by Cory Barclay
But he didn’t know how.
Then, as his eyes swept across the sleeping city before him, he recalled the last words Ernst had spoken to him.
Prove it.
He’d challenged Heinrich to prove that Ludwig von Bergheim and Josef von Erftstadt had in fact been plotting against Bedburg before their deaths.
But could he? And was that even true? The two barons could have been totally innocent, never plotting against his lordship or his city.
Could my thoughts have been delusional? Could my illusions of grandeur have torn me asunder, turned me paranoid, made me do terrible things, all because of my lust for power?
Turning away from the window, his gut told him he’d been right. Those men had been enemies. He just knew it.
But how could he prove it?
On the desk next to him sat a stack of books. His eyes scanned the titles—a treatise on war, another on politics, another translating the Protestant Bibleapparent favorites of Ernst that he read at his leisure. But the book on top was one Heinrich had brought with him from Bedburg on a whim. It was the ledger from Ludwig Koehler’s scribe and assistant, Hedda. The one he’d confiscated after slaying her lord.
Suddenly he had an idea. He took the ledger from the stack and, sitting down at the desk, opened it. He moved a small candle burning in a dish closer, so he could read more clearly, and began poring over the pages of the book. Some contained numbers and columns and graphs he had no interest in. But others were filled with conversations Hedda had transcribed between Ludwig and the people he did business with.
He began to read the transcriptions. Scooting his chair in closer, he lost track of time. Before he knew it, dawn was approaching.
Leaning back in his chair he yawned and rubbed his eyes. But just as he was about to close the ledger, a single word on the opened page caught his eye.
Mord.
Bubbling anger rose as Heinrich’s jaw clenched. He’d seen and heard that word many times since becoming lord of Bedburg. It was an alias, a pseudonym, of an unknown bastard trying to save the Protestants and other rebels from their doomed fate. It had been Ulrich who had first brought the name to his attention, on notes apparently written by the rogue.
In Heinrich’s efforts to shape his control over the citizens of Bedburg, he’d devised numerous strategies for rooting out non-Catholics. Since his time before becoming the lord of Bedburg, back when he played the role of Chief Inquisitor Adalbert in Trier, Heinrich had acquired a knack for learning secrets circulating his town. And under the authority of Archbishop Ernst, he’d mastered that art, becoming a vicious inquisitor in his own right, in his efforts to help keep his city a Catholic majority.
And that required names. Names of those to be imprisoned or executed, brought to him in several ways: in hushed tones from concerned Catholics; through confessions with Bishop Balthasar; from backstabbing landowners willing to give up their neighbors in exchange for their land; and from tavern-dwellers and alleyway rumormongers.
But someone—this Mord—had been thwarting those efforts. And to Heinrich’s infuriation, this person was apparently a better schemer than he was, having somehow created a system which figured out in advance who Heinrich would brand as traitor, witch, or Protestant. As a result, too many insurgents were managing to escape the city without facing their deserved punishment.
So Heinrich was very interested in this Mord person.
And by God, Baron Ludwig was actually having a conversation with this bastard!
He continued reading the transcript of that conversation:
Mord – Give me what I want and your city will be safe.
L – What guarantees do I have of your success? It’s my neck in a noose if you fail . . .
M – My superior will reward you handsomely. You don’t even have to take part in the battle.
L – That still doesn’t abate my worries.
M – Allow my lord’s men to settle in Bergheim, Ludwig, and you will soon find yourself a prosperous man.
L – You promise me Bedburg?
M – We have no need for Bedburg. Cologne is our final destination—Bedburg is merely a stepping stone.
L - Because you can’t stay hidden in Bergheim forever.
M – Precisely. My lord requires a central base of operation for all of our efforts against Cologne. Once Bedburg has fallen, it will be too late to rid us from the principality—we will be an established power.
