The Beast Within

by Cory Barclay

  The murmuring crowd quieted as Ulrich stepped back to the podium.

  “In the name of Lord Heinrich Franz of Bedburg . . .” he began, which told Hugo that Heinrich had to know this was happening, “. . . Adam and Martha Jacobo are hereby sentenced to death for their habitual abetting of the Protestant cause.”

  “Where’s the proof!” a brave soul yelled out from the crowd.

  “Seize him,” Ulrich ordered nonchalantly, pointing to the man who had spoken. Two guards bounded down the stairs, as the man turned and fled through the crowd. When the guards looked back at Ulrich for instructions, he shook his head slightly. There was no sense diverting attention from the matter at hand. Then Ulrich turned to his victims, scanning back and forth from husband to wife. “You know what you’ve done,” he announced. “Do you have anything to say?”

  The man shook his head. “There is nothing to be said. We are innocent,” he mumbled.

  The woman shrieked and sputtered. “I curse you all! God will strike you down with furious vengeance for the wrongs you have committed under the guise of His grace! You will all perish for—”

  But she never finished. Ulrich shoved both husband and wife off the scaffolding at the same time, their bodies dropping five feet, an audible snap from the man’s neck drifting over the crowd like a dried chicken bone splitting apart. His body swayed gently, his feet dangling an arm’s-length from the ground, his pants darkened and soiled. But the woman continued to writhe, froth gurgling from the side of her mouth, forming two gooey strings of yellow bile that eventually dripped to the ground. Then, with one final spasmodic jerk, she also went stilleyes popped wide open, face frozen in a silent scream, her body slowly swaying almost in unison with her dead husband’s.

  After several more seconds of shocked silence, the angry jeers began. The onlookers were appalled—horrified—not only for what had just happened, but for how quickly it had transpired. Without warning, without process, without fairness or mercy or the slightest hint of humanity.

  Hugo peered over the sea of angry, stunned faces, his own eyes equally wide and shocked. As he perused the grim scene, a face in the crowd caught his attention. Though he wore his brown hair long and beard thick, the man’s stance and gestures were unmistakable.

  Dieter Nicolaus.

  His sister’s husband.

  He wore what looked to be a monk’s habit, with his arms tucked into his tunic and his head covered by a brown hood.

  The former priest hadn’t yet noticed Hugo, his attention fixed in horror at the sight of the hanging peasants.

  Meanwhile, Ulrich gazed out defiantly at the sea of angry spectators. Then he casually walked down the stairs of the scaffolding and out through the crowd, his guards close behind, leaving both bodies dangling in the wind.

  With the immediate threat gone, the townsfolk’s disgust quickly turned to rage.

  “This treachery can’t stand!” a man shouted.

  “What gives Lord Heinrich the right?” another called out. “He isn’t even present!”

  “Those two deserve justice!”

  “They deserved a trial, you fool!”

  When Hugo turned his attention back to Dieter, he was gone. Off in the distance he could see the back of the brown hood, growing smaller as the man disappeared among the fair-goers.

  “Help take them down!” a man yelled, but Hugo was on the move, pushing his way through the crowd, trying to follow the fading image of Dieter. As he struggled through the horde, he thought, I should have been consulted about this. These people will rebel over something like this . . . that damned foolish torturer!

  He could already sense a change in the fair’s atmosphere as word quickly spread about what had just happened in the town square. This was supposed to be a joyous occasion. Now it was quickly, foolishly, turning riotous.

  But Hugo was too pre-occupied at the moment, trying to keep sight of Dieter while remaining unseen. He followed him through alleyways and roads. Dieter knew the city’s layout just as well as Hugo. And he was obviously heading for the southern gates.

  But why is he in such a hurry? And what in God’s name is he doing here in Bedburg? Doesn’t he know my sister is far away?

  Then Hugo realized that maybe that wasn’t the case. In fact, he had no idea where Sybil was.

  When they reached the gates and beyond, it became harder for Hugo to hide, but he managed to stay in the shadows, keeping a fair distance back. At one point, he was able to advance closer by hiding behind a passing horse-led cart.

