by Cory Barclay
Josephine had opened doors in Georg’s mind that he’d tried to keep closed. She reminded him of his deceased wife, Agnes Donnelly. Both of the women had been redheaded beauties of Irish descent, with radiant personalities. The memories of both women were tragic ones for Georg, and he couldn’t find solace anywhere except at the bottom of a bottle.
He hadn’t been hunting in days. He hadn’t done anything of use in days. His funds were running out. His beard grew in unkempt patches.
He took a swig from his mug and realized it was empty. He called Cristoff over and ordered a new one. The dark-haired barman stared at him for a moment, then he shrugged and slid a mug in Georg’s direction.
Maybe it’s time I leave this place, Georg thought, pitying himself. Then he shook his head and decided, No, I must find Agnes’ killer. I mean Josephine’s . . . I must find Josephine’s killer, with or without that damn investigator’s help. He slammed his fist on the table and nearly fell from his stool. Keeping his balance with an outstretched hand, his dreary eyes made it to the back of the bar, to the staircase that led up to the bedrooms.
Konrad von Brühl stumbled his way down the stairs, with a stupid grin plastered on his face. Behind him, a dark-haired girl followed and readjusted her corset.
Konrad came up beside Georg and slapped him on the back. He took a seat next to the hunter and ordered a drink.
“How was she?” Georg asked.
“Aellin? Just as good as she was last night, and just as good as she will be tomorrow,” Konrad said, still grinning.
Georg grunted.
Konrad looked his friend up and down. “You look in a bad way, Georg . . . again. You can barely keep your eyes open. Why don’t you take a break?”
“No . . . non . . . nonsense,” Georg said, struggling to tackle one word at a time. “I’m tip-top.”
Konrad pulled at his beard and said, “You know Josephine isn’t coming back, Georg. What are you waiting for here?”
Georg growled and suddenly shoved Konrad. It was a misguided, weak shove, and Konrad easily took a step back and allowed Georg to go plummeting off his chair. The hunter fell to the ground with a thud, and people in the tavern laughed in his direction.
“Screw you all!” Georg said as he wobbled to his feet. He still held his mug, and he waved it around like it was a sword, showering ale around the tavern.
The door to the tavern swung open, and Investigator Franz entered. He saw Georg flailing about wildly, and he muttered something to himself. Then he walked to Georg, grabbed him by the arm, and helped him to his stool. “Jesus, Georg,” he said, shaking his head.
Georg spun around to face his imaginary attacker. Then his face lit up when he realized who it was. “Ah! Heinrich! My friend without any friends.”
“Can you take care of him?” Konrad asked. “I’m tired of keeping watch on the poor sap.”
“And I’m tired of serving him,” Cristoff shouted from the other end of the bar. “He’s been here all day, and I’m sick of getting showered by booze.”
Investigator Franz nodded and led Georg by the arm, out of the tavern. The big hunter stumbled into a table as he was helped to the exit. The people at the table gave him nasty looks.
“Come on, you big buffoon,” Investigator Franz said, “we have better things to be doing. I’ll take you to the inn first.”
“No, no, no,” Georg muttered. Once they were outside, he closed his eyes. “I’m not as drunk . . . I’m as . . . I’m not as seemly drunk as I am.”
Despite his protests, the investigator took Georg to the nearby inn. He struggled to keep the hunter upright as he made his way to a sofa. He turned to the innkeeper, Claus, and said, “Get this man some strong tea. He needs to sober up in a hurry.”
“Right away, my lord,” the old man said, and he scurried off into another room.
Heinrich rested Georg on the sofa, and the hunter was snoring before his head even touched the headrest. Claus came back into the room with a teapot, and handed it to Heinrich. The investigator woke Georg and forced the hot stuff down his throat.
“I guess I’ll have to do this one alone,” Heinrich muttered to himself, sighing. He ran a hand through his hair.
“N-no, you won’t.”
Heinrich turned and, to his surprise, Georg was sitting upright with the pot of tea in his hand.
“This stuff has a . . . strong effect on me,” Georg explained.
