by Cory Barclay
Dieter’s heart felt heavy. He’d found so much hate in the recent days—with Georg Sieghart’s betrayal, the malice of Bishop Solomon, Johannes von Bergheim’s terrible deeds. It was becoming harder and harder to forgive and forget.
At one point, much to Dieter’s chagrin, Sybil and Martin started talking about Karl Achterberg’s murder. It was hard for Dieter to listen to, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“You don’t understand, Beele,” Martin began. “Yes, I hated my father. He stole Dorothea from me. But that wasn’t all.”
“What do you mean?” Sybil asked.
Martin struggled to get the words out. He paused for a moment to gather himself, and with a voice that was on the verge of tears, he said, “You have no idea how terrible it was to be in the care of the bishop. The things he did to me . . . the things he made me do to him. I was miserable, but I had to relay whatever information I could back to my father. He made me a spy for his own twisted goals. He never cared about me. My father forced me into that arrangement, Beele, just like he tried to force me into marrying you . . .” Martin’s eyes went wide and he grabbed the bars of his cell. “I-I didn’t mean for it to sound like that,” he exclaimed.
Sybil frowned. “It’s fine, Martin, I . . . I understand what it’s like to be forced into something against your will. My father did the same to me, just recently.”
Martin hesitated. “I’m sorry, Beele. It seems we come from the same stock.” He tried to smile, but then his face became hard and distant. “I couldn’t stand it any longer. I could put up with the bishop’s impulses, but when my father stole Dorothea from me . . . my love . . . that was the end. I’m not insane, Beele, you have to know that.”
“I know Martin. I think you’re stronger than you know.”
Martin smiled, probably for the first time in months. As he did, Ulrich walked into the room. The punisher smacked the bars of Sybil’s cell with the handle of a knife. The bars rattled and Sybil flew away from them with a yelp.
“I told you to shut up!” Ulrich said, pointing the butt of the knife toward Sybil. When all was quiet, he added, “You have visitors,” and disappeared back into the other room.
Time seemed to slow as Dieter watched two figures enter the hall. Behind Bishop Solomon a smaller person followed. Dieter squinted to see who it was.
Sister Salome stepped forward.
What is she doing here?
“As I mentioned earlier,” Solomon said, walking up to Sybil and Dieter’s cell. “You undermined me for the last time, Father Nicolaus, and in front of Lord Werner no less. I have all the evidence I need to put you in the ground. But before I do, I feel obligated to let you know where my evidence stemmed from.”
Dieter was baffled. No, he thought, it can’t be.
Sister Salome stepped forward shyly. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she faced the ground, as usual.
“Tell him what you know, Salome,” Solomon urged.
The nun stared at Dieter for a long moment, as if studying his face. Her hands shook, her eyes were barely open, but she seemed to look at Dieter as though she pitied him. She cleared her throat. “I . . . I found a copy of that damnable book, the Ninety-Five Theses, when I was preparing your sermon the other day, Father.” There was a dark tone in her voice that Dieter didn’t recognize. It didn’t sound like the quiet, trustworthy nun he’d always known.
“I witnessed you stealing away into the woods after Pastor Richter was released and banished. I saw your visit with the Protestant blasphemer!” Her voice rose, and she was on the verge of hysterics. “I saw your baptism in the pond.” Her shaking hands trembled even more. “How could you do that, Father? How could you betray your own people? Your eyes, they . . .” she trailed off and then turned her gaze to Sybil, who was sitting against the back wall of the cell. “Your eyes were blinded by t-this . . . succubus!”
The nun’s words turned into screeches, and Dieter saw the real Salome for the first time. She was unable to control her rage. Dieter looked into those angry eyes and saw something, and that’s when he put the pieces together and realized why she felt scorned and betrayed.
It’s jealousy, he thought, resting his forehead against the cold bars. The mild-mannered, plain woman who always kept to the fringes—invisible and undistinguished—and always had her eyes looking at the floor . . . Dieter finally saw the burning pain behind those lucid eyes. It’s not anger or evil in her heart that brought her to do this to me. Dieter shook his head. On the contrary—like any other person in the world, she just wants to feel loved and recognized. I . . . failed at that.
