by Cory Barclay
Half-helm held the point of his blade at Full-helm’s throat.
Some in the crowd cheered and jumped in the air, pumping fists. Others simply stormed away, the battle over.
Coins were handed out to the bettors. The circle dispersed, the working men going in different directions, the entertainment for the night finished.
Hugo let his breath go.
Ulrich walked to the man in the full helmet. The man was still rolling on the ground, no one coming to his aid.
Ulrich kicked him in the stomach, then stepped to the victor. The fighter took off his helmet, his blond hair sticking raggedly to his forehead and scalp. Ulrich patted him hard on the shoulder. Then the two men embraced.
Hugo stayed back. He saw their mouths move, but couldn’t hear the words. He looked down at the man in the chainshirt and full helmet. Broken and defeated, he breathed in ragged gasps.
Hugo bent down, eyes moving over the injured man. His eyes moved past the blood seeping from the man’s shoulder, down to the steel of his longsword. Hugo ran his finger over its cold, flat edge, then wrapped his hand firmly around its hilt.
I want to learn to use this, too, he thought, wide-eyed.
A moment later, he laid the weapon back down and looked up, trying to refocus his mind from its bloodlust. His eyes moved to the man Ulrich was still talking with, the victor of the sword fight. He knew that man.
Ulrich was pointing in his direction, and the fighter’s blue eyes honed in on Hugo.
Ulrich brought the man over. “Boy, I want to introduce you to Tomas Reiner.”
“Yes,” Hugo said, his eyes getting smaller. “We’ve met.”
“Have we?” Tomas cocked his head.
Ulrich scratched his chin. “He’s going to teach you to fight proper, and he’s agreed to let you tag along with him, at my behest.”
“Tag along where?” Hugo asked.
“I’ll let you two get reacquainted,” Ulrich said, ignoring Hugo’s question. “Bring him back to the jailhouse when you’re done with him, Tomas.”
Hugo wasn’t listening—the voices drowned away. All he could remember was two-and-a-half years ago. When the blond man before him had taken him from his home, from his safety, from his family, and paraded him in front of his father.
The man who had locked Hugo away in the jail cell next to the doomed Werewolf of Bedburg.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GUSTAV
Gustav took the key from the pocket of his tunic and slipped it in the keyhole. The box made a sharp clicking noise as it creaked open. Besides clothing, his plants, some money, and his laudanum, the oak box was the only real possession he’d brought with him to Norfolk.
The pistol rested inside a fuzzy red slotted compartment. He ran his hand over the muzzle, then gripped the wooden handle.
“This was my brother’s,” he whispered to no one.
Hedda was standing behind him, in the detached room off the main den. “What are you doing, Gustav?” she asked.
He turned to her, gun cradled in both hands. Hedda was pretty. Her spectacles too big for her head, her short hair in a tight curl, her button nose. Gustav fought the laudanum lust and shivered. “Those two left for a reason,” he said. “They know something.”
Two men entered the room, both dressed in dark leather, knives dangling from their belts, muskets strapped to their backs. They could have been twins, despite one having dark hair and the other fair.
Both soldiers saluted Gustav. “We searched the house and surrounding land,” the fair-headed one said. “The child was not present.”
“I expected as much,” Gustav said. He’d sent the men to inspect Dieter and Sybil’s house while the couple was busy dining at Gustav’s. He hadn’t expected Dieter and Sybil to leave early—or leave at all, really.
“We made our escape when we saw the suspects returning home,” the soldier continued.
“Did they see you?”
The man shook his head. “I advise we head back in the morning. We’ll have a greater chance of success when there’s light.”
“Nonsense,” Gustav said. “It’ll be too late then.”
“Too late for what, Gustav?” Hedda asked. Both soldiers glanced at her.
“They must have suspected something, or they wouldn’t have left early. I don’t know what you did to set them off, my dear, but we’ll have to talk about this later.” Gustav’s frown twisted into a smirk. Pictures played in his head: Hedda bent over his knee, dress hiked up, receiving her spanking, crying out, spectacles flying off her face. He felt his body tingle.
