by Cory Barclay
“Sinner! Liar! You sold us false promises!” the peasants cried out.
The pastor’s long walk from the jailhouse was meant to be a public display of embarrassment and shame. The same mob that Hanns had created had become incensed and unreasonable.
They feel betrayed . . . but for no good reason, Dieter thought. He knew Bishop Solomon had filled the peoples’ heads with his own rhetoric. It didn’t matter that Pastor Richter had been released—he had betrayed them by being arrested in the first place.
“How much did you pay for your freedom, heretic?” one peasant screamed as Hanns walked by. “Are you too scared to die for the same beliefs you preach?”
Within a week, Hanns had gone from being a figure of defiance in the face of the Catholics, to a figure of deception. Now the people wanted blood. The Calvinist army was on Bedburg’s doorstep, and the town was on the verge of war, again, for the first time in years.
The people blamed Pastor Hanns Richter for all of it.
The pastor’s idea of a “new hope” had turned into a tide of hatred, which Dieter assumed was spearheaded by Bishop Solomon.
“It seems your idea was worthwhile.” Vicar Balthasar had come to stand beside Dieter. He leaned on his staff, watching as Pastor Richter was led out of the city. “It’s interesting how public opinion of the man has swayed so quickly.”
Dieter glanced at the vicar. Perhaps Bishop Solomon isn’t the man to blame for the public unrest after all. “I didn’t expect that,” Dieter said. He knew there was a silver lining to the pastor’s departure, however. He might be leaving with his dignity shot and his tail between his legs, but at least he’s leaving with his head still on his shoulders.
“He gave the people something they could believe in,” Balthasar said, “but ultimately it was a promise which he could not deliver.” The vicar started nodding. “I believe his time here will fade into obscurity.”
“I suppose,” Dieter said, disappointment in his voice.
Vicar Balthasar turned to him. “Wasn’t that our goal? You kept the man alive. You should be proud of that. Your bloodthirsty bishop would have had it any other way.” He trailed off, but kept his eyes on Dieter, who refused to make eye contact with the man. “If there’s one bit of advice I could give,” Balthasar continued, “it would be to watch for Solomon. Overshadowing your superior is a dangerous move. You might have rescued your conscience by saving Hanns Richter’s life, but you probably gained a new enemy . . . and a powerful one.”
Dieter’s head slumped, and he left the crowd and retreated back to his church.
Bishop Solomon was absent, as was Sister Salome. Dieter was surprised, though, to find a single man sitting in the pew closest to the altar.
It was Peter Griswold.
“Herr Griswold,” Dieter said, taken aback. “This is quite shocking. What brings you here?”
Peter looked up at Dieter. His eyes were puffy and his face was wet. His lower lip trembled, and he said, “I wish to make a confession, priest.”
Dieter wrinkled his nose. “You aren’t of this denomination, Herr Griswold. What could I possibly do for you? Why not speak with Pastor Richter—he was just released, and he’s your friend, is he not?” He turned and started to walk away, but as he looked up at the statue of Christ’s crucifixion, a pang of guilt ran through him.
“I beg you,” Peter called out, “hear me. This has nothing to do with Catholics or Protestants, Father Nicolaus. This has to do with my daughter.”
A chill ran down Dieter’s spine, and he almost tripped over his own feet. He swallowed, and slowly turned his head. Staring at Peter, he realized this was the first time he’d ever seen the stoic man so deflated. It was also the first time Peter had called Dieter by his Catholic title. It softened Dieter’s demeanor.
He sighed and gestured for Peter to follow him to the confessional. Once inside the booth, he asked Peter what happened.
“I’ve failed my family. I made a terrible mistake, and I’m afraid I cannot be forgiven for it. I’m afraid I’ll burn in Hell.”
Dieter said, “If you were a Catholic you’d know that anyone can be forgiven in the eyes of God. So, tell me, what happened—and start from the beginning.”
Peter shook his head. “The one I love most was harmed. I was blinded by my own selfishness and greed.”
Dieter said nothing, but his muscles tightened.
