by Cory Barclay
“That’s an odd sight,” she said.
Several yards from the church, the carriage stopped. A middle-aged man hopped out. He wore a purple vest and puffy shirt, looking nothing like the farmers Sybil had grown to know. His cheeks were high and pointed.
The man bowed. “Good day. I am Clarence Bailey, the reeve of this land.” He spread his arms out wide, gesturing at the rural shire. “Though he’s not with me now, I believe you’ve met my tax collector, Timothy Davis.”
Dieter put a shirt over his head. “Yes, my lord. We’re surprised—but pleased—to finally meet you. Mister Davis seems like a good man, and a fair taxman.”
“Indeed.” Reeve Bailey had sly eyes. “I apologize for not making your acquaintance earlier in the year. Times are busy. But I had to come down when I heard you were building . . . this.” He eyed the church in a strange way. Sybil couldn’t decide whether he approved or not.
“Worry not, my lord,” Dieter said. “You would be quite welcome at Sunday’s Mass for your generous hospitality—for allowing us to live on your land.”
The reeve beamed. “I would very much enjoy that, as would my wife.” He reached into his vest and pulled out a piece of paper. Perusing the paper with scrunched eyebrows, he stopped when he came to a certain line, exclaiming, “Ah, here it is. It says in my docket that you two are from London.” His eyes moved quickly from Sybil’s to Dieter’s. “But you seem to have quite an accent, sir.”
Dieter hesitated for a moment. “Sybil and I originate from Germany, my lord. We escaped persecutors and shipped over to London.”
“Ah, so you are Strangers!”
Dieter gave the reeve a sideways glance. “Excuse me, sir?”
Bailey coughed into his hand. “Twenty-five years ago, Norfolk was a refuge for people fleeing Catholic oppression from overseas. The refugees were mostly French Huguenots and Belgian Walloons. They were called Elizabeth’s Strangers, and Norfolk became their haven.”
“Ah,” Dieter said, scratching his cheek.
The reeve smiled broadly. “So it seems you are a new generation of Strangers! Quite good, sir, quite good. And how did you fancy England’s capital?”
“I didn’t care for it,” Sybil said, stepping in. In truth, she’d hated London. The bustling hub of English urbanity reminded her of her chaotic life in Germany, which she’d come to England to escape.
“Excuse my wife’s brash tone, my lord,” Dieter said, holding out his hand. Sybil gave him a nasty glare. “We were welcomed, at first, by the lords and ladies of London. But we both felt strangely out of place.”
The place reminded me of the nobles and ballrooms in Bedburg, Sybil thought, shaking her head. And Johannes . . .
“My wife was pregnant, you see, so we couldn’t travel far. Also, our stories across the channel seemed to thrill and enlighten the gentry in London. But that didn’t last.”
Reeve Bailey sighed. “It hardly ever does,” he said. “You cannot stay flavorful to those folk for too long.” His eyes dipped as a private thought passed.
“Quite true,” Dieter replied. “After our son was a year old, we came here. Your community welcomed us with open arms, sir, and we’re grateful for it.” Dieter beheld the green country surrounding him. “Although I was quite baffled when I learned there wasn’t a parish church in the region. And quite pleased when Timothy Davis allowed us to build one here, as I believe it will benefit the community.”
The reeve tapped a finger to his lips. “It will increase revenue, as well,” he said with a cunning grin. “I’m sure Mister Davis explained how taxation works with churches in the area?”
“Not completely . . . no. But I believe it will pay for itself in the services that we’ll bring to the people.”
“And you plan to preach Martin Luther’s teachings?”
Dieter nodded. “Among other things, my lord.”
Bailey raised an eyebrow. “Other things?”
Sybil stepped forward. “After my husband holds Mass each morning, I plan to start a grammar school. I want to teach the families’ children to read and write, sir.”
“Lovely,” Reeve Bailey said quietly, as if pondering how he’d be compensated for Sybil’s hopeful endeavor.
Sybil noticed the glint in Bailey’s eye. She’d been close enough to nobles to know that greedy look when she saw it, but she remained quiet.
“Very good, then,” Bailey said. “You can expect to see Mister Davis within the next few days, so please have your taxes ready upon his arrival.”