“Me?” Hedda said, scoffing. “If anything, it was your constant gaze that raised suspicion. They hardly noticed me.”
“Nonetheless,” Gustav said, “if we wait ‘til morning, they’ll be gone. You won’t be sleeping yet, boys. We go back.”
The men sighed, softly, so as not to anger their master. They hadn’t had the luxury of a carriage to bring them to Sybil and Dieter’s estate, and it was a long trek by foot.
“Hedda, you stay here. I’ll deal with you when I return.” Gustav reached into the red-layered box, found five bullets nestled in the cushioning, and loaded his gun. Tucking it in his waistband, he led the soldiers to his carriage and proceeded into the night.
Fifty minutes later, Gustav and the men pulled up to Dieter and Sybil’s house. Stepping out of the coach, the brisk wind warmed Gustav’s face. He stormed inside, the soldiers following. His eyes darted around the cozy interior. The soldiers weren’t lying. The boy was not present.
“Damn,” Gustav said. He’d hoped Dieter and Sybil would still be home, but alas, they too were gone.
He walked over to the small bed. It was fit for a toddler, pillared by four planks of thin wood. Feeling his blood start to boil, he kicked the thing over. His insides gave a twist. He groaned and reached inside his tunic for his laudanum, taking a quick pull before stowing it away.
He moved to the kitchen area. He could smell the earthy stench of boiling potatoes.
“They probably arranged this, so we wouldn’t suspect they’d been gone long,” the dark-haired soldier opined. “Quite clever.”
Gustav put his hand against the boiling pot, then pushed. It crashed to the floor, water and potatoes splashing across a wide area, steam billowing up.
“Now we search the surrounding houses,” Gustav said, turning to leave.
“That’ll raise suspicion from the reeve, my lord. He might not like that.”
“I don’t care what he likes. We won’t lose these bastards.”
They left the dwelling. Gustav peered out into the darkness. He saw smoke rising in the distance, from the nearest home.
He stalked across the property toward the neighbor’s place, trampling rye and barley along the way.
When he reached the front door, he pulled out his pistol. Taking their cue, both soldiers unslung their muskets from their shoulders.
Gustav kicked in the door. It exploded into the adjoining wall, splintering one of its hinges.
A man and woman lay in bed, clothes flung haphazardly on the floor beside them. Their heads shot up as the door crashed open. The man leaped from the bed, naked, to protect his wife. He started to reach for something but thought better of it when he felt the muzzle of Gustav’s gun touch his face.
“No,” Gustav said, “we won’t have any of that.”
“Who the hell . . .” the man started. “Wait . . . you’re the new taxman. What in God’s name are you doing here?”
Gustav didn’t recognize the man in the dark. He probably wouldn’t have recognized him in the light, either, due to the laudanum melting his brain and slowly destroying his memory.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“David,” the man answered. “And Reeve Bailey will hear about this, sir!”
“What is your wife’s name, David?”
“I’m not his wife,” the woman said, sheets pulled to her neck.
So threatening her may not work, Gust
av thought. He walked to the bed. David started to move with him, but one of Gustav’s soldiers stopped him.
Or maybe I can.
“If you don’t want your mistress’ brains splattering your walls, you’ll tell me what I want to know. Maybe we can even have your wife come clean up this mess.”
The woman cried out and began weeping into the sheets.
“Jesus, man,” David said, holding his palms up in surrender. “Say your piece and get out!”
“What is your relationship with Dieter and Sybil Nicolaus?”
David scrunched his face. “My neighbors? Er, well, I helped Dieter build his church.”
“Where are they?”
David’s body trembled. “At home, I’d think. Though how in God’s name should I know?”
Gustav nodded. One of the soldiers slammed the butt of his musket into the side of David’s head. The naked man collapsed to the ground. His mistress howled.
Gustav leaned over David. “Where would they go in case of emergencies, David?” Gustav’s eyes were red and glassy.
Rubbing his head, David groaned. “I-I don’t know.”