Peter sniffed and continued. “I know you know my daughter. Sybil fancies you, and I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. I can’t, in good conscience, allow such a union to take place. I’m sure you know that . . .” he trailed off to gather himself, coughed, and cleared his throat. “But I . . . I made her do things against her wishes, and now I fear she’ll never forgive me.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I made her accompany a young nobleman, even though she hated him. She’s become his bride-to-be, and is set to leave town with him.”
Inside, Dieter bristled, but outside, he stayed calm. “What happened, Peter?”
Peter stuttered and struggled to speak. Then his sniffling became sobbing—the sobbing of a grown man, and a loving father. Dieter realized that this was a man who truly had his daughter’s well-being at heart, but he’d made mistakes along the way. Like any parent, he wished for the best, but had to learn from his blunders.
Just how grave was this mistake?
“Sybil confided in me this morning that . . . that she’d . . . that she’d been defiled by that damn nobleman.” He punched the nub of his left arm into the open palm of his right. “My little girl was hurt, and there was nothing I could do to help her.” Peter pulled his knees close, put his head on them, and wept.
Dieter froze and felt his stomach drop. He suddenly felt the urge to vomit. Thoughts raced through his mind, but in no clear fashion. Why didn’t she tell me? How could you let this happen, you fool of a father? What will that mean for our future?
His eyes went wide. Whose child is growing in Sybil’s womb?
A final thought brought him back to reality and back to his training as a Catholic priest.
Forgiveness.
He felt it hard to fight back the tears, but Dieter looked through the cage of the confessional and stared at the downtrodden father of Sybil Griswold. “It will be all right, Peter. You will be forgiven, and you will make it through this—and so will Sybil.” As he spoke, he felt as though the words were coming from far off—like from a spirit, removed from his body.
Dieter wasn’t sure if he believed his own words, and after he dismissed Peter he sat in the confessional for nearly an hour, staring at the spot where Peter had been sitting, trying to wrap his head around this new knowledge.
Dieter left the church dazed, with his knees wobbling. It was late afternoon, the sun beat down on his face, but his eyes were wide with shock. He felt lost, and he couldn’t think or walk straight. He wandered from the church, like a ghost, and headed north. Now it made sense to Dieter why Sybil had been crying when she told him she was pregnant. That wasn’t the whole story.
How could I be so blind? I was so ecstatic that I didn’t even stay to listen to her. His shoulders slumped. I don’t deserve her. I am no man.
His self-pity continued for what seemed like an eternity. He found himself at the northern edge of town, watching the soldiers as they staked the palisades in the ground.
Then his anger quickly shifted from himself, to his creator. He stared up at the sky and the puffy clouds and thought, How could You let this happen, Lord? This is how You treat Your innocent children? You led me to believe that this was a sign of triumph and celebration, but You fooled me. Tragedy was the catalyst for this sign.
He walked out of the town, through the northern gate. With all the commotion and preparation going on around him, no one even noticed as he walked through the gate like an animated cadaver.
He kept heading north, away from Bedburg and closer to the trees in the distance.
He damned himself, he damned Peter, and he damned God. His
normal thoughts of forgiveness were replaced by dark, spiteful thoughts—thoughts he’d never had before, thoughts that he’d kept stifled and locked away. He felt as though innocence had drifted from his soul—innocence he couldn’t get back—and it had only taken a single confession. The person Dieter damned the most for hurting the woman he loved was Johannes von Bergheim.
Dieter knew what had to be done. He ventured three miles outside of Bedburg, into the woods, toward his destiny. He’d received a sign, and it was clearer than a river in springtime.
As he trudged through the rolling countryside, he felt a presence following him, but he didn’t even bother to turn around.
He made it to the trees, struggled a bit through the brush and undergrowth, and came to a clearing.
Pastor Hanns Richter was waiting for him, sitting on a tree stump.
Hanns tilted his head as he watched Dieter approach, like he could read the many emotions on Dieter’s face—agony, sadness, pain. “Are you regretting your decision to help me, Father Nicolaus?” Hanns asked, scratching his head.