“Absolutely,” Dieter replied, nodding. “Thank you again for your hospitality.”
Reeve Clarence Bailey gave one last curt nod before returning to his carriage and driving off.
“He seems a good enough man,” Dieter said, watching the carriage roll down the road toward the last remnant of the setting sun.
With a scoff, Sybil cocked her head. “Don’t be fooled, Dieter. We’re only numbers to him. Did you not notice that he never even asked our names?”
Dieter sighed. “Don’t be so sour, Beele. You have to learn to give people a chance.”
Giving her husband a weak smile, Sybil said, “You’re right. I’m sorry.” But she wasn’t, since she didn’t agree with her husband, though she felt bad about lying to him.
He’s still naïve, believing too much in the good of people.
It was part of what drew her to Dieter in the first place—the kindness in his heart.
But Sybil also knew it could be a fault. And bring misery. Look at the people I knew—Johannes, a chauvinistic pig and rapist; Johannes’ father; that damn noblewoman, Margreth; my own father.
Sybil and Dieter hiked back to their house, arms draped around each other. The sky had turned the color of a fresh bruise. Sybil looked up and thought about her father. And her younger brother, Hugo. More painful memories.
Poor Hugo, she thought, clasping her hands together as she gave a silent prayer. I hope you’re alive, brother, and I hope I’ll see you one day. Each day I wonder how you’re doing . . . hoping you’ve found success . . . perhaps a woman . . . and whatever it is you’ve always wanted.
How are you, dear brother, and where are you?
CHAPTER THREE
HUGO
Bedburg, Principality of Cologne, Germany
Hugo Griswold sat under a decrepit tin awning, staring at the gray sky. He listened to the perpetual ting of the rain as droplets slipped through the holes of the roof. He shuddered and stuck his arms in his torn tunic, trying to warm himself.
Squinting both ways down the alley, he wobbled to his feet and wandered into the rain, letting it drench his body. The downpour plastered his shaggy hair to his scalp. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper bath, so he took advantage of the rainfall, despite its bone-chilling coldness.
It was midday in Bedburg, and the streets were quiet. He didn’t have high hopes for a successful day.
Someone appeared beside him. Hugo jumped with a start. “Jesus, Kars, how did you sneak up on me like that?”
Not quite fifteen, Karstan Hase was a moderately overweight boy and six months Hugo’s junior. He was also Hugo’s best friend. Karstan had an affable smile with a wide gap between his two yellow front teeth. Despite his lot in life, he always managed to stay positive. “It’s my talent,” Karstan assured Hugo. He gestured over his shoulder with his chin. “How much longer you think we got in that place?”
Hugo shrugged. They’d been residing in an abandoned house for days, but they never stayed in one place too long. The roaming patrol in Bedburg made sure of that. “However long it takes for the rain to waterlog it, I suppose.”
“Have you decided what you’re getting Ava for her birthday?” Karstan asked, raising his arms to the sky to let the rain wash them.
“Not yet . . .”
Two more figures emerged from the small house and stood in the doorway beneath the awning. Severin Lutz, the oldest member, was the self-appointed leader of their little brigade. The o
ther, Ava Hahn, was a slight fifteen-year-old with pretty features, fair skin, green eyes, and dark hair done in a tight bun on her head. In the short time he’d known Ava, Hugo had come to love her. Or, at least, what he imagined love felt like. His heart always skipped a beat whenever she was close. Right now was no different.
“All right you wretches, you ready to earn your daily bread?” Severin asked. Sixteen and slightly taller than both Hugo and Karstan, Severin was crude, bad-tempered, and had eyebrows that always pointed down, accentuating his meanness. Although Hugo reserved the word “hate” for a select few, he greatly disliked Severin.
“What’s the plan?” Karstan asked.
Ava had her hands clasped in front of her dirty dress. “We were thinking of doing a Beggar Drop,” she said quietly. Hugo grinned at her. Her face reddened.
Hugo believed Ava felt a mutual likeness for him, but he wasn’t sure. Severin always seemed to be at arm’s-length with the girl, which angered Hugo to no end.
