The Beast Within

by Cory Barclay

  So now he rarely stepped foot in Bedburg proper.

  He knew other noblemen and women frowned on that. A lord who doesn’t stay in his own town must not think much of it. But he didn’t care. He had no one to impress.

  Except . . . perhaps now, Lucille Engel . . .

  He was in town because Hugo had warned him of the possibility of a peasant uprising. So he needed to see first-hand how the situation looked. So far, everything seemed the same as when he’d visited nearly a month ago.

  Or maybe it was just that the people were better at hiding themselves and their true feelings.

  It’s just like those damned Protestants to go hiding in the shadows, planning and scheming. Ever since that troublemaking pastor, Hanns Richter, first stepped onto his overturned fruit crate in front of the church, the people have taken a sympathetic ear to any rabble-rouser with something to say.

  Well, not while Lord Heinrich Franz rules Bedburg!

  Making his way to the garrison near the west end of town, he searched for Tomas Reiner. A rigid man-at-arms told him that Tomas wasn’t there.

  “Where is he?” Heinrich asked.

  “At church, my lord. As he is each morning.”

  Heinrich’s scowl grew deeper.

  Church! What could that man possibly do at church? He’s supposed to be cleaning up my streets!

  Heinrich proceeded eastward. Passing through the circle where the homeless congregated to beg, he was pleased to see that even the beggars kept their distance from him.

  At the base of the hill leading to the church, he stopped. He hadn’t been inside a holy site in some time—only when forced to pray alongside Archbishop Ernst in Cologne—and he wasn’t about to change that habit. So he stood there and waited, arms crossed over his thin chest, until Tomas came out almost an hour later.

  When Tomas spotted Heinrich, he looked surprised—almost shocked—seeing him there. Tomas seemed to have aged in just the few short months since Heinrich had last seen him. Though his hair was still blond, the man’s features seemed more weathered. Or maybe it was just that the man seemed more relaxed, less anxious, almost . . . at ease.

  “M-my lord,” Tomas said, “what brings you here to the church?”

  “You,” Heinrich replied, his arms still crossed over his chest. “You’re my garrison commander, lest you forgot.”

  Tomas nodded. He’d been granted the coveted position as a reward for his work in Trier, helping Heinrich cook the wretched witches. He was now the highest-ranking military man in Bedburg, doing very nicely with a pretty—and pregnant—new wife he’d brought back from Trier. And while he owed all of his success to Heinrich, the man seemed to still harbor resentment at being, once again, under his master’s thumb.

  “What did Bishop Balthasar tell you in there?” Heinrich asked.

  Tomas raised his eyebrows. “Tell me, my lord? You know that’s between me and God.”

  Heinrich snorted. “I don’t care about what you and God have to say, Tomas. I mean about the stonemason and his family.”

  Both men began walking. Looking uncomfortable, Tomas scratched his cheek. “He told me the man was a Calvinist sympathizer, and that you want to get rid of him.”

  Heinrich nodded. “What else?”

  Tomas stopped and turned to Heinrich. With pity in his eyes, he said, “Do we have to kill the whole family, my lord? What could the wife or child possibly do?”

  Heinrich smiled. “My young, naïve friend,” he answered in his patronizing way. “They must perish so there can be no thoughts of revenge. The last thing we need is for some young pup to grow up with hellfire in his eye, aimed at me.” He turned from Tomas, looking off in the distance. “The entire family knows my edict on Protestants, so they must all pay the consequence.”

  “What if they repent?”

  Heinrich put his hand on Tomas’ shoulder and looked into his friend’s sad blue eyes. “People like William Edmond can repent with words, but never their hearts.”

  Tomas shook his head. “But such action could have the opposite effect. The townspeople are unsettled. Have you seen how they look at you?” He motioned to a passing, hunchbacked man who stole a glance at Heinrich over his shoulder, then quickly turned away when Heinrich stared back.

  “They’re terrified of you,” Tomas said.

  Heinrich smiled, watching the hunchback limp away. “I know. Isn’t it wonderful?” Then his smile faded. “Just do as I say with the family, Tomas.”

  “It is Ulrich’s jurisdiction to arrest guilty townsfolk, my lord.”

