by Cory Barclay
“Do you know the primary export of Strangers Shire, Herr Sieghart?”
A pause.
When Georg stayed quiet, Sybil spoke up. “Textiles,” she answered.
“Correct, Frau Nicolaus. The Strangers are some of the country’s best textile workers. Don’t ask me why—I haven’t a clue. But for whatever reason, our shire attracts them. I am trying to . . . expand that export business.”
Now it was Sybil’s turn to be apprehensive. Something dubious was coming.
There was another pause as Reeve Bailey appeared to be deciding how much to tell Sybil and Georg. His mouth moved but no words came.
“Continue, sir,” Georg coaxed, exasperation in his voice.
Reeve Bailey nodded. “I would like to extend our business to Germany. But that is proving more difficult than I thought. Lords and ladies in Cologne and Münster will pay heavenly amounts for our work. But . . .” he trailed off.
“You can’t legally sell to Germany,” Sybil said.
The reeve coughed. “Technically, that is correct—”
“Not technically, Herr Bailey,” she replied. “That is the law. Say what you mean, please.” She was growing tired of this man’s antics.
“Fine,” Bailey said. “You are right. We are part of England, after all, and the queen is not on good terms with the Deutschland. But I know a man that will do my selling for me, without connecting our shire in the trades. I just need to bring him the goods.”
“Then why don’t you?” Georg asked. “Seems simple enough.”
“There are guards and watchmen where I’d need to go. No one from this region would be safe—they’d surely be recognized and stopped—possibly even jailed. Nearly all the working men in Strangers Shire have done this task before. I would certainly be recognized. So you see, we need fresh blood . . .”
Georg nodded. He finally understood.
“I’ll do it,” he said quickly.
Sybil made a small sound in her throat. “Georg, are you certain? You don’t even know the details. What about your daughter?”
“I need to build something so my daughter can live. She will be safe here . . . isn’t that right, Herr Bailey?”
The reeve nodded profusely. “Yes, yes. Absolutely.”
“And where would I be taking these goods?” Georg asked.
“My operative is in King’s Lynn, about forty miles from here—a three-day journey.”
Georg thought for a moment. “Fine.” He stuck out his hand. “I take your textiles to your man in King’s Lynn, and when I get back you give me my license.”
After a short pause, Reeve Bailey took Georg’s bear-like hand and shook it, wincing from Georg’s grip. “Deal,” he said.
Once the reeve had gone, Sybil turned to Georg. “I hope you know what you’re getting into.”
“How bad could it be? I’ll need a horse though. And I have a request for you.”
“For me?”
Georg nodded. “I’d like you to take care of Catriona while I’m gone.”
Sybil sighed. She’d been stuck in this place for too long. She felt restless and needed the wind in her hair—if only to relieve some of her negative energy at being separated from Dieter and Peter for so long.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” she said.
Georg’s mouth fell open. “W-what? Why?”
Sybil put a hand on Georg’s shoulder and looked up into his dark eyes.
“Because I’m coming with you. Someone needs to make sure you stay out of trouble, Georg Sieghart.”
CHAPTER FIVE
HEINRICH
Young Heinrich stared at himself in the mirror. This would be the last time he’d dress in his mother’s clothes before giving up the fantasy.
Heinrich was almost ten now, the age his brother was when he’d died. It had been almost two years since Oscar’s tragic death along the riverside and being an only child hadn’t turned out to be as pleasant as Heinrich had hoped. Not when your mother was such a malicious shrew.
Edith still blamed him for Oscar’s death—for not saving him. And even though he secretly knew she was right to blame him—just for the wrong reason—he still despised her. When questioned after the incident, Heinrich’s excuse was that he’d frozen in fear and, instead of trying to pull his brother from the water, he’d gone running for help. Edith didn’t mince words about what she thought of that—spineless, stupid, worthless.
Appraising himself in the mirror, Heinrich turned slowly so he could see how the red dress curved around his body. On his mother, the fabric stopped just below her knees; on him it bunched onto the floor. Yet still, he liked the way he looked in it.
