by Cory Barclay
Dieter closed the Bible.
Sybil pushed forward and kissed Dieter hard on the mouth. She grabbed the side of his head and held his face as her soft lips perused around Dieter’s tongue and mouth.
Dieter could hear Sybil’s heart beating, and he imagined she could hear his, too.
Then he shook his head and forced his lips away from hers, rearing his head back. He groaned and whispered, “We can’t.” But Sybil’s face was too sweet, her eyes too piercing, her lips too inviting. Dieter knew that words would do nothing to save him. He was trapped between his love for Sybil Griswold, and his love for God.
And Sybil Griswold won.
They embraced in another furious kiss and stood from the table. Dieter wrapped his arms around Sybil and felt every part of her body.
They clumsily stumbled to the bed at the other side of the room, their bodies still entangled.
They found the bed and Dieter gently laid Sybil down on her back and grappled with her dress straps. Sybil wrestled Dieter’s robe off.
For a long moment Dieter took in Sybil’s naked body, while she took in his, and then Dieter leaned on top of her, and they locked together.
A few minutes later, they were breathing and huffing loudly, their moment of passion and lust subsiding. They both chuckled. Dieter turned to his side and gazed at Sybil’s body once more. A sheen of sweat had enveloped her. Her small breasts perked toward him. Her wide hips were smooth, like an untouched, snowy mountain slope. Her sunflower hair was tangled and wet against her neck and forehead.
Dieter tried to tell himself that what had just happened was a moment of depraved lust—a lapse in judgment—but he knew that wasn’t true.
Sybil was right: Dieter loved her. There was no way he could reconcile any differently. He’d given into temptation and abandoned his vow of perpetual chastity. But, even though he tried, he couldn’t feel guilty. In fact, he felt relieved in a way—renewed and invigorated.
Dieter never expected the satisfaction he felt in that moment could, when he least expected, turn to guilt. And that it would come down on him tenfold and threaten to tear down the walls of his morality.
Lying in a dead man’s bed, they slept in each other’s arms.
In the early morning, Dieter opened his eyes and was blinded by a piercing light coming from the single window in the house. He clenched his eyes shut, and then they shot open wide. He rushed into action, not knowing how long he’d been asleep.
He threw on his robe, almost tripped on the cuffs, and went out into the chilly morning, leaving Sybil to rest soundly.
No one was waiting outside to crucify him, or even notice him.
He left the Achterberg estate and traveled through the poor section of town, through the marketplace where it was busy and he’d be less noticed, and up toward his church on the hill.
The Lutheran pastor, Hanns Richter, was giving a loud sermon to a group of listeners at the base of the hill. The pastor’s group was larger than ever before—easily twenty strong. Dieter paid the man no attention and hurried past him.
He opened the doors of the church.
Bishop Solomon was at the pulpit, preaching to a full congregation. Dieter stood in the doorway, dumbfounded, and all eyes turned back toward him.
The bishop narrowed his eyes at Dieter, but continued his sermon, swinging his arms about wildly as he decried the Protestant heretics.
Dieter’s face turned bright red, and he made himself as small as he could. He sat down in the back, near the doorway, next to Georg Sieghart. The hunter smelled of mud and sweat, and his friend Konrad sat next to him. Dieter sighed and gave a slight nod to Herr Sieghart. The hunter simply stared back at him with a deep frown. His eyes seemed to be studying Dieter, and the priest looked away uncomfortably.
He heard the bishop’s words, but couldn’t listen to them. His mind was jumbled, and countless thoughts went through his head.
He looked around at the quiet congregation. Do they know that I’m as much a sinner as all of them?
The bishop ended his sermon with a prayer, and then everyone bowed their heads and clasped their hands. Dieter was the only one with his head still up, surveying the churchgoers. He didn’t pray with the rest of the folk, and he finally felt a pang of guilt.
After the prayer, Bishop Solomon excused the room, and the churchgoers stood and shuffled their way out.
Georg Sieghart did not. As Dieter tried to stand and leave, the hunter grabbed his arm.
“I need to make a confession, Father,” Georg said.
Is that spite in his voice? Disapproval? Dieter wondered. The priest tried to squirm away, but the hunter was too strong. “Now is not a very good time, my lord.”
“It’s as good a time as any, priest. I need to make a confession, now, and I believe it’s in your best interest.”
Dieter tilted his head. He sighed, and after a pause he nodded. “Very well, let’s go.”
They made their way to the confessional, and Georg started off in the regular way. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
“A week.”
“And what is the nature of your sin, my son.”
Georg’s voice lowered an octave. “I know a man who’s been dishonest to the people who trust him most.”
Dieter glanced through the small holes in the cage. Georg was staring right at him. “What does this man’s deceit have to do with your sin?” Dieter asked.
“Well, if I were an honest man, I would bring his sins to the ears of the public, and to those above him. If I were a better man, I’d tell everyone of his dishonesty.”
Dieter swallowed loudly and felt a bit unnerved. “What has this man done that is so wrong?”
“He is a holy man, Father, and I suspect he’s given into temptation and broken his vows. I think he’s fallen in love with someone besides God.”