L – And once Gebhard has reclaimed his throne . . . (trailed off unintelligibly)
M – Once my lord has Cologne, Bedburg and the districts west of Cologne will be yours, in payment for your allegiance and for sheltering his troops. All we ask is that you open your gates to us and house and feed us while the army builds.
L – Sounds like an expensive proposition.
M – The rewards will far outweigh the expenditure. My lord promises that.
L – We shall see. I’ll have my answer for you within the fortnight.
(hands shaken)
By the time Heinrich got to the end of the passage, his throat was tight, his lips dry. Flipping quickly through the book, he discovered that passage was the only one with no date attached. And it was clear why: the words spoken were treasonous. Which explained Hedda’s use of letters, rather than full names, except for that initial mention of Mord at the beginning, presumably to reference for the baron which conversation it was.
In fact, the only reason Heinrich could imagine the baron asking Hedda to transcribe something so incriminating would be to document for “L” what his compensation would be under the agreement in the event of a later dispute.
Slamming the book shut, Heinrich tried to absorb what he’d just read.
That bastard Ludwig has indeed been plotting against me!
He’d found it! He had his proof.
Jumping up from his chair, he punched his hands above him in victory. Though it was near morning, and the city—and Ernst—were still sleeping, he was too energized to let this groundbreaking news rest. Grabbing the ledger, he tucked it into his tunic and, wrapping both hands around it, headed up the stairs to the throne room.
Archbishop Ernst was not happy. Emerging from a hallway hunched over and still in his sleeping gown, his eyes were red and half-closed. Rubbing the crust from his eyelids with one hand, he held a candle close to Heinrich’s face with the other.
“What is the meaning of this early intrusion, Heinrich?” When he squinted more closely at the man, he added, “And why are your eyes so big?”
Unable to contain himself, Heinrich smiled broadly and dramatically presented the ledger. “The proof you told me to bring you, Your Grace. I’ve found it.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“In these pages! The proof we’ve been looking for! The proof you asked me to find, to regain your electoral seat.” He shook the ledger for emphasis, proclaiming, “Baron Ludwig Koehler von Bergheim was plotting against me, Your Grace. And against you! He was arranging for the Protestant army to encamp in Bergheim in secret, while they readied themselves to attack Cologne.”
Ernst’s eyes grew wide, all sleepiness gone. He snatched the ledger from Heinrich. “Can it be true?”
Heinrich stepped beside him and opened the book to the correct passage. As Ernst read through it quickly, his face lost all color.
“God preserve us . . .” he muttered.
“So you see?” Heinrich said, “this is the evidence you need, to take your seat back from your nephew, yes?”
The archbishop nodded slowly, his face blank, his mind working feverishly. He looked up at Heinrich. “Who’s Mord?”
“I’m not sure. At least not yet. But let me worry about that, Your Grace.”
Ernst sighed. Scratching his forehead, then running his fingers through his hair, he said, “This could be disastrous. I . . . I must warn someone—everyone!”
Cupping a hand to his mouth, Ernst yelled down the hallway for his couriers. Three boys instant
ly appeared. Ernst quickly directed each one on a different mission and they scurried off as fast as they’d appeared. Then Ernst headed for the door. Before he got there, Heinrich shouted, “M-my lord!” and the archbishop turned back around.
“What about me, Your Grace?” Heinrich asked sheepishly.
Ernst glanced off for a moment and thought, then looked back at Heinrich.
“Oh, yes, yes, very well, Heinrich. You have your army. Now go defend my city, before it’s taken from us both!”
As soon as Ernst vanished from view, Heinrich smiled wolfishly. Now he had the support he’d wanted. The power to fight against the Protestants, who now it seemed were apparently at his doorstep.
But you make one mistake, my lord, my love . . .
Bedburg is my city.
Heinrich’s carriage exited Cologne through its western gate. Ordering his driver to go faster, he regretted that Felix wasn’t driving. But as long as he kept reminding this new coachman to hurry, they’d hopefully still make it back to Bedburg by nightfall.
As they sped through the countryside, one thought kept swirling through Heinrich’s brain: Who is Mord? He opened the ledger again and re-read the passage between “Mord” and Ludwig. Then he read it again. And again, until his head hurt.
Perhaps it was that headache, or the steady beat of the sun through the carriage window, that cleared his mind. But whatever it was, when he finally closed the ledger he had his answer.
An operation of this magnitude, storing and hiding an army right under my nose . . . would take a man with a sound military mind. Only a man with that kind of training could control all aspects of such a far-reaching mission. He’d need to know how much food and supplies to bring, how many rifles and horses were necessary, calculate how long to stay in Bergheim.
Very few people knew of my plans to arrest the Protestant rabblerousers. I’ve made sure to keep that information close to me. But there is one man who did know—either directly from me, or from reading Ulrich’s ledger.
The same man responsible for arresting those people.
The same man I see going to church everyday—undoubtedly working with the bishop, that sly bastard.
The very man I just ordered to be released in my letter to Hugo.
The same man who would lead my army.
Tomas Reiner is Mord!
CHAPTER THIRTY
DIETER
The newest note from “Mord” had named Cristoff Krüger, the tavern owner, as the man needing to be rescued. But it had been Kruger’s top-earning worker, Aellin Brandt, who had actually been arrested for treason.
Dieter tapped his chin thoughtfully.
He, his son, and Martin were now in a small room that Claus had graciously provided them at his inn. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dieter had the two “Mord” notes he’d been comparing spread out next to him. Every so often he’d look up from the messages and peek out the curtained window to the street below, crowded with citizens milling about and town guards patrolling.
Now that it was clear that this latest note had been written by someone other than the “Mord” who had signed the earlier messages, Dieter had to figure out why it had been delivered and why the information in it had been wrong.
Had the misinformation been accidental or intentional? Was this new “Mord” someone trying to help who just happened to have bad information? Or was it someone intentionally trying to mislead? And if so, to what end?
And was this new “Mord” even a person, or something more sinister?
With so many questions, Dieter didn’t know where to begin. Frustrated, he shook his head. Up until this last note, the messages from “Mord” had been his strongest weapon against Heinrich and his tyranny. So he’d never questioned where they came from. As long as they proved truthful and helped, there was no need to.
But now things were different. He was angry, of course, but more than that he was ashamed. He should have determined the identity of the letter-writer before it had come to this. Because now, not only was his strongest weapon rendered useless, but his strongest ally was gone. Aellin had proved invaluable. She was cunning, aware of everything going on in Bedburg—and what she didn’t know, she had ways of finding out—and had helped him save numerous condemned Protestants and rebels.
And now Dieter feared for her life. He knew how far Ulrich would go to extract information from the poor girl. And though Aellin was one of the bravest and most loyal women he’d ever known, she was also still human. A person could only be put through so much agony before cracking and revealing secret sources and pertinent intelligence.
Which made Dieter wonder how much Aellin really knew. And where her true loyalties lay. Did she know, or at least have an idea, who “Mord”—either of them—really was? Did she know where he, Dieter, was now hiding? How long do I have before my position is discovered? And how much did she know about this supposed Protestant rebellion?
Dieter remembered that Aellin’s friend and co-worker, a redheaded wench named Josephine, had been accused of supporting the Protestants before she’d been killed by Heinrich Franz. And Aellin’s former boss, Lars, the tavern owner before Cristoff, had also been a Protestant backer. Did that mean Aellin’s loyalties were similarly aligned? Or were such past relationships meaningless in determining one’s beliefs?
As his thoughts drifted from one unanswered question to the next, he considered his next move. He’d become increasingly scared of going outside, especially in the daylight. He didn’t want to put any more people in danger, not to mention his own safety. As his son’s sole means of support, he couldn’t afford to take any more chances. If something were to happen to him now, his boy would have no one: Ava, who’d done her best to act as the boy’s surrogate mother, was now missing; and Claus, as kindly and well-intentioned as he was, was still old and in no condition to care for a young child.
Dieter sighed. Whatever he did, he had to be careful.
He looked over at Martin who was sitting on the floor on the far side of the room watching Peter walk in circles to make himself dizzy, as young boys do. When the toddler finally tumbled innocently to the ground, giggling, both Dieter and Martin shared a pained grin.
“What do you think about all this?” Dieter asked Martin. “Do you have any suggestions? You know Heinrich Franz and Bedburg as well as I do.”
Martin’s mouth turned down. “I feel just as lost as you, Dieter. I don’t know what to do. We certainly can’t trust the notes anymore, and if we can’t trust them, what do we have?”
“So you’re saying Heinrich has won?”
Martin shook his head. “As long as you remain free and alive, I do not believe all is lost. You give hope to the townspeople—the marginalized, the restless, the rebellious.”
“I’m not sure that’s true any longer,” Dieter said, peeking out the window again.
“I do. People still see you as a beacon of faith and trust, even if they must say so in whispers. I daresay you’re more accepted than the lord of Bedburg.”
Dieter hadn’t really thought of things that way, so Martin’s words gave him a glimmer of hope. “Do you have any idea who could be compromising our letters and giving us false information?”
Martin shook his head, still watching Peter on the ground.
A light knock came at the door. Dieter and Martin exchanged a look, then Dieter quietly got up and hid behind the door. “Yes?” Martin called out, cracking the door enough to peer out.
It was Claus with a young woman beside him. She was petite and pretty, and wore large spectacles. In Claus’s hand was a tray of food: more stale bread, cheese, and warm ale. Handing the tray to the girl, Claus smiled then walked away, leaving the girl to bring the tray into the room. As she entered, and Dieter registered who it was, his eyes widened. It was Hedda, Gustav Koehler’s former secretary and scribe.
She set the food tray on the bed, smiling down at Peter who stood up and attacked the food like a rabid wolf.
“What’s the meanin
g of this, woman?” Dieter asked, walking out from behind the door. “What are you doing here?”
Hedda turned toward him. She seemed to have aged a great deal since Dieter last saw her. It hadn’t been that long ago, less than a year, outside this very inn, the night of the fateful battle between Gustav’s men and Rowaine’s pirate crew, when Dieter’s wife, Sybil, was taken from him. Although that deadly confrontation had been triggered when it appeared young Peter was in jeopardy, it turned out to be a ruse. Gustav had used Peter as bait to capture and escape with Sybil instead.
Which then of course led to Sybil burning at the stake, or so Dieter thought.
So Dieter had plenty of reason to despise Hedda. She’d not only aided Gustav, she’d also been complicit in what eventually led to the loss of his wife.
“I come bearing good news,” Hedda said, glancing at Dieter, then looking away when she saw his expression of utter disgust. Turning to Martin, she said, “I’m here to help.”
“Say your piece and be gone,” Dieter told her.
Martin exchanged a hard look with Dieter. Although Martin had also been in that battle with Gustav at the inn, for whatever reason he was more forgiving of this girl. “We can take whatever help we can get, Dieter.”
Dieter didn’t reply, his gaze fixed on Hedda.
“I come from Bergheim,” she said. “Following my Lord Ludwig’s murder, I was thrown into Bedburg’s jailhouse, then released a few days ago and sought refuge in Bergheim, where I thought it to be safe.”
“I hope that place burns to the ground,” Dieter mumbled, “just like my church in Norfolk.”
That had been another evil perpetrated by Gustav, the burning of Dieter’s church.
Hedda sighed. “I’m sure it will, in due time, with or without my help. Because of what’s headed there.”
Martin cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
Hedda pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “An army is building in Bergheim, in secret. Their goal is a military coup to take Bedburg and the surrounding cities, and eventually Cologne itself.”
