into his tunic.
Rolf stopped and turned. “Indeed, young man. What is that you have there?”
Dieter pulled out a piece of rolled parchment. “Perhaps you recognize some of these names?” Unrolling it, he handed it to Rolf.
Rolf searched his pockets, found a pair of large spectacles, and fastened them carefully over his ears. “Let’s see,” he said, running his finger down the list. “Achterberg, Tomlin, Rickenbock, Gabler . . .” He muttered a few more names under his breath, nodding as he went. “I recognize many of these,” he said. “If I can recall—and it’s been a long time—these families were associated with the Waldensians.”
Rowaine looked at him blankly. “The Waldensians?”
Rolf sucked his lower lip while he kept reading the paper. “Yes, yes, a precursor to the Protestants, if you will. But surely you noticed that by these records?”