“You say, ‘I think,’ my son. What do you know?”
Georg cleared his throat. “I know my instincts, and I know what I’ve seen—a holy man who has fallen in love with a young lady. Why, just last night I found myself following this young lady to a place where she should not have been.”
“And where was that?” Dieter asked, closing his eyes.
“A dead man’s house.”
Dieter sighed. He felt a chill sweat building on his forehead. “What is it you want, Herr Sieghart?”
The hunter kept staring at him through the cage. “I need to know a few things, Father. If you can help me with these things, I’m sure my drunken mind will forget whatever it thought it saw last night.”
Dieter’s voice turned suddenly hard and vicious. “You may think you know what you saw, huntsman, but you don’t know a thing. I won’t be threatened by the likes of you.”
Georg shrugged. “I guess I’ll just have to see if Bishop Solomon thinks my words hold any weight,” he said calmly. “But you might be right. What do I know?”
The hunter stood.
Once Georg was out of the confessional, Dieter closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “Wait,” he finally called out.
The hunter turned and sat back down.
“What is it you want to know? I won’t have that girl be hurt, Herr Sieghart.”
“I don’t want that either, priest.” Georg paused and leaned closer to Dieter. Then he whispered, “I want to know where her father is going each night. I followed him, too, so don’t deny it. Just tell me what secrets he keeps. I know she must confide in you—I see you two getting friendly every time I come to Mass.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dieter said, bowing his head. Give me strength, God.
“Very well,” Georg said. He started to rise again.
“What is it you would have me say?” Dieter asked, panic in his voice. “I cannot betray her family.”
Georg banged on the cage with an open palm and Dieter leaped back. “Yes, you can!” Georg growled. “What do yo
u owe them? I don’t care about the girl, fool, I just care about her father. So tell me, dammit, what is he doing sneaking off into the woods every night?”
Dieter crossed himself and moaned. “He’s . . .” Dieter trailed off. His mouth was dry, and he felt faint. “He goes to a cabin in the woods, southeast of Bedburg.”
“I know that,” Georg said, impatiently tapping his fingers on his knee. “What does he do at the cabin?”
“I believe he meets with other people—with Protestants. The pastor at the bottom of the hill, Hanns Richter, I think he’s one of them.”
Georg smiled wryly. “Shameful, Father Nicolaus. You know of secret Protestant meetings and you don’t alarm your own bishop, or the law?”
“It’s for Sybil’s safety.”
“Who are the other people he meets? Who makes up this secret faction of Protestants?”
Dieter shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. As God as my witness, that’s the truth. Peter Griswold and Hanns Richter are the only two I’ve heard of, and Sybil doesn’t know either, so don’t go harassing her.” Dieter looked through the holes and locked eyes with Georg.
After a long moment of silence, Georg turned away with a dark smile on his face. “Very well, Father. Say five Hail Mary’s and your sins shall be absolved.”
Dieter clenched his jaw. “Are we done here?”
“Not quite,” Georg said, facing the priest again. “There’s one other thing I’d have you help me with.”
“What?” Dieter asked through gritted teeth.
“You can read, correct?” Without waiting for an answer, Georg continued. “It’s my understanding that the church keeps records of every citizen in Bedburg—detailed records. I would like to look over some of those records.”
“Absolutely not. Those records are only for church officials and lawmen.”
“I’m sure we can make an exception. Besides, as your little nun must have already told you, I’m working with Heinrich Franz, and he’s a lawman.”
Dieter was taken aback at the mention of Sister Salome. How does this man know so much? Maybe Bishop Solomon’s warning to keep an eye on Georg Sieghart was valid after all . . .
“Who would you like to learn about?” Dieter said in a low voice.
“I’d like to learn more about the Achterbergs and the Griswolds . . . and about Investigator Franz.”
Dieter scratched his scalp. “Why do you want to investigate your own partner?”
Georg stared at Dieter through the small holes in the confessional. “You let me worry about the ‘why,’ Father.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
SYBIL
Sybil awoke with the sun beaming through a single window, showering her body in warmth. She stretched her arms, groaned, and turned over in her bed with a smile. Opening her eyes, she saw the imprint of Dieter next to her, but the bed was empty. She ran to the window and peeked up at the sky, and a sense of dread fell over her.
The sun was far too high. Why didn’t Dieter wake me? Her worry turned to panic as she realized what oversleeping might entail.
Father . . .
She threw on her muddy gown and burst out of the house. It was the sunniest day of winter, but the air was still cool and biting as Sybil made her way home.
She wondered what kind of chastising her father would give her, but then another thought came to her mind: What if he doesn’t find out?
She’d never deceived her father, but she felt like a new woman after the night before. For once, she felt independent. Besides, father lies to me all the time. She smiled, and felt a strange sensation through her body. Her heart was light in her chest, and she already missed Dieter. Even though she had no one else to compare him to, she felt that he’d been a kind lover.
