by Cory Barclay
The baby’s features were soft, with a hint of dark hair and the pale face of Dieter. There could be no doubt who the father was.
When Sybil asked Dieter what they should name their boy, his reply came quickly.
The name of the father who had finally accepted them. The protector who had rescued them.
And together they hugged their new child, Peter Sieghart.
Months after the events in Bedburg and far from the Cologne principality, a young girl—no more than fifteen years of age—walked from her town’s cathedral to her family farm in the country. She was fair skinned, with curly blonde hair and a plush, red face.
It was nearing sundown. Walking alone, she’d prayed and talked with some of the nuns for far too long and had lost track of the time.
A man came up alongside her, seemingly out of nowhere. The girl jumped, clutching her chest.
“Hello, my dear,” the man said cheerily.
“Oh my,” the girl replied, “you startled me, sir.”
The man smiled. He was tall and thin, and had his hands clasped behind his back. “I see you’re alone, and I’m sure your father wouldn’t like you walking alone at this hour. May I escort you home?”
The man had a charming smile, and though he was much older than the girl, he was somewhat handsome.
The girl smiled shyly, and the man walked beside her, draping his hand over her shoulder. He wore black gloves, his spindly fingers resting on her thin collarbone.
“That’s very kind of you, my lord,” the girl said. “But it’s my mother who told me it isn’t safe to walk alone so close to night.” The girl blushed. “I . . . lost track of time at the church.”
The man smiled and said, “I know the feeling.” The two continued west toward the sunset. He looked to the sky. “I love when it’s bursting with orange and pink. Don’t you?”
The girl smiled, looked up at the man’s gaunt face, and nodded.
The man gestured toward the rolling hills and trails in the distance. “Look how beautiful it is out there in the wilderness! If you ask me, my dear, you shouldn’t be too frightened about stories your mother tells you.”
Then the man’s hand moved to his face, and he started twirling a wispy mustache on his upper lip. With his other hand, he squeezed the girl’s shoulder tight. He looked down at her. His lips curled and his gray eyes flashed.
“Besides, my dear, I doubt the Devil’s in the countryside.”
Fact or Fiction?
The Werewolf of Bedburg is based on a true story that happened in Germany, during the Catholic Counter-Reformation. The span of killings happened from around 1564 to 1588. Though the gruesome murders and the “werewolf’s” trial actually happened, not all of the characters or events in this book are based on fact—actually, most of them aren’t.
Heinrich Franz, Georg Sieghart, and Dieter Nicolaus are completely fictional characters. So is Dorothea Gabler, Josephine Donovan, Baron Ludwig and Johannes von Bergheim, Margreth and Arnold Baumgartner, Konrad von Brühl, Pastor Hanns Richter, Lars, Cristoff, Tomas, Ulrich, Bishop Solomon, Balthasar Shreib, Claus, and Karl, Bertrude, and Martin Achterberg.
Peter Griswold (or Peter Stubbe) was real. A Rhenish settler, he had two children (Sybil, and an unknown son), though Griswold might not have been their surname. Katharina Trompen was supposedly a distant relative of Peter, but I used creative license and made her his sister.
Archbishop Ernst was the actual prince-elector of Cologne during this time. Lord Werner was his truly appointed Lord of Bedburg. Archbishop Gebhard von Truchsess was the Protestant archbishop and prince-elector before Ernst, and the Cologne War most definitely happened. Ferdinand of Bavaria, Count Adolf von Neuenahr, and Duke Alexander Farnese of Parma were all real as well.
The Werewolf of Bedburg’s trial was the most popular trial of the times, attracting all the lords and ladies of the land, and this story stems from the simple question: Why was this particular werewolf trial so much more important than any others?
Despite pretty intense research, I could never find an answer to that one. So I wrote this book instead.
Thanks for reading it. And stay tuned for the sequel!
IN THE
COMPANY
OF
WOLVES
~
CORY BARCLAY
~
Of Witches and Werewolves
Book II
This book is dedicated to all my friends who have supported me in following my dreams and helped me get this far.