It made him smile.
Mother had been out all day, doing business with a clothier. Edith was a fleece merchant. She’d taken over her husband’s wool trading operation after he’d disappeared. And she’d done pretty well, keeping her family out of poverty, raising the sheep, shearing the wool, readying the pelts, and selling them to spinners, tailors, and other merchants.
Lost in the trance of his reflection in the mirror, Heinrich didn’t hear the footsteps down the hallway. A moment later, his mother barged in. Her mouth dropped, as did the coins she’d been holding. As the pennies rolled and scattered, her hand rose to her mouth and she gasped.
Heinrich spun around, his face bright red.
“This . . .” Edith shouted, then could hardly finish, so great was her fury. “This is what you do while I slave away to provide us a living? Y-you . . . little bastard! You foolish, foppish bastard!”
Tears streamed down Heinrich’s face. He wanted to scream It’s not what it looks like! But it was exactly what it looked like. He had no answer, his mind blank. He just wanted to disappear. He’d killed Oscar to save this secret from getting out. And now…
Edith raced up to him and grabbed him by the ear. With a yank, she pulled him from the room and down the hall as he cried and sputtered.
Opening the front door, she pushed him out.
“Do you see this?” she shouted in a shrill voice. “This is what I have to put up with!”
A man dressed in luxurious clothes stood outside, startled. He took a step back and ran his eyes up and down Heinrich. “Well, she’s a pretty lass. Is it so wrong for her to try out her mother’s clothes?”
Heinrich wanted to die.
Why didn’t she just walk away from me. Why must she humiliate me so?
“Nothing would be wrong with it, Jacques, if ‘she’ were my daughter!” Edith huffed, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, this is my son!”
The merchant took a closer look at the boy. He started to speak, than thought better of it and just mumbled, “Well . . . then never mind.”
“Get out of here you stupid, stupid boy,” Edith screamed. And Heinrich rushed off, around the side of the house to the backyard. Leaning back against the shed where his mother kept her fleeces, he slid down to the ground, burying his head in his hands.
Then he wept uncontrollably.
After a time, a tiny clucking noise drew his attention.
Looking up he saw a rat skittering across a branch of the tree in front of him. He grabbed a rock next to him and leaned forward. The rat stopped, tilting its head to stare at him. “Don’t look at me like that!” the boy screamed, launching the rock at the mocking creature.
His aim was dead on. With a squeal the animal careened off the branch and fell to the ground, its hind legs trembling. Crawling to it, Heinrich found a bigger rock, gritted his teeth and smashed it into the dying rat. The rodent exploded, spewing guts and blood everywhere. Again and again Heinrich brought down the rock, until his anger ebbed and nothing was left but a bloody pulp.
Afterward, he felt guilty. Gently, he picked up the rat’s remains, holding it by its tail, and opened his mother’s fleece shed. He chose a pile of wool pelts between several others and flung the rat on top. Then he folded the top pelt over it, leaving his mother with a stinking rat sandwich to remember him by.
Just one
of many he’d left her in the past.
Wiping his bloody hands on his red dress, he closed the shed door as Edith came rushing around the side of the house. Snapping her fingers at him, she pointed to the shed. “Bring me that stack of pelts,” she demanded.
Heinrich obliged, handing her the middle stack. Snatching it from him, she stared daggers into his tearful, hopeful eyes.
“You’re useless, boy,” she seethed.
“Utterly useless.”
Heinrich awoke with a start and began coughing. Sitting up, he surveyed his surroundings, unclear where he was. Then he recognized the white curtains and leather bench. He was riding in his own carriage.
Sweating, he poked his head out the window. “What was that, Felix?” he asked his driver up front.
The young man glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, it’s nothing, my lord. These horses are just utterly useless. Totally uncooperative today.”
Heinrich furrowed his brow, then leaned back inside the coach. Closing his eyes, he let out an exhausted sigh and rested his head against the leather backing.
Another nightmare, he thought, shuddering. Where are they coming from . . . what do they mean?
