by Cory Barclay
“The two Ulrich killed at the Town Fair,” Hugo finished.
So Karstan spied on Dieter and Ava, then betrayed them to Ulrich, had their hideout raided, and got two people killed the next day. Quite the busy man. Perhaps I’ve underestimated my old friend.
Hugo had learned enough. He couldn’t fake ignorance much longer. They’d see through it.
The problem was, he didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. He couldn’t interpret his own feelings about what was happening.
All he knew was he had to get away from these people.
So he bid Ulrich and Karstan good night and left.
By the time he returned to Felix and the carriage, and arrived at House Charmagne, it was nearly dawn. He hoped Heinrich was still sleeping. He had much to think about before speaking with him.
When he walked in, Rolf was waiting. The old man smiled. “How did things go in Bergheim?” he asked, as they both proceeded down the hall.
“I’m not sure,” Hugo answered. “I think I did all right. But I’ve gotten no firm answer.”
“That’s the way of the nobility, my boy. Indecisiveness. They can’t seem to butter their own bread without help from a friend.” Rolf chuckled, clasping his hands behind his back, adding, “Promise me you won’t be like that when you’re a lord.”
When I’m a lord? The very idea caught Hugo off guard.
Rolf had always been kind to him, calm and respectful, and Hugo had always appreciated that. In fact, as far as Hugo was concerned Rolf was the only honest person around. He hoped to be like Rolf when he got older—wise yet wily, and fatherly and understanding when appropriate. Clearly that was how Rolf had survived as long as he had around so many unscrupulous and vicious characters. More than just a trusted friend, Rolf had become a father figure to Hugo, replacing the father he’d lost. The sudden thought of his own father, Peter, caused Hugo’s shoulders to slump.
“What’s the matter, boy?” Rolf asked, instantly picking up Hugo’s discomfort.
Hugo shook his head. “Nothing.”
“I’m sure you handled the nobles just fine,” Rolf assured him, misinterpreting his sadness. “After all, you made it back here, didn’t you?”
Hugo tilted his head. “Should I not have?”
Rolf smiled and shrugged but said nothing. They came to the master’s chamber and Hugo heard coughing on the other side of the door. With a sigh, he knocked.
A raspy, angry voice answered. “What?”
“It’s Hugo, my lord.”
The tone changed quickly. “Ah! Hugo, my boy. Come in, come in. Rolf, you old dog, why didn’t you tell me he’d returned?”
Hugo pushed open the door. His eyes widened as he saw Heinrich in bed, blankets pulled up to his neck, sweating profusely, his skin waxy yellow.
“My God,” Hugo said. “What in Christ’s name happened to you?”
Heinrich chuckled, then broke into a coughing fit. “I’m a bit sickly. That’s all. Come, come. And close the window, will you? I’m freezing.”
Hugo nodded to Rolf, who left his side and shuffled back down the hallway to his room. Hugo walked to the window and, before closing it, peered outside to admire the rowed trees in the courtyard.
“Come here, boy. Let me take a look at you,” Heinrich said, waving at Hugo with a bony hand.
Hugo walked to the bed.
“How did your trip to Bergheim fare? Were you successful in conveying my request?”
Hugo nodded. “I think it went favorably.” He didn’t want to disappoint Heinrich in his current state. “They are discussing the proposal as we speak. I believe they’ll say—”
Heinrich raised his hand. “Let’s discuss this when I feel better, yes?”
Hugo stopped talking and nodded.
“You look . . . sad, boy. Why? Is it because you hate seeing me like this?”
Of course that wasn’t it. It was thoughts of Ava and Dieter hiding in his old family home, but Hugo wasn’t about to tell that to the most bloodthirsty man in Bedburg.
“Yes,” he replied.
Heinrich patted Hugo’s hand. Hugo stifled a grimace, pulling his hand away from Heinrich’s sweaty, slimy, repulsive hand as casually as he could.
“What’s wrong with you?” Hugo asked.
Heinrich blinked a few times. He looked even thinner than usual; clearly he hadn’t been eating. And his normally gray eyes were black, the lids red-rimmed.
