Devil in the Countryside

by Cory Barclay

  Swiping the sword away with his bandaged hand, Dieter used his weight to tackle Johannes to the ground.

  “Help!” Johannes cried as he tumbled and twisted in the mud.

  Dieter growled like a man possessed. He tried to strangle Johannes as they rolled around on the ground. Blood trickled down his arm and smeared onto Johannes’ face. The former priest grabbed at the nobleman’s collar.

  Johannes kept Dieter at arm’s-length by pushing at Dieter’s face, trying to wrench his eyes. Then he did the only thing he could think of and bit down on Dieter’s bandaged hand as hard as he could.

  Dieter cried out. His instincts told him to recoil, but his body kept pushing.

  As Johannes tried pushing Dieter away, he fumbled for something at his waist, grabbing a small dagger from his belt.

  “Dieter!” Sybil cried out.

  Johannes stabbed Dieter, gashing him across the thigh.

  The former priest pushed on without so much as a wince—so powerful was the adrenaline in his veins. As the dagger pressed into his leg, pain seared through his body. He looked up for a quick second and noticed three men running in his direction from a nearby building.

  They wore leather shirts, had swords drawn, and were less than fifty feet away and closing in fast.

  “Run, Sybil! Go!” Dieter shouted.

  Sybil was frozen in place. Her gaze shifted from Dieter, to the three charging men, to Martin, and then to the gate. After a still moment, Martin tugged at her dress. She looked one more time at Dieter.

  She felt tears pooling—tears that she’d promised herself never to show again. Then she grabbed Martin’s hand and pulled him away, sprinting toward the western wall.

  The men were less than forty feet from Dieter and Johannes.

  Dieter grabbed Johannes’ hand that held the dagger, and kept it from striking again.

  The men were less than thirty feet from Dieter and Johannes.

  Dieter felt his leg go weak. His hand bled profusely, but he still held onto Johannes’ hand.

  “I’ll kill you, you filthy bastard!” Johannes screeched.

  Dieter felt something dangling from his neck.

  The men were less than twenty feet from Dieter and Johannes.

  Dieter pulled at his neck and snagged the amulet that Sybil had given him. He yanked the wooden cross pendant from its band, the same pendant that signified peace and love and unity between all religions and people.

  It was the first time Dieter had removed the amulet since Sybil had given it to him.

  Johannes’ eyes grew big and terrified. His hand that held his dagger remained immobile.

  Dieter drove the amulet down as hard as he could.

  The men were less than ten feet from Dieter and Johannes.

  Dieter cried and screamed as he punched the cross into Johannes’ forehead.

  The first blow broke the skin, and blood spattered.

  The second thrust pierced Johannes’ skull, and the nobleman’s eyes went wild.

  The third strike drove into Johannes’ brain, and the amulet broke off into shards. One of the crosses protruded from Johannes’ forehead.

  The nobleman’s three guards arrived, circled around Dieter, and the former priest closed his eyes, content to let his life slip away.

  A silver flash split the sky and Dieter heard steel ring out against steel. His eyes shot open.

  Georg Sieghart stood over Dieter, his sword locked with one of the three guards’ swords.

  “Get the hell out of here, priest!” Georg screamed. He kicked hard with his right leg and caught the guard in the chest. The man went flying backwards.

  Dieter stammered.

  “You’ve done your work, now run!” Georg’s face was cringing.

  Dieter stood and tried to run, but his bleeding leg almost caused him to fall. He limped toward the gate, and as he reached the wall he looked over his shoulder and saw Georg Sieghart whirling his blade around in a circle.

  The big hunter stepped away from Johannes’ body and twirled his sword in his hand. The three soldiers swept out and surrounded him.

  The last thing Dieter saw before he disappeared behind the gate was Georg Sieghart smiling, goading the guards to attack him. Then, with their swords pointed toward the heavens, the three men descended on the hunter.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  SYBIL

  Sybil stood outside of the western gates, holding Martin’s hand. She stared ahead, into a smoking city filled with political lies, religious strife, and death—a city on the brink of disaster. She looked over her shoulder, to a wide expanse of grassy hills and green woods in the distance, behind her—a countryside that signaled freedom.