Heinrich pulled at his mustache. “Well, those are some welcome words, my good hunter.”
An hour later, Georg seemed like he was ready to join the world of the living again. He groaned and grunted as he stood from the sofa, and he thanked Claus for the tea. Then he joined Heinrich outside in the cold. The moon was at its peak, and the wind bit at his face, sobering him up even more. He kept his arms beneath his massive wool coat.
“So, what is this mission you need me for?” he asked.
“We need to go back to Katharina Trompen’s cabin, and I’m afraid I’d get lost in the woods without you.”
Georg snorted and said, “Bah, why don’t you leave that woman alone? Is it so necessary to bother everyone you meet?”
Heinrich shrugged. “If I’m doing my job correctly, then yes. And besides, she’s more important than we originally thought.”
“I’m guessing you found a lead today?”
“Precisely, my good hunter. Multiple leads, in fact. That woman is not a poor, widowed tax-shirker. She’s Peter Griswold’s sister.” The investigator said it as if it were the most diabolical thing, being Peter Griswold’s sister.
Georg grunted and said, “So? We’ve all had sisters at one point.” Then he looked to the moon and thought that over. “Well . . . I haven’t had a sister. But what’s your point?”
Heinrich looked at Georg as though he were a toddler. “Peter Griswold is using his wealth and means to aid the Protestants. Now . . . why would he meet with his sister, in the dead of night?”
The investigator paused for a moment to let Georg think, but the hunter was still a bit drunk.
“To give her food?”
Heinrich sighed and shook his head. “No! Peter can’t be seen interacting with the Lutherans, because it would ruin his good name. But if he has someone to pass the intelligence to . . . someone who no one knows exists . . .” he trailed off.
After a brief pause, Georg’s eyes went wide. “Like his sister!”
Heinrich smiled and nodded.
“So she’s his, uh . . .” Georg snapped his fingers, looking for the word.
“Liaison.”
Georg clapped his hands and pointed at Heinrich with a smile.
The investigator slapped the hunter on the shoulder. “It’s time we see what this family is really up to.”
Less than two hours later, with the moon waning, Georg and Investigator Franz were watching Katharina’s cabin from a distance. From the tree they hid behind, they had a clear vision into the single window of the house.
A soft, orange glow illuminated the inside of the cabin. Every few minutes, Georg and Heinrich could make out the silhouettes of people passing by the window.
“If only we could get closer,” Heinrich whispered.
“We’d be spotted, investigator. Sometimes you have to just be patient.”
Heinrich frowned at the hunter, but they waited.
And waited.
An hour later, the door opened.
Georg was sleeping with his head and back against the trunk of the tree. Heinrich kicked him in the side. Startled, the big man awoke, and wiped drool from his beard.
Heinrich held a single finger up to his mouth, gesturing for the hunter to stay quiet.
The first man to step out of the cabin had the stout body type of Peter Griswold. He turned his back to Georg and Heinrich as he stepped outside, and two other people joined him.
The first was clearly Katharina Trompen. Peter embraced her and kissed her on the cheek.
The other figure was tall and lanky, but he wa
s standing in the doorway and was silhouetted by the orange glow from inside the cabin.
Then he stepped out into the night and gave Peter a handshake, and his blond hair was unmistakable.
“Is that . . .” Georg started, but trailed off.
“Lars,” Heinrich said, nodding.
Georg grunted. “I was just starting to like him, too.”
Instead of leaving the cabin, the barkeep stayed, and only Peter left the area. The farmer looked over his shoulder and then headed back into the woods, toward Bedburg.
Lars towered over Katharina, and then he embraced the woman and kissed her on the lips, while grabbing her backside with his hands.
Both Georg and Heinrich raised their eyebrows and looked at each other.
“What should we do?” Georg asked. “Follow Peter?”
Heinrich shook his head. “Let’s see what plays out here.”
Georg chuckled. “I’m pretty sure we know what’s going to happen here, Heinrich. It doesn’t take an investigator to know that.”
