by Cory Barclay
“What does that mean?” asked Rowaine.
“Diplomacy, disguise, inspection,” Rolf said, rattling the words off as if they meant nothing. “And the darker arts involved in those things—espionage, assassinations, and the like.”
“You taught him all those things?” Dieter asked, taken aback.
“You have to understand . . . when he was sent to me as a young man by the archbishop, he was a wild, unpredictable knave.”
“I’m afraid to say it,” replied Dieter, “but he was an unpredictable man even past his youth.”
“That may be true.” Rolf shrugged, wiping his hands on his tunic. “I tried my best.” He started walking back toward the steps. “Come, my friends, it is chilly down here. I’ll have Beauregard prepare us supper.”
They climbed back up to the grander sections of the mansion. On their way, Rowaine nixed the dinner invitation. “That won’t be necessary, sir.”
She glanced behind, realizing for the first time that Sybil hadn’t spoken a word. The girl’s face was stricken, ghost white and pale.
“We won’t be staying,” Rowaine added.
Rolf frowned. “That’s a shame.”
“But before we go, please continue your fascinating tale. I wish to know all you can tell us about Heinrich Franz.”
With his signature chuckle, Rolf nodded. “It is quite fascinating, isn’t it? I plan to write a memoir and release it upon my death.” He smirked, adding, “Since releasing anything before then would likely result in my somewhat premature demise.” Another chuckle, this time followed with a wink.
They made their way into the main foyer, where Beauregard waited, as stiff as a statue, arms tucked behind him.
“When Heinrich came to me,” Rolf continued, “he was an agent for Count Adolf of Bedburg. At the time, Bedburg was a Protestant stronghold, and Adolf answered to Archbishop Gebhard of Cologne. Of course, once Archbishop Ernst defeated and deposed Gebhard, he replaced Adolf with his own Catholic man, Lord Werner.
“Heinrich wanted no part of this, however, as he was never a religious man. When working for Count Adolf, he never cared much for his Protestant master.”
“Is that why he so easily switched sides to the Catholics and Archbishop Ernst?” Rowaine asked.
“You are quick, my dear. And correct. Plus, Heinrich wanted to help that dear old girl, Odela, who was quite a beauty at the time, if I may say.” He ambled to another room near the back of the hall. As he walked, he rubbed his hands across his stomach while talking. “He learned who the enemies of his enemies were. Namely, I showed him who the archbishop hated in parliament, and in the aristocracy. It was Heinrich’s task to do something about those folk.”
“By whatever means necessary?” Dieter asked, reaching into his tunic.
Rolf stopped and turned. “Indeed, young man. What is that you have there?”
Dieter pulled out a piece of rolled parchment. “Perhaps you recognize some of these names?” Unrolling it, he handed it to Rolf.
Rolf searched his pockets, found a pair of large spectacles, and fastened them carefully over his ears. “Let’s see,” he said, running his finger down the list. “Achterberg, Tomlin, Rickenbock, Gabler . . .” He muttered a few more names under his breath, nodding as he went. “I recognize many of these,” he said. “If I can recall—and it’s been a long time—these families were associated with the Waldensians.”
Rowaine looked at him blankly. “The Waldensians?”
Rolf sucked his lower lip while he kept reading the paper. “Yes, yes, a precursor to the Protestants, if you will. But surely you noticed that by these records?”
Dieter stepped forward. “I did,” he said. “Many of them are accused of being Waldensians.”
Rolf looked up at Dieter. “These families would have been associated with Lord Adolf at the time.”
“Many of the women and children of those families were found murdered, Herr Rolf,” Dieter said. “Can you explain that?”
They’d entered a large dining room. Rolf took a seat at the head of a long, circular table. His company sat around him, waiting for an answer.
Rolf sighed. “That is a shame, but I’m sure you can figure it out.” The cryptic answer angered Rowaine. Rolf clapped his hands and shouted, “Beauregard, supper!”