  Heinrich grunted. “Fine, but don’t you dare oppose him.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Heinrich stared into the man’s eyes. “Or me,” he said, his tone sending the intended chill down Tomas’ spine.

  “Of course not, my lord.”

  After a moment, Heinrich broke his stare, patted Tomas on the back, and resumed walking. For a while the two didn’t speak, Heinrich instead taking pleasure in just watching the reactions from people they passed. Finally, Heinrich turned to Tomas.

  “What have you heard about the peasant uprising?”

  Tomas shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play the fool with me, Tomas. Balthasar told me the citizens are not pleased. He expects another Protestant uprising because of what happened at the Town Fair.”

  “Ah yes, that,” said Tomas. “They were quite shaken from witnessing the summary executions of Adam and Martha Jacobo. Frankly, I was too. It was so . . . abrupt. Did you instruct Ulrich to do that?”

  Heinrich shrugged. “Not in so many words. But I did give him a long leash to do as he saw fit with people resisting my orders regarding Protestants. They must all leave this city. Those who choose not to will die. Plain and simple.”

  “But my lord, there are more peasants in Bedburg—and likely more Protestants—than soldiers! That might become a bloody battle.”

  Heinrich clapped Tomas on the shoulder again. “Tomas, there are always more peasants than soldiers. That is why unrelenting force is required, to tame the masses. When their minds are properly terrorized, their will is ours. A single soldier can then easily manage ten-fold his number!” Heinrich smiled. “Also, that’s why I have you leading my forces, Tomas. I trust you will know what to do if things get out of hand. We know it will get worse before it gets better.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Tomas said, his tone deflated.

  “Just stay on the right side of this battle and you’ll be fine, my friend. And report to me whenever you see anything out of the ordinary. I can’t have the peasants getting the upper hand.” Heinrich smiled again, then turned to leave.

  “Where are you going, my lord?”

  Heinrich waved over his shoulder. “I have matters to take care of at House Charmagne, Tomas. I’ve overstayed my welcome here.”

  As Heinrich walked toward his carriage, Tomas shook his head, watching the thin tyrant’s black cloak ruffle in the wind.

  “But it’s your town you’re abandoning, you selfish, soulless bastard . . .”

  By nightfall Heinrich was back in the safe solitude of House Charmagne. He sighed with contentment as Felix brought the carriage through the front courtyard, past the perfectly aligned rows of trees leading to the mansion’s front door.

  If anything bad happens at Bedburg, I always have this place. My impenetrable retreat.

  His eyes drifted to the palisade and ramparts surrounding the estate. Rolf Anders was waiting at the front gate, his back stooped, his hands clasped in front of him. Somehow, the man’s long white beard seemed to have grown a few extra inches in the one day Heinrich had been gone.

  Tightening his coat, Heinrich exited the carriage. “Rolf, what are you doing out here? You’ll catch cold.”

  Rolf beamed. “You’re right on time, Heinrich. My visitor has only just arrived.”

  At the news, Heinrich forced himself not to sprint to the door, or appear too excited. Ins
tead, he rubbed his hands together thoughtfully as he walked past Rolf.

  He was definitely ready for these mind-boggling, debilitating dreams to stop. To have them erased from his mind.

  Rolf’s man had better have the cure.

  Inside the main foyer, Beauregard closed the front door behind Heinrich, then led the two men down the red carpet to the dining room.

  A strange little fellow was waiting in the room. Wearing furs and pelts, he looked more ready for the forest than a castle. His hair was black and wiry, his legs bare beneath a wool skirt that stopped at the knees. Tattooed on his clean-shaven face were strange blue symbols, matching the color of his striking, blue eyes. It was impossible to tell his age.

  In short, he was unlike anything Heinrich had ever seen, and Heinrich’s expression said as much.

  “What the hell are you?” Heinrich asked, his voice tinged with disgust.

  The man chuckled, a high-pitched, annoying sound. But as soon as he spoke, Heinrich realized he was not what he seemed. His voice carried a soft, deep resonance, flavored with an edge of wisdom that contrasted sharply from his otherwise outlandish appearance.