You guys rock.
PART I
Wolves in the Herd
CHAPTER ONE
ROWAINE
1592 – The North Sea
Rowaine frowned as she stared at the picture on her lap. Her nails bit into the ruffled paper, her hands shaking.
“You need to stop worrying, Row. You will find him someday.”
She looked over her shoulder at Dominic Baker, a handsome young man with fine features and a warm smile. She wasn’t sure how he managed to keep looking so youthful and healthy. It was as if he hadn’t aged a day since she’d met him three years before.
“Right now we need to focus on the task at hand, yes?”
Rowaine sighed, folding the picture into a small square. Standing from her bench, she stuffed the picture in her tunic, close to her heart. She walked to the gunwale of the ship, put her hands on the railing, and gazed out at the blue-black water of the North Sea as it gently lapped against the hull of the boat. The waves rocked the Lion’s Pride in a soft rhythm, back and forth. Rowaine felt at peace. She always felt at peace out at sea.
She faced her friend. “I feel we might never get the chance to finish that task, Dom.”
“Don’t say that,” Dominic said. “You know you have support.”
Rowaine shook her head, her dark red curls bobbing from shoulder to shoulder. “I’m afraid it might not be enough.”
“It has to be. If we keep going like this, we’ll all end up at the bottom of the ocean, or worse, at the end of a noose. We have to do something. You’re our best hope. People are counting on you, so stop sounding so dreary.”
“What would you have me do? He’s our captain, for God’s sake.”
“Doesn’t make him any less of a madman, Row.”
Rowaine peered down at the wooden railing. “I know that,” she muttered.
Dominic put a hand softly on her shoulder. “The men are waiting on you. When you’re ready.” He nodded at her with his infectious smile.
After he’d left, Rowaine watched the sun for a moment as it fell behind the horizon. She sighed, then turned to observe the ship.
A few men were still on deck, huddled in a circle, sharing stew and swapping stories. One man was bent over, shivering uncontrollably in a corner even though the day was still warm. Adrian Coswell, the first mate, was perched at the helm, resting his elbows on the wheel and grinning at the sturdy woman beside him, both deep in conversation. He’d rented her the last time the Pride went to port.
That was a long time ago. Rowaine had stopped counting the days since she last saw land.
She glanced toward the horizon, the sky growing darker by the minute. To her right, the ship’s flag—a red lion’s jaw biting into a gold coin—billowed in the wind. Rowaine gave it a firm salute before turning away and heading to the nearest stairwell, where she slowly made her way below deck.
In her small room, Rowaine viewed herself in a dirty mirror as she tied the front of her leather shirt together. Her eyes moved down the mirror to the two pistols hanging from the belt around her waist.
She wanted to look battle-ready.
She ran a hand over the top of her smooth, leather shirt, as if trying to flatten her breasts. Then, taking her dark red hair in both hands, she tied the curls into a ponytail before stuffing it beneath her shirt.
She wanted to look like one of the boys.
Finally, she strapped on her steel-toed boots and grabbed a small pouch that jingled as she tucked
it away in her tunic.
She wanted to look like she had money.
She blinked at herself in the mirror, furrowing her brow as she leaned closer, then wiped some crust from her long eyelashes. Nodding, she left the room.
The Lion’s Pride had two common rooms. She squeezed by a few men in the narrow corridors as she made her way to the smaller room near the ship’s aft. The men she passed were just waking, getting ready for their shifts to begin. She nodded at them; they returned the gesture. Footsteps pounded from above. Some shouting followed, likely from First Mate Coswell.
She took a deep breath and opened the door. A cloud of tobacco smoke immediately surrounded and smothered her.
“Close the damn door, girl, you’re letting all the goods out!” a gruff voice complained.
Rowaine coughed and squinted through the cloud, trying to find the person. Her eyes landed on a man seated at a table. Daxton Wallace, the ship’s carpenter, was a stout man with a shiny head and a mouth incapable of forming a smile, mostly because of the tobacco pipe permanently stuck between his lips.
