by Cory Barclay
“Are you injured, my lord?” Tomas asked, jumping from his saddle. Heinrich was unable to speak, due to the adrenaline, so he simply shook his head.
With the help of the other three guards, Tomas helped lift Balthasar’s dead horse, freeing the priest’s leg, and then he helped the priest to his feet. Balthasar winced and reached for the staff slung over his back. He leaned on it and then wiped the bandit’s blood from his face. His leg was clearly broken, and Heinrich assumed he’d walk with a limp for the rest of his life.
Still panting, Heinrich faced Balthasar. “So, priest . . . did God save your life right then?”
Balthasar frowned and clutched at his leg. He stared at Heinrich. “I don’t know, investigator . . . did He save yours?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
GEORG
Georg finished his ale, belched loudly, and pulled at his beard to wipe away the drops that missed his mouth. The barkeep set down another mug in front of him.
“Much appreciated, Lars,” Georg said.
The blond man smiled. “Anything for the hero of Bedburg,” he said, and walked off to tend to other patrons.
Georg’s eyes locked onto a pair of wide hips strutting away from him. They belonged to a dark-haired beauty, Lars’ newest hire.
The hunter’s eyes bulged and he faced Konrad, to his right. Despite the dark hair, the woman reminded him of Josephine. It reminded him how quickly someone could be replaced and forgotten. He knew the likelihood of finding Josephine’s true killer was slim, and the sense of urgency in finding the killer was fading more and more every day.
In a pious town like this, who cares about the death of a single woman with a questionable profession? Only me.
“That woman could make a Moor blush,” Georg said, drawing a hearty laugh from Konrad. He wasn’t talking about the girl with the black hair, though he kept that to himself.
“How does it feel to be a hero?” Konrad asked, looking away from the woman.
Georg leaned forward on the table and looked down at his mug. “I’m no hero.”
“True.” Konrad finished his ale, slammed the mug down on the table, and asked Lars for another.
Georg looked around the tavern. It’s midnight, and loud men still tell their stories and strike drunken deals with people who will never remember the deals tomorrow. Perhaps the hysteria is truly gone. He inhaled deeply. “I did miss this place,” he said.
“You missed the smell of piss and vomit?” Konrad said.
Georg glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “I missed the warmth of the fire, the whispers flying from table to table. I tell you, following shady figures in the middle of the night is no way to spend a winter evening.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Konrad said. He lifted his mug to his mouth. “You said you had something to tell me, about that investigator? Is he one of the shady figures you speak of?”
“He talks big, but I think he’s harmless enough. I saw him get slammed to the ground in here, a few days before you showed up.” Georg tilted his head back and forth. “He’s a strange one, though. I’ve seen him without his gloves on—he wears a wedding ring, but has never been married. He lives here, but has no permanent place of residence in Bedburg. It’s all very odd.”
“Sounds like a slippery fellow.”
Georg nodded. “The church records are supposed to be all-telling . . . I think he’s been hired by outside forces that allow him to keep secrets, even from the church. It’s like he answers to no one here.”
“Didn’t he just travel to Cologne? That could be the place to look.”
The tavern door swung open, and a thin man ambled in. Georg glanced at the man, and then did a double take. “Ah,” he said, “speak of the Devil.” He motioned for Investigator Franz to join him.
“Hey, lawman!” Lars called from the other end of the bar, “I don’t want your trouble in here!”
Heinrich waved the man off. “I’m not here for trouble, I assure you. I’ve seen enough of that today.” He walked up to Georg and put a hand on his shoulder.
The investigator’s eyes seemed far away, like something was troubling him.
“Investigator Franz,” Georg said, “this is my friend, Konrad von Brühl. Konrad, Investigator Heinrich Franz.”
Konrad frowned. “I’ve seen the man,” he said, and then turned back to his mug.
Investigator Franz stared at Konrad’s purple scar that went from cheek to chin, and the patch covering his left eye, and then faced Georg. “Friend?” he said. “I thought I was your friend.”