“Sounds like a fantastic idea,” Hugo said.
Severin scoffed. “Who’s got Tanner Row, and who’s got Priest Circle?”
Tanner Row was the name the gang gave to the southwestern slum, where the hide tanners and butcher shops were located. It was one section of Bedburg’s larger southern district, a slum relegated to the needy, poor, and decrepit.
Priest Circle was just south of the town’s church, where all the beggars lined up each day to scavenge food from hapless priests. It reminded Hugo of his sister, who used to tell him stories of giving out food. But that was a long time ago. Hugo had shut those memories from his mind and hated hearing about Priest Circle.
“I’ll take Tanner Row with Ava,” he said.
Severin shook his head. “I’ve got Ava, and we’re taking Tanner Row,” he said with a smirk. “You get Priest Circle with the fat one.”
Karstan wiped his forehead with his filthy arm. “Phew,” he muttered, “Tanner Row smells like shit.”
“You can’t get Ava, Severin,” Hugo said. “She isn’t your property—”
Severin bared his teeth, ready to pounce, but Ava stepped between them, holding out her hands. “It’s fine, Hue. I’ll go with Sev.”
Ava hated conflict, especially between the boys, though it was an everyday occurrence.
Hugo sighed, clenching his fists. He badly wanted to punch Severin in the jaw but obeyed Ava’s wishes.
Putting his hand on Hugo’s shoulder, Karstan leaned in and whispered, “The Circle might be better for us, Hue. Let’s just get on with it. I bet you can find Ava something pretty on a day like this.”
“You’re only saying that because you hate Tanner Row,” Hugo said, leaning back.
Karstan bobbed his head. “Partly true.”
“Well come on then, you lazy sacks, we ain’t making money sitting here. We’ll meet back in two hours,” Severin said.
With their “leader” having given his orders, the two teams dispersed.
As Hugo and Karstan walked down the alley, Hugo looked over his shoulder. Ava was watching him, smiling.
Hugo smiled back.
“I’ll be the Beggar, you be the Taker,” Karstan said. They’d reached their designated spot, a circular district with shambled buildings surrounding them. Rain pelted the many beggars hovering around the opening. Priest Circle was one of the worst slums in Bedburg. Only foreigners unfamiliar with the city would dare venture into such a place, with raving lunatics and needy souls the only other people in sight.
Fortunately for the predators, there were plenty of hapless foreigners in Bedburg, regularly wandering through the Circle.
“You aren’t fooling anyone as a beggar, Kars,” Hugo said, gesturing at Karstan’s body. “You look like you just finished a cake, then dunked yourself in a pond of syrup.”
Karstan put his arms over his belly. “I take offense to that,” he said, jutting his chin to the sky. He didn’t really though. He never took offense to anything. “Just because I’m not a raggedy bag of bones like yourself doesn’t mean I can’t beg with the best of them.”
Sighing, Hugo opened his mouth to say something.
“Besides,” Karstan added, wiggling his fat fingers in front of Hugo, “these aren’t exactly made to go perusing in pockets.”
Hugo ran a hand through his wet hair. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll be the Taker. It’s not like we’re here to get pennies in that tin cup, anyway.”
Kars rattled the cup in his hand, shaking the few pennies inside—pennies they’d put there. With a gap-toothed smile, he said, “Every penny counts, Hue.”
“What’s your story?” Hugo asked impatiently.
Karstan tapped his chin in thought. “I’m a simpleton, and my mother’s dead?”
“I know that, Kars.”
Karstan frowned. “Damn you, sir. I’m blind, and my mother recently died. I’m trying to pay for her funeral.”
“Fair enough,” Hugo said, patting his friend on the shoulder. As they both slipped out from the shadows, Hugo had suddenly developed a limp in his right leg. Karstan tried to mimic him.
“Don’t limp the same way, you fool,” Hugo whispered through the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t know what else to do—”
“Act like you’re blind!”
Karstan put his hands in front of him, waving them around like a cadaver searching for his lost gravesite. Hugo sighed, then placed one of Karstan’s hands on his own shoulder. “I’ll be your guide,” he said.