Even though she went behind my back, I can’t think of a person who deserves my forgiveness more.
A sudden surge of pain shot through his stomach, rose into his heart, and he felt that uncontrollable fury again. He frowned, and thought, No . . . it isn’t my life I care about. Locked in his inner turmoil, Dieter glanced at Sybil, who wore a confused expression on her face. He had remained silent for quite a while, and it seemed as though everyone in the room was waiting for his response. You hurt Sybil, Sister Salome. You put my love in harm’s way, and that is unacceptable. That is something I cannot forgive.
Dieter shook his head and turned away from the nun.
“Look at me, Father! Look at me!” Salome screamed.
Dieter would not.
Salome started bawling, and she put her head in her hands. Then she ran from the room.
Dieter felt no pity for the woman. He felt . . . empty. Soulless.
Bishop Solomon chuckled. “Now that you know the truth, Dieter, can you find peace with God? Do you see what you’ve done to that poor woman, and to my congregation?”
Dieter narrowed his eyes on the bishop. “You’re a sad, petty man, Solomon,” he spat. “You are no man of God. You live in decadence, surrounded by corruption, fueled by pride.” The former priest walked up to the bars and grabbed them, trying to stick his head as far through the empty space as he could. “You are a disgrace to Catholics,” he said in an angry whisper. “I may die, but my soul will be exempt from pain and agony. I will find salvation. I will see God’s glorious face. You, however, will wallow in your pitiful life, forced to live in seclusion, with hate in your heart—devoid of love or forgiveness.”
Dieter’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the bars of the cell and cleared his throat. “I forgive you, bishop, but I pity you even more. When you are judged, you will burn in Hell for your constant sins and abuses.” Dieter released his hands from the bars and threw them in the air. “So do your worst to me. But know that I will leave this earth as a Christian, with my head held high. You cannot break me, Solomon. You can break my body and my bones, but you will never break my spirit or my soul.”
Bishop Solomon’s smile disappeared. His face turned from smug and proud, to shocked and horrified, and he became as white as a ghost. His temper got the best of him, and he snarled at Dieter. He banged on the bars of the jail cell with his old, frail hands. The bars barely rattled.
Dieter just laughed.
“Punisher!” Solomon shouted. “Get in here!”
When the scarred man entered the room, the bishop screamed and pointed his finger at Dieter. “He says he cannot be broken, good sir. I want you to prove him wrong! Find out what he knows about the Calvinist army.”
Ulrich nodded, and then smiled at Dieter and Sybil with his gap-filled grin.
The bishop turned to leave, and his robe billowed in the air.
“Have a blessed life, Your Grace!” Dieter shouted to the old man, who cursed and shook his fists in the air as he made his way to the stairs.
“What would you have me do with them after I get your information, Your Grace?” Ulrich asked before Solomon was gone.
Solomon growled. “Kill them! I want no evidence that these heretics ever existed, or ever stepped foot in my church!”
“No!” Martin cried from the other cell.
The bishop spun on his heels and pointed at the boy. His voi
ce softened. “Don’t worry, Martin. You’ll be back in my care shortly.”
Martin started sobbing, and he crawled back to the shadowy corner of his cell.
Ulrich stepped away for a moment, and came back with a whetstone and a cruel-looking dagger. As he sharpened the blade in front of Dieter, he smiled. “It’s about time I had some fun.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
SYBIL
Sybil tried to keep from trembling as she watched Ulrich prepare his barbaric tools. He had knives and pliers and scissors of various sizes and shapes splayed on a table in the center of the hallway. He gingerly ran his hand over a pair of pliers, and then moved to a rusty set of scissors. He stroked his chin, and then moved his hand back to the pliers.
Ulrich seemed to relish in his preparation. He was like an actor in a play, setting the gruesome scene to come. Sybil could tell that, for whatever reason, this man genuinely enjoyed inflicting pain on others.
Martin was a wreck. He wept and tried to hide his face in his knees.