“You don’t have any friends, remember?” Georg said flatly. He patted the stool next to him, and Heinrich plopped down on the seat. Lars brought the investigator a beer, grunted, and wandered off.
“How was your holiday?” Georg asked.
“It seemed long,” the investigator said, and then sighed.
After a bit of silent drinking, Georg leaned close to the investigator’s ear and whispered, “I’ve gathered some . . . titillating news since you’ve been gone.”
“Titillating?” Heinrich said, “where did a soldier learn that word?”
Georg ignored him. “Remember the Achterbergs?”
“You mean the family whose matron I had burned as a witch, whose patriarch was murdered, and whose son rots in jail for the murder? No, please, remind me.”
Georg frowned and grunted. “You don’t have to be an ass.”
Heinrich waved off the hunter. “I’ve had a long day. Had to blow a man’s head off this afternoon while saving a priest, of all people.”
Georg leaned back in his stool. “Not so harmless after all,” he said, drawing a chuckle from Konrad. “Anyway, I learned that the Achterbergs were ex-reformers. They were Protestants less than three years ago.”
“I’m assuming you gathered that from Father Nicolaus and the church records?”
Georg nodded.
The investigator finished his ale. “Well, I assumed as much when I heard Bertrude Achterberg call Dorothea Gabler a Catholic whore.”
Georg cocked an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you tell me that? Could have saved me some legwork.”
“We aren’t partners,” Heinrich said with a shrug. He looked at Georg’s grimy beard. “And I thought it didn’t matter.”
Georg crossed his arms over his wide chest. He reached for his mug, drained half of it, and said, “Fine, then I won’t tell you what else I learned.” Then he turned away from the investigator.
Heinrich rolled his eyes. “I apologize,” he said, putting his hand on Georg’s shoulder. “For such a big man, you have a surprisingly thin skin. But, please, do tell.”
Georg leaned in conspiratorially. He looked over both his shoulders, and his voice was barely more than a whisper. “That cabin that I found during the hunt . . . I wasn’t just imagining things. I tracked a man going there a few days back, and saw a woman at the door. Not a ghost, but a flesh-and-blood woman.”
Heinrich began nodding.
“And guess who the man was,” Georg said excitedly. “Peter Griswold.”
The investigator’s head shot up from its slumped position, and his weary eyes lit up. “So that’s where he goes at night . . .”
Georg nodded and clapped his hands, drawing a few offended eyes from around the tavern. “He goes just about every other night. I don’t know who the woman is, but I wanted to wait for you to return before barging in. I wouldn’t have the right questions.”
Heinrich slapped Georg on the shoulder and smiled. “Nice work, my good hunter. Maybe we can be partners after all. Were you seen?”
Georg opened his mouth, hesitated, and winced. “Not . . . by them,” he began, “but I was followed, and it turned out to be that damn nun from the church! I gave her a good scare, so we won’t have to worry about her anymore.”
Heinrich scrunched his face. “Why would the church be keeping an eye on you?”
Georg shrugged. “That’s a good question. See, you always have the good questions.”
>
The investigator tapped his mug of beer and started twirling his mustache. “What would the bishop want with you?” he asked under his breath. Then he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Would you like to go find out who our mystery woman is?”
Georg looked at Heinrich, then his mug, then back to Heinrich. “Right now? This late at night?”
Investigator Franz smiled. “Precisely the best time, my good hunter.”
“But I’m drunk.”
The investigator was already standing from his seat. “And you won’t be tomorrow night?”
Konrad begged to join them in the woods, but Heinrich and Georg left him at the tavern to drown himself in ale. As Georg was leaving, he watched Konrad strike up a conversation with the black-haired woman, and the woman promptly slapped him across the face.
Georg smiled. “He’s a good man, you know,” he told Heinrich as they took off down the road. The night was cold and crisp, and all the townspeople were either asleep, or at the tavern. “He was a comrade of mine when I fought for Alexander Farnese.”