  As they came to a hill, he watched Dieter crest it, then begin his descent down the other side. Hugo hid in a bush at the top and watched Dieter walk to a small farmhouse where he knocked on the door, then entered.

  Hugo knew the place.

  It was the abandoned estate that once belonged to the Achterberg family.

  What is Dieter doing here in Bedburg? He and Sybil have a child together! Why is he not out searching for his wife?

  Hugo knew that Heinrich Franz had conducted a massive manhunt for his sister, labeling Sybil the “Daughter of the Beast,” but had come up empty. He also knew his sister well enough to be confident that she was still out there somewhere.

  Does Dieter live alone? Surely he knows he can’t stay there . . . he’ll be discovered. Worse still, he’s a Protestant sympathizer—no, a Protestant no less! Surely he knows that, if caught, he will be tortured or worse, just like those two in the town square.

  But the main question haunting Hugo was whether to tell Heinrich about Dieter. Doing so, after all, would bring him immense favor from his lord. He’d be the one who brought in “the husband of the Daughter of the Beast.”

  As he thought of his lord, Hugo remembered that Heinrich would soon be returning from Cologne. It was time to head back to town.

  A short time later Hugo arrived at the stables. From there, he rode his horse to House Charmagne, where he awaited Heinrich’s arrival.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SYBIL

  Norfolk, East Anglia, England

  Sybil Nicolaus cradled baby Rose in her arms, bouncing her up and down. The babe whined and Sybil kissed her tiny pink ear. Rose’s eyes opened and she groped at Sybil’s breast. The child was only a few months old and needed to feed frequently.

  Staring into the child’s deep blue eyes nearly brought Sybil to tears. The baby reminded her of her own child, Peter, off somewhere in Germany, lost to her. Peter would be almost three now and Sybil missed him terribly, as well as her husband, of course.

  Claire Durand, Rose’s young mother, saw the look Sybil and Rose exchanged and it tugged at her heart. As a mother, she could feel the heartbreak in Sybil’s eyes. Gently, she reached over to take the baby from Sybil. Opening her tunic, she bared a breast as she walked to the corner of the room to feed her.

  The men in the room took no mind; everyone was too busy.

  In the opposite corner of the room Rowaine sat in a small wooden chair. She was watching Daxton, seated at a table a few paces away, discussing something in hushed tones with her father, Georg Sieghart. Ever since Daxton’s elevation from carpenter to captain of the Lion’s Pride, he’d handled his position with the enthusiastic intelligence of a seasoned leader, though he was far from that. At the moment he was pointing at something on a drawing he’d made as Georg nodded in agreement.

  Sybil walked out the front door, taking measure of the morning. It was cold, gray, and misty but the green pastures of the Norfok countryside somehow brightened everything. Despite the early hour, people were already engaged in their morning work activities—men hammering and constructing, women bringing their husbands water and food, ox- and horse-pulled carts carrying tools and building materials, armed guards inspecting the goings-on.

  After escaping Trier two months ago, Sybil and her company had traveled across the Dutch border, making their way to the North Sea where they’d been able to hide the Lion’s Pride from their pursuers. After being branded a witch and fugitive, her group had take
n up here, a place she knew well, in the county of Norfok, run by an assembly of Protestant refugees known as the Elizabethan Strangers. They referred to their growing town as Strangers Shire.

  And she’d returned to Norfolk just in time. Within days of her arrival, her good friend, Claire Durand, had given birth to a beautiful daughter, Rose. Since then, all Sybil could think about was how one day little Rose and her own son Peter would meet and play together.

  Most of Norfolk had greeted Sybil with open arms. But some of the Strangers had been less than gracious. The tension came from what had befallen the residents the last time Sybil had visited the area. Back when Gustav Koehler, a ruthless man posing as a tax collector, had terrorized the community. And then the body of the actual tax man, Timothy Davis, had turned up buried in Gustav’s garden.

