Of Witches and Werewolves Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  “She’s trying to steal my man’s heart!” Margreth screeched. “And I won’t allow her! I won’t see her at another ball, do you hear me?” Then she squinted and looked at Peter from head to toe. “You named your daughter Beele?” She grinned cruelly. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  Peter crossed his arms over his chest and craned his neck. He stayed quiet for a moment and then said, “I think I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Frau Baumgartner.”

  “Why is that, farmer?”

  “Because you’re an insufferable vixen, and I have crops to till.”

  Margreth’s eyes bulged like they were going to pop out of her skull, and her lungs deflated. Sybil couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “Y-you . . . barbaric cretin!” Margreth screamed.

  “Still not the worst thing I’ve been called, my lady. Not even the worst thing I’ve been called today, if I’m honest.” Peter shrugged. “With that big, learned mind of yours, you could use some practice at throwing insults.”

  Margreth huffed and puffed and her head looked like it was about to explode. “You won’t get away with this, you vile reprobate!”

  “That’s a bit better,” Peter said.

  The noblewoman stumbled on her heels and nearly tipped over as she turned around. She stomped away toward her carriage, and when she reached it she spun around and thrust a thin finger at Sybil. “Just remember, you little peasant,” she yelled, “I won’t leave this godforsaken town until I have Johannes’ hand!” She spat on the ground and climbed into her carriage.

  “How unladylike,” Peter muttered. He waved innocently to the noblewoman as she rode off in a hot fury.

  After Margreth was gone, Sybil eyed the ground, fell silent, and then meekly said, “Thank you.”

  Peter frowned and cursed under his breath. “I don’t know what you did, Beele, but we could be in big trouble. We can’t afford to be on the wrong side of the nobility.”

  Could this day possibly be worse than yesterday? Sybil thought, and then shrugged. At least yesterday I ended the night in Dieter’s arms.

  “What will we do?” Sybil asked.

  Peter turned and walked away from his daughter, toward the front door of the house. “I’ll think of something,” he said, over his shoulder. “I need to talk to some people.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  HEINRICH

  Heinrich left Cologne on horseback, through the city’s western gate. Archbishop Ernst had convinced him to stay longer than he’d planned, but his stay had still been limited to less than a week. He was eager to return to business in Bedburg. His entourage had grown—besides Tomas and the five guards, three Jesuit missionaries also accompanied him.

  Two of the missionaries were quiet and somber, and Heinrich never learned their names. The third was a talkative, stout man with a round face, named Balthasar Schreib. Although he was the archbishop’s chief religious representative, the man wore the indistinct robes of a simple monk. Besides the walking stick slung over his back, the Jesuit lacked even the most basic material possessions.

  To Heinrich, Balthasar seemed to be a very pious—albeit annoying—man in his late twenties. The investigator wondered how the man had risen to such a high station at such a young age.

  Heinrich bounced on the back of his steed as it trotted up a hilly roadway, and he stared up at the sunny, midday sky. He hadn’t noticed that Balthasar had come up alongside him, until the priest spoke.

  “A beautiful day,” Balthasar said, smiling.

  Heinrich grunted and nodded. He eyed the priest and asked, “Why does the archbishop place so much trust in you?”

  Balthasar shrugged. “I suppose it’s because I have a powerful network of priests that travel the area. They give the archbishop much to think about.”

  Heinrich twirled his mustache. “So you’re the reason he knows of the Protestant army’s whereabouts?”

  “They’re not an army, Herr Franz. They’re a rabble of lost souls. They don’t understand that they have already lost, and that Martin Luther and John Calvin will be forgotten in a matter of years.”

  Heinrich shook his head. “You might not be so sure of that after you see Bedburg.”

  “I will turn the unbelievers to our true Christian faith, in Bedburg, just as I have done in Cologne. Their heresy will not stand.”

  Heinrich shifted in his saddle. Despite his young appearance, Balthasar was full of confidence and vigor. “How will you do that? Through treachery and manipulation?”