“The Duke of Parma?” Heinrich asked.
Georg nodded.
“Well, I’m sure he’s a good man, but I don’t know him. Also, you need to stop flapping your tongue when you get drink in you. Our partnership is confidential.”
The hunter coughed and waved his hands. “I was whispering. There’s no way he was listening. Did you see how drunk he was?”
The investigator rolled his eyes. “Just tell me your news in private next time.”
They made their way south, to the edge of town, and then cut east toward the Griswold estate. The house was dark, and no smoke came from its chimney. At the current hour, everyone was likely asleep.
They ran past the house and broke out into the open countryside. Before long, they came to the woods, sauntered past the first rows of trees, and Georg took the lead. He led them gingerly through foliage that grew thicker and thicker the deeper they went. He swung at low-hanging branches and cleared the way for Heinrich. A few times, he heard the investigator spitting leaves out of his mouth and cursing.
“Aren’t you afraid of wolves preying on us in here?” the investigator whispered.
Georg craned his neck and whispered over his shoulder, “Are you kidding me? I killed the Werewolf of Bedburg. They wouldn’t dare.”
They crept through the woods until they came to the clearing. It had taken them an hour to penetrate the woods. The moon was hidden beneath gray clouds and treetop canopies, and in the darkness the decrepit cabin was nearly impossible to see.
But Georg knew where to look, and he crouched and led Heinrich forward.
At the front door, Georg breathed heavily and then knocked: twice hard, thrice soft, and then once more hard.
Heinrich eyed the hunter with a questioning look.
They heard movement coming from inside, and Heinrich drew his arquebus.
A voice was speaking before the door even opened. “Back already—” the voice started, but trailed off as the woman in the doorway saw the two unfamiliar faces of Georg and Heinrich. She tried to slam the door shut, but Georg’s foot was in the hinge, and he held out a big hand and shoved the door back. The woman yelped and retreated into the house.
Georg and Heinrich dashed forward.
The woman reached for a pitchfork in the corner of the room.
Heinrich pointed his gun in her face, and she froze.
That was the first time Georg got a good look at the woman: She was middle-aged, with lines on her face, and gray-black curls that swept to her shoulders. Despite the stone-cold look in her eyes, she still held the beauty of a younger woman.
Staring down the barrel of Heinrich’s arquebus, her brows curved toward her nose. “Who the hell are you?”
“We’ll ask the questions,” Heinrich said. “Put down the fork.”
She hesitated, but finally lowered the tool and let it clink to the ground.
Georg took a gander around the house. It was quaint, small, with a hearth at one end, a small bed, a stove, and a round table in the center of the room.
“Who are you?” Heinrich asked, tucking his gun back in his trousers. “What is your name?”
“I’m . . . Katharina. Katharina Trompen.”
The investigator leaned his head to one side. “Are you sure? Georg, does she sound sure to you?”
“Sure don’t,” said the hunter, who was staring into the flames of the hearth.
The woman put her hands on her hips. “I’m as sure as I’m sure it’s night outside.”
“What’s your relationship with Peter Stubbe?”
“Peter . . . Stubbe?”
Heinrich rolled and cracked his wrist, and then nodded. “Peter Griswold. What’s your relationship with him?”
Katharina took a step toward the table, ran a hand over the wood, and stared at the investigator. “Are you going to kill me? You still haven’t told me who you are, though I guess the big one is Georg.”
The hunter chuckled.
“No,” Heinrich said, “we aren’t going to kill or harm you. My name is Investigator Franz, this is my associate, and now that we’re all acquainted will you tell me what I want to know?”
Katharina cleared her throat. “Would you gentlemen like some food? I have freshly baked bread—”
“Quit stalling, woman.”
“I am a widower, investigator. All right? It isn’t something I’d like everyone to know. I’m sure you understand.”
“I do,” Georg chimed in, and then he walked to the table and took a seat.
Heinrich gave the hunter an ugly look. “And Peter Griswold?”