They walked like that until they entered the Circle, surrounded by other lost, living corpses. Hugo watched a woman feed bits of soggy bread to two small children, and he felt a twinge of guilt.
An actual, suffering family, he thought, frowning. He quickly shook away the guilt, focusing instead on Ava, and what he would get her for her birthday.
Before long, several carriages and misguided foreigners began trickling their way. As one of the carriages slowed, homeless folk quickly besieged it. But Hugo and Karstan stayed clear of the action, instead zeroing in on a man and a woman in fine clothes and knee-high boots walking toward the Circle. As the couple apprehensively approached the area, the woman put her arm around the man, leaning closer to him as they passed the surrounded carriage.
Seated near the corner of a building, Karstan, with eyes closed, aimlessly rattled his tin cup as Hugo watched from the far end of the same building.
Karstan, ever the master beggar, somehow managed to lure the couple closer as they walked by.
“Oh, honey, he’s merely a boy. Don’t be so heartless,” the woman said.
“He looks like he just ate an entire lamb, Bernadette,” said the man, scowling.
“Mother is dead,” Karstan mumbled, scrunching his face to make the rain look like tears. “I can’t pay the undertaker.”
“Jonathan, come now,” the woman said, tilting her head to the side. They moved in closer, two steps from Karstan.
As the nobleman sighed, Hugo meandered toward them. Hiding his face, he reached into his left pocket, then came up to the man’s right side and bumped him. “Oh!” he said, glancing up, “I’m so sorry, sir. Please forgive me.”
Jonathan groaned, narrowing his eyes on Hugo. “Watch where you’re walking, boy!”
“Jonathan, enough!” Bernadette cried. “Give me a coin.”
Hugo moved on, hands in his pockets. As he rounded the corner, he heard the woman say, “Here you go, young man, for your mother’s funeral. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Once out of sight, Hugo flipped the coin in his hand, smiling. It was an old trick, but rarely failed. Creating the proper number of distractions—the “blind” beggar, the demanding wife, a stranger’s bump—easily masked Hugo’s quick hand in and out of the unfortunate man’s pocket.
And not only did he have a shiny silver coin to show for it, but something else he hadn’t anticipated: A ring—a wedding band, in fact—with a green stone planted in the middle, surrounded by slivers of silver. He wasn’t wear
ing his wedding ring, so Bernadette was probably his mistress. So . . . Jonathan is an adulterer. Thoughts like that helped Hugo rationalize his deeds. He was doing God’s work, punishing the sinners. And suddenly he didn’t feel so bad for robbing the man.
Over the next hour, Karstan and Hugo continued the same basic play, until the priests came down with loaves of bread, and the stragglers slowly wandered away.“What’d you get?” Karstan asked excitedly as they returned to their dilapidated house.
Hugo showed him the silver coins and pieces of cloth. But not the ring, safely concealed in his pocket.
“Very nice,” Karstan said. He furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong?”
Struggling to keep the ring a secret, Hugo’s face betrayed him. Karstan was his best and most trusted friend. Plus, Hugo wasn’t past showing off a bit. So, after a moment’s hesitation, he said, “I believe I’ve got Ava’s birthday present.”
“Oh?”
Hugo took out his prize.
“Ah!” Karstan said. “She’ll love it. The stone matches her eyes.”
The four thieves spent the night in their rundown, makeshift home, divvying their loot and feasting on a roasted chicken. They rarely spent their earnings on food since it was simple enough to steal. Because Severin had pilfered the night’s meal, he laid claim to both legs.
When Karstan complained—as he often did when his portion of the meal wasn’t largest—Severin smirked. “I took the risk breaking into that house, so I get the king’s size. Plus, I’m the oldest.”
Hugo sat in the dismal living room and picked at bits of meat. He hadn’t made the ring he’d stolen part of the collective booty, which constituted a crime even among thieves. He kept it hidden in his pocket.
When he looked up, Ava was standing in the doorway, gazing out into the alley.
“How’s it?” Karstan asked her, following Hugo’s eyes to the young lady.
“Rain has stopped,” she said, extending her hand into the cold night. She peered up at the sky. “Looks like it won’t rain tomorrow, either.”