Sybil tried to calm him down. “It’s going to be okay, Martin. Everything will be fine—just look away.”
“Yes,” Ulrich said while sharpening his tools, “everything will be fine.” He grinned.
“You don’t have to do this, Ulrich,” Dieter said.
“I know I don’t, priest. But I want to.” Ulrich stared at Dieter with a blank look. He shrugged. “Besides, orders are orders. You heard the bishop.”
“I know there’s a good man beneath all that hate. Please, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Dieter pleaded. His voice quivered.
“I know you will,” Ulrich said, lifting the pliers and inspecting them. “But that wouldn’t be very enjoyable.”
When he was done perusing his wares, he sighed and let out a deep breath. He left the room for a moment, and came back with a small chair, which he placed in front of the table. “I doubt you have much to tell me, anyway,” he said to Dieter.
“Then why are you doing this?”
Ulrich crossed his arms over his chest, didn’t bother to respond, and looked back and forth between Sybil and Dieter. “Now . . . who’s going to go first?”
“I will,” Dieter said without hesitation.
Ulrich chuckled. “It’s not that simple, priest.” He pointed his pliers at Dieter, and then at Sybil, and then back to Dieter. He repeated this for some time, while counting silently to himself. After a minute of tense anticipation, the damp air in the room seemed to thicken.
Finally, his hand slowed, and it ended on Sybil. With a last-second motion, he pointed the pliers at Dieter. “You’re a lucky man, priest,” Ulrich said, showing his gap-riddled smile.
The torturer opened the cell with a key, and Sybil ran up to him. Ulrich easily shoved her to the back of the cell, and then reached and grabbed Dieter’s wrists.
Dieter struggled for a moment, but he was too weak and malnourished. He was dragged from the cell. Martin yelped, but Sybil held back her emotions, refusing to let out so much as a whimper.
I won’t give this savage the satisfaction of seeing me suffer, she thought. She sat at the back of the cell in painful silence.
Ulrich pushed Dieter down onto the chair, and then strapped his left hand behind his back. He took Dieter’s right hand and slammed it on the table, and then wrapped his wrist with a rope.
Dieter wiggled his fingers and moved his hand, but that was all the mobility he could muster.
Ulrich took the pliers and tapped them on the table. “What do you know about the Protestant army?” he asked. He seemed bored, as if his questions had been rehearsed.
“God as my witness, I know nothing of their plans. I simply met with the pastor to—”
Dieter let out a bloodcurdling scream as Ulrich twisted his thumbnail out of its socket and tore it from his hand.
As Dieter howled, Sybil covered her ears and clenched her eyes shut. Martin started babbling to himself.
Ulrich pressed down on the tender flesh and blood dribbled around the wound.
Dieter gnashed his teeth.
“If you bite down too hard,” Ulrich said, “you’ll break your lovely smile. I’ve seen it happen. Just let it out.” He kept squeezing Dieter’s thumb, and Dieter groaned.
Ulrich picked up the pliers again. “Are the Calvinists bringing reinforcements? Why are they only attacking the town with cannons?”
Dieter’s eyes blinked. He blurted out, “Because they plan on starving Bedburg!”
Ulrich tapped his bloody pliers against the scar on his cheek. “Hm,” he said, and then shook his head. “You’re lying. Bedburg could last weeks, and the Protestants don’t have that kind of time to waste.” He stretched Dieter’s index finger, clamped the pliers down, and ripped off the nail.
Dieter coughed. Blood started to drip down his forearm and pool on the table.
“Try again, priest. Why are the Protestants only using cannons, rather than using soldiers?”
“Because it’s working!” Dieter shouted. He began heaving.
Ulrich chuckled. “How would you know? You’ve been in here since the siege began.” With that, he ripped the nail from Dieter’s middle finger. “This is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. Why don’t you think before you say whatever first comes to your head?”
With every nail that Ulrich pulled, Dieter became more reserved. Besides the initial shock, the pain began to numb his senses.
From upstairs, there was the familiar sound of the jailhouse door opening. Footsteps pounded down the stairs.