A short while later, as the sun set behind gray clouds, they arrived at House Charmagne.
Two guests were waiting for him at the mansion.
One was Bishop Balthasar, sitting at the head of the large dining table with his walking staff across his knees. The other was young Hugo Griswold, standing in the corner, his legs and arms crossed, shooting a disapproving glare at the back of Balthasar’s head. Heinrich sighed, took off his black cloak, and handed it to his butler, Beauregard, who shuffled away.
As the elder and most self-important man in the room, Bishop Balthasar took it upon himself to start the conversation. “How was your trip to Cologne?” he asked. “And the archbishop?”
Balthasar had once been the vicar of Cologne—Archbishop Ernst’s right-hand man before taking over as bishop in Bedburg, by overthrowing his predecessor.
“Ernst is fine, bishop. But please, I am weary from my travels. Let’s move past the chatter.” Heinrich took the seat at the foot of the table, across from the bishop. He steepled his hands in front of him. “What report do you have for me?”
Glancing over his shoulder, the bishop spoke softly. “The information I have is quite . . . delicate. Could we not speak in private?”
Hugo, the target of Balthasar’s unease, uncrossed his arms and seemed ready to pounce. But Heinrich held up his palm.
“Anything you say, the boy may hear. He stays.”
Balthasar shook his head. “I still don’t understand why you’ve given such a young delinquent such power,” he muttered.
Heinrich was quickly losing patience. “Please,” he said through gritted teeth, “continue with your report.”
The bishop took his cane from his knees, smacked its tip on the ground, and slowly lifted himself to his feet. “Bedburg is in an uproar. Your torturer publicly executed two suspected Protestants during the Town Fair yesterday! Summarily! In broad daylight! The townspeople aren’t having it.”
“Bedburg is fine!” Hugo said loudly, pushing himself off the wall and stepping forward. “The townspeople don’t know what’s—”
“I am speaking, young man!” Balthasar bellowed.
Heinrich noticed Hugo ball up his hands into fists, but ignored Balthasar’s outburst. “I won’t reprimand Ulrich for doing what he thought best,” he replied calmly. “In fact, it may be just what the town needs right now. To fully appreciate how serious I am about quashing this Protestant plague.”
“This violence will only work for so long, Heinrich—”
“Lord.”
“What?”
“It’s Lord Heinrich.”
Balthasar stammered. “R-right, my lord. If you don’t want to see another rebellion, I suggest taking a softer approach to your methods of punishment.”
“Such as?”
“I believe I could convert these weak-minded folk to the True faith.”
“We’ve tried that, bishop. It has failed before.”
“We haven’t given it much of a chance,” Balthasar said.
“Even so. There will always be fringe groups of Protestants who refuse to see the light. In order for their false ideas to stop spreading, they must be punished.”
“But—”
Heinrich held up his palm again. “That is my decision, Your Excellency,” he said, adding the bishop’s title to soften his rebuke. “Let’s move on. Do you have other news?”
The bishop hesitated. After a long silence he said, “Well . . . I took a confession the other day, from a stonemason named William.” Balthasar hesitated, clearly conflicted about how much to reveal.
“What did William tell you, bishop?”
Balthasar looked toward the wall, away from Heinrich. “It’s blasphemous for me to say. It would be breaking the holy confessional covenant between him and God.”
“You wouldn’t have brought it up if you didn’t wish to speak of it, Balthasar. Pray for forgiveness. I’m sure God will understand.”
The bishop’s face paled. “William confirmed my belief. He admitted to being a Protestant—his whole family believes in the teachings of John Calvin, in fact. And . . . he confessed to planning an attack.”
“An attack?” Heinrich jumped from his seat. “What kind of attack?”
“He wouldn’t say. He was simply asking forgiveness before the fact.”
Heinrich slammed his palms on the table. “What did you tell him?”
“That the penance doesn’t work that way . . .”
Heinrich took a small notepad from his tunic. He snapped his fingers for Beauregard, who came a moment later with ink and pen.