  “My name is Salvatore, my lord,” the man said with a thick accent.

  Heinrich tilted his head. “Are you . . . Italian?”

  “I am neither of the city nor the sea. I am a nomad, a tree-dweller, a soul of the sky.” The man put his palms together and raised them above his head, closing his eyes.

  Heinrich frowned, unimpressed. “So you’re a madman . . .” he said, trailing off. Turning to Rolf, he demanded, “Why have you brought a lunatic to my abode, Rolf? Is this your idea of a joke?”

  Rolf chuckled, shaking his head. “Salvatore is no madman, Heinrich. He just has a . . . strange manner about him.”

  Salvatore opened his eyes and, smiling at Heinrich, gestured to a chair already pulled out from the table.

  Which immediately irritated Heinrich.

  This man thinks he can command me in my own home . . .

  “Where did you find this lunatic, Rolf?”

  When Heinrich did not sit, Rolf sat in the chair Salvatore had offered. Leaning his elbows on the table, Rolf said, “I’ve known Salvatore for many years. We worked together in . . . politics.”

  Heinrich was shocked. “He was an assassin, too?”

  Before Rolf could answer, Salvatore spoke up. “Yes, I was a purveyor of evil in my youth. I sought to separate the souls and minds of the devil-worshippers from their bodies.”

  “He was a poisoner,” Rolf clarified.

  “And now I’ve been brought to separate your thoughts from your mind, my lord,” Salvatore said, smiling, his purple eyes widening. Two rows of jagged, yellow teeth greeted his subject.

  Heinrich shook his head. “I don’t need any separating. I just need these damn dreams to cease!”

  Salvatore nodded. “Yes, of course. In your world, you call them nightmares. In my world, they are but images shaping our lives. Every image means something. If that meaning can be deduced, it can be changed. Like waves of the ocean, some are bigger, some smaller, some devilish, some divine. You must learn to ride the waves of your mind to avoid crashing onto the sands of your soul.”

  Heinrich stared at the man. “What is this blasphemer getting on about, Rolf?”

  Rolf smiled warmly. “He is what they call a benandanti, my lord. As you suspected, they hail from Italy. A visionary. Or if you will, literally, ‘a good walker.’”

  “I am not a blasphemous man!” Salvatore stated. “So please take that back.”

  Ignoring his demand, Heinrich arched his brow. “A good walker?”

  Rolf tried to explain. “The benandanti claim to travel out of their minds and bodies when they sleep—like phantoms in the night. They fight with evil spirits during their body’s slumber.”

  Heinrich shook his head. “I’ve always known you to be a practical man, Rolf. But I seriously think you’ve gone senile.”

  Rolf grinned. “He may be strange, Heinrich, but I’ve seen his methods. They work. Just give him a chance.”

  “What will he do?”

  Salvatore looked offended, being talked about like he wasn’t in the room. But then Rolf spoke several words to him in a language Heinrich didn’t understand and the man’s yellow-toothed smile reappeared.

  “Yes, yes,” Salvatore replied. “I can help you combat your dire images. I can shape your thoughts to your will.”

  “You can cure my nightmares?”

  “If you take back what you said,” Salvatore nodded.

  Heinrich sighed, eyed Rolf, then finally took a seat at the table beside Rolf.

  “I take it back, witch-man. You are not a heretic.”

  Salvatore clapped his hands suddenly, startling both Heinrich and Rolf. Kneeling down, he enthusiastically reached into a small bag hidden away. Heinrich noted that the bag was made from something very strange-looking, some kind of animal part.

  Salvatore held up a vial of dark liquid. “Take this potion, my lord. It will help you fight your demons while you are entranced.”

  “Entranced?”

  “Asleep,” Rolf clarified.

  Heinrich hesitated. He had no idea what was in the little vial.

  At best, he thought, it will heal me. But at worst . . . this man was a poisoner!

  He glanced at Rolf. I’ve always trusted him. Why would Rolf try to kill me? If he wanted that, he’d just have Beauregard put something in my dinner.

  Heinrich snatched the vial. “Where are you staying, madman?”