Next to the smoky carpenter sat Jerome Penderwick, a middle-aged, English surgeon with beady eyes lost deep in his head. Unlike Mister Wallace, Mister Penderwick smiled often, but it did him quite a disservice since he had only four or five teeth on any given day. In fact, each time Rowaine saw him, it seemed that his teeth fluctuated, in both number and location.
Rowaine’s eyes moved to Alfred Eckstein, the ship’s main rigger. Younger than Daxton and Jerome, he had big, strong forearms and ears too big for his head.
Dominic Baker, the Pride’s cabin boy, was the last of the men at the roundtable. He was responsible for relaying messages from the ship’s captain to the rest of the mates. With a twinkle in his eye he patted the empty chair next to him.
Rowaine ducked from the cloud of smoke and sat. She took a moment to look at the faces around the table: Daxton puffed on his pipe; Jerome’s beady eyes circled the room; Alfred sat patiently with his hands folded; Dominic drummed his fingers on his legs.
All eyes focused on Rowaine.
“Well,” she said, “shall we begin?”
A moment of tense silence followed. Dominic shifted in his seat. Alfred pulled at one of his large ears.
Then Daxton started chuckling. Smoke shot from his nostrils. “By God, yes we shall!”
With a collective sigh, everyone sat back.
Daxton reached inside his shirt, producing a deck of cards that he slammed down on the table. Alfred stopped pulling his ear. He leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “What’s it today, gentlemen?” he asked, then eyed Rowaine. “And lady.”
“M-mister Baker, you won last time. What do you s-say?” Jerome asked. The surgeon had a stutter.
“I say One-and-Thirty,” Dominic said, leaning across the table and grabbing the deck.
All the men faced Rowaine.
She smiled. “One-and-Thirty it is.”
Daxton Wallace drew his sword from its sheath and placed it in the center of the table. Jerome Penderwick gasped. All eyes glanced at Rowaine.
They’d been playing cards for hours. One-and-Thirty was a simple game, perfect for thickheaded seamen. The goal was to get as close to thirty-one as possible with cards of the same suit. Each player had three cards, discarding unwanted ones and replacing them. Aces were worth eleven; face cards ten.
Rowaine studied her hand: an Ace of Hearts, a King of Hearts, and a Three of Diamonds. A score of twenty-one. All but she and Daxton were out. She peeked over her cards at Daxton, whose scowl made him difficult to read.
Daxton glanced up from his cards, then nudged the sword on the table. “I’ll wager my father’s cutlass, my prized possession”—he paused, waiting for everyone to eagerly lean forward in suspense—“in return for one night with that sweet flower of yours.”
Alfred chuckled. Dominic tilted his head down.
Jerome started to say, “That’s g-g-gr—”
“Spit it out, amputator,” Daxton urged.
“That’s gross.” Jerome loudly exhaled.
Rowaine was smiling. “Fair enough. I’ve always liked that sword. It’ll look good on my wall. If this is what it’s going to take to gain your support . . .”
“Row,” Dominic started, “you don’t have to…”
Rowaine lifted her palm to stop the cabin boy. “Quiet, Dom.” Her eyes remained fixed on Daxton. “What’s it going to be?”
Daxton furrowed his brow. He glimpsed at his cards, sighed, then refocused on Rowaine. He knocked the table with his fist. “Stand.”
Rowaine mimicked him, then laid her cards out, face-up.
Daxton’s frown became a rare smile. He showed his hand: three spades—a nine, eight, and five. Twenty-two.
Everyone at the table gasped, avoiding eye contact with Rowaine, except for Daxton.
Rowaine frowned, then shrugged. She began to untie the cords holding her leather shirt together. “Well,” she said, “I’m a woman of my word.”
As she undid the first cord, everyone’s eyes widened, none more than Daxton’s. Jerome stuttered, mumbling incoherently. Alfred had his chin in his palm, observing the event with quiet contemplation. Dominic appeared frightened.
As she started untying the second cord near the top of her breasts, she stopped. She looked at Daxton. “I get to bring my guns in the room though, Dax.”
