by Cory Barclay
Peter scoffed. “I’m busy trying to teach my children work ethic and the realities of life. We have no time for God in our daily work.”
Sybil gasped and put a hand over her mouth. Even she knew what a bad thing that was to say to a priest.
Father Nicolaus sounded undeterred. “We all have time for God, Herr Griswold. He is all around us, after all. If I see your family at Mass in the coming days—which I hope to see—let’s see if I can’t change your mind about giving glory to God, even in your day-to-day routine.”
Peter grumbled a few more times, and it seemed as though the conversation was coming to an end. Sybil sprinted away from the door and into the living quarters, where she sat down on a chair and grabbed a spindle and thread.
A moment later, Peter stomped into the house. He put his hands on his hips and glared at Sybil. After a long moment, he asked, “Where did you meet him?”
“At the marketplace,” Sybil said. “He helped me pick out apples.”
“I want you to stay away from that boy.”
Sybil’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not a boy, father. He’s a kind, harmless man, and a priest.”
“No man is harmless—not even a priest—especially not when my daughter is involved. You don’t see the way men look at you, Sybil, because you’re young.”
Sybil stood from her chair, crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her nose up at her father. “He was just being nice. It isn’t like he was trying to court me.”
The air seemed to leave Peter’s lungs, and he pointed a thick finger toward his daughter. “Don’t even say that word—court.”
Sybil threw her arms in the air. Her voice raised an octave as she said, “I’m not a little girl anymore! I can’t stay here forever, and you can’t protect me forever!”
“You’ll stay here as long as I say.”
Sybil tried to stay angry, but then her bottom lip began to tremble. She looked down at the ground.
Peter walked over to her and put a hand on her slender shoulder. He kneeled beside her, so they were at eye level. He tried to soften his voice and said, “Beele, I’m your father. It’s my job to protect you. You don’t know the terrible things that men are capable of, especially to a beautiful girl such as yourself. I would be lost if anything ever happened to you. You know that, right?”
Sybil nodded as tears welled in her eyes. “Is that why you lied, then? To protect me?”
Peter’s neck jerked back.
“You lied and said we weren’t Protestants. Why?”
Peter scratched the back of his head with his only hand. “So you were eavesdropping,” he said with a sigh. “There are things you don’t understand about the world—”
“Then make me understand!”
“Our people are not safe here, Beele!” Peter snapped. “Don’t you see why we hardly ever venture into town? The Catholics hate us, they’re winning the war, and they control the town. A few years ago it wasn’t like that, but now it is, so we must be discreet.”
“Father Nicolaus doesn’t hate me,” Sybil said in a low voice, still pouting with her arms crossed.
“Father Nicolaus doesn’t know you. And he surely doesn’t know you’re a Protestant.”
“No, but he knows we don’t go to church. Can’t he assume why?”
“He can’t do anything without proof,” Peter said. He stood to his full height. “Now, come, enough of all this. Let’s start dinner, and tomorrow we’ll begin the day fresh.”
As he walked away, Sybil kept her eyes on him. She was a curious and observant girl, and she could tell by his body language that there was something else nagging at her father.
Why doesn’t he mention the murder that Father Nicolaus spoke of? He says he wants to protect me, but isn’t that something I should know about?
CHAPTER FIVE
HEINRICH
Karl Achterberg howled in agony as the fifth fingernail from his right hand was forcibly removed with rusty pliers. The farmer whimpered and collapsed to the ground, clutching his hand. Blood seeped through his fingers and down his forearm. He pissed himself, and the urine pooled at his feet.
The torturer, Ulrich, was a big man with a purple scar running down half his face. He grinned, seeming to take a grim satisfaction in his work.
“Quash that smile from your face,” Heinrich said to the punisher.
Ulrich frowned. “Is it so wrong to take pride in what I do, investigator?”
Heinrich shook his head. He’d kept the farmer in jail over night. Now it was morning, Heinrich was a bit hung over, and the man’s screeching was giving him a piercing headache.