  As much as Sybil detested Bedburg, she couldn’t turn away. She would put herself through all the strife and death and lies again, as long as Dieter was by her side.

  And so she waited.

  The sun was beginning to set on a fiery pink horizon, causing the woods in the distance to draw great shadows on the land. She knew she had to leave soon, if she was going to give herself any chance of escaping the region.

  But she still waited. She was frozen, and couldn’t convince herself to move.

  Sybil looked at Martin. He fidgeted and bit his lip nervously. “Beele,” he said, “do you think it’s time?”

  Sybil stayed quiet. What’s the point of leaving here if I don’t have my love and family with me? Even though she knew Martin was right, she couldn’t bring herself to act.

  She stared at the dark woods behind her and wondered how safe she and Martin would be alone, at the mercy of the wilderness. Anyone we might run into could recognize us as fugitives. Or worse, if vagabonds found us at night—a young woman and young man—what sort of depraved thoughts might they harbor? Sybil shook her head and sighed. Georg told us to go west, but I’ve never been outside of Bedburg in my life. I have no idea where to go. Her own thoughts started to make her anxious and helpless. She felt her body begin to sweat. She tried to stay strong, but her paranoia was causing her to panic.

  “Beele?” Martin said, as if he could see the turmoil playing out in her head.

  “I heard you, Martin. Just give him one more minute, please.”

  Martin hesitated, and then he scratched his scruffy beard. “There were three soldiers, Beele, headed right—”

  “You don’t need to remind me.” Her head sank. “I know . . . you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Sybil took one last look through the gate and then turned to leave. As she stared at the hills and trees and plains ahead of her, another thought crossed her mind: How will we survive out here? We have no food, and I’ve never hunted a day in my life. Foraging will only get us so far . . . and this is a place without roads or trails. Her feeling of helplessness turned into one of ineptitude, and her shoulders slumped.

  She turned one last time to say farewell to the town she’d known her entire life. Thin plumes of smoke still wafted from the ramparts and buildings. Had I known the Protestants were capable of such destruction, maybe I’d never have followed father’s ways in the first place. She immediately regretted thinking that. Aren’t the Catholics just the same? They’re both fighting for the same God, just in the name of different men. It seems so . . . meaningless.

  Sybil knew that politics and money and power had just as much to do with the bloody Cologne War as religion did.

  She felt someone pull on her arm and was shaken from her thoughts. Martin’s eyes were gazing at something toward Bedburg.

  Sybil turned around. Her heart fluttered.

  Dieter Nicolaus was limping toward them as fast as his feet would take him. He clenched his left thigh as he ran, his cassock spattered with dark blood.

  Sybil put her hands to her mouth. How could he possibly be alive, God? Did you do this? She smiled and her eyes lit up. She didn’t care why he was there. Celestial intervention or not, all that mattered was that he was. She ran toward him, and the biting wind caused her tears to flow—the first tears she’d cri
ed since she’d made her promise never to cry again. But these were far different tears.

  She opened her arms and they embraced. Passionately. She whispered into his ear, “It’s a miracle. God has smiled upon us.”

  Dieter chuckled. “Either Him or Georg Sieghart.”

  Sybil cocked her head to the side.

  “I’ll explain later,” he said. “We must go.”

  “But you’re hurt.” She ran a hand down his leg.

  Dieter winced, but didn’t recoil. He tore the bottom cuff of his robe, ripping off a piece of the holy cloth to use as a tourniquet around his thigh. Then he gave Sybil a small smile. “All better.”

  She grabbed his hand, and Martin’s shoulder, and the trio set off into the country.

  As night fell, Dieter explained that Georg had come to his rescue. “Twice in one day,” he said.

  “What happened to him?” Martin asked.

  Dieter shook his head and looked to the ground. “I didn’t see . . . but it didn’t look good. I feel ashamed for leaving him behind.”