  If his intention was to offend or bait the priest, Heinrich’s words fell flat. The Jesuit stayed quiet for a moment, and then looked away from Heinrich, toward the surrounding countryside. “No, Herr Franz. I will teach them with forgiveness and understanding. I will show them the error of their ways, and they will listen. The pope is our voice, and anyone else is just an imposter.” Balthasar faced Heinrich with a sly look. “I’m getting the feeling you are not a pious man, investigator. You seem very sure of yourself, but you sound conflicted.”

  “Isn’t every man conflicted?” Heinrich asked. “I’m confident in my abilities as a man of the law, and in that I am not conflicted. I’m just a seeker of the truth.” He cleared his throat and continued. “But no, I am not convinced that God is everywhere.”

  “Perhaps we can change that.”

  “I doubt it,” Heinrich said, smiling. “You won’t have enough time during this trip, and once we’re in Bedburg I’ll be too busy to listen to your preaching.”

  Balthasar sighed and said, “You are a strange case, my lord. I’ll give you that. But I am no preacher. I teach through logic and understanding.”

  Heinrich slowed his horse and frowned. Either this man was utterly naïve, or utterly cunning. Either way, his disposition was too optimistic for the investigator’s liking. He wanted to get under the priest’s skin, to see who he really was. “Okay, Herr Schreib, answer me this: If you were never taught what to believe, whether by the pope, or Luther, or Calvin . . .” he trailed off and narrowed his eyes on the missionary, “then how would you know who to love or hate?”

  Balthasar cleared his throat. “That is where your truth becomes fiction, investigator. It is not a matter of love or hate. I live through God’s tenets, and He lives through me. As a minister, I speak to Him, and He gives me signs, and loves me, as He loves everyone.”

  Heinrich felt that the priest didn’t answer his question, but he wasn’t sure how to turn Balthasar’s words against him.

  Their steeds reached the top of a hill, and from its apex they were given a glorious, clear sight of the countryside. Even in winter, trees dotted the horizon, grass grew in thick tufts, and puffy clouds moved through the sky. “You just said it’s not a matter of love or hate,” Heinrich said. “Aren’t you contradicting yourself there, when you say He loves you?”

  They began to descend the hill after taking in the sight for a short moment.

  “Yes, not in the same terms as when you say ‘love’ or ‘hate,’ investigator. I was born with God in my heart. That will never change. In fact, everyone was born with God in his or her heart. It’s just a matter of finding Him.”

  Heinrich grunted and spat on the grass. “Bah,” he said, “you were born a suckling pup, just like the rest of us. You’re no better or mightier than any other man, Herr Schreib. I don’t doubt you’re a good man, but that comes from being kind and honest, not because God willed it. That will never change.”

  Balthasar made a clucking sound with his tongue. “If I am a good man, it is because I follow Christ’s and God’s teachings. They give my spirit salvation. I am a sinner, Heinrich, as with the rest of Man. But God has given me a holy path to redemption, and I gladly follow it.”

  As they descended the hill, Balthasar spread his hands to the land before them. He took a deep breath, and when he exhaled he had a smile on his face. “Tell me, son, how do you explain the air we breathe? Or the water we drink? How do you explain the sun in the sky, which gives us life and warmth, and t
he moon beside it, giving us peace and quiet? How are we able to learn so much, build such magnificent structures, and converse with each other, unlike any other beast? It is our souls that separate us from animals, investigator, and if you believe Man is responsible for the countless miracles bestowed upon us, without His righteousness, then you are more foolish and lost than I first believed.”

  Heinrich felt his ears turn hot. He clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on his reins. After a quiet moment, he said, “We are able to do these things because we learn, through our mistakes. God didn’t plant or sow my crops—”

  “But He gave you a bountiful harvest,” Balthasar said, pointing to the sky.

  “The sun did that!” Heinrich said. He was growing impatient and frustrated with the calm priest. This man believes too much. He thinks men are good . . . and that is naïve, foolhardy . . . and dangerous.