“He is my friend and . . . my caretaker.”
“Caretaker?”
“I don’t leave the house very much, if you can imagine.” Katharina swept her hands out at her meager cabin, while also alluding to the fact that she lived in a forest. “So, yes, Peter comes to me and gives me food and other things I need. Is that a crime?”
“How long have you known Herr Griswold?” the investigator asked, stroking his chin. He started pacing around the table, and then his face lit up. “And why are you hiding from Bedburg?”
Katharina took a seat across from Georg. “I’ve known Peter for years. And I’m not hiding, investigator. I’m just living. It’s really none of your concern.”
“But it is,” Heinrich said. He clasped his hands behind his back as he paced, and then pointed a finger toward the ceiling. “There are lots of strange things happening in and around Bedburg, and when we see an eerie, secret cabin in the woods, it gives us reason for alarm.”
Katharina sighed, and she ruffled her gray-black locks. “I don’t like my affairs to be noticed by the church, if you must know. If they found out I’ve not been paying taxes, they would take my home. I’d rather not go through the trouble, and, as it is, I’m not causing anyone any problems.”
“She makes a point,” Georg said.
Heinrich stopped in place and nodded. “We appreciate your candor, Frau Trompen. Now, before we’re on our way, let me ask you another question: What do you know of the Protestant rebellion?”
Georg stomped on the ground, taken aback. Any word about the Protestants was news to him. What did you find out in Cologne, you sneaky bastard?
Katharina looked at her feet, and then back to the investigator. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
Heinrich nodded, slowly, and the seconds dragged on excruciatingly. “Very well,” he finally said, smiling. “Thank you for your time. Georg, let’s go.”
Georg stood, nodded to the woman, and then followed Heinrich outside.
Katharina Trompen stood in the doorway, watching them leave. “Come back any time, boys, and you’ll see I have nothing to hide,” she called out, and then disappeared into her cabin.
“Why didn’t you arrest her for evading her taxes?” Georg asked when they were back in the midst of the trees.
“I want to watch her,” Heinrich sa
id. “We might need her later.”
Georg shrugged. “Well, she seems like a nice enough woman.”
“Nice enough, yes. But she’s also lying to us, my good hunter.”
“How do you know—” Georg began to say, but then shook his head. “Never mind . . . it’s your job to know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DIETER
In the early morning, Father Nicolaus gave a somber sermon to his congregation. He spoke about the trials and tribulations of having a crisis of faith, and how to stay obedient and resilient to God.
Dieter was lethargic, and could tell the congregation knew. Tired words and stutters replaced his usual enthusiasm, and he frowned at the churchgoers after giving his sermon.
Sybil was absent from the crowd, as she had been for half a week. Perhaps she’s finally heeding her father’s words.
Investigator Franz stood in the back of the room, the first appearance he’d made since returning from Cologne. Next to him stood a bald man with a round head whom Dieter didn’t recognize.
After leading the congregation through a prayer, Mass was dismissed, and people shuffled out quietly.
As the church emptied, Investigator Franz walked up to the pulpit, with his bald acquaintance behind him. The man wore priestly robes and limped with the aid of a wooden staff.
“Father Nicolaus,” Heinrich said as he approached, “I give you Vicar Balthasar Schreib, a Jesuit deputy from Cologne. He speaks on behalf of Archbishop Ernst.”
“This is the man you were sent to retrieve?” Dieter asked. He glanced at Balthasar and stayed quiet, before finally bowing to the priest. “Please excuse my rudeness. Welcome, brother.”
Vicar Balthasar smiled and bowed. “Thank you, brother. I’ve been sent to aid in your conversion of the Protestants. Investigator Franz and I have just returned from a discussion with Lord Werner.”
“I’m not much for politics,” Dieter said, “but I hope things went well.”
Investigator Franz started backpedaling. “My work here is finished, so I’ll leave you to it.”
Once Heinrich had left, Balthasar said, “I was hoping for an audience with your bishop, if that’s possible.”