“This man’s full name?”
Balthasar again hesitated. Then, “William Edmond.”
Heinrich scrawled on his notepad. “And his family?”
Balthasar stayed quiet for a moment, his face reddening. Heinrich peeked over his notepad, glaring at him until Balthasar relented. “His wife is Mary. They have a son Wilhelm.”
Heinrich finished writing, then stared at his pad, reading aloud: “William Edmond, Mary Edmond, Wilhelm Williamson. Good. Well done, Balthasar.”
“I’ve sinned,” the bishop muttered, his shoulders slumping.
“Is there anything else?” Heinrich asked, ignoring the bishop’s self-pity.
Bishop Balthasar slowly shook his head.
“Beauregard will show you out, Your Excellency,” Heinrich said. “One of my carriages will see you back to Bedburg.”
The bishop limped out of the room, his head lowered, his staff slowly clacking the stone floor with each step. When they no longer could hear his footfalls, Heinrich turned to Hugo.
“I suspect you disagree with the bishop’s diagnosis of Bedburg.”
Hugo nodded, opening his mouth to speak. But before he could, Heinrich cut him off. “That’s quite all right. I have an important mission for you.”
Hugo’s eyes lit up.
Heinrich smirked. Since taking Hugo under his wing a few months back in Trier, there was no question his “conversion” of the young man was now complete. The boy had become a trustworthy apprentice, totally in tune with Heinrich’s mindset, available day or night for any and all requested duties.
In fact, Heinrich hoped that Hugo might one day take his place at Castle Bedburg, overseeing the everyday goings-on of the town, while Heinrich took charge of more important issues at House Charmagne. Ever since Heinrich’s beloved Odela had been burned alive in Trier, Heinrich had trouble staying at Castle Bedburg for very long. There were just too many painful memories everywhere he looked.
And now, staring into Hugo’s puppy-dog eyes, Heinrich finally had the assistant he needed, someone ready to forsake his own family, possibly even give up his own sister for the “greater good.” Heinrich had been working on this, reminding the boy that his sister had abandoned him, labeling her “th
e Daughter of the Beast” to emphasize his sister’s evil bloodline. Soon, he knew Hugo would be primed to betray his sister, should the need arise.
And having the young man perform small assignments for him only advanced Heinrich’s plan.
“What is the mission, my lord?” Hugo asked eagerly.
“To go to Bergheim. Do you know where that is, boy?”
Hugo shook his head.
“It’s on the southern border, only a day’s ride. That petulant baron, Ludwig Koehler, rules the place. You will go there as my emissary and speak with him.”
“What will I tell him?”
Heinrich reached into his tunic, pulled out a rolled parchment and handed it to Hugo. Sprinting forward to take the paper, Hugo treated it like a holy relic.
“Read that over before you arrive,” Heinrich instructed. “It describes everything you need to know. In so many words, my boy, you will find me a wife.”
Hugo’s head shot up from the parchment. “You? Marry?”
Heinrich chuckled. “You can’t see it? Well, neither can I. But yes, your mission is to find my next wife. It is the archbishop’s wish that I marry. To solidify the Catholic stronghold in the principality. I’m sure you understand.”
“And I’m going alone?” Hugo asked.
“I was considering sending Rolf with you—he knows more about the local politics, but he’s also old.”
“I heard that,” a voice called out from the hallway.
Heinrich smiled as the venerable Rolf Anders entered, his white beard swishing as he walked. The two men embraced, then Heinrich turned back to Hugo. “I have faith in you, boy. I’m sure you’ll do fine. I feel you are ready for more responsibilities. Isn’t that right, Rolf?”
“Absolutely not,” Rolf said, shaking his head sternly. Then the shadow of a smile appeared inside his beard. “I only jest, my boy. You’ll do fine in Bergheim.”
“So . . . I am going alone,” Hugo said, looking back and forth between the two men.
“Felix will go with you,” Heinrich said. “My driver is strong and young, with an able mind.”
“I’d better get to reading then,” Hugo replied, shaking the parchment.