  Balthasar still smiled. “And He gave you the sun. Don’t you see? That is what we mean when we say He is everywhere and anywhere. God is within all of us, like I said. Is it just up to you to find Him, and I can help in that search.”

  The minutes dragged on, and despite the quiet contemplation and sound of hooves on grass, Heinrich grew more agitated. Eager not to lose an argument, he cleared his throat and said, “So how do you explain all the warring and killing and hatred in life, priest? Why would God allow such things?”

  Balthasar was shaking his head before Heinrich even finished. “Ah, the typical approach of a jaded, disheartened man. Men are sinners, investigator. They wage these battles for material things: wealth, land, title—”

  “They wage them in God’s name!”

  “It’s a farce, Herr Franz! They may claim whatever they want, but these men haven’t actually found Jesus or God. They are lying to themselves. They’ll have to eventually atone for their sins and actions, or they’ll burn in Hell.” Balthasar scratched his chin and stared off into the trees in the distance. Then he tilted his head and gazed into Heinrich’s eyes. His face took on a sudden hardness that Heinrich hadn’t seen yet.

  “Heaven is not for everyone, investigator. Especially not the vain, greedy, or depraved. That being said, anyone can be forgiven.”

  Heinrich frowned. “Even the murderers, rapists, and liars?”

  “Anyone.”

  Heinrich turned away from the priest and chuckled. “I think not. It is my job to give the wrongdoers a carriage ride straight to their maker, to be judged.”

  “There is much loathing in your heart, my lord. What does that say about you, as a man? You say I am kind and honest because I was born and raised that way.” Balthasar frowned. “Well, weren’t you, too, before being driven by the same things that other men are driven by?”

  Heinrich cocked his head and furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”

  “I believe you can be a good man, like you once were, Heinrich. But you’ve let hatred sully your spirit, and your pride won’t allow God into your heart.”

  The group reached the bottom of another hill, and Heinrich looked over his shoulder. The guards and other missionaries had backed off, obviously not wanting to be involved in the debate.

  Heinrich leaned close to Balthasar and jabbed a finger in his chest. “Listen to me, priest. I only hate those who would harm or corrupt the ones I love. I am a harbinger of the law, not of retribution.”

  The priest scratched his forehead and shrugged. “Weren’t you raised by a religious mother, Heinrich? A woman who advocated for the rights of other women, and who pampered your older brother? Did she not wish for a daughter, to continue her legacy, but got you instead? Did God corrupt your mother, then, for not giving you the love you deserved? Is that why you hate Him so, or why you hate and fear women?”

  Heinrich felt an anger swell within his chest. It was a heavy anger, such that he hadn’t felt in years, and his head cocked back in surprise. “Where in limbo did you gather all of that, priest? That’s nonsense.” Spittle flew from his mouth, onto Balthasar’s robe. “You know nothing about me.”

  “I know what the archbishop has told me about you, Heinrich. I was his religious ear, remember?” Balthasar’s happy, positive demeanor had suddenly vanished, and was replaced by a grim look. This was not the smiling “man of the cloth” Heinrich thought he was—this was a manipulator full of fire and brimstone.

  If this man can’t win with his silver tongue, he’ll win with his forked one.

  “Don’t forget,” the priest continued in a low voice, “that our archives in the church are vast, and our records go far, far into the past.”

  Heinrich found himself yelling, with his arms flying about wildly. “Quiet yourself! I said you know nothing of me, priest!”

  Balthasar frowned. “I know that when you were young, your older brother drowned, and your father and mother blamed you, and then your father left your family.”

  “I’m warning you, hellion,” Heinrich spat. “My father fled because he accidentally killed his friend. He was a coward, and he would not admit to his crime!”

  The priest shrugged and raised his hands in surrender. His grim expression was once again changed to indifference and calmness. “Very well, very well, my apologies,” he said as the group reached the top of another hill. “But before I finish, let me pose you the same question you opened with.” The priest cleared his throat. “How would you know who to love and hate, if it weren’t for the things you know and learned growing up as a boy? I learned how to love because of God. You learned how to hate because you lacked faith. I believe you know these things because you feel the love and hatred in your heart and soul, where God resides. These things tear at you night and day, but I have a message, my friend . . . if you let God in, he can ease your suffering. But only if you allow him to.”