“Rolf enlisted a man to help me rid myself of the awful dreams I’ve been having.”
He stopped. Hugo waited for more.
Heinrich smiled. “The good news is, I think his potion worked. I haven’t dreamt in days. The bad news is . . . I think the man’s trying to kill me.” His smile turned to a scowl. “Be a dear and check on the man for me? Make sure Rolf is keeping him close at hand . . .”
“Of course, my lord.” Hugo hurried off. At the door he asked, “What do you plan to do with this man?”
Heinrich shrugged under his blanket. “I suppose I’ll have to kill him, if he doesn’t succeed in killing me first. What else is there to do?”
Hugo sighed and left the room, heading downstairs to check on the “houseguest.” But at the end of the hall Beauregard, the white-headed butler, was waiting for hima smile half-hidden inside his mounds of wrinkles. The jovial expression surprised Hugo. He’d never known Beauregard to offer any expression, much less a happy one.
“What is it, Beauregard?”
Beauregard’s gloved hand came out from behind his back, offering Hugo a letter.
“A message for you, young master.”
Hugo took it. It was sealed with red wax by a house he didn’t recognize.
Tearing open the envelope, he skimmed the lines and his melancholy immediately lifted.
Barons Josef von Erftstadt and Ludwig von Bergheim had formally accepted his proposal. Heinrich Franz and Lucille Engel were getting married.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SYBIL
Sybil tightened her coat. It would be a cold day at sea. The men had tried to convince her to stay in Norfolk, that their journey would be too dangerous, but it had been Rowaine who’d spoken up on her behalf.
Rolling into the living room on the crazy chair that Daxton had fashioned for her from wood, an axle, and carriage wheels, Rowaine had spoken of things the men never thought much about.
“Every woman deserves to have the wind in her hair if she wishes,” Rowaine said to Daxton and Georg. “You’re just lucky I can’t go with you.”
Georg strapped his heavy belt around his waist—the belt getting tighter and his waist rounder—and fastened his bow and quiver over his shoulder. “I wish you could, Cat.”
Daxton nodded. “You have the courage, Beele, I’ll give you that. You’ve taught me to appreciate what a woman like you is capable of. But things may get violent.”
“She can handle it,” Rowaine said, speaking of her good friend. She stared at Sybil with her piercing green eyes. “Can’t you?”
Indeed, Sybil was ready to stand up for herself. “I’m accustomed to violence,” she said. “Do you forget, Georg, that I was there when Dieter slew Johannes von Bergheim? Or that I was there at Claus’ inn, Dax, when war broke out with Gustav?”
“Yes, you were,” Daxton acknowledged. “But can you kill a man? If you’re engaged with a ruffian who thinks nothing of your life, could you put an end to his?”
Rowaine pushed her wheeled chair out of the room, returning a few moments later with a pistol. “Take my gun,” she said, handing it to Sybil. “Just in case.”
Sybil gulped, then tucked the gun beneath her dress. “I can if I must,” she said. “But I’m also going to try preventing you savage men from pushing things that far.”
Georg and Daxton both went quiet. Georg placed two pistols in his waistband and strapped a sword to his belt. There was no point in arguing—especially when Rowaine took Sybil’s side. She was a hardened captain whose fearlessness had clearly rubbed off on Sybil.
There was a knock on the door, then before it could be answered Claire Durand and her husband, Leon, entered. Claire had agreed to watch Rowaine—much to Rowaine’s chagrin—while Leon joined the crew on the Lion’s Pride. Behind Claire and Leon stood seven more local men—husbands and textile workers and builders—who’d also signed onto the ship. Daxton had figured that eleven crewmen would be enough.
Claire held a large banner of soft wool folded in her arms. Holding it up to Daxton, she smiled and said, “Your new pennant, finished just this morning.”
It displayed a replica of the Saint George’s Cross: a red cross on a white background, one of the most common flags in England. The Lion’s Pride would be hiding in plain sight.
Daxton bowed and took the flag. And with that, they were ready.
