by Cory Barclay
Tomas whispered in Hugo’s ear, out of earshot of the bishop, “Does he hide from men . . . or does he hide from God?”
Hugo almost smirked, but kept his face expressionless, taking in the spectacle before him.
The masked inquisitor spoke, his voice high and slightly muffled. “Catherine and Anne Bartholomew, we’ve heard your testimony. We’ve heard the evidence against you both. You claim to have not stolen the cattle from Herr Armistad.” He motioned to a man Hugo hadn’t noticed, a rugged peasant-looking type sitting across from the two girls. The man held a shaggy cap in his hands. “And yet, Frau Catherine, the brown-spotted cattle just magically appeared in your shed? So it must have leaped over the barbed fencing of Armistad’s pasture—the same barbed fencing that is taller than a man?”
Several in the crowd chuckled at such an absurdity.
The masked man continued. “But the mysterious disappearance of Herr Armistad’s cattle was not the dark omen that brought you before this council. This would not have been a matter for these courts if it weren’t for your past association with others charged with sorcery.” The inquisitor cleared his throat and readjusted his mask. “What was most telling and disturbing was the sudden death of Herr Armistad’s daughter, following the disappearance of his cattle. And the doll found in your daughter’s hands, marked with pinpricks that corresponded with the pockmarks on Armistad’s poor girl’s body . . .” he trailed off, shaking his head.
“These are damnable things!” he screamed. Then, softening his tone like a seasoned actor, asked, “Have you anything more to say for yourself?”
The woman held her daughter’s small hand and stared at the ground. She huffed and everything seemed to leave her—her dignity, her posture, her hope. “Preserve my daughter. Please, I beg of you.”
The inquisitor was unmoved. “I’m afraid only God can preserve your daughter, Frau Catherine, for even she cited witchcraft when asked by the prosecution. Your own daughter exposed you!”
“She’s four years old!” Catherine cried. “Children will say anything!”
Lord Inquisitor Adalbert peered to his left, then right. As he did, Hugo noticed his black hair beneath the mask. “Let us vote, shall we? If guilty, state ‘yay’—if innocent, ‘nay.’ ”
Baron Ludwig von Bergheim raised his hand. “Yay.”
Somewhat surprisingly, the older piest on the other side was less convinced, explaining he hadn’t seen enough evidence to convict the daughter—just the mother—so he voted ‘nay.’
Hugo heard an audible scowl from under Lord Adalbert’s mask.
The priest’s timid sentencing is probably what Tomas and I are here to replace, Hugo realized.
Adalbert raised his hand last, said ‘yay,’ then slammed down his cudgel. “Then it’s settled. I sentence you and your daughter to death for witchcraft and sorcery, to be executed on the morrow.”
The woman grabbed her daughter in a heavy embrace and howled. Unfazed, Lord Adalbert rose calmly—as if he’d just gotten up from the dinner table—and walked off.
“The daughter dies too?” Hugo asked, shocked. “She’s only four . . .”
Bishop Binsfeld snorted. “Did you not hear the testimony I heard, young Gregor? And the evidence against them? Open your ears. She is as faulty as the mother, and all but killed that farmer’s poor daughter.” Binsfeld rose. “Come. I’ll now present you to the lord inquisitor and be on my way.”
Tomas and Hugo followed the bishop down the hallway into another room.
The masked inquisitor stood alone in the room, turned away from them, his mask in his hand. When Bishop Binsfeld cleared his throat, the mask went back on.
“Lord Adalbert, may I present to you Inquisitor Samuel and his assistant, Gregor.” The bishop waved his hand out in a flourish. At the same moment, the door opened and Ludwig von Bergheim entered the room.
Adalbert gave Ludwig a quick glance before turning to Hugo. Even through his mask, Hugo could see his eyes narrow. “You seem young,” Adalbert said. “You are the two I sent for, from Ernst, correct?”
“We are, my lord,” Tomas said, bowing.
Bishop Binsfeld smiled, wrinkles forming. “If that’s all, I will leave you.” And with that, the old bishop shuffled from the room. Hugo was still staring at the lord inquisitor. He wore an immaculate suit, sharply tailored to his body, without question the most expensive outfit Hugo had ever seen on a man.
Adalbert’s eyes fixed on Tomas. Finally, trying to break the awkwardness, Tomas said, “It has been a long journey to meet you, my lord. The bishop was telling us about the problem plaguing Trier—”
“Problems, Herr Samuel. Plural. Archbishop Schönenberg has allowed me any means necessary to dispose of these problems that have caused his country to go astray.”
From the other side of the room, Ludwig added, “The Protestants, the Jews, and the witches,” raising three fingers as he spoke. He leaned against a bookcase, his legs leisurely crossed at the ankles.
“Indeed, Baron Ludwig,” Adalbert said. “We confiscate the lands of the plowman, and the wineries of the vintner, who we find guilty of treason, or for abetting witches, Protestants, and Jews.” Through the mask, Hugo saw the man smile. “Systematically, we are ridding Trier of its blasphemers.”
Tomas cleared his throat, nodding slowly. “And, er, how many—if I may ask—how many of these peopl—blasphemers have you ridded since these trials began, my lord?”
The room grew silent as Adalbert stared up at the ceiling. Then he nodded. “Ninety-eight and two hundred in the five years since the trials began.”
Nearly three hundred people? Hugo almost gasped.
“And we are not done,” Adalbert said.
This man is proud of the ruination he’s caused . . .
Adalbert straightened up and walked behind the desk. “Though we’ve seen recent outbreaks of unruliness and sadism from the peasants, Bishop Binsfeld keeps them in check. This is a holy endeavor, after all. We are purging the infected from God’s earth.”
“It is holy to kill so many, my lord?” Hugo dared to ask. “What did they do?”
Tomas gave Hugo a hard stare. “Quiet your tongue, Hu—Gregor.” He smiled at Adalbert. “Please, excuse my unruly scribe. He’s good with numbers and tallies but otherwise a bit . . . scatter-brained.”
“If this is what it takes to bring Trier back into God’s favor, then, yes, it is a holy endeavor to extinguish so many,” Adalbert replied, ignoring Hugo’s slight.
“Amen,” Ludwig called from the other side of the room.
Adalbert went on. “What did they do, you ask? Well, every case is different—but perhaps it is best to ask Bishop Binsfeld about the origins of this plague. He’s been here longer than I. He is also the one who created the Classification of Demons, as it were.”
“The Classification of Demons, my lord?” Tomas asked.
Adalbert tilted his head. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of it, inquisitor?”
Tomas stammered. His hands began to shake. “N-no, no, of course I have. But I did not know it was penned by such a man.”
“I haven’t heard of it, my lord,” Hugo blurted out, trying to divert the masked inquisitor’s attention from further scrutiny of Tomas.
Adalbert squinted down at Hugo. Apparently deciding him worthy of a response, he explained. “Binsfeld realized the correlation between witches, their crimes, and the demons and devils who must be inhabiting their bodies. That woman and her daughter out there? Their crimes, for instance, were likely perpetrated from envy, which correlates with Leviathan. Lucifer controls pride, Asmodeus controls lust, Satan is wrath, Beelzebub is gluttony, Mammon is greed, and Belphegor is sloth. With this knowledge, we gain a better understanding of every individual witch we’re dealing with.”
Hugo was dumbstruck.
These poor souls are being tried for nothing more than superstitious words written by a fanatical priest!
His reaction, apparently, showed on his face.
> “I see your skepticism, my young friend, but I figured you had dealt with this already in Cologne. If I may speak plainly,” Adalbert held his hands out as if balancing a scale. “Religion is tradition, Herr Gregor. Witches are a threat to tradition. These evil folk are inhabited by devils. Devils who bring change . . . evolution . . . invention—”
“The very things tradition hates,” Ludwig added, finishing Adalbert’s sentence.
Adalbert glanced at the lord. “Quite, Herr Ludwig.” He looked back at Hugo. “Until we can return Trier to the status quo—back to faithful tradition—we are all in danger. That is why I wear this mask. I have overseen hundreds of trials. If the peasants knew my face, they would surely retaliate at the sight of me.”
Hugo crossed his arms. “Why can’t we see your face, my lord? We’re on your side.”
Adalbert chuckled. “Because I hardly know you. Prove to me that you can carry out my will—nay, God’s will—and you’ll learn my identity soon enough. That is a promise.”
“I don’t like promises,” Hugo said flatly, remembering back when Sybil promised to return and his father promised to never abandon him.
Tomas stammered, again diverting attention from his young apprentice. “E-excuse my assistant. He is young and stupid.”
But Adalbert was chuckling. He shook his head slowly at Ludwig. “I like this boy. Reminds me of all the mettle and audacity I once had.”
Ludwig’s lips formed a thin line. He glared at Hugo.
Adalbert addressed Tomas. “Now that you are here, Herr Samuel, I would like you to oversee a few small trials of your own. Bishop Binsfeld and myself will be there to aid you.”
Tomas bowed. “Very well, my lord.”
“Tomorrow,” Adalbert added, “as a special treat, you can watch that demonic woman and her daughter burn.”