  Sybil put a hand on his shoulder. “He wanted you safe, Dieter. Otherwise he wouldn’t have helped you. He knew what he was getting himself into, my love. You can’t blame yourself.”

  Dieter nodded but stayed silent.

  “Remember,” Sybil added, “he wanted us to start our life anew. We’ll live the life he never could, in his name and honor.”

  “Amen,” Dieter said.

  They pushed on over the hills and into the woods, until the canopies of the trees concealed the moonlight. They’d traveled several hours and felt far enough away to elude capture from any patrolmen.

  Dieter started to gather wood for a fire, and when Sybil gave him a curious look he said, “I may be a man of the cloth, but I’ve learned a thing or two in my day.”

  Sybil grinned and leaned close to him. They kissed.

  Dieter sparked a fire by knocking stones together. Then the three of them gathered close and retreated to their own thoughts.

  It was Martin who broke the long silence when he asked, “What will you guys miss most about Bedburg?”

  Dieter threw a stick in the fire and scratched his neck. He looked up at the dark branches overhead, thinking. Then he turned to Martin and said, “My gardens.”

  Martin and Dieter both faced Sybil. She had a sad look in her eyes. “My brother,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest. “I wish I could see my brother and father again. I’ll never know what became of them, and I promised my brother . . .” she trailed off as her voice cracked.

  Dieter rested his hand on her knee. “One day, Beele, we’ll find your brother. I can’t say what might have happened to Peter, he was an ally of the Protestants . . . but I promise we’ll find your brother.”

  “I could go my whole life without hearing or giving another promise,” Sybil said, shaking her head.

  Another stiff silence fell over the group as they watched the flames flicker and crackle.

  “I never knew my parents,” Dieter said after a lengthy moment of introspection. “My foster family raised me as a good and right Catholic, but I never felt the true love that a blood-parent might give. I wish I could understand, Beele. But it’s simply too dangerous for us to return to Bedburg right now. I can’t afford to lose you again.”

  Sybil nodded, wrapped her arms around her shins, and placed her chin on her knees. “My father was awful to you,” she said.

  Dieter half-smiled. “That I can understand.”

  Sybil kept thinking. She felt so small, like she was trapped in a wide-open world, and she didn’t understand it. I’m a fugitive and a bastard child now . . . without a home, without land, and without a family. Will I be a beggar for the rest of my days? Will people pity my child? Will I even live to see my child’s face?

  She pressed her hand to her stomach and could feel a small bump forming.

  Dieter looked at her as if he understood just what she was thinking. “We’ll make it through this, Beele. I prom—”

  Sybil stuck her hand out, putting her finger on his lips. “Don’t say it,” she said.

  Dieter nodded. “Well, I will help support your child, if you’ll allow me to.”

  Sybil wrinkled her brow. “What do you mean, if I allow you? I love you.”

  Dieter looked at his bloody robe, then opened his right fist. His eyes widened. He hadn’t noticed that his hand had been clenched shut the entire time.

  In it was one of the crosses from the amulet that Sybil had given him.

  “What happened to the other cross?” Sybil asked, touching the amulet and running her hands over the rough side, where it was ripped and splintered.

  “I thought that Johannes needed it more than I did.”

  Sybil cocked her head to the side, confused, and was ready to ask questions, but Dieter spoke first. “Look at me,” he said, still staring at the cross in his hand. “I’ve become the thing I’ve always tried to escape from. Hate has filled my heart, Beele.” He looked at Sybil, and his eyes were wet. “I’ve let God out of my soul, and I’m surely not the same man you fell in love with. I know that. I am . . . I’ve become . . . a monster.”

  Sybil clasped her hand over Dieter’s, both feeling the wooden cross underneath. She stared deep into his eyes and watched the orange flames throw shadows on his fair face. She smiled and said, “No, Dieter, you’re wrong. What you did in Bedburg was the most heroic thing I’ve ever seen. You didn’t become a monster, my love. On the contrary . . . you became my savior.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Archbishop Ernst arrived from Cologne the day after the Protestant army was defeated. He hadn’t been to Bedburg in over a year, and his arrival was lauded by the townsfolk. They waited with bated breath for the prince-elector to make his grand entrance.