Gustav cocked the matchlock on his pistol, aiming it at the woman on the bed. She cried out again.
David held out his palms. “Okay, okay! They’d most likely go to Leon and Claire Durand’s. They seem close.”
Gustav tucked the gun into his pants. “Where can I find Leon and Claire Durand?”
“Their house is a mile south.”
“Good man,” Gustav said. He exited the house quickly, his two lackeys close behind.
This time when he burst through the door, a cacophony of shouts and shrieks told Gustav he’d likely found what he’d been looking for. Holding his gun on the closest person, the young man appeared to be about sixteen—and definitely not Dieter. But his two soldiers had better luck, pointing their muskets at the couple huddled in the corner.
Dieter and Sybil.
Sybil was cradling her baby against her chest.
Gustav counted seven people total in the small home. Besides Sybil, Dieter, and their child, there was Leon, Claire, and their daughter, plus the young man currently looking down the barrel of Gustav’s pistol.
“Aha!” Gustav grinned. “Easy now,” he said to the wiry youth. “I don’t want to have to put bits of your skull on the pretty girl behind you. What’s your name, boy?”
“Martin.”
“And the girl?”
“Leave her alone!” Claire shouted from the back of the room. It was quite obvious, even in the darkened room, that Claire was with child, her belly practically bursting at the seams.
“Shut up, woman!” Gustav growled. His eyes went wild. Pregnant or not, he would do whatever it took to get what he wanted. He turned back to Martin. The young man had stepped closer to Gustav.
That won’t do.
Gustav whipped his gun around, smashing Martin across the head. The boy dropped like a rock. He wouldn’t be getting back up anytime soon. The young girl rushed to his aid, kneeling.
“What do you want with us, you brute?” Dieter stepped in the line of one of the soldier’s muskets. Pushing the gun aside, he moved away from Sybil.
Gustav cleared his throat. “Dieter Nicolaus and Sybil Griswold, I am here to arrest you.”
Everyone’s eyebrows raised in unison.
“Griswold?” Claire asked.
“It’s my maiden name,” Sybil said. She tilted her head. “Who are you, Herr Koehler?”
Gustav ignored her question. “Yes, it is your maiden name. You are the daughter of Peter Griswold.” He faced Claire. “Have you heard that name, madame?”
In a thick accent, Leon said, “It sounds familiar.”
Gustav pointed at Sybil. “This woman is the daughter of the Werewolf of Bedburg.”
All eyes went to Sybil.
He reached into his tunic, but instead of his bottle of laudanum, he held a necklace. A wooden cross with fractured edges.
Sybil yelped, her hand going to her mouth.
“So you recognize this, witch?” Gustav clenched his teeth, dangling the cross amulet in front of Sybil’s face. “My name is Gustav Koehler von Bergheim.”
Sybil paused. “Bergheim . . .” she said under her breath.
Gustav placed the necklace over his head so it hung from his neck. “My father is Ludwig von Bergheim. My elder brother was Johannes von Bergheim—now deceased.”
Dieter took a step back as Gustav’s eyes narrowed on him.
Gustav grasped the cross against his chest. “And this was the murder weapon that took my brother’s life.” He pointed past Sybil, past Claire and Leon, straight at Dieter Nicolaus.
“And you, you . . . hellion, are his killer! I have come to this cesspool to take you and your wife away. So you can both be properly tried and executed. I am here to bring you back to Germany.”
Leon and Claire stared at Dieter and Sybil. “What he’s saying can’t be true, can it?”
“Oh, it is!” Gustav yelled, aiming his pistol at Dieter and his wife. “These two heretics you’re protecting have been lying to you, Herr Durand. They are murderers and fugitives from Bedburg. They didn’t escape Germany to flee oppression, sir. They left to escape their justified destiny.” Spittle flew from his curled mouth.
“Dieter?” Leon begged.
Dieter’s head sank. “It’s true,” he muttered. “This man’s brother hurt Sybil. In a rage, I killed him.” He looked up with wet eyes. “But I’m not that person anymore, Leon.”