  These were simple, non-violent folk who kept to themselves. They’d settled in Norfolk to escape the evils of city life. Corruption and murder were the antithesis of what they stood for. When Sybil had arrived that last time, she’d lied about who she was. And then all that evil had come—the wrath of Gustav Koehler, the murder of Timothy Davis, the armed guards subsequently brought in from nearby Norwich to patrol the area. When so much misery disrupts so many peaceful lives, someone must be blamed and, for many, Sybil was the perfect scapegoat. So, yes, there was some tension with Sybil’s presence there.

  The front door opened and Georg came out, joining Sybil to watch the activities in the fields.

  “It’s amazing,” Sybil commented, looking out at the scenery. “You should have seen this place when I first came here. Farmland and pastures all the way to the horizon. That was it. And now . . . this.”

  They both gazed off to where Dieter’s former church had been rebuilt. Sybil had been surprised when Reeve Clarence Bailey had decided to rebuild it after Gustav had burnt it to the ground. Of course Sybil knew Bailey’s ulterior motive: the church would bring in money—generous tithes. But rebuilding the church had set the quiet shire off in a direction of rapid growth. Once the church was built, other buildings and structures began sprouting up around it. The Strangers’ land had now become a church town—with the holy building as the epicenter and lots of new construction expanding outward.

  Georg responded with a grunt, leaving Sybil to wonder whether he agreed or disagreed.

  A few moments later, Georg spoke in a low voice. “Daxton is going to help build something for Catriona.” He often called Rowaine by her birth-name, Catriona. But ever since he’d finally found her, Georg had become more and more despondent. Badly injured, Rowaine still couldn’t walk and Georg feared she’d never be able to again.

  “Daxton is the right man to do it,” Sybil said. “He was the carpenter of the Pride, after all. What will he build her?”

  “Crutches, to begin. Then he’s planning something more ambitious . . . some type of chair with wheels on it. Sounds ridiculous to me.”

  Sybil nodded, smiling to herself. She only hoped whatever was built brought Rowaine out of her morose disposition. She’d become just as despondent as her father. Once the liveliest person Sybil knew—fiery, passionate, demanding—ever since being shot in the back during their escape from Trier, she barely spoke.

  Thinking of that escape reminded Sybil of just how much she missed Dieter and their son. It also brought back memories of her plan to find Heinrich Franz, the man responsible for killing her father. So far that plan hadn’t moved forward. She had no idea where Heinrich might be. But now was not the time for that anyway. Georg needed to care for his daughter and Sybil could tell that her presence seemed to help him deal with that.

  Georg interrupted her thoughts. “I’d like to build something here.”

  “Oh?”

  He nodded. “Put down roots.”

  “Have you seen the way people look at you here, Georg?”

  Georg scoffed. “Of course. That’s another reason why I want to build something—get on the right side of everyone.”

  “What ever will you build to make people like you . . . or trust you?”

  Georg grinned—a goofy sight against his leathery, bearded face. He put his arms out wide and said, “A tavern, Beele. What else?”

  Sybil chuckled. “I should have guessed.”

  “Daxton said he’d help me build it.” As Georg began describing his plans for his tavern, his spirits rose, but then just as quickly died back down. “But for now I need to take care of Cat. I’m sure you understand. I know you’d like to find Dieter and your son—”

  “It’s not that I’d like to, Georg. I must.”

  He paused, opening his mouth then closing it with a nod. “Of course. My apologies.”

  “And wouldn’t you like to find Heinrich Franz?”

  Georg shrugged. “I’m not as hellbent on the idea as I once was.” Clearly, reuniting with his daughter Rowaine had eased his obsession over finding and killing Heinrich.

  In the distance through the fog, a carriage made its way down the dirt road, heading toward them. Only one person would be riding a carriage through the country, Sybil thought, groaning.

  And she was right. A few minutes later, Reeve Clarence Bailey hopped out and sauntered up the small hill toward them, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a frilly shirt and an expensive robe, looking more like a baron than a humble reeve.

  It seems the church has already started to work in his favor, Sybil thought, inspecting the man’s clothes as he approached them.