  “I am neither of the city nor the sea. I am a nomad—”

  Heinrich put up his hand. “Yes, you already explained that.” He turned to Rolf. “Give him a room for the night, Rolf.” He stood up and walked behind Rolf. Leaning over the man, he whispered, “If he tries to kill me, I don’t want him escaping.”

  “You have nothing to worry about, my lord,” Rolf replied.

  Heinrich took a long look at the madman, who was now seated at the table, staring down at his own palm as he traced real or imaginary lines with his finger.

  Before dwelling on this bizarre image any longer, Heinrich chugged the liquid, then retired to his bedroom to sleep.

  He quickly fell into a dreamless, black slumber.

  With no thoughts of his brother, or his mother, or his angelic savior.

  No thoughts at all.

  Just nothing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DIETER

  “If you do this, you will never be safe,” Ava told Dieter as he paced the room of the Griswold house. “You’ll always be looking over your shoulder.”

  She smiled at little Peter, walking on wobbly legs behind Dieter, imitating him.

  “I know that,” Dieter said, stopping for a moment and swinging around to surprise Peter. The child bumped into his legs and giggled. Dieter whisked him off the ground and held him in the crook of his arm.

  Looking up at Ava and Jerome, he asked, “Isn’t this what you all wanted?”

  Jerome swiveled his head from side to side. “In some ways, y-y-yes. But it p-puts us all in, in danger. Though it is ad-ad-admirable.”

  “You can never go back to an easy life, Dieter,” Ava added. “Not while you remain in Germany.”

  “I’ve never had an easy life, Ava,” Dieter said. “Plus, I don’t plan to stay long.” He sat down on the bench next to him and put Peter down beside him. The child quickly jumped off and began marching in circles, mimicking Dieter’s pacing. Despite the tension, everyone laughed.

  “Where’s Martin?” Dieter asked. Dieter had returned from the Achterberg’s estate early that morning, before the sun had risen, and Martin was already gone.

  “He said he was going reconnoitering in Bedburg,” Ava said.

  Dieter scoffed. “He acts like we’re at war.”

  “Aren’t w-we?” Jerome asked.

  Dieter shook his head. “We’re a peaceful group, Jerome. We have no weapons and no ill will toward anyone. All I wish t
o do is aid the unfortunates who have fallen to Heinrich Franz’s whimsy.”

  “Well, when you s-s-say it like that . . .”

  “You remind me of a preacher I once heard,” Ava interrupted, “in Bedburg, when I was still a young girl.”

  Dieter smiled. To him, Ava was still young, about sixteen. But he respected her courage. After being orphaned, she’d grown up quickly, living on the rough streets of Bedburg.

  “He would shout at the top of his lungs on top of a crate,” she continued, “waving his arms around spastically. He was daring—preaching near the church, of all places. At first he drew just a few . . . but before long he had dozens listening.”

  Dieter nodded. He remembered the man well. “Pastor Hanns Richter,” he said fondly. “He was a friend of mine. A brave man.” Thoughts of Hanns Richter brought Dieter back to when he was baptized. It was at a spring in the middle of the forest outside town. He remembered his head being submerged in the icy-cold water. At the time, the pastor had warned him of Heinrich Franz’s malevolence, but Dieter hadn’t believed him. Now, it was no secret.

  In fact, it was Pastor Richter who’d helped form Dieter’s decision to marry Sybil—reconciling the conflict of being a priest, loving Sybil, and somehow still retaining his faith in God. Yet the good pastor had met a horrible fate. He’d been tormented, imprisoned, persecuted, and ultimately killed outside the city ramparts when Georg Sieghart’s archers mowed down his group.

  Perhaps I am a bit akin to him . . .

  The front door flew open. It was Martin. Ava jumped up, running to embrace him. They kissed briefly, and a pang of jealousy swept through Dieter. He longed for Sybil.

  “Where have you been, Martin?” Dieter asked, with a bit more hostility than intended. “You worried us all.”

  “You ran errands last night,” Martin replied with equal hostility, “and left without telling us a thing. So I did too.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small piece of paper. “We’ve received another note.”

  He handed it to Dieter, then immediately wrapped his arms around Ava’s waist. “Aellin received it at the tavern during the night,” he said, staring into Ava’s eyes.