“No, dammit, I mean after.”
So they continued waiting, and it didn’t take long for their patience to pay off.
The moon was descending over the canopies of the woods when the door opened, and Katharina Trompen exited the cabin and stepped out into the wilderness. She shut the door.
Lars was nowhere to be seen—presumably still in the cabin.
“Shall we go speak with Lars?” Georg whispered.
Heinrich shook his head. They both watched as Katharina took an unexpected route out of the clearing. Rather than heading west, toward civilization and Bedburg, she headed north, toward the other end of the woods.
“Where’s she headed?” Georg asked, as if Heinrich knew all the answers.
“Let’s find out.”
They followed her from a fair distance, through the thick undergrowth and wild birch trees. A couple times they feared they’d lost her in the darkness, but Georg, even in his current state, managed to find signs of her travel—broken twigs and stomped earth—and put them on the right track.
Katharina made her way north and east, out of the woods and to the western bank of the Peringsmaar Lake. She kept heading north, staying just outside of the woods.
Georg and Heinrich followed her for another hour as she meandered her way around the lake. As the Peringsmaar’s western coast curved northeast, Katharina kept with the shore.
Then she came to a steep hill, on the northern end of the lake.
Georg and Heinrich struggled to keep pace with the woman, but they eventually reached the top of the hill as Katharina was heading down the other side.
Georg held his arm out in front of Heinrich as they reached the apex of the hill, and they both stopped. The hunter surveyed the landscape—green and void of trees, except for a small copse of birches in the distance.
“Good vantage point,” Georg whispered, gesturing to the trees.
They both crawled to the trees, and then Georg brushed aside some branches and crouched. He peered through the branches, and his eyes went wide.
The southern end of the hill tapered off into a valley with a wide gorge. The trees in the valley had been cleared. In their place were tents—many, many tents. Campfires burned and people loitered around them. The breeze from the Peringsmaar Lake swept away the scent of the campfires, while the high walls of the valley kept the smoke from the woods. Altogether, the camp was hidden from prying eyes, unless you were looking from the top of a hill, like Georg and Heinrich were.
“Damn,” Georg said. “That’s . . .”
Heinrich took a deep breath. “That’s an army.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
DIETER
Dieter rolled around in his small bed, unable to sleep. His anxious mind had him tossing and turning all night. Finally, during the darkest hours of night, he sat up and breathed heavily. Beads of sweat dotted his upper lip. He stood from his bed and took two short steps to where his black cassock hung from his door. He stared at the robe, and then moved past it, to a brown, hooded tunic.
Dieter wrapped himself in the brown tunic and sat down at his small table. He lit a candle and penned a letter. After writing the letter, he folded the paper and poured hot wax to seal it. He tapped his chin, and then took Sybil’s amulet from his neck and pressed the two crosses into the wax, embossing the letter.
He stuffed the letter into his tunic, put his amulet back on his neck, and crept out of his chambers. He walked down the dark hallway, into the nave, and left the church. When he was outside, in the cold, empty night, he pulled the hood of his tunic over his head.
I’ll only find peace if I can find answers, he decided. He’d spent the better part of the night reading over the Ninety-Five Theses in his small chamber, in secret. For years, he’d been taught to hate the document, but now he threw his ignorance to the wind.
Through indoctrination and constant pressure, Dieter had been trained to believe that Martin Luther’s diatribe was sacrilegious, heretical, and an act against God. But after reading Luther’s carefully penned manuscript, Dieter started to question his own ignorance.
This was not an unholy, hellbent man. Martin Luther was an opponent to oppression. He was a scholar with, quite frankly, some valid points—ninety-five of them, in fact.
The document caused Dieter’s crisis of faith to become exponentially more dire.
The young priest could think of only one man who was similar to Martin Luther—one man who had the strength of will to publicly stand up to those he believed were oppressing and manipulating the people.
Dieter made his way north, up a long hill and across the Erft River, into the part of town he visited the least: the district of the gentry and aristocrats. Here, the nobility held their extravagant balls and parties and lived as though they were in an alternate reality, completely unaware—or uncaring—of the struggles of the rest of Bedburg.
