by Cory Barclay
Dieter nodded. “Indeed. Please, follow me.”
Before stepping away from the pulpit, a loud voice from outside caught the attention of both priests. Balthasar looked at Dieter for an explanation, and the younger priest sighed. “That would be Pastor Hanns Richter, a rather vocal preacher of the Lutheran faith. He’s been sermonizing outside of our church for some time now. He’s liked by the public, and is the only man with the gall to speak openly about the values of Martin Luther.”
Balthasar sniffed and frowned. “A heretical act that must be stopped,” he said, “lest he draw the whole town to his burdensome beliefs.”
Dieter nodded. He led Vicar Balthasar down the back hallway, passing Sister Salome as they walked. The vicar bowed to the nun, and Salome bowed even lower, as a sign of respect.
Dieter rapped on Bishop Solomon’s door. He was called in, and Dieter introduced Balthasar. Solomon excused Dieter, and the priest left the room.
Back in the nave, Sister Salome was sweeping the dust from around the pews. Father Nicolaus went to the pulpit and went on his hands and knees in front of a statue of Christ. He clasped his hands in front of his face.
Dear God, he said to himself, I beg You to show me a sign—show me what to do. I’ve not seen Sybil in three days and nights, and I fear I’ve lost her, or worse, that she’s given up on me. I preach about chastity, obedience, and resilience, but You know I’ve failed in this. I am lost, Lord, and I seek Your guidance.
Send me a sign, Father. I love that girl, and cannot hide my feelings much longer. My heart aches. I know I’ve failed You, Lord, but please don’t rebuke Your humble servant. Send me back on the path of righteousness, so that I may serve You with my entire heart, once again. Amen.
“Father Nicolaus?”
Dieter went to his feet and turned. He smiled.
Sybil stood in the doorway of the church.
The priest looked skyward, said a silent word of thanks, and rushed over to Sybil. She looked distraught and lost, just as he felt. She was holding something under her dress.
“My dear,” Dieter said, resting his hands on Sybil’s shoulders. “Come, let us go to the gardens.”
As they walked outside, Dieter craned his neck and noticed Sister Salome standing, broom in hand, watching as they retreated outside. They went to the flower cloister on the east wall of the church, and Dieter produced his wooden cross amulet from beneath his robes. He smiled and said, “I still wear your gift everyday, Beele.”
Sybil faced the ground.
Dieter frowned and tried to meet her eyes. “What’s wrong? My heart leaps at seeing you—are you not happy to see me?”
Sybil stared up into the priest’s tired eyes. “I don’t regret what happened three nights ago, Dieter. I hope you don’t, too.”
Dieter stuttered, but then closed his mouth.
“I’ve been absent because my father has insisted I give Johannes von Bergheim another chance at meeting with me. I’ve been in his company for the past two nights, and I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.”
Dieter furrowed his brow and squinted. “Has he harmed you?”
Sybil shook her head.
“I will speak with your father.”
“No!” Sybil said, eyes opening wide. She looked around, aware that she’d shouted the word. “No, please don’t. I told him I love you, but he can’t know about . . . what we did. No one can, like you said. But I came to say I miss you, and to give you this.” She produced a thin booklet from the folds of her dress.
Dieter took the booklet. “What is this?”
“I want you to teach me to read that next. I stole it from my father’s chambers.”
Dieter opened the leather-bound cover of the booklet. The pages were old and weathered. “You know stealing is unacceptable, Beele.” He turned to the first page and read a few lines. Then his mouth dropped open. His eyes darted around, and he slammed the booklet shut. With a hushed tone, he said, “What is the meaning of this, Sybil? This is Martin Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses! I can’t be seen with this! Do you know what would happen if you were caught reading this?”
Sybil put her hands together and leaned closer to the priest. “Please, Dieter, do this for me. I want to learn more, and I know you must be curious as well.”
“Beele . . .”
“Just consider it,” Sybil said. She looked over her shoulder, and then to the roses and lilies. “It’s a winter miracle that they’re still in bloom,” she said, smiling.
