by Cory Barclay
She sighed. After a short moment, she said, “I’ll be democratic about this and ask Dom his opinion.”
“Good luck getting him out of his room,” Alfred said.
“I’ll worry about that,” she said, then spun toward Daxton as he lit his pipe. “But you’ll need to put that out, Dax.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’re going to steer the boat to land.”
Daxton gaped. As Rowaine stomped away, she heard the carpenter yell, “Don’t worry, captain, I can steer and smoke at the same time!”
It was true that Rowaine wanted Dominic’s opinion on what to do with Adrian Coswell, but there was more to discuss than that. She raced to his cabin and knocked softly on the door. “Dom, it’s Row,” she said, barely more than a whisper.
Silence.
After a moment, Rowaine knocked again, harder this time. “I need to speak with you, Dom. It’s important.”
More silence.
Rowaine sighed. “Look,” she began, “I know you blame me for what happened—and I’ll never forgive myself, believe me. I wish I’d blasted that bastard’s head off before it came to this, maybe while he was strutting on that tradeship’s prow. That would have saved us all a lot of—”
The door creaked open. Dominic’s face appeared in the doorway, but he looked different. Gone was the kindness in his eyes and his soft features—replaced by hard angles and a clenched jaw.
“I don’t blame you, Row,” he said, stepping out of the way to let his captain in. He ambled to his bed and sat down on the hard cot, wincing.
Rowaine paced the room, ready to give a speech, but she stopped. Taking a deep breath, she sat on the chair opposite Dominic and asked softly, “Are you okay?”
“I don’t want to discuss it,” Dominic said, his head slouched. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
Rowaine’s throat clenched and her heart sank to her stomach. Never before had Dominic spoken to her in such an abrupt, snappish way. She paused for a moment—her mind somersaulting—barely able to speak. Now she knew how Jerome Penderwick felt every day of his life.
Clearing her throat, she fought back tears so Dominic wouldn’t see her weakness.
“I want to know what you fancy we should do with Adrian Coswell . . .” she finally said.
Certain what his response would be, Dominic surprised her.
“Let him go,” he said.
Rowaine teetered back. “B-but, he was Captain Galager’s right-hand man, Dom. He hates you—he hates everyone.”
Dominic shook his head. “Too much blood. I’ve seen too much blood.”
Rowaine started to speak again, but Dominic cut her off. “If you already know what you’re going to do, Row, then why ask me? Do what you will. You have my answer.”
Rowaine took another deep breath. Her heart began racing. She had a sudden desire to leave the room. Seeing her best friend this way was just too depressing. But she fought on. “I’m making you first mate,” she announced.
Dominic just stared at the ground.
Rowaine craned her neck sideways. “Did you hear me, Dom? I said you are going to be my first mate.” But her words sounded hollow. In fact, the whole room felt hollow and empty. As if Dominic’s body was there but not his soul.
“I’ll let you know if I accept,” Dominic said softly.
Rowaine felt a flash of anger. “With respect, Dom, I am the captain of the Lion’s Pride now. It isn’t your decision to deny or accept. Now, can I trust you to do as ordered?”
Dominic nodded. “Of course,” he muttered, “I wouldn’t dare deny the command of my fearless leader—”
“Enough!” Rowaine growled. “You must stop this self-pity, Dom. I need you back!”
Dominic said nothing. The longer the silence lingered, the more Rowaine regretted her outburst. “I . . . I’m sorry,” she finally said. “But I’m going to need your help. Please. You’re the only one I truly trust.”
Dominic’s eyes finally found Rowaine’s. Maybe it was his realization that he needed to stop wallowing, or Rowaine’s words about trust, but finally, through tearful yet firm eyes, he said, “What is it you need, captain?”
“I need you to find out who spoke about our mutiny to Galager. Someone squealed. That is the person I want to kill, dammit, even more than Adrian Coswell. Someone betrayed our trust and I want you to find him. When we dock in the harbor, I imagine everyone will head for the taverns. That will be where you’ll discover the traitor.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of it, Row, you have my word. Any suspects?”