Dieter looked away from his hand and grimaced.
“Look at your hand, priest, or I’ll pluck your eyeballs from your skull.”
The warning was enough for Dieter to turn back and stare at his bloody hand, unblinking.
“Stay strong,” Sybil called from inside the cell.
Ulrich looked over his shoulder “If you don’t stay quiet, I’ll switch you out with your lover, right now.”
“How are things going here?” asked a voice from behind the torturer.
Dieter tried to look at the person behind Ulrich, but his eyes were blurred with sweat, and he couldn’t recognize the figure.
Ulrich growled and said, “Get out of here. Can’t you see I’m busy working?”
“And a fine job you’re doing, punisher, but you’re going to want to see this.”
Ulrich sighed, put his hand on Dieter’s shoulder, and stood to his full height. He tossed the pliers onto the table and turned around. “What in God’s name is—”
There was a loud thump. Ulrich’s body went stiff, and then the torturer wobbled in place. He fell over and crashed into the table, scattering his instruments onto the stone floor. Because his hand was roped to the table, Dieter went with it and fell on his side.
Dieter grunted, and then furrowed his brow and squinted.
Georg Sieghart stood over Ulrich’s body. He held the pommel of a sword in his hand. The hunter bent down and shuffled around in Ulrich’s tunic, until he found a set of keys. He flipped his sword around and cut away Dieter’s bindings. He grabbed the cloth that Ulrich’s tools had been set on, and wrapped it around Dieter’s hand. Then he helped the weary priest to his feet.
Dieter gasped, and looked at Georg, confused. He clutched his hand.
Georg moved to the jail cell and used key after key, until one of them clicked and the gate opened. He glanced at Dieter and said, “Am I still a dishonorable man?”
Sybil jumped out from the cell and leaped into Dieter’s arms, helping him to stay standing.
Dieter wheezed and said, “I-I’m sorry, Herr Sieghart. I owe you an apology, and my life.”
“So soon?”
Dieter nodded. “I’ve learned that it wasn’t you who publicized our secret.”
“You’re damn right it wasn’t.” Georg sighed and kicked Ulrich’s unconscious body in the leg. “Let’s get going. I have no idea how long this big boar will stay sleeping.”
“Wait!” Sybil cried.
She ran over to Martin’s cell. The boy was still distraught, and was still talking to himself. “We have to release him . . . please, I beg of you.”
Georg peered into the cage, and then he turned to Sybil with a look of disbelief on his face. “You realize that’s the same kid who butchered his father right before my eyes, don’t you, my lady?”
“I know. But he’s not that boy anymore.” She put her hands together, like she was praying. “Please.”
“You’re right, he’s not that boy,” Georg said. “He’s a murderer. I’ve seen it.”
“I’ll take responsibility for the boy,” Dieter said. “Just please give Beele the key.”
Georg hesitated, and then sighed and finally handed the keys to Sybil. She unlocked the gate. Martin was barefoot, and more than a little skittish, but Sybil helped him out of the cell.
“You people need to leave Bedburg right away. We’re losing the battle for the city,” Georg said.
“Where will we go?” Dieter asked.
Georg ran a hand through his beard. Flakes of crusted blood fell to the ground. He reached into his tunic and came out with a few pieces of silver. “Take this money—it should be enough to get you passage from the Dutch shore. Go to London. People will accept you there—Queen Elizabeth is a Protestant sympathizer.” Georg used his hand to gesture directions. “Head west out of Bedburg, and keep going west. Don’t stop or look back until you reach Amsterdam or the sea. Take a ship from there—it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“We can’t accept your money, Georg,” Dieter said.
“Don’t say you can’t.” Georg put his one good hand on his hip. “Now is not the time to act prideful, Father. Just take it and leave. Try and stay hidden as you travel through the countryside. Take the woods if you must, but stay away from the roads.”
Dieter looked to the ground, and his body seemed to deflate. “Thank you, Herr Sieghart.” He suddenly reached out and embraced the hunter, who looked baffled, to say the least.