  Ernst had received word that his older brother, Ferdinand, as well as Alexander Farnese, were the heroes of the battle. Arnold Baumgartner was also given praise. What the townsfolk didn’t know, however, was that Ernst hadn’t come to Bedburg because of the victory over the Calvinists and Lutherans, but because he’d learned that the Werewolf of Bedburg was in custody.

  Both Lord Werner and Bishop Solomon brooded in the shadows as Archbishop Ernst and his entourage sauntered through the city on horseback. They feared that the archbishop had come to take credit for the victory over Count Adolf. Neither lord nor bishop accepted that Bedburg would have likely been doomed without Ernst’s reinforcements.

  What maddened Bishop Solomon even more than the triumphant victory parade was watching Vicar Balthasar Schreib join along the archbishop’s side. Just as Solomon had predicted, Ernst was seizing all the religious power and influence in Bedburg.

  That damn vicar, with his noble ideals and pitiable limp, thought Solomon as he watched the cherubic-faced Jesuit pass by. I’m a fool for agreeing to help him.

  What the bishop hadn’t considered, was that while he was protected from harm in his church, Balthasar had joined the front lines of the Catholic forces, to offer morale and support and prayers. Solomon didn’t realize that he’d dug his own grave, and that his actions had made Balthasar the more likeable religious figure in Bedburg.

  Balthasar the Newcomer was a breath of fresh air to the people, whereas Solomon the Ancient was a bitter old man who lacked enthusiasm and zeal.

  As the parade swept through the streets of Bedburg, it became clear that the Electorate of Cologne remained safely in the hands of the Catholics. Four of the seven electoral seats of the Holy Roman Empire still belonged to the Catholics—and, more importantly, to Pope Sixtus.

  Still, Bishop Solomon believed that the Cologne War would have a lasting effect in and outside of Germany. Queen Elizabeth of England would certainly be furious with the outcome. Henry III of France had been assassinated by a Catholic fanatic a month prior to Peter’s trial, but his brother-in-law, Henry IV, was believed to support the Protestants as well.

  The Reformation was far from over.

  After congratulat
ing the generals, and before meeting with any other lords or officials, Archbishop Ernst met with Investigator Heinrich Franz. He congratulated the investigator for uncovering the Protestant conspiracy in Bedburg.

  “A job well done, Heinrich. Your estates in the southern Cologne principality are solidified and well deserved,” the tall archbishop said to the investigator. “Your houses are under regency until you see fit.”

  Investigator Franz bowed to his liege and said, “I thank you, my lord, but I believe everything is not as it should be.”

  Ernst raised one eyebrow. “Can this wait? I have many people to meet with. Why don’t you celebrate your position.” The archbishop cleared his throat. “You . . . do have the right man in custody, correct?”

  Heinrich nodded. “Oh, yes, yes, we certainly do. My words can wait until after the confessor’s trial, my lord.”

  Heinrich bowed again to the archbishop, and then they parted ways. Heinrich headed toward his old stomping grounds: the jailhouse.

  Before Archbishop Ernst’s arrival in Bedburg, Johannes von Bergheim’s body was found by a group of beggars. Though it was strange that his body was inside the town, it came as no surprise to many that he’d been killed so far from where the real battle raged. The young noble’s reputation preceded him.

  What interested the nobility was how he had been killed—a wooden cross lodged in his forehead.

  Priests and holy people felt that his death, and the murder weapon, alluded to some kind of sign or statement from God. And though there was speculation, no one ever really knew what that sign or statement meant.

  After Johannes’ grisly murder, Baron Ludwig von Bergheim returned to Bedburg to see his son’s killer brought to justice. Commander Arnold Baumgartner, one of the heroes of the siege on Bedburg, joined the baron in wanting to see his daughter, Margreth, avenged.