“Besides you and me, three others knew about the mutiny. And they’re all currently standing in the card-room.”
CHAPTER SIX
SYBIL
Sybil sat in a pew near the back of the church, watching her husband survey the front of the room. Dieter ran his hands over the fresh wood of the back wall, then moved to the pulpit.
He seems at peace, she thought, back where he belongs.
Dieter’s church was basically complete, though it still needed some interior work, such as the stained-glass windows, some statues, and paintings of the Virgin Mary and Jesus. But for now, simplicity would suffice.
Though Dieter would never be a ministered priest again, his current neighbors didn’t need to know that. He was still the holiest man within thirty miles. People valued him.
The day before he’d confessed to Sybil his nervousness about giving a sermon. But there was no question he was glad to be part of a congregation again. He liked their new neighbors, and they liked the Nicolaus’.
“You’ll do fine,” Sybil reassured him. “The people here need hope—something to take their minds off their farming and their poor lot in life. And you can give them that hope.”
Dieter kissed Sybil passionately, then asked, “Are you sure you want to teach those rambunctious children? Do you believe they’ll listen to you?”
Sybil looked into his eyes. “Do you remember when we first met?”
Dieter grinned and blushed. “How could I forget? You were in a white gown, searching for the perfect apple.”
“And what was I to do with those apples?”
“Feed the poor.”
Sybil nodded. “We walked hand-in-hand through Bedburg’s slums, serving the most destitute and needy. I’ve never felt more useful. And I want that back. You belong in a church, preaching, just like I belong with the children, helping. You taught me things that opened my mind, Dieter. I too wish to help unburden those around us—the young innocents—from the stresses surrounding them and their families. From taxes and farming and war. Just as you do.”
With a single finger, Dieter caressed Sybil’s soft cheek. “You’ll do great, my love.”
And so Sybil sat in the back pew, surrounded by a dozen neighbors and their children, watching Dieter prepare for the first day of his new life. She marveled at how different he looked compared with just three years earlier.
Claire, the French wife of Leon Durand, Dieter’s construction helper, ran a hand across her pregnant belly. As she too watched Dieter, she seemed to be thinking the same thing as Sybil. She leaned over to Sybil and whispered, “Your husband is quite enticing, Beele. So . . . confident. You’re a very lucky woman.”
Sybil turned red. “Leon is a fine man as well, Claire. And your daughter is adorable,” she added, speaking of Claire and Leon’s first child, Bella, the twelve-year-old sitting next to Martin.
Martin and Bella were whispering to each other, but Sybil paid them no attention, instead admiring her husband, remembering how shy and pale and soft-spoken he once was. Now his chiseled and bronzed features from his labors in the sun cast an impressive, confident, and, yes, enticing image. It may have taken him time to find his place in life, but now he was a strong man with a commanding presence. A man whom people listened to.
Sybil smiled to herself. She wasn’t sure if Dieter’s transformation came from his departure from the Catholic priesthood, or from their difficult journey acr
oss the North Sea, or their frightening time and escape from Bedburg—or a combination of them all. But whatever it was, he was indeed a changed man, that much was clear.
Dieter lifted his worn copy of Martin Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses from the pulpit, holding it high for all to see. Sybil had given him that leather-bound book, stolen from her father, and it had become Dieter’s instrument of change.
“Martin Luther tells us,” Dieter began, “that we can only achieve repentance by our practice of faith alone—not through our deeds.” The small room drew silent as all eyes focused on the speaker at the pulpit.
“He once asked, ‘Why does not the pope, whose wealth is greater than the wealth of the richest Crassus, build the basilica of St. Peter with his own money rather than with the money of poor believers?’ We are the poor believers, my brothers and sisters. Our wealth, our farms, our buildings—they do not dictate our faith, nor do they form it.”