Rowaine opened her mouth to lash out, and to remind Rolf they were not staying for supper, but Dieter stopped her with a hand on her arm, then continued his questioning. “What good would these children’s deaths be to Archbishop Ernst?”
Rolf chuckled. “I’m sure they’d be of great value, young man.”
Great value . . . The words hit Rowaine hard. “If they were all part of a secret group,” she said, “these Waldensians, as you call them, they would all have words against Archbishop Ernst? And in turn, they’d support Archbishop Gebhard?”
Beauregard appeared through a swinging door, holding a large tray with four steaming bowls of soup. One by one he placed a bowl in front of each guest, and Rolf, while everyone waited in silence. Rolf thanked the butler, who then disappeared.
While the host slurped his soup, head down, Dieter broke the silence.
“Would they have any power, though? Weren’t these families peasants and farmers?” he asked.
“Don’t believe all you see, Herr Nicolaus. Sometimes the weakest man holds the strongest hand.”
That made Rowaine think of her last card game aboard the Lion’s Pride, gambling with Daxton and Alfred and Jerome. In some games, the power is in the Ace. In others, Deuces hold sway.
“Hold sway,” she thought, and then . . .
“That’s it!” Rowaine exclaimed. “The families would want to vote to sway popular opinion away from the Catholics. By putting a Protestant archbishop on the electoral seat.”
Rolf clapped his hands together.
Dieter suddenly saw the grim reality of it all. “And getting rid of these men’s daughters and wives would . . . frighten the other families against that?”
“A powerful tactic, fear,” Rolf said.
“These deaths,” Dieter continued, his outrage growing, “would have been to scare other families from helping Protestants gain a majority, or a following?”
Sybil stood up quickly, fury in her eyes. “Dorothea died so that her family wouldn’t vote for a Protestant leader?” The first words she’d spoken since arriving.
“Not just her family, my dear.” Rolf paused from his soup, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “It has a domino effect, fear does. Scare one man with the death of his neighbor, and what will the man think?”
“My family is next . . .” Dieter whispered, staring at Sybil.
Rolf slurped down the rest of his soup. “I think you have the crux of it.”
Silence ensued. The untouched soups in front of Rolf’s guests grew cold.
“But Odela said Heinrich received this estate from Count Adolf,” Dieter finally said. “And I assumed it was for doing his—and the Protestant’s—bidding.”
“Odela is senile, young man. I already said as much. Heinrich gained this estate for his work with Archbishop Ernst. The surrounding buildings of this estate, however, were imported from France after his more recent successful investigations and rewards.”
“He was a double agent,” Dieter stated, not as a question. “Working in Count Adolf’s castle, but secretly swaying the votes in Ernst’s favor. He worked against the Protestants while staying in their home.”
Rolf, realizing his guests weren’t interested in eating, moved his own empty soup bowl out of the way, then reached over and slid the soup in front of Dieter down in its place. Without looking up, he immediately began slurping it.
“Odela knew all of this?” Rowaine asked. “This is what drew Heinrich to madness and murdering his own offspring—killing these folk?”
Rolf furrowed his brow and coughed up some soup spittle. “Drew Heinrich to madness? No, no, Frau Donnelly, you have that the wrong way. What drew Heinrich to madness was his own child be
ing taken from him.”
Dieter scratched his scalp. “But Odela said . . .”
Rolf was chuckling. “I think that old crone put you through a spin, my friend. If it wasn’t for what Odela did, I’m sure she’d be sitting in this seat right now, as steward of this house. Heinrich loved that woman, for whatever reason. Until she betrayed him.”
Rowaine’s mind raced. “You mean the baby? Heinrich didn’t kill his baby?”
“Of course not, foolish girl. Odela took that baby, and Heinrich could never forgive her. I’m surprised he didn’t kill her. I would have.”
“How could that sweet old woman kill an innocent baby—tainted bloodline or not?” Sybil asked meekly.
“Are none of you listening?” Rolf’s voice rose an octave, the first time he’d seemed flustered. “Odela killed no one. She took the whelp, yes. But she gave it to some poor family who was wailing over the loss of their stillborn. I could never tell Heinrich that, of course, that his bastard child was still alive. Could you imagine the wrath that man would dispense upon the poor, unsuspecting family of that orphan?”
“Where is the baby now?” Rowaine asked urgently.
“Well, it’s certainly not a baby any longer,” Rolf snorted. “Only Odela knows where that bastard went. You’ll have to ask her.”
“I intend to,” Rowaine said, rising from her seat. With a curt nod to her host, she headed for the front door. Dieter and Sybil followed. A few strides from the table, she spun around. “Your knowledge is much appreciated, Rolf Anders. I won’t forget you.”
“Nor I you,” the old man said, clasping his hands at the table and pushing his bowl away. “Good luck in finding what you’re so desperately searching for.”
At that, Rowaine stared into the man’s eyes. “One last question, if I may, sir.”
Rolf gazed at her expectedly.
“Did Heinrich ever mention a man named Georg Sieghart?”
Rolf chuckled. “Of course, my dear. Georg Sieghart first came here about two years ago. He had some nasty wounds that I helped him with. When he was better, he took off into the shadows.”
“Have you seen him since?”
Rolf clicked his tongue. “I have. No more than six months ago.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
SYBIL
By the time the trio was on their horses headed back to Bedburg, it was early morning and still dark.
“We must speak with Odela and get the truth out of her,” Rowaine said, setting a much faster pace back than their trip there. After hearing that her father was alive as of six months ago, her determination had reached new heights.
“I’d like to gather my son first,” Sybil told her. “I’ve not seen him in nearly two days.”
They traveled through the woods, along the northern bank of Lake Peringsmaar, which circled the main road leading back to town.
Thoughts swirled through Sybil’s mind as she bumped along on the back of Dieter’s steed, gripping his waist for dear life. She had learned much in the past day, from both Odela and Rolf. She still wondered who these elderly people had once been.
Could these be the only folk that Heinrich Franz ever truly cared for? They both seem to know so much about him . . . how he was raised, how he came to become the man he is. But neither knows where to find him? I find that hard to believe.
On the other hand, if Georg is still alive, as Rolf says, where could he be hiding? If he stayed at Heinrich’s estate to heal and recover, where is he now? Could he be in those trees, peering at us, watching us from afar? And could he possibly know of Heinrich’s dark secrets?
She had recognized the ring Odela wore when they first spoke. The one that had belonged to Dorothea Gabler. Of that, Sybil was sure.
Does that mean Heinrich would go to Odela, secretly, and give the woman trophies of his conquests? If Odela knew what was happening, does that put her in the same league as that evil man? All of those deaths, those poor girls, just for the sake of scaring the Protestants away from voicing their opinions. It just doesn’t make sense. But if true, then perhaps Heinrich Franz isn’t the real evil one here, but rather Archbishop Ernst of Cologne. I must speak to this “holy man.”
As the group crested over the last hill before Bedburg, the town’s low rooftops came into view. The sun was just rising. From afar, the town seemed cramped, the buildings closing in on one another, with few roads in between. And the farmlands on both sides—flat and green and spanning off in both directions as far as the eye could see—made the town itself look smaller than it really was.
It looks so peaceful and quaint. Hardly the place where so many gruesome murders occurred.
As Sybil’s group began their descent down the hill, they noticed a carriage led by two black horses headed their way. As it neared the trio, the horses leading the carriage slowed their pace to pass to the left of Sybil’s group. The carriage’s windows were drawn open and, as it passed, Sybil glanced over, then did a double-take.
Odela’s little white head turned toward her. They locked eyes for a moment and time seemed to freeze. Sybil’s face drained of color as the carriage continued on.
Sybil yanked on Dieter’s tunic. “That’s her!” she cried.
Rowaine tightened her reins, halting her horse in its tracks. “What did you say?”
“Odela was in that carriage!”
Without a word, Rowaine grunted, then kicked the flanks of her mare, wheeled around, and raced off. She tucked her head low against her horse’s neck.
“What are you doing?” Sybil called out, as Dieter circled around and followed Rowaine.
“Catching her!” Rowaine screamed, pulling out her pistol.
As Sybil and Dieter kept a safe distance behind the carriage, Rowaine made a wide sweep, riding past it to the top of the hill and dipping out of sight. When the coach and horses finally reached the summit, Rowaine was standing in the middle of the road, left hand on her hip, right hand pointing her pistol squarely at the driver.
The driver gasped and nearly lost the reins. Once he’d brought the carriage to a stop, his hands shot up in the air.
Dieter came up alongside the coach, Sybil peeking over his shoulder.
“W-what’s this all about?” the driver asked. He was young, scared, and obviously not paid enough to argue with a pistol-wielding, crazed-looking firebrand like Rowaine.
Rowaine’s leather jerkin creaked and her boots thumped as she ambled toward the carriage door. “I wish to speak to your guest, boy.” The young man remained silent, nervously nodding, his hands still straight up.
Sybil could hear Odela’s groan as Rowaine approached. Sybil jumped from her horse and joined Rowaine, if only to make sure she didn’t shoot the poor woman in her fury. After all, she was the daughter of Georg Sieghart—a man with ballads written about his savagery.
“You lied to us, Odela,” Rowaine began, resting one foot atop the carriage’s side-stair, her gun at her side. Sybil put her hand on Rowaine’s shoulder, but the redhead shrugged her away.
“About what, my dear?” Odela said, her voice sweet and helpless.
“You knew Heinrich Franz was killing people for his lord. Brutalizing poor women and children. And you did nothing!”
Odela folded her hands on her lap, calm as could be. “You must have met with Rolf. How is that sour old weasel?”
Rowaine growled. “Dammit, woman, don’t bring—”
“We did meet with Rolf,” Sybil interjected, stepping into view of Odela. “He told us Heinrich’s secret, the one you wished not to betray. And now that we know, you must tell us where he is.”
Odela raised an eyebrow. “Or what?” she smirked. “I suppose you’ll have to kill me, girl.” She nodded toward Rowaine’s gun. “Go on. I’ve lived a full life.”
Sybil gave Rowaine a hard stare and frowned. Rowaine hesitated, then snorted and put her gun away.
Sybil turned back to Odela. “Tell us where Heinrich’s child is, then,” she said, her tone conciliatory.
&nb
sp; “Now that I truly don’t know. I stopped watching him.”
“We know that Heinrich didn’t take the baby away,” Rowaine said. “We know that whole tale—about that being the most noble thing he ever did—was a complete lie. A fabrication. And we were fools to believe you. You took the baby, once you learned Heinrich was a murderer. You took the whelp and you gave it to some poor family.”
“We know you’re lying, Lady Odela,” Sybil added. “No mother ever stops watching her children.”
Odela chuckled. “Oh? And where is your child, Sybil Griswold?”
Sybil’s words caught in her throat. How does she know about Peter? How does she know I even have a child?
A stiff silence ensued until Odela finally sighed.
“What would you do with that knowledge?” she asked. “What good would it do to know whom the child is, or whom he belongs to?”
Sybil had to admit it was a reasonable question. She hadn’t really thought that far ahead. And she doubted Rowaine had either.
She studied Rowaine’s face.
Perhaps she plans to take the child to draw Heinrich out of hiding . . .
But if Heinrich isn’t even aware of where his child was taken, how would he recognize the child fifteen years later?
“We aren’t leaving until you tell us where the child is,” Rowaine said, more calmly but with resolve.
Odela considered it for a moment, then seemed to make a decision to herself and threw her hands up in the air. “Then you’re in luck—we aren’t too far. If you promise not to harm the child, I will show you the house where I left him as a pup.”
Rowaine and Sybil shared a look, then nodded to each other, reaching a silent agreement.
“And one more condition,” Odela said, noticing the nod. “You have to promise to then let me go.”
Rowaine narrowed her eyes. “Go where?” she asked.
Odela tilted her chin. “That’s none of your concern, young lady.”