The large group left Strangers Shire while it was still dark, the sky a vibrant purple in anticipation of sunrise. By the time the sun cleared the horizon, they’d be onboard the Pride.
The wind whipped the salty air through Sybil’s hair, making her squint as she stood by the helm. By now the sun was halfway to its peak in the sky, but clouds shielded its rays and the North Sea was cold and dreary.
When they’d boarded ship, Daxton had ordered two of his men to replace the Pride’s flag—a leonine face biting into a gold coin—with the Saint George’s Cross Claire had made for them. They’d then rowed out of the little cove they’d stored the ship in and headed west around the coast toward the seaside port of Wells-next-the-Sea.
Once the wind picked up, they released the mast furls and stowed their oars. Maneuvering around other ships, they soon cleared the port traffic, their full sails gliding them along a vast empty ocean for as far as the eye could see.
Daxton ran his hand over the wheel, admiring its wood, while Sybil watched.
He seems so at ease.
She turned to Georg, sitting on the bench, his hands nervously clenched together.
And he doesn’t.
Georg saw her staring and, reading her thoughts, said, “I don’t much like the sea.”
Sybil chuckled. “Then why didn’t you stay behind with your daughter?”
“This entire plan is my fault, Beele. I must see it through. Even if I die.”
Sybil walked over to the man, resting her hand on his broad shoulder. “You won’t die, you fool.”
Georg ignored her comment. “And to think,” he muttered to himself, “all this so I can just get drunk whenever I wish.”
Sybil smiled.
The goal of this journey was to get Guy’s ledger from King’s Lynn, so they could ship the textiles to Germany, which in turn would earn Georg his building license from Reeve Bailey so he could build his tavern.
All this for that.
But even though they both joked about it, Sybil knew there was more to Georg’s plan than just the tavern and getting drunk. “You’re doing this for Row, you big oaf. We all know that. So you can support her and she can live reasonably.”
Georg nodded. “She tried to stop me from this wild plan. And maybe she was right . . .” he trailed off. Sybil started to tell him that his lack of confidence was unbecoming but before she could Leon called out from the lookout tower.
“A ship on the horizon! Anchored not far from the coast!”
Daxton walked to the gunwale and brought out his spyglass. With Georg and Sybil standing behind him, he surveyed the situation.
“Well?” Sybil asked.
Daxton smirked. “It’s got a big, round, silver circle on its hull.”
“The Silver Sun,” Georg said.
Sybil smiled. “Let’s charge him!”
“Not so fast, my dear,” Daxton said. “We don’t yet know what we’re dealing with.
Putting his spyglass away, he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted to Leon at the lookout tower, “When I give the command, lower the Saint George and raise the lion!” Then he crossed his arms over his chest, looking every bit the captain he’d become. “Let’s see what kind of a scare we can give them.”
Daxton aimed his pistol at the chest of the young man. The man, maybe twenty, had scruffy brown hair and a handsome face, and Sybil couldn’t take her eyes off him. Her heart even fluttered a bit when his eyes locked onto hers.
Georg and Sybil stood behind Daxton, who had taken command of the situation. The Silver Sun was much smaller than the Pride, with seven crewmen. Once the crew had seen the Pride’s English flag lowered and its true lion flag raised, their captain had wisely decided not to engage or try to flee.
When they’d first breached the ship, Daxton had been tense, not having boarded another vessel in some time. It brought back violent memories that he’d just as soon leave behind, so it was no wonder that the knuckles of the hand now aiming his pistol were bright white. Sybil touched his shoulder and he flinched.
“You’ll lose feeling in that hand if you clench any harder,” she said softly.
Daxton inhaled quickly. Glancing around he realized he was the only one holding a weapon. Slowly he lowered his arm, his face flushed—part embarrassment, part relief.
Meanwhile, near the stern, Georg, Leon, and the rest of the Pride’s crew were keeping watch of the rest of the men of the Silver Sun. Though the situation was tense, it was not overly so, which Sybil reckoned was a good thing.
Jittery men made stupid decisions.
Her eyes moved from man to man.