Castle Bedburg was in the northern district of town, as were the courts, the garrison, and the jailhouse.
Dieter sought the latter.
The priest looked over his shoulder time and time again, paranoid of anyone following him. It was so late at night that he didn’t see a single soul on the road. It was eerily quiet.
He made his way to the jailhouse, which was nestled away from civilization, and away from prying eyes.
Two guards stood at the gates of the monolithic, gray structure. They lowered their spears at the hooded man who approached.
“Gentlemen,” Dieter said with a bow.
“The jail isn’t for visiting,” one of the guards said. “What’s your business here so late at night?”
Dieter produced the letter from his tunic and handed it to the guard. “I come on behalf of Bishop Solomon, the religious counsel to Lord Werner.”
The guard snatched the letter and eyed Dieter. He unsealed it, read it, and looked at Dieter suspiciously. “Again, why do you come so late?”
“It’s a matter of discretion, sir.”
“This letter says you want to speak to the Protestant captive. Why?”
“Again, my lord,” Dieter said with a smile and a slight bow, “a matter of discretion. It’s a religious matter.”
The guard glanced at his comrade, who shrugged. After a long moment of silent inspection, with the jailer watching Dieter, he finally sighed, opened the gate, and handed Dieter his forged letter. “Talk to Ulrich at the bottom of the stairs.”
“Many thanks, my lords,” Dieter said, nodding.
When he entered the jail, he shivered. It was colder inside the dank place than it was outside in the winter chill. Even the torches on the wall did nothing to warm his bones.
Dieter walked gingerly down the narrow corridor, to a set of concrete stairs. At the bottom of the staircase was a wide room, with two jail cells on either side. A man with a badly scarred face sat at the end of the room, with another door behind him. He made no move to stand as Dieter walked toward him.
“My name is Fat
her Dieter Nicolaus, and I’m here on business for Bishop Solomon, to see your prisoner, Hanns Richter.” Dieter handed the scarred man the letter.
“The Protestant?” Ulrich asked, frowning.
“Indeed.”
“Through this door, last cell on the right,” the man said, without looking at the letter. “Have your way with the wretch, but be quick. You have ten minutes.”
Dieter nodded to Ulrich, opened the door, and walked by him. The next room was exactly as the first, with two jail cells on either side. Dieter walked to the second cell on the right and peered in. A man with a long beard sat in the middle of the cell, legs crossed, eyes closed. Rather than being huddled in a corner, or wallowing in misery, the man seemed at peace, as if meditating.
“Pastor Hanns Richter,” Dieter whispered. The man didn’t open his eyes, so Dieter repeated himself, louder.
The pastor’s eyes finally shot open. He squinted at Dieter, and Dieter felt that the pastor looked right through him.
“I’m Father Nicolaus, from the church.”
“I know who you are. You’re one of the men responsible for putting me in here.” The man had a raspy, worn out voice. He also had bruises around his eyes, a cut on his forehead, and welts on his arms.
Dieter shook his head. “N-no, I had no idea. I was not respons—”
“I forgive you,” Pastor Richter interjected. Despite the strong likelihood that he’d never see another sunrise, the pastor seemed strangely calm. “I’ve made my peace with God.”
“I’m glad.”
“You shouldn’t be. I don’t forgive you for my own sake, but for God’s. You are simply a man doing Man’s will—not His. You Catholics must learn that penance is the only path toward forgiveness in His eyes, for the vitriol and hate you spew against my people.”
Dieter scratched his head. “You preached with the same vehemence against my people.”
Hanns shook his head and uncrossed his legs. He stood, slowly, and walked to the bars of the cell. “I spoke against the idolatries of Catholics. I spoke against your leader, who believes he speaks for God.” The pastor coughed. “Any man who thinks he has that much power, who thinks they are a direct voice to God, is surely foolish. You cannot buy yourself out of eternal damnation, priest. But you will never understand that.” The pastor turned his back to Dieter.