After a moment of silence, Daxton chuckled nervously and the tension left the smoke-filled room. Everyone, except Daxton, leaned back and exhaled.
The carpenter blushed. “Bah,” he said, waving a hand at Rowaine. “I know you’ve got sweet Dominic all wrapped up in your loins.” He leered at the handsome cabin boy next to Rowaine. “He may be younger and more handsome than me, but if you’re ever needing the real thing, it’s waiting right here for you.” He stood from his chair and grabbed his crotch, making clear to Rowaine exactly where “it” was.
The card game continued for some time, until the discussion took a more serious, quieter tone. This meeting, after all, had been for more than just a game of cards.
Jerome Penderwick, the Pride’s lone doctor and surgeon, was the first to spoil the fun.
“I don’t know how much longer we can s-stay out at s-sea,” he said. “My s-supplies are running dry, and I’m sick and . . . sick and . . . t-tired of the feverish and dying. More people will die, at a f-faster rate if we keep on.” The other men all shifted in their seats. It took so long for him to speak his mind that they were all losing patience.
Daxton was the next one to speak. “I’m with the amputator. The captain is more interested in his reputation and wealth than with the well-being of his ship or crew. He’s near ready to run the Pride into a watery grave if we don’t port soon. I’m running out of wood fast. I can hardly make repairs to the ship and I’ve got termites eating away at everything.”
“One thing’s for sure,” Dominic said, “the captain’s hellbent on furthering his own reputation. But some of us have families to feed—”
“You don’t,” Alfred said, drawing an irksome stare from the cabin boy.
“Thank you for reminding me,” Dominic said. “I’m trying to make a point.”
Daxton pointed at Alfred. “I know you can agree with me. I’ve seen your storage.”
The big-eared rigger nodded. “You’re right, Dax. Our ropes are weak and brittle. Our flagpole is liable to fall at any moment. The ship is falling apart.”
Jerome looked at Rowaine. “You’re our navigator, Row. So s-s-steer us.”
While Rowaine didn’t control the wheel, she was the Pride’s best pilot at sea, always pointing the ship in the right direction. She could tell when ships were approaching by a simple change of wind. They could be a hundred miles from shore and Rowaine could sense where land was based on the taste of the sea salt or the smell of the birdshit. No one on the Lion’s Pride questioned her judgment when it came to all things nautical.
But the trajectory of their ship didn�
��t need deciding. What needed deciding was the direction the crew needed to take.
All eyes turned back to Rowaine. “I know, gentlemen, that we’re in dire straits. Our ship needs repairs. We need food. We need medicine. We need to unload these spoils and celebrate with our families.”
She studied each face.
“And our captain is a madman.”
An image of their last ship-boarding episode flashed through her mind. She remembered watching her captain slit the throats of the male slaves being transported, grinning the entire time. Then he’d moved on to the few women aboard, allowing the crew to have their way with them and taking the youngest one to his own cabin. Rowaine could still hear her screams echoing through the ship.
A sheen of sweat had formed on Rowaine’s forehead.
“Are you okay, Row?” Dominic asked.
Rowaine cleared her throat. “What do you boys think is the best plan?”
“We’ve been over this,” Alfred said, forming a steeple with his hands. “And we can’t seem to agree.”
“I say we hold a vote,” said Dominic.
Daxton snarled. “You may be pretty, but you’re a dumb pup, Dom. We won’t win a vote—we don’t have the numbers. What do you think the captain will do when he finds out? He’ll either maroon us or feed us to the sharks.”
“So mutiny is our only option?” Alfred asked.
“Sounds dangerous and b-bloody. I expect I’ll be n-needing more medical supplies,” Jerome said.
All eyes circled back to Rowaine, hungry for the leader to respond. She sighed, then began to speak just as a flurry of pounding feet sounded above deck. Rowaine examined the ceiling. Dust rained down, mixing with the smoke in the room.
Then came more footsteps. Then shouting. Finally, a bell rang out, followed by the booming words of the captain blasting above them:
