by Cory Barclay
The real reason Baron Bergheim was disappointed in Peter’s outcome, however, was that the farmer could have helped to bolster the baron’s coffers. Now, that would never come to pass.
Heinrich Franz visited his premier prisoner, Peter Griswold, to inform him of the recent word around town.
“Archbishop Ernst and his nobles have arrived in Bedburg,” he told the farmer.
Peter chuckled. “I will be the most celebrated monster to ever live.”
“At least you can find the comedy in tragedy.”
Peter’s smile faded. “You’re a true pariah, investigator.”
“So you’ve told me,” Heinrich said. He paused. Looking up, he searched the cracks in the jailhouse ceiling. “A strange thing was discovered after our victory yesterday.”
“Why should I care?”
Heinrich shrugged. “Johannes von Bergheim was found murdered.”
Peter wrinkled his nose.
“He was found with a wooden cross lodged in his skull.”
Peter smiled. He had seen his daughter secretly sculpting that amulet for many days, and he’d wondered what his daughter had done with it. He kept that bit of information to himself.
“What a shame,” Peter said, his smile remaining.
Heinrich laughed. “I agree with you. I’d say it was justifiable—a sublime act of justice. No girl should have to go through what your daughter went through.”
Peter clenched his jaw. “Don’t speak of my daughter.”
Heinrich leaned close to the bars of the cell, his pale face lit up against the shadows of the room. “My only wonder is . . . who could have done such a gruesome thing?” He trailed off and narrowed his eyes. “We’ll surely have to send a patrol after the killers, whoever they—”
“It was me,” Peter claimed. “I confess to killing that boy.” His face took on a look of sheer panic at Heinrich’s implication.
The investigator put his hands on his hips and tilted his head. “Now, now, Peter. That timeline doesn’t add up, does it? You were in prison when Johannes was killed.”
Peter balled his hand into a fist and pounded on the bars, clouding the room with dust. He stared at the investigator’s cold, gray eyes. He knew who was likely responsible for Johannes’ death. Looking at Heinrich’s eyes, he could tell the investigator also knew.
“I beg you, Herr Franz, if you ever had a decent bone in your body . . . put his death on the list of my many . . . atrocities. What does one more vile nobleman matter to you?”
Heinrich shook his head. “Don’t worry, Peter. I expected you might say that, and I commend you for taking priority as a father—however long it might have taken you. I will put the boy’s death on your hands.”
“Thank you,” Peter said. Placing his forehead on the bars, he exhaled. It felt strangely ironic to be thanking a man who had labeled him a murderer. He couldn’t help but grin.
“Killing a baron’s son and a hero’s daughter . . . this will surely be a trial for the ages, Peter,” Heinrich muttered, bringing the farmer back to his dismal reality.
Peter shrugged. He felt content for a completely unrelated reason: In his final confession—that of killing Johannes von Bergheim—and possibly the last days of his life, he had finally found the strength in his heart to accept the love and union between his daughter and Father Dieter Nicolaus.
Peter Griswold’s trial was a complete spectacle and fiasco. It was a grand show, put on by Archbishop Ernst, Lord Werner, and Bishop Solomon. And, as expected, the citizens of Bedburg came by the thousands to watch it all, to condemn and vilify the treacherous werewolf who for years had stalked their countryside.
During the week preceding the trial, Peter was displayed like a trophy in the town’s marketplace. He was placed in a pillory on a raised platform. Passing townsfolk ridiculed and spat on his exposed head, while others threw rotten food and rocks at him. Several daring kids even shaved his head, then ran off giggling.
The trial itself drew the most esteemed and recognizable figures of the German aristocracy. Lords, ladies, and noblemen— most from outside Bedburg—clamored for the best seating. Everyone wanted to bear witness to the grand carnival.
Peter’s nickname became his only name—Peter Stubbe—due to him missing his left hand. It was predicted that the trial would be drawn out and lengthy, to attract as many spectators as possible.
Baron Ludwig von Bergheim, whose son was one of Peter’s murder victims, was the lead magistrate in the case.
With such egregious charges, it was no surprise that Peter’s fate was sealed even before he set foot in the courtroom.
He was charged with killing no less than eighteen people, over a span of twenty-five years. His preferred victims were children and women, some of them pregnant (including, apparently, Josephine). He also ate many of his victims—either their brains, parts of their body, or, in extreme cases, their fetuses.
Witnesses claimed they’d seen Peter gorge on the flesh of beasts, such as goats and sheep.
As various accusers and barristers described the sensational details, they became more and more vivid and grotesque, causing many spectators to vomit or faint
At one point in the trial, as Peter was stretched on a rack, nearly to death, he “confessed” to eating fourteen women and children, three of them pregnant, and his own daughter (who was believed to be dead at the time).
The crowds gasped in horror when they learned that, before killing Sybil, he’d engaged in an incestuous relationship with her.
He was also accused of having a sexual relationship with his own sister, whose trial would follow.
He admitted to practicing black magic since he was twelve years old, after obtaining a belt from Satan—the same belt that was actually given to him by his father. Satan’s belt allowed him to transform into an evil, bloodsucking werewolf, under the cover of night. Random gasps and groans from the crowd could be heard throughout these “confessions.”
The more Peter listened to the repulsive accusations, and felt the pain of his torture, the more numb he got. He stopped listening. All he could do was hope that his daughter, son, and sister were safe.
And then, finally, came the day of his execution.
It was October 31, 1589—All Hallows’ Eve. As dawn broke, people were lining up in the marketplace. After relishing in the depravity of Peter Stubbe’s trial, the crowd now seemed to share an even higher level of hatred for the farmer. It was nothing more than a crazed mob, hellbent on seeing this man ripped apart for what they believed he was: a vicious, vile monster.
Peter Griswold was guilty by public demand.
Heinrich Franz knew Peter was much less a demon than given credit for. An unfortunate scapegoat, he’d been caught in the politics of warring Catholics and Protestants.
That morning, Heinrich went to visit Archbishop Ernst, who had taken residence in Castle Bedburg during Peter’s months-long trial.
“My lord,” Heinrich began. “I believe it’s time you hear the words I was going to say when you first arrived in Bedburg.”
The archbishop was holding a pipe. He looked down his beak of a nose at the investigator. “What are you still doing here, Herr Franz? Don’t you have a massive estate to attend to?”
“I believe you have the wrong man in custody for the murders.”
Ernst fumbled his pipe and nearly dropped it. His eyes went wide, but he quickly composed himself. “Why are you telling me this, now? Are you telling me that you were wrong . . . again? If that’s the case, it seems I should take your rewards from you.”
“Well,” Heinrich said, “I believe it makes no difference. This man has to die, I’m sure you know, so that the Protestants are too frightened to attack again.”
“They are in shambles,” Ernst agreed. “We will make an example out of one of their leaders. But, if you know that, then why have you come to me? What is it you wish to say?”
“I’ve come to benefit you, in fact.”
Heinrich could see the a
rchbishop’s eyes sparkle. “Continue,” Ernst said.
The investigator cleared his throat. “As you know, I only took this case at your discretion, my lord. As such, I was hurried to make a quick resolution, by Lord Werner and Bishop Solomon. I may be at fault, partly, for my investigation, but it was those two who pulled the strings.”
The two men stared at each other. They both knew that, in truth, it was Archbishop Ernst who had been pulling Heinrich’s strings. But that didn’t need to be said—not in the presence of an official scribe, who sat in the corner of the throne room, writing down their conversation.
The truth was conveyed in their eyes as they gazed at each other. As elector of Cologne, it was no secret that Ernst held the power in Bedburg. But he still couldn’t publicly vocalize the misconduct and ruination of one of his colleagues, as much as it pleased him to hear. It would raise suspicion. Heinrich and Ernst understood all of this, in their silence.
So Heinrich had come to him with an alternative. “After the Protestants attacked,” he continued, “I was further pressured by Lord Werner to find the werewolf, by any means necessary. So I did, but after further inspection, I believe I may have been . . . wrong.”
“How were you wrong? And why are you telling me this?”
Because Bishop Solomon is an old wretch, and Lord Werner is a little serpent, Heinrich thought. “Because I seek the truth,” he said.
Ernst looked frustrated, but waved him on. “Go on, Herr Franz. What is it you believe?”
Heinrich cleared his throat again. “Peter Griswold may be at fault for many of the murders,” he said, making sure to smother any wrongdoing on his own part. “But . . . I believe it was Georg Sieghart, also known as Sieghart the Savage, who was responsible for many of these treacherous acts. I think that the man we first believed to have killed the Werewolf of Bedburg was in fact the werewolf all along.”
The archbishop’s eyebrows rose. “What evidence do you have?”
“The spy you sent to follow him, Konrad von Brühl, he—”
“You are quite resourceful, investigator.”
Heinrich smiled. “It wasn’t difficult to uncover. Anyway . . . Konrad’s body was found with his throat torn out, in a tunnel beneath my jailhouse, just a short time ago. My man, Ulrich, told me of an unbearable stench rising into the jailhouse, and so we discovered Konrad’s body. I believe Georg killed him, after some dispute. Perhaps he lured Konrad to the underground tunnel.
“Furthermore, I believe he killed Josephine Donovan, the courtesan, as he was the last client seen with the woman. Peter could not have killed her, because I am almost certain that he was away—convening with the Protestants—at the time of Josephine’s death.”
“Why would Georg kill the prostitute?” Enrst asked.
Heinrich shrugged. “Perhaps she denied his advances. After some research, I discovered that Josephine physically resembled Georg’s deceased wife. They were both Irish, and redheaded. And, as you eloquently pointed out, Georg was a crazed savage.”
Archbishop Ernst started tapping his chin with his pipe.
Heinrich crossed his arms over his chest. “I believe the same fate befell Margreth Baumgartner, who also declined his advances, as Peter was away with the Protestants during her time of death, too.”
“This all sounds very circumstantial, investigator,” Ernst said, shaking his head.
“True, but I would not be doing my job properly if I did not bring it to your attention.”
There was a long lull in the conversation as the archbishop puffed on his pipe.
Finally, Archbishop Ernst sighed and stood from his chair. “I appreciate your candor, Herr Franz. I will dwell on this new information, but, for now, I have an execution to witness.”
Heinrich Franz bowed to the archbishop and was escorted out of the castle. As he rode by the marketplace, passing the bloodthirsty townsfolk and judges charged with deciding Peter’s fate, he frowned. What a circus.
But once away from the town square, a smile crept to his face. He thought of the seed that he’d just planted in the archbishop’s mind, though he wasn’t entirely sure whether that seed would sprout.
Heinrich Franz didn’t stay in Bedburg for the execution of Peter Griswold, though he heard plenty about it from numerous sources. And as tales of the execution traveled and were repeated, the more outlandish they became. In fact, many of the accounts were printed in woodblocks, to showcase the execution’s morbidity.
Before being condemned as a werewolf, a devil, a sorcerer, a cannibal, and a murderer, Peter Griswold looked out at the swelling crowd of hateful townsfolk and felt a sense of remorse. Shouldn’t I be feeling hatred toward these faces? Shouldn’t I be damning them with my last breath?
Instead, as he scanned the faces, he swore he saw two familiar ones under hooded guise: his daughter and Father Dieter Nicolaus.
He blinked. Surely my mind is playing tricks on me.
But as he stared at the two, a strange and wonderful sense of calm overtook him. He felt no hate. He forgave them all. Just as Dieter would have asked him to do. He now knew that in the afterlife, God would surely see the falsity of his alleged crimes. He would be forgiven for his sins and trespasses.
It was later reported that he was lashed to a wheel, and that the flesh was torn from his body in ten places with hot pincers. Then the flesh was ripped from his arms and legs, and the people cheered wildly. Despite taunts for more pain and writhing, Peter would not oblige, staying deadly silent throughout the ordeal, resigned to his fate. Looking up, he thought he saw an angel—or God—in the cloudless sky.
His limbs were then broken, crushed by the blunt side of an axe, to prevent him from returning from the grave.
He was probably dead at that point, but, for good measure, he was then beheaded and burned on a pyre.
The only silver lining to Peter’s death was that it prevented him from witnessing his sister’s similar fate. Though he’d been guaranteed her safety, such was not to be. Another bloodthirsty jury deemed her a succubus and witch—for, among other things, luring her own brother to her bedside—and she was burned alive at the stake.
And with the death of Peter came the death of the Werewolf of Bedburg. For the first time in years, the good people of Bedburg would be safe and free from the werewolf’s treacherous curse.
EPILOGUE
The deaths around the countryside of Cologne and Bedburg ceased after the execution of Peter Griswold. Even so, Archbishop Ernst ordered a secret search party to find and arrest Georg Sieghart for unspecified reasons. Only Ernst and Heinrich knew that Georg was being blamed for many of the murders attributed to Peter Griswold.
The archbishop excommunicated Bishop Solomon for his misuse of power and for leading a false investigation, banishing him from Bedburg. It was said that he lived the rest of his life in poverty. Since he’d spent his entire life knowing only the path of the Lord, he became a wandering beggar, traveling from city to city, before finally succumbing to either an unknown illness, or old age.
He never became a saint and was largely forgotten.
Archbishop Ernst replaced Solomon with his Jesuit missionary, Balthasar Schreib, as the new bishop of Bedburg.
Lord Werner, though originally endorsed and chosen by Archbishop Ernst to govern Bedburg, was also deposed and stripped of his title, for the same reasons as Solomon. With his position vacant for a time, it was left to Bishop Balthasar to find a suitable replacement.
Ernst’s religious and political hold on Bedburg became absolute.
Georg Sieghart’s body was never found at the death site of Johannes von Bergheim and his three guards. In fact, Georg’s body was never found anywhere.
The archbishop’s scouting troop followed a trail of blood that led away from the bodies of Johannes and his men, but they returned empty-handed.
As the babble traveled, Georg’s alleged crimes—and the hunter himself—took on legendary proportions in the taverns of Bedburg. People who’d never met him cla
imed to have known him personally. Tales of his deeds grew larger than life and it was quite some time before “Sieghart the Savage” was forgotten.
Many believed he died from his massive wounds. How could a man live with such a thick trail of blood in his wake? Others believed the blood wasn’t his—that it belonged to someone else. Some believed that, on various hunts, they’d seen him roaming the countryside in the fog, as a hermit, or werewolf, or worse—maybe a ghost.
Then, after a while, no one cared.
With Peter Griswold’s death, and the end to the murders, the hysteria that had plagued Bedburg for so long ultimately died as well.
Dieter Nicolaus, Sybil Griswold, and Martin Achterberg managed to traverse the countryside west of Bedburg, over the hills and through the woods, eventually making their way to Amsterdam and the Dutch coast. From there they booked passage to England and, while on board, managed to find a Protestant minister who conducted their marriage. Martin became the de facto brother to both Dieter and Sybil.
Dieter didn’t lose his leg or fingers. He made a full recovery from his wounds.
In England, they went to Windsor Castle in Berkshire, the home of Queen Elizabeth and her court. Their lavish tales of the Werewolf of Bedburg drew in great audiences and acclaim, and though both Dieter and Sybil thought that would earn them a place in the Queen’s court, that was also not to be.
As their tales became well worn, their audience of fickle nobles soon lost interest, leaving them to roam the streets to find a place of their own.
Fortunately, before their banishment Sybil went into labor and was lucky enough to remain in the care of Queen Elizabeth throughout the birth, with the best nurses and physicians at her disposal. Had her timing been different, she no doubt would have died giving birth.