“My life is doomed,” he said drearily, “but no, I don’t regret helping you.”
Hanns massaged his chin. “You control your fate, Dieter. You’re only doomed if you allow yourself to be.”
“I thought God controlled my fate.”
Hanns smiled. “Sometimes you have to take control. Would you still like to go through with this? I must be leaving shortly.”
Dieter nodded. “Are your people going to attack Bedburg?”
“I can’t be certain. But if John Calvin and Martin Luther’s words are to be remembered, we have to take back our towns. We can’t survive on the fringes, Dieter, and I can’t allow my faith to disappear without a fight. The pope must hear our cries.”
“Even if you die?”
“If that’s God’s will, so be it. Whether in life or death, our words will be heard. That is my calling.” Hanns paused. “And what is yours, Dieter?”
“Well, I’m here,” Dieter said with a shrug. “I imagine my superiors won’t be too thrilled when they learn you didn’t ‘fade into obscurity,’ as they hoped you would.”
The pastor chuckled. “I suppose not. Maybe it’s a sign that your time in Bedburg is coming to an end.”
“Maybe so.” Dieter rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“We shall,” Hanns said, nodding. He cleared his throat and paused for a moment. Then he said, “The Holy Spirit dwells within us and empowers us, Dieter Nicolaus. We must all come to understand that. The orthodox religion of Catholicism is not devoted completely to Jesus. Do you understand those words?”
“I do.”
“If you are to be saved and born again,” he continued, “then you must obey the Holy Spirit’s calling at all times. You cannot rely on the papacy. Your fate is your responsibility. If you disobey God, He may exempt you from Heaven, without any guarantee of absolution. Do you understand?”
Dieter nodded.
Pastor Richter rattled off a few more formal statements, and then he motioned for Dieter to follow him.
He led the priest through a clearing, to a small pond in the woods that was about three feet deep. Dieter stripped off his robe and undergarments and walked into the water. The coldness stung him to his bones, and he shivered. As his body tingled, he closed his eyes, held his breath, and allowed the Holy Spirit to consume him.
Hanns put his hand on Dieter’s head and submerged him in the water. “With this Holy Baptism,” the pastor said, “you must work through daily contrition and repentance to cast aside your old ways. A new man will arise and walk before God, in righteousness and purity. If you live in sin after this baptism, you will lose your grace. So rise,” Hanns said, lifting Dieter’s head from the pond, “and be born again, Dieter Nicolaus, a servant of God and Jesus Christ.”
Dieter exhaled deeply and shook his head, spraying water from his hair and face. He opened his eyes and felt an immediate wave of relief wash through his body, as though the simple pond had cleared his conscience completely.
He was no longer a clergyman of the Catholic faith.
And though the conversion itself was important to him, the freedom it gave him meant even more.
Before parting ways, Dieter and Hanns ambled through the woods, side by side, and the sun began to fall.
“I assume you won’t join our cause?” Hanns asked.
Dieter turned to face the pastor. “No. I’m not a warrior, and I have to find the one I love.”
“Tread carefully, brother. There are many more dangers in Bedburg for you now, lurking around every corner.”
Dieter scrunched his brow. “What do you mean?”
“There are things in Bedburg that are happening right under your nose . . . things that you and the Catholic people are unaware of. The werewolf you seek, for instance—do you not see what it is?”
Dieter shrugged and ran a hand through his wet hair. “I assume you’re going to say it’s a bogeyman story to scare children? But if that’s the case, what about the actual deaths that have been committed in the beast’s name?”
Hanns shook his head and stopped walking. He put both his hands on Dieter’s shoulders. “Listen to me, brother. The werewolf is not a bogeyman story. It is a story used to scare Protestants.”
Dieter chuckled. “I think you have that backwards, my friend. If the werewolf is a means to scare Protestants, then why have all the victims been Catholic?”
Hanns sighed and frowned. “Then you are clueless,” he muttered. “I don’t have long to explain, but the victims in Bedburg have been the illusion of being Catholic, Dieter. Any reformer knows the truth, as terrible as it sounds, that the ploy has been created by the Catholics.”