“You will always be that person, you wretch,” Gustav said.
“We are still your friends, Leon, you must know that. I love this place, the people—much like I once loved my homeland.”
“You must be held accountable for your actions,” Gustav said. Clenching the cross tighter, he stared at Leon. “Not only are they murderers and fugitives, Herr Durand, but they’re also Catholics. They have no right preaching the words of Martin Luther to your people. They are frauds!”
“I was converted more than two years ago,” Dieter tried to explain. “I have every right to give Mass, just as my wife has every right to teach the children.”
Gustav smirked. “If that is the case, then you will be owed monies from the same people you teach. So you hurt the very people you say you are trying to help. Norwich law states that subsidies for churches must come from the landowners’ pockets.”
Dieter opened his mouth to protest, but the words would not come. Shame had chased the anger from his face. “I . . . I’m sorry, Leon, Claire, Bella. I’m sorry that Sybil and I have been a nuisance. But you must believe me—everything we’ve done here was done without expectation or reward. We only wished to be part of a conventional community again.” He lowered his head. “That is all.”
“Ah!” Gustav exclaimed. “You hoped the past would never catch you. That was your real goal. I’ve heard it again and again.” Gustav nudged his chin toward Dieter and Sybil. “Guards, take them.”
Dieter put his hands in the air. “We will go peacefully,” he said. “Just please don’t hurt this family.”
Tears trickled down Sybil’s cheeks. “My baby,” she said, as one of the soldiers grabbed her arm. “What do I do with Peter?”
Gustav shrugged. “That’s not my problem. If you want him to rot in a cell with you, by all means, bring him along.”
Dieter wrapped his arms around Sybil, then kissed Peter on the forehead. He turned back to Gustav. “You’re heartless,” he spat, eyes narrow.
“Is that the same look you gave my brother before stabbing him in the skull over and over, priest?”
“I’ll take him,” Claire cried out, rushing to take Peter from her friend’s arms. “I’m sorry, Beele. I’ll make sure he’s safe. I promise with all my heart.”
Sybil held her breath and bobbed her head. She couldn’t speak. Sniffling, she kissed her baby, then handed her to Claire in his wrapped blanket.
As Sybil and Dieter were led from the house, Mar
tin began to wake, groggy and groaning.
Hands tied behind their backs, the two were escorted into the carriage. The scene reminded Dieter of their first arrest, years ago in Bedburg.
“Let’s move,” Gustav said, climbing into the carriage.
As they departed, Claire Durand came running out, her hands supporting her giant belly.
“We’ll come with help, Beele!” she cried out. “I promise! Don’t give up hope!”
Gustav craned his neck as the coach rolled away. “Do that, you harlot, and we’ll be back. For your daughter and newborn.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROWAINE
Rowaine lay sideways on the bed with her elbow bent, her head resting on her hand. With quiet content she watched Mia dress at the end of the bed. Mia was thin but toned from years of exercise in Dolly’s bedrooms. Despite her frame, she was ample in all the right places. She was one of Dolly’s best earners.
Rowaine sniggered as Mia grunted and struggled to bring her pants to her waist. She latched a belt and rummaged the ground for a shirt. She bent over, to Rowaine’s delight, and Rowaine scooted like a crab to the edge of the bed and wrapped her legs around Mia’s waist, pulling her close.
Mia yelped and chuckled, running her hands across Rowaine’s feet. “Don’t you have things to do?” she asked, pulling Rowaine’s toes. “People to lead?”
They’d been locked away in Dolly’s best chamber for half the week, only leaving their room for the occasional meal, or when Rowaine had business to attend to.
“Come with me,” Rowaine whispered in Mia’s ear.
“You know I can’t do that,” Mia said. “I have no place on a boat. It makes me feel trapped—”
“You don’t feel trapped here? Stalking these rooms, pleasing the snide bastards who walk in, day in, day out?”
Mia frowned. “That’s not fair, Row. The bloody business you do is not for me.”
“I will protect you. I am the captain, you know. You don’t have to work here anymore—or anywhere, for that matter.”