  Bailey lifted his chin to stare at Georg. Teeth clenched, his gaunt cheekbones protruded like a skeleton. He’d gained weight since Sybil had last seen him—money and gluttony obviously agreed with him. But to Sybil he’d always be the same untrusting, skinny reeve.

  “Thank you for coming, Reeve Bailey,” Georg said. Sybil shot him a look, clearly confused why Georg would call for the company of such a man. Clarence Bailey didn’t like anyone that Sybil brought to Norfolk. He’d only agreed to take Sybil back after Claire and Leon Durand had pleaded with him.

  “This better be good,” Clarence said. “Do you know how far I had to ride to get out here?”

  Sybil frowned, wanting nothing to do with the man. Still, she was intrigued as to why Georg had arranged this meeting.

  “I know you don’t like me,” Georg began, clearing his throat. “That’s why I’d like to do something for the people here. I want to show the Strangers that they can trust me.”

  The reeve put his hands on his hips. “I’m listening . . .”

  Holding his forefinger and thumb of both hands in the shape of twin L’s, Georg made an imaginary frame of the picturesque countryside. “I can see it there . . .”

  “See what?”

  “Something everyone can enjoy. I’d like to build a tavern.”

  The reeve seemed stunned. “Have you told anyone else of this?”

  Georg scratched his cheek. “Uh, no. Just Beele here. I’ve only recently come up with the idea.”

  “So you’d like to profit off the hardworking folk here.”

  “N-no, of course not. That’s not my intent at all. I’d hire the workers here to help build the place. It would be taxed, so you’d make money. It would be a place for people to enjoy themselves and unwind after a hard day’s work.”

  “Enjoy, unwind . . . and spend their money.”

  Georg’s face contorted. Sybil knew that look. Frustration. Which for Georg wasn’t far away from outright anger. But, to his credit, Georg maintained his composure. “I have to make a living, Herr Bailey. There’s nothing wrong with that. I like drinking. Everyone else likes drinking, too. There’s nowhere in this entire little town for people to go and relax, or get away from their wives at night.”

  At that last comment, Reeve Bailey’s eyes bulged. “You plan to make it a brothel!”

  Georg shook his head furiously. “You mistake my meaning,” he said. “I just meant it as a place where . . . men could be . . . men . . . and socialize.”

  At least Georg has the man thinking abo
ut it, Sybil thought. She saw the glint in the reeve’s eyes. He knew it was a good idea. He was probably just put off that it was Georg’s idea and not his own. But Georg pointing out that Bailey would profit from it had seemed to turn the tide. Bailey had already shifted from “bad idea” to just “no brothel.”

  “Where men can socialize?” Sybil asked, taking a step forward. “So women won’t be allowed?”

  Georg held his palms forward, waving them around, “No! I mean, yes. Of course they would!” He narrowed his eyes at Sybil, as if to say, Why are you undermining me? We’re supposed to be on the same side!

  “This is a quiet, Protestant refuge, Herr Sieghart,” the reeve continued.

  “I understand that. I’d make sure the place remained civil.”

  “The last thing we need is more patrolmen from Norwich interrupting our way of life here.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And you’ll need a license to build it in the town proper,” Bailey finished, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “How can I get one?”

  “Only the reeve issues licenses,” Bailey answered, smiling as he turned up his nose to make clear he was in charge here. Never again would the reeve allow another Gustav-type situation in his peaceful little hamlet.

  Georg sighed. “May I have one?” he asked, his frustration creeping back.

  Reeve Bailey seemed to think about that for a long while. Sybil thought the man utterly absurd—making things far more difficult than necessary. Then again, that was his style.

  Finally the reeve’s eyes brightened and Sybil knew he’d thought of something to use to his advantage. He turned around, looking back toward his carriage, then turned back to Georg. “There is something I need doing, but I can’t do myself. If you will do me a small favor, Herr Sieghart, I will give you your license.”

  Georg stroked his bushy beard for a moment, apprehensively. “What is it you need done?”