Dieter said nothing as he stared at the leather-bound book.
“I must go before my father finds out I’ve been here,” Sybil said.
Dieter sighed, but before he could say anything else, Sybil rushed into his arms and embraced him, and leaned her head into his chest. After a long hug, she scampered off down the hill, passing by Pastor Richter.
Dieter stood in the doorway of the church, hands on his hips, staring down at the Lutheran preacher. His mind raced. This girl will be the death of me, he thought. But he didn’t care. He still loved her.
“Ah, Father Nicolaus, there you are. Will you join us?”
Dieter turned around. Vicar Balthasar was limping down the aisle with Bishop Solomon behind him.
“Join you in what?”
“In doing the Lord’s work,” Balthasar said with a wry smile. His round, jovial face looked odd and serious. “And not just the Lord’s work, but also Lord Werner’s.”
Confused, Dieter scratched the stubble on his chin. Instead of asking the vicar to clarify, he followed Balthasar and the bishop and headed out of the church, and then downhill. They came to Pastor Richter, who had a group of ten or so townsfolk listening to his fiery sermon.
Three armed soldiers appeared from the shadows of nearby buildings. The pastor stopped speaking when he saw spears being brandished. The group listening to him silently dispersed.
Pastor Richter stepped down from his overturned fruit crate, and the soldiers kicked the crate away.
The vicar, bishop, and priest surrounded him.
Vicar Balthasar stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a smug smile on his face. “Pastor Hanns Richter,” he said.
“What do you want?” the pastor asked, frowning. He stared at the spearheads pointed in his direction.
The vicar cleared his throat. “With the power vested in me by Lord Werner of Bedburg, Archbishop Ernst of Cologne above him, Pope Sixtus above him, and God above all, I hereby place you under arrest. You are to be placed in Bedburg’s jailhouse, until you are tried.”
All of the pastor’s congregation could hear Balthasar’s loud voice.
“What is the meaning of this?” the pastor asked. “I am a peaceful speaker. Under what charges am I being tried?”
“Heresy.”
A shadowy twilight overtook Bedburg, and Dieter sat on a pew in his dark church, surrounded by his own thoughts. He placed his hands on his knees and stared at the weeping statue of Christ’s crucifixion. Over the last two years, since arriving in Bedburg, he’d prayed to the statue nearly every day. He’d been sent by Archbishop Ernst to help Solomon run the church. He never expected that running the church would be so vexing.
Since his stay, he’d accomplished many things: He’d helped sway opinion back to the Catholic faith; he’d grown gardens and flowers, and gave people a renewed hope; he’d preached unforgettable sermons, heard the confessions of hundreds, helped the needy and poor.
He’d fallen in love.
Now, for the first time in his life, Dieter wasn’t sure if the statue of Christ held the same meaning it once had. He doubted his true destiny in life.
Perhaps this is what God wants, he thought, for me to doubt His word, so that I could find my path back into His loving arms. For the first time, God didn’t have the answers that Dieter sought.
Outside, snow started falling. A cold wind swept ice and fluff against the church’s doors and walls.
Inside, it was cool and silent. Dieter felt a sickness in his stomac
h. The few candles that lit the hall flickered, and Dieter shivered and wrapped his cassock tight around his body.
He was alone, wallowing in self-pity, but he knew it didn’t have to be that way. He could immerse himself. It was blasphemy to read the manuscript Sybil had given him, But maybe Martin Luther’s diatribe is the sign I’m looking for. Perhaps that’s what God is trying to show me.
After praying for the third time that day, Dieter stood from the pew and shuffled down the hallway. He opened the door to his small, quaint chamber. The room had only a bed and a table, for reading and writing. It was more like a jail cell than a room.
He lit the candle on the table. He sat down, sighed, and produced the manuscript from under his robe. He set the booklet on the table, stared at it, and then ran a hand over its rough, leather cover. To think, that such a small document could hold so much power, and cause so much change in the world. To many, the words in this manuscript hold more power than any length of steel.