As she continued down the winding path that led from the Achterberg estate to the Griswold’s, her elated mind cleared a bit. No, she thought, I won’t deceive father. He’ll just have to understand. I’ll make him understand. I don’t care about titles or land or any of that. I want Dieter—I want a kind man—not a brute like Johannes von Bergheim. I don’t care what that little imp has to offer. If father truly loves me, he will understand that and come around.
The road bounded up a green hill and she saw her house in the distance. White smoke billowed from the roof. She smiled again. Everything seemed normal.
As she drew closer, she stopped smiling. A carriage was near their fields. Sybil’s father was standing outside, talking to a tall, stiff man.
It was Ludwig von Bergheim.
The baron paid no attention to Sybil as she approached the field. His conversation with Peter ended, and he walked by Sybil and scowled at her as he stepped into his carriage.
As the baron’s carriage whisked him away, Peter watched with his thick arms crossed over his chest. He frowned at his daughter and said, “There’s no point trying to explain yourself, Beele. The baron has told me everything.”
Sybil clasped her hands in front of her ruined dress and stared at the ground. “Are you angry with me?”
Peter sighed. “I’m disappointed, Beele. Those nobles are our best chance at becoming a reputable family, and you’re throwing it away . . . what, on a whim? I never knew you to be so vain.” Peter’s shoulders slumped as he shook his head and walked back toward the house.
“I don’t love Johannes von Bergheim, father, and I never will,” Sybil called out. She felt a stab of guilt, but her confidence was still riding high, and she knew she might not get another chance to speak plainly with her father.
Peter turned and had a sad expression on his face.
“I love Father Nicolaus,” Sybil said, her voice firm.
Peter squinted and trudged toward Sybil. She backpedaled, startled. Peter looked like he was about to snarl, and he leaned in close to her. “That man is a priest, Beele, and not even a priest of our faction. Are you trying to ruin his life, too? He can offer you nothing! If your infatuation with him is ever discovered, he can bring this family down in an instant!” He put his hands on his hips. “Hugo tells me that you’ve been disappearing at night—”
“No different than you!”
Peter’s anger disappeared like snow in summer. He looked as though he was about to try and defend his actions, but then he sighed and said, “I may not be able to stop you, Beele, but I’ve at least smoothed things over with Baron Bergheim. His son was too embarrassed and angry at your little display to show his face, but the baron has agreed to give you one more chance to make things work with his son.”
Sybil stomped her foot on the ground. She realized she was clenching and unclenching her fists. “Make what work? What makes you think I won’t do the same thing next time I see Johannes?”
“Because you won’t be staying at this house if you do.” Peter didn’t speak with the authority of a demanding father, but with the tiredness of someone who had exhausted all options.
“Fine!” Sybil shouted.
“I won’t support you any longer if you won’t help support our family,” Peter added. “Johannes will come after he’s had his pride healed. Luckily, the baron says he has a short memory.”
Sybil was fiery. “Disown me then, father! Kick me out! If you won’t accept my decisions, then I don’t need you.” She crossed her thin arms and looked away, closing her eyes.
“And where will you go, Beele?”
Sybil opened her mouth, but Peter’s eyes looked through her. She followed his eyes and turned. In the distance, another carriage was approaching.
Peter groaned and walked past Sybil. “Let’s see what other damage control I have to do.”
The carriage stopped a few paces from the fields, and a tall, voluptuous woman stepped out. She wore a lavish dress, had her hands on her hips, and looked around her surroundings disapprovingly.
“Lady Margreth Baumgartner,” the coachman introduced, “would like a word with your daughter, farmer.”
The noblewoman strutted past Peter and stared down her thin nose at Sybil.
> “So you’re the little girl who’s trying to make a big show at court,” the woman said.
“I-I’m not trying to do anything,” Sybil said with a shrug. “We met last night, my lady. Don’t you remember?”
“How could I remember something so plain?”
Sybil frowned.
Margreth pointed at Sybil’s forehead and said, “Don’t lie to me, you little whore! I see what you’re trying to do with Johannes.”
“Hey!” Peter shouted, stepping between his daughter and Margreth. “No one calls my girl a whore, do you understand me?”
Margreth took a step back and nearly tripped over herself. She gasped, and her mouth dropped open. “Stay out of this, old man. Do you have any idea who I am?”
“I don’t care if you’re the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor himself,” Peter said.
Margreth’s face grew even more shocked. “My father will seize your house, you cur!”
Peter nudged his stubbed hand in her direction. “Back down, woman, and be civil when you’re on my land.”
Margreth ran her hands down her hips, smoothing her dress.
When Peter saw that she’d regained her composure, he said, “Now, who are you?”
The noblewoman crossed her arms over her breasts. “I’m Margreth Baumgartner, you simpleton. My father is Commander Arnold Baumgartner of the Bedburg garrison. Are you really so foolish?”
Peter shrugged. “Simpleton, foolish . . . I’ve been called worse. What is it you want with my daughter, Frau Baumgartner. What did she do to you?”
“She invaded my ball,” Margreth said, pointing her chin up to the sky, as if the celebration from the night before had been held in her honor.
“She was invited by Baron Bergheim, and the arrangement between Beele and Johannes was set up by the baron and I. So if you have any qualms, direct them at me.”