“You aren’t making any sense,” Dieter said, feeling suddenly confused. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“The people of Bedburg believe that a Protestant devil is killing Catholics, correct?”
Dieter nodded.
“This is to scare Catholics into action,” Hanns said, pausing. “But what if I told you that all the people who’ve died were not actually Catholics.”
“Then what were they?”
“Protestants. Bishop Solomon and Archbishop Ernst know this—even Lord Werner is probably privy to this information. But the public has no idea.” The pastor breathed in and kept his grip on Dieter’s shoulders.
Dieter felt baffled and lost.
“Let me put it this way,” Hanns continued. “How do you get Catholics to fear and kill Protestants?”
“By saying a hellbent beast has been summoned by the Protestants . . . to kill Catholics,” Dieter said. He’d heard it before.
Hanns nodded. “Right. But the Lutherans and Calvinists know the truth, which is one of the reasons we’re revolting in the first place. The people who have been killed have been Protestants, Dieter, not Catholics.” The pastor raised his index finger. “Josephine, the harlot who regularly went to Mass? She was a Protestant spy, and would give us information about your church. While she worked, she listened to what the drunk soldiers told her and relayed that information to our armies.”
Dieter’s head started to spin. “I don’t believe that.”
Hanns raised another finger—his middle finger. “The Achterberg family?” he said. “They were Calvinist reformers. They placed their own son in the hands of Bishop Solomon. He was an altar boy, yes, but he also gave us pertinent information that only he could find out from Solomon. I feel terrible for the boy, for what he’s been through—losing his family and being in the hands of that vile man—and he’s still sitting in a jail cell somewhere, if he’s not already dead.”
The pastor raised a third finger and said, “Peter Griswold? He’s a friend of mine. He helps fund our cause. When Karl Achterberg wanted to wed his son to Sybil Griswold, the marriage wasn’t denied because the families hated each other . . . it was denied because Karl had to keep the illusion that his family was Cat
holic, whereas Peter has always been suspected of being a Protestant. If those two families joined together, it would have been highly suspicious and would reek of collusion.”
Dieter shook his head and shrugged the pastor’s hand from his shoulder. “That all sounds like quite a reach, Hanns.”
Hanns shrugged. “It’s the truth, Dieter. Josephine and the Achterbergs were spies, and they were silenced. The Catholic townsfolk don’t know that, of course, but every damn fighting Protestant knows who those people were. I don’t know how, but the Catholics must have discovered the agents in their midst, and now they’re picking us off one by one. Even with what you said on my behalf, I have no idea why they allowed me to live.”
Hanns paused to let Dieter mull the words over, and the pastor stroked his chin. “The one person I hadn’t been able to place my finger on was the most recent victim, Margreth Baumgartner. She’s been the only person murdered who was actually a Catholic, as far as I can tell. But I think I’m starting to understand.” Hanns put his hands on his hips and faced the foliage at his feet. “It’s like I said—how do you scare the Catholics into action? No one cares about a dead prostitute, or a young girl . . . but by killing a Catholic noblewoman and deifying her, and blaming the Protestant devil . . . it’s all very brilliant on the archbishop’s part. Your town is in such a frenzy now that they’ll do anything to exact their revenge against us.”
As he thought aloud, Hanns started pacing. “The noblewoman’s death is one action we did not anticipate—we didn’t think the Catholics would actually have the gall to kill one of their own, let alone the daughter of a prominent military commander. In short, Dieter, I suppose you’re right . . . the Werewolf of Bedburg is a bogeyman, but not as far removed from the truth as you’d think. You must be careful in Bedburg, brother. If anyone finds out what I’ve told you, your life—and the lives of those you love—will be in terrible peril.”
Dieter didn’t have the words to speak. He opened his mouth a few times, but stayed silent each time. His mind whirled. If what Hanns is saying is true . . . then the conspiracy in Bedburg goes far deeper than I ever thought possible. Could it reach all the way to the archbishop of Cologne—or above that . . . to Pope Sixtus himself?