With a heavy heart and soul, Dieter’s eyes hovered over the leather-bound manuscript of the Ninety-Five Theses. Then he took a deep breath, opened the cover, and began reading.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SYBIL
Sybil sat in a massive stateroom with her hands on her lap. She peered around the mansion—one of Baron Bergheim’s private estates—at the high ceilings, carved columns, and beautiful paintings on the walls. Ludwig von Bergheim had one of the largest houses in Bedburg, and it was only his vacation home.
Three housemaids entered and left the room at various intervals, bringing tables for wine and food and other accoutrements. Other than the maids, the house was left entirely to Sybil and Johannes von Bergheim for the night.
Sybil wore a modest green gown that highlighted her fair skin and hair. She’d taken a carriage from her estate, offered by Baron Bergheim. As she sat, tense and uncomfortable, she still wondered what the baron could possibly want with an arranged marriage between his noble son and a farmer’s daughter.
In front of her luxurious chair was a red, Persian rug, and beyond that a large hearth was built into the wall. The hearth crackled with flames. Johannes von Bergheim stood on the Persian rug, dressed in an exquisite tunic, looking every part the nobleman.
Johannes crossed his arms, staring at Sybil through narrow eyes, and then he tapped his chin. He snapped his fingers, and a servant girl shyly entered the room. “Bring us food and wine,” he ordered. The girl scampered off, leaving Sybil and Johannes alone.
“My father is happy how things have been getting on since our embarrassing . . . mishap. You even look halfway decent for a change.” Johannes stared at Sybil with a sideways glance. “You don’t have the classical beauty of Margreth, but there is some appeal in your common appearance.” The nobleman smiled. “You’re an every-day girl, and though your wardrobe decisions are hideous, they somehow accentuate your prettiness.” He spoke as if Sybil wasn’t sitting right in front of him.
Sybil eyed the ground. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Your breasts could be bigger,” Johannes said with a shrug. “Margreth does have some big ones, does she not?” He snickered. “Perhaps yours will grow in. You’re still young.”
Sybil’s face turned red.
Lord Johannes took a seat across from Sybil, next to the fire, and put one leg over his knee. The fire behind him caused his shadow to loom across the entire room. He stared at Sybil, who looked at everything except the nobleman—the patterns on the Persian rug; a painting above the fireplace; her own feet—and then a side door opened. Two servant girls appeared, one holding plates of food, the other with a carafe and a bottle of wine.
The food plates were filled with boiled quail eggs, snails from France, caviar, fine cheeses, and other delicacies. After placing the food and wine on the table, the servant girls bowed and started to leave.
“Wait, Hilde, come back,” Johannes said, snapping his fingers. The girl who’d brought the wine stopped in her tracks and faced the young lord. She was a bigger girl, but no older than twenty. She looked scared as she stood next to Johannes.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Show Sybil what a voluptuous woman looks like,” Johannes said.
Hilde’s scrunched her forehead. “E-excuse me, lord?”
“Come on,” Johannes said, “lower your dress and show Sybil your breasts. Show her what she has to look forward to.”
Sybil’s heart sank for the scared girl. She sat forward in her chair and said, “Really, my lord, that’s not necess—”
“Quiet,” Johannes said in a dark tone. He looked back at Hilde, whose eyes were beginning to tear up. “Well,” he said, “do you want me to tell my father you’ve been disobedient?"
The servant girl’s eyes took on a distant stare as she quietly slid the top of her dress from her body.
Lord Johannes giggled, and he grabbed and squeezed at the girl’s exposed breasts. “Ah!” he said, “that’s good, Hilde. A real woman. Now go on and leave my sight.” Johannes slapped the girl’s ass as she hurried out of the room.
Sybil felt disgusted, and she lost any appetite she may have had. How can this spoiled brat get away with so much, without any consequence? Sybil shook her head. That girl was petrified.
“I can tell you don’t approve of my actions,” Johannes said, studying Sybil’s face. “But Hilde is my servant, and I can do as I please with her.” With a calmness that suggested he didn’t give the event a single thought, the nobleman said, “I can’t wait to leave this place.” He gazed around at the countless paintings on the walls, and sighed. “Bedburg is such an ugly town.” He stood from his chair and walked over to the food table and picked up a slice of cheese.