Dieter set the book back on the pulpit and raised his arms wide. “As such, our building of this church was not a holy endeavor.” He held up one finger. “But it gives us a place to practice our faith, to commune, to repent. That is holy.”
Eyeing the three men who helped him build the church—Leon, David, and Grant—he continued. “This was a radical idea, one that was shunned by the Catholics. It still is, to this day. They called Martin Luther a heretic and a ‘demon in the appearance of a man.’ But I have learned, through my own studies, that Martin Luther was a man of resolve. A man of great piety. It is my hope that we may all learn from him.”
Sybil glanced to her right, where Martin Achterberg sat whispering quietly with Claire’s daughter. Though Bella was four years younger than Martin, and still a prepubescent girl, Sybil couldn’t help but feel a surge of hope in her heart for Martin. He had been through so much: his love for Dorothea, who was then murdered in Bedburg; the failed arranged marriage with her, the bride-to-be, orchestrated by Martin’s own father; the murder of his father; the burning of his mother as a witch; the crushing degradation he faced at the hands of Bishop Solomon; his months-long imprisonment.
Any lesser soul—especially one so young—would have long since given up hope, or become a shell. But Martin Achterberg was strong, and Sybil felt that Dieter’s words spoke directly to him.
But of course Martin wasn’t listening, his attention diverted to Claire’s daughter.
Sybil frowned, wondering whether she’d be any better at keeping the attention of her listeners when it was her turn to begin teaching. And unlike Dieter, she had never been a teacher or a speaker. Will I be any good at it?
‘You’ll do great, my love,’ she remembered Dieter telling her.
Soon, Dieter’s sermon was finished. The congregation closed with a prayer. As the adults filed out, conversing with one another, the children stayed behind. They were now Sybil’s charge.
Sybil faced Martin and said, “Will you be my assistant today, Martin? I could use your aid.”
With wide eyes, the young shaggy-headed man looked at Sybil. “Me?” he asked, pointing at his chest. “What could I possibly do?”
“Yesterday you said you wanted to help.”
Martin glanced at Bella. “But—”
“I would like to teach you your letters as well. Like these children.” If only to keep your distractions at bay!
Martin wrinkled his forehead, inspecting the six children left behind in the room. He was a head taller than any of them, and a handful of years older. “I think I’m too old to learn my letters, Beele. Besides, I have Lily to attend to, and her lame calf.”
“You can never be too old to learn to read and write, Martin. I’ll have Dieter tend Lily and the babe. Come now, I want to help you, and you can help me.”
Martin narrowed his eyes. “So . . . are you doing this for the children then, or for yourself?”
A good question, Sybil had to admit. But instead of answering, she grabbed Martin’s arm and pulled him to the front of the room, to the pulpit, where they looked out at those little innocent, smiling faces.
Finally, Martin relented. “They’re all waiting for you to say something, Beele,” he whispered, nudging his chin toward the children.
Dieter had left his copy of the Ninety-Five Theses on the podium for Sybil to use in her teachings. It was the only book they owned—probably the only printed book in a thirty-mile radius, not including Timothy Davis’ tax book.
It will have to suffice. Sybil rubbed her hand on the crinkled pages, a wave of sad memories washing over her, memories of her father and brother. Then Martin tugged her arm, returning her to the moment.
This might be more difficult than I anticipated . . .
Teaching proved easier than Sybil imagined. She discovered she had a knack for getting the kids to learn and already felt accomplished as her hour-long class let out.
She watched Martin run off with Bella, holding her small hand as the two exited the church.
From the back of the room, Dieter was walking toward her, clapping and grinning.
“Are you poking fun at me?” Sybil asked, faking a frown.
Dieter gave her a shocked look. “Me? No! I’m applauding your effort. You were a natural, Beele, as I knew you would be.” He kissed her on the cheek. “The kids loved you,” he whispered in her ear, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling.