Good thing I’m here. Our men are itching for combat, but it doesn’t have to be like that.
Over Daxton’s shoulder she called out to the handsome young man. “What’s your name?”
“Corvin Carradine, ma’am,” he said evenly. Sybil found it interesting that, though he was clearly in charge of the ship, he hadn’t included “Captain” in his title. Also, he spoke quite politely.
“Well, Corvin, do you know why we’re here?”
The young captain scanned the men around him. “I can guess why they’re here,” he said, his eyes moving to Leon, Georg, and Daxton. “But I haven’t the slightest idea why you’re here, ma’am. Please don’t take offense, but you don’t look like one of Guy’s scoundrels.”
Sybil arched her brow. “Scoundrels? You’re the one on the run, are you not? Wouldn’t that make you the vagrant?”
The young man flashed a wistful smile. “I suppose we’re all champions in our own story, no?”
Sybil couldn’t hide her smile.
“I will respectfully say, however,” the man continued, “that your group is on the wrong side of this.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, you’re here to kill me, are you not?”
With a look of surprise, Sybil shook her head. “No one said anything about killing. We’re simply here to gather the stolen goods you have—”
“Actually, we are,” a voice from behind said. Everyone turned.
Georg stepped forward, pulling a long knife from his belt. “I hope there’s no hard feelings, boy. But let’s get on with it, shall we?”
Standing between Georg and the young captain, Sybil held her arms up. “Hold on now, Georg. This wasn’t part of the plan.”
Georg frowned at her. “It’s what Guy whispered in my ear, Sybil.”
Upon hearing their names mentioned, Corvin took a step back.
“Sybil? Georg?” he questioned, staring hard at Sybil. “So you’re the Daughter of the Beast, ma’am? Piracy does not suit you, I’ll say. You are much too beautiful for it.”
Sybil chose to ignore that, assuming it nothing more than an attempt to buy one’s life back. She looked at Georg. “What could we possibly gain from killing this man?”
“Don’t get attached, Beele. He’s trying to charm you. This is why it’s better that women don’t participate in these things.”
“Oh, rubbish, Georg! Answer my question.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know why Guy wants him dead. It’s none of my business. But if we want that ledger, it must be done.”
“Is it really w
orth it, Georg? All for a builder’s license?”
Corvin began chuckling. Sybil eyed him with a perplexed look.
“Is that what Guy told you?” he asked, “That if you kill me, his ledger is yours?”
Georg narrowed his eyes but didn’t answer.
“Why do you think he wants me dead?” the man continued. He waited for a response, then sighed. “I have that rogue’s ledger, my friends.”
Sybil turned back to him. “Is that why he wants you dead—you’re stealing his business?”
Corvin shook his head and grinned. “Oh, no. Guy is the thief, my lady. I am sailing to Amsterdam to show the ledger to the other representatives of the Hanseatic League, to prove that Guy is a thief. He’s been undercutting and stealing wares from the League, right under their noses, for years. He wants me dead so that I can’t expose him.”
A long moment of silence fell over the crowded deck.
Finally Georg muttered, “This is madness,” shaking his head, still gripping his knife.
Sybil scratched a spot above her forehead, then pointed to the barrels in the ship’s holding tank beneath the main mast. “So you didn’t steal these goods from Guy?”
“Well, yes. That I did,” Corvin admitted. “But they weren’t his to begin with. They’re filled with sugar and tobacco, all property of the League.”
Daxton joined the conversation. “So you just expect us to let you go and take your word for it?”
Corvin smiled again, dimples forming in his cheeks. “Expect? No. Hope? Absolutely.”
Sybil looked at Georg and Daxton. “I can’t make sense of this. What do you think?”
Daxton spoke first. “I say we kill him and be done with it. You can explain it to your friend in King’s Lynn when you get there with his ship and barrels.”
Daxton’s burst of savagery surprised Sybil. She turned to Georg, who seemed a bit more thoughtful.
“I don’t know if we can trust him,” Georg said. The young captain, who’d been holding his breath as his fate was decided, exhaled. His chest deflated and his shoulders slumped.