  Heinrich stared forward, fuming, and Balthasar grabbed his reins and pulled his horse away from the investigator. Heinrich tried to block out the priest’s words, but his mind raced and he knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep that night.

  The same thought kept playing in his mind, over and over: It was God who brought my suffering, you fool. He cannot save me from it.

  “My lord!” a voice called, but Heinrich was still lost in his thoughts. “My lord!”

  Heinrich heard hooves from behind and snapped back to reality. He turned in his saddle. Tomas was galloping toward him, one hand holding the reins of his steed, the other gripping an arquebus. He pointed the firearm in Heinrich’s direction.

  The investigator’s eyes grew, and he spun forward.

  Five riders approached from the bottom of the hill, screaming toward the group with mad looks in their eyes. They were dressed in ragged clothes, with filthy faces and dirty beards. The missionaries retreated, while Tomas and the five guards rode over the lip of the hill to make their presence known.

  Heinrich pulled on his reins and his horse went on its hind legs and reared loudly, pushing the investigator back on his saddle. He reached to the back of his trousers, fumbled with his arquebus, and felt the weapon fall to the ground.

  Damn.

  The bandits were just as the archbishop had warned—hungry and desperate. Heinrich figured they’d probably only seen him and Balthasar at first, at the top of the hill. But as the six guards swept by the investigator, cannons drawn and arms raised, the bandits scattered in all directions, but kept coming.

  Bullets flew and smoke filled the sky.

  Heinrich’s horse panicked and started circling, and the investigator searched the ground for his dropped weapon.

  One of the bandits went down with a scream, while one of Heinrich’s guards fell silently from his horse, clutching his neck.

  A lone bandit came up from the side of the hill, flanking the group, and headed straight for Heinrich. The investigator’s mouth gaped. He could see the man’s yellow teeth.

  The bandit aimed his arquebus at Heinrich.

  A shadow flew by.

  Balthasar had placed himself between the marauder and the invest
igator.

  The weapon fired.

  Balthasar’s horse whinnied and sent the priest flying to the ground. The horse collapsed on him, and Balthasar cried out in pain.

  Heinrich jumped from his steed and rolled awkwardly in the grass. He crawled on his hands and knees toward his firearm, and he came up with the weapon, holding it in both hands.

  The bandit dismounted and pulled a knife from his belt. He ambled toward Balthasar, who was trapped under his own horse.

  Heinrich still felt dizzy and disoriented. He leaped past his horse and staggered toward the bandit, whose attention was on Balthasar.

  The priest grimaced and struggled to free his crushed leg from under the steed, but to no avail.

  The bandit was on top of Balthasar, with his knife, pulling his arm back to strike.

  Heinrich walked up behind the bandit, pointed his pistol, and blew off the back of the man’s head. Balthasar and his horse were showered with brains and bits of skull. The bandit crumbled to the ground with his knife still poised in the air.

  Balthasar had a terrified look on his blood-spattered face. Heinrich breathed heavily and fell to his hands and knees, beside the priest and dead marauder.

  Three of the bandits lay dead on the bloody hillside, as well as two of Heinrich’s guards. The other two bandits fled, spurring their horses downhill and toward the trees on the horizon. Tomas and his remaining troop gave up the chase and circled back, heading toward Heinrich and Balthasar. One of the other two Jesuits trembled and pissed himself.

  “Are you injured, my lord?” Tomas asked, jumping from his saddle. Heinrich was unable to speak, due to the adrenaline, so he simply shook his head.

  With the help of the other three guards, Tomas helped lift Balthasar’s dead horse, freeing the priest’s leg, and then he helped the priest to his feet. Balthasar winced and reached for the staff slung over his back. He leaned on it and then wiped the bandit’s blood from his face. His leg was clearly broken, and Heinrich assumed he’d walk with a limp for the rest of his life.