He moved to the wine table and blocked Sybil’s sight with his body. She heard him pour two glasses of something, and then he handed one of the glasses to her.
“I’m really not thirsty, my lord,” Sybil said.
“You will drink,” Johannes commanded. He shoved the wineglass in Sybil’s face, and then took a sip from his own glass. “As I was saying,” he said, walking back to his seat, “I belong with my friends and colleagues. The people here are boring and uncultured. And then there’s that dreaded witch, Margreth.” The lord shook his head. “And you, I suppose. But you must know that you will not be my only woman once we are married. A man like me deserves more.”
A man like you deserves a sword down his throat, Sybil thought. A quiet anger swept over her, and she took a sip of wine to hide her discomfort.
“It’s a nobleman’s job to spread his seed to as many women as possible,” Johannes said confidently, as if he actually believed his words. “Because babies die far too frequently, and I need one to stay alive.” He smiled cruelly.
“You would father bastard children . . . knowingly?” Sybil asked, shocked. She instantly regretted speaking out.
Johannes frowned and narrowed his eyes. He looked like he was about to spit on Sybil, or on the rug. “Watch yourself, girl. You have no place judging me. I would see that my family’s legacy continues on. You wouldn’t understand that, though. You’re just a commoner.”
Sybil took another, longer gulp of wine, and before long she felt her cheeks getting warm and rosy.
“Are you a virgin?” Johannes asked abruptly. “I mean, you must be, the way you ran out on me the other night. You were like a scared lamb.” He chuckled. “Any other girl would pay to have me. I mean, just look at how Margreth groveled at my feet.”
Sybil’s body stiffened, her neck tightening. A thin sheen of sweat formed on her upper lip. You mistake groveling with patronizing, you intolerable ass. She looked at her wineglass. I’ll need to watch my drinking, lest I speak my mind and really make a mess of things.
“Well?” Johannes asked, raising one eyebrow.
“Y-yes, my lord. I am a virgin.”
Johannes clapped his hands and smiled. “Good. When we move from here I suspect that your father will help supply Bergheim with pigs. As a bonus, I’ll get a
wife who’s as pure as first snow in winter. Perhaps this isn’t such a terrible deal after all.”
Sybil stumbled over the words. “Excuse me, my lord. When we move?”
Johannes drained his wine and stood to pour some more, but then paused. “Of course. You didn’t expect we’d stay in this cesspool of a town, did you? No, you’ll live in one of our mansions in Bergheim. Or perhaps we’ll move to Cologne . . . some place with a learned, civilized people.”
“What about my father? What will he do? What will we do?”
Johannes stopped mid-pour and faced Sybil. “I could care less what he does,” he said. “But as for you and me, what do you think we’ll do? Are you really that shallow? We’ll do what married people do, girl. You’ll father my children, I’ll have heirs, and I’ll join parliament and take care of matters you wouldn’t understand. My father is getting old, and I will take his position someday. Being a married man—even to someone such as yourself—will give me more clout in office.”
“But what if I don’t want to be your housewife,” Sybil said, raising her voice. She looked down at her wine cup. Dammit, she thought, angry at herself for speaking so bluntly.
Johannes stayed calm. “What you want is of no concern to me. Everything’s already been arranged by our fathers.”
Sybil had the urge to throw her cup on the Persian rug. But before she could get any angrier, her mind started to get fuzzy, and she became suddenly drowsy. It started off as a dull headache, but quickly grew worse and worse.
“Are you feeling all right?” Johannes asked.
Sybil’s vision started to blur around the edges of her eyes, and she knew something was wrong. She’d been drunk before, although not often, but this was something different. Something diabolical was afoot, creeping up through her body. Her tight muscles began to relax, and she heard her cup drop to the ground with a clang. She stared up at Johannes with a confused look, tried to say something, but couldn’t be sure if any words came.