“I hope I wasn’t too harsh with them . . .” she whispered back, nestling her head in the crook of his shoulder.
“Not at all.”
Someone in the room cleared his throat.
Dieter and Sybil jumped back from their embrace.
A tall, blond man stood at the back of the room. He had a smooth, handsome face and wore a perfectly-tailored, gorgeous gray outfit, unlike anything Sybil or Dieter had seen since arriving in the shire.
Clearly a nobleman.
The man had his hands behind his back. A petite woman with spectacles stood behind him, a large book in her hands.
The man leered down his nose at Sybil and Dieter. “You two must be the Nicolaus’,” he said. The man stood a full head taller than Dieter.
Dieter narrowed his eyes, moving to stand in front of Sybil. “That’s correct,” Dieter replied. “I don’t believe I’ve seen your face before. You are?”
The man held out a large gloved hand.
“No, Herr Nicolaus,” the gentleman said, shaking Dieter’s hand with such force that Dieter involuntarily winced. “You have not seen me before. My name is Gustav Koehler. This is my assistant, Hedda.” The girl behind the man bowed slightly.
The man appeared to be waiting for his name to be recognized. But neither Dieter nor Sybil showed the slightest recognition. The gentleman parted his lips slightly, then sucked them together.
“How can we help you, Herr Koehler?” Dieter asked.
“Well, I came to admire this new church of yours.” He gazed at the ceiling and the plain walls. “It’s marvelous. I believe it’s the only church in quite a distance.”
“It is,” Dieter said. “If you would like to join our Sunday Mass, I’m afraid you’ve just missed it. But we’ll be having another next week.”
“I’m not much of a religious man.”
“A shame.”
“Perhaps.”
A tense silence ensued as the two men stared at each other. Sybil looked from face to face, while Hedda simply gazed through her large spectacles at the book she held.
Finally, Gustav broke the silence. “I am the new tax-collector for Reeve Bailey.”
Dieter furrowed his brow. “Where’s Timothy Davis? He’s our usual man.”
“Indisposed.”
“Well, you’re early.”
“Early is a relative term, Herr Nicolaus. In fact, I am right on time. Tax season is upon us, and this church will be quite an addition. After all, it is built on my father’s land.”
“Your father’s land?”
“Yes. This church is on our property.”
“Who is your father?”
>
“That’s not important, Herr Nicolaus.”
“I disagree.”
Gustav shrugged.
Dieter continued. “We received permission to build this church from Timothy Davis, and from the reeve himself. Where did you say the regular taxman was?”
“Indisposed.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve taken his position. Temporarily. I don’t believe he was being as truthful to the reeve—or to my father—as he claimed.”
“He always seemed like an honest man to me.”
“Not to me.”
Dieter squinted into the taxman’s steely blue eyes. Sybil could tell her husband didn’t like him. She didn’t either. In fact, he seemed completely out of place in this rural part of Norfolk. And he definitely wasn’t English.
His name, his blond hair, the blue eyes, his height. Clearly this man was German.
A nauseating feeling rolled over Sybil, but she didn’t know why. “Must we do this here, gentlemen, in a holy place?” she asked, trying to break the tension in the room.
“Your wife is quite right,” Gustav said, keeping his eyes on Dieter the whole time. “This may not be the best venue for discussing these matters. But I will ask to see you. Hedda, when am I free?”
“See us where?” Dieter asked.
“Tomorrow night, sir,” Hedda said, peeking from her book.
“At my home,” Gustav said.
“Your home? You said you were only here temporarily.”
“I am aware of what I said.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Please, if we could speak tomorrow night at my temporary home, Herr Nicolaus, I would be most obliged. It’s the one behind Reeve Bailey’s.”
“I’ll be there.”
Gustav strutted away, his boots echoing off the newly-laid floorboards. When he got to the doorway, he turned. “And please, Herr Nicolaus,” he said with a smile, “don’t forget to bring your lovely wife.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