While Heinrich had been imbibing with his new acquaintance—the huntsman Georg Sieghart—a distraught mother had come to the coroner’s chambers. She recognized the dead girl’s tattered blue dress and identified her as Dorothea Gabler, the woman’s daughter. Then she promptly fell unconscious at the grotesque sight of her beloved child. Dorothea was fourteen years old, and the daughter of two tailors.
Her mother had no idea why Dorothea would have been so far out in the countryside—their home was near the town.
The girl had gone missing two nights ago. Heinrich figured she was killed last morning, and discovered that afternoon by the farmer, Karl Achterberg.
Heinrich was certain that this farmer knew more than he was letting on. The interrogation had gone on throughout most of the morning, however, and Karl hadn’t said much. The investigator contemplated using more severe interrogation techniques, as removing fingernails was more painful than permanent, and not very efficient in this case.
“Tell me something I can use, Karl, and this will all stop. Tell me something, and you can go home to your wife and son.”
The heavyset farmer glared at Heinrich with a look of horror, as if wondering how the investigator knew of his family. He whimpered.
“Very well,” Heinrich sighed. “Tomas?”
Heinrich’s right-hand man walked into the cell. He tugged at a rope, and two large hunting dogs were led into the room, leashed together.
“Your prized hounds, Karl. If I open them up, are you telling me that I won’t find the remains of Dorothea’s missing left arm in their stomachs?”
Karl sputtered and his jaw dropped. “I . . . please,” he began, and trailed off.
When no more words were forthcoming, Heinrich turned to Tomas. “Kill them.”
Tomas hesitated and arched his brow at the investigator. Then he unsheathed a knife from his belt and held it to the throat of one of the dogs.
“Wait! Wait!” Karl shouted. “Please, don’t kill them! I’ll tell you what I know.”
Heinrich nodded to Tomas, who sheathed his knife with a sigh of relief.
“Maybe now we’ll get somewhere,” Heinrich said. He took a seat on a stool in front of Karl.
Karl choked on his own spit and swallowed hard. His bloody hand trembled, and his eyes darted around the room. “There’s a man—a neighbor of mine. H-he’s a Rhenish farmer. He’s quite wealthy and well-known throughout—”
“His name?”
“Peter. Peter Griswold. Some people call him Peter Stubbe behind his back.”
“Why?”
“He’s missing his left hand. No . . . his right.” The farmer shrugged. “He’s missing a hand.”
Heinrich nodded, crossed one leg over the other, and rested his chin on one of his fists. “Continue.”
“He’s an evil fellow, my lord. I swear it. He practices black magic and rituals and steals off into the night. I’ve seen it, as God as my witness, I’ve seen it!” Karl Achterberg began to sweat from his forehead, brow, and from other unseemly places.
“Where does he go at night?” Heinrich asked, cocking his head to one side.
“I’ve never followed him, my lord. But he does evil things in his home. Ask around, and you’ll see I’m not lying.”
“What kinds of things does he do, Karl?”
“Evil things.”
Heinrich felt his piercing
headache return, and he breathed deeply to control his temper.
“He beds his own daughter, my lord,” Karl said, as if he noticed the frustration on Heinrich’s face.
Heinrich’s eyebrows went high. He leaned in toward Karl, his face getting so close that he could smell the farmer’s foul breath. “Incest is a grave accusation, Karl. Have you witnessed this act before?”
Karl tried to look away. His eyes darted around some more. “N-no, I haven’t, my lord. But I’ve heard the stories! I’m not the only one who’s heard them.”
Heinrich breathed hard through his nose and studied the farmer’s trembling face—his beady, sunken eyes; his perspiring neck and forehead; his fat, sagging jowls.
After a long pause, Heinrich abruptly stood and turned away from the man. “Is there anything else I should know about Peter Griswold?”
“O-one more thing, my lord. He secretly follows the teachings of Martin Luther.”
Heinrich spun around and faced the farmer again. “A Lutheran, you say? My dear Karl, why didn’t you begin with that?” He smiled, turned to his bodyguard, and clapped Tomas on the shoulder. “I believe we should go talk with this man, Tomas. Don’t you?”
Tomas nodded. “And what about the dogs, investigator?”
“And what about me?!” Karl whimpered.
Heinrich looked at the punisher. “Lock him up, Ulrich.”
“But you said I could go home, my lord! Please, I’ve told you what I know!” Karl pleaded.
Heinrich ignored the wailing man and walked at a brisk pace out of the jailhouse.
Heinrich ate a quick lunch to ease his headache, and then he and Tomas took two horses from the jail and rode south, toward the farmlands just outside of Bedburg.
It was midday, so they traveled hard and fast down the muddy, winding trails of Bedburg’s main thoroughfare. As they reached the edge of town, gray clouds began to swirl overhead. They made their way into the hilly countryside, asked around for directions to Peter Griswold’s estate, and found it easily enough.
For a farmer, Heinrich decided, Peter Griswold had a large estate. There was a pasture with grazing cattle, a stable and barn behind the main house, and an extensive field of crops. His nearest neighbors were acres away, to the west and east. Heinrich assumed one of those neighboring estates was Karl Achterberg’s.
A man was outside of the main house with a rake in his hand, finishing the day’s chores. As Heinrich and Tomas approached, the man stood tall and leaned on the rake. Even from a distance, Heinrich could notice his left hand—or lack thereof. Heinrich and Tomas dismounted a fair distance away, and led their horses toward the house.
The big man threw down his rake and ambled their way. He stopped them at the edge of his fields, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Can I help you?” he asked, sounding annoyed.
Heinrich took off one of his black gloves and held his hand out. He smiled, and said, “Hello, Herr Griswold. I am Investigator Heinrich Franz, and this is my associate, Tomas.”
Peter hesitated, looked at Heinrich’s hand as if it carried a disease, and finally took it. His grip was suffocating. “To what do I owe the pleasure, investigator? It’s nearly nightfall.”
“We are investigating the murder of Dorothea Gabler. I’m sure you heard of her brutal murder from yesterday?”
“Who hasn’t,” Peter said. “It’s a tragedy. Though you said it was the Gabler girl? I didn’t know that. Sybil will be devastated.”
Heinrich paused and studied the man’s face. It was blank—expressionless. “Indeed. Sybil is your daughter, I’m assuming?”
Peter nodded.
“Were they friends?”
“Somewhat. They were close in age.”
Heinrich slipped on his black glove and put his hands behind his back. “Well, so that I don’t waste your time, I’ll get right to it.” He cleared his throat. “We have some disturbing reports that might implicate you, in some way, to young Dorothea’s death.”
The farmer’s face tightened. “What in God’s good graces are you talking about?”
“Well, I’ve heard that you might be a practitioner of . . . what was it again, Tomas?”
“Black magic, my lord.”
“Right. Black magic. I’ve also heard that you are a follower of Martin Luther, which, as you know, is quite frowned upon these days.”
Peter shook his head. “You have some gall to make those accusations, sir. Where do you people get off? I don’t practice magic—of any kind—and I don’t follow Luther, goddammit. That’s the second time someone’s accused me of that today.”
Heinrich put a hand forward. “Please calm down, sir.”
“Calm down?” Peter shouted. “Where do you get your lies from? Who is trying to tarnish my good name? I am a loyal citizen of Bedburg, and I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Your accuser’s identity is part of our ongoing investigation,” Heinrich said, looking down at his own boots. “But you said someone else called you a Lutheran today? Who might that be.”
Peter opened his mouth and looked to the sky, as if thinking. “Dieter . . . something or other,” he said. “The young priest. He walked my daughter home this morning.”
Heinrich reached into his tunic and produced a piece of parchment and a quill. On the paper he had written Dorothea, and now he drew a line next to the name and wrote Sybil Griswold – friend, and Dieter – priest.
Peter scratched the stubble on his chin, wrinkled his forehead, and after a long pause he started nodding. “Ah, I see what’s going on here.”
Heinrich cocked his head to the side. “Sir?”
“This is that slippery snake Karl Achterberg’s doing, isn’t it?”
Heinrich shared a look with Tomas, but the soldier just shrugged.
“What if it is?” Heinrich pried.
“That devil has been after me for as long as I can remember.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he thinks I dishonored him,” Peter said. “Why would I ever want to mix my land with his tiny farm? He’s a disgruntled fool.”
Heinrich twirled his wispy mustache in his fingers. “What do you mean by ‘mix your land,’ sir?”
“He’s my neighbor.”
“I’m aware.”
“With all due respect, investigator, have you been living in a tree?” Peter sighed heavily. “Everyone knows how desperate he was to marry his sod of a son to my beautiful daughter.”
Heinrich looked down at his parchment and started writing. “He wanted to arrange a marriage between his son and your daughter? How long ago was this?”
“About a year ago. And yes, with that marriage he’d have been entitled to half my farm. That rat. Sybil is far too precious to me, and my family is doing fine without that fool. And now he uses that incident to spout outlandish claims about me. Really, Herr Franz, a practitioner of black magic?” Peter started to chuckle.
Heinrich closed his eyes and frowned. He rubbed his temples and thought, Damn these farmers. Did Karl Achterberg really believe he’d be able to frame this man over his petty marriage dispute? I should harvest that man’s organs.
The investigator cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to waste your time, Herr Griswold. But one last question, before we go, if you don’t mind. Where were you two nights ago?”
Peter looked past Heinrich and stuck out his lips. “I was at the marketplace with my daughter, ‘til late. We were selling some vegetables.”
With that, Peter Griswold bid the investigator a good day, and went into his house.
Heinrich watched the farmer enter the house. He caught a glimpse of a fair-skinned, blonde girl peeking from the door as it was closing.
“What do you think about these farmers, Tomas?” Heinrich turned to his bodyguard.
Tomas shrugged. “I don’t know, sir, I’m not an investigator.”
“Humor me.”
Tomas stepped from one foot to the other, and cleared his throat. “I’d say they’re deceiving you, m
y lord.”
Heinrich nodded. “I’d say you’re right, my good man.”
An hour later, Heinrich was back at the jailhouse, staring at a bloody table of matted fur and intestines. In front of him, Karl Achterberg’s hounds were carved open, and Heinrich peered inside their open stomachs.
Since Karl Achterberg had sent Heinrich on a wild chase, the investigator reneged on his deal.
He didn’t release the man’s dogs.
Unfortunately, it was for naught, as Dorothea Gabler’s missing left arm was not in either dog’s stomach.
CHAPTER SIX
GEORG
As night fell on Bedburg, Georg Sieghart looked up to the cloudy sky and realized that winter was fast approaching. A cold wind swept through the city, and light rainfall speckled the ground, turning the streets muddy and damp. Georg wrapped his large wool overcoat tightly around his body as he slogged through the roads, sniveling.
Even with the bad weather, the big man had a smile on his face for the first time in ages. It was a smile that even rain couldn’t wash away. He put his hands in his pockets and felt the cold reassurance of silver coins jingling against each other.
As he neared the tavern for his nightly consumption, the last stragglers of the day emptied the roads and shuttered their doors and windows, preparing for the inevitable storm. Georg rounded a decrepit building and listened to his boots slap against the muddy road. He dipped into an alley with an awning overhead, and was dry for a moment. As he reached the end of the alley, he narrowed his eyes and felt his heart drop to his stomach.
If nothing else, Georg Sieghart was a tracker and a hunter, and he knew when he was being followed.
It was the faint sound of another pair of boots slogging through the mud, slightly out of sync with his own. It came from behind him, at a hurried pace.
Georg made sure not to give himself away. He kept his same stride and stared forward at the wet ground. Then he abruptly changed his course and started zigzagging around buildings, cutting corners sharply.
The wind and rain drowned out the footsteps from behind him, and he rounded the corner of another building and put his back against the wall and nestled his head against the cold stones. He unsheathed a long knife from his belt, and waited with bated breath as his heart thumped in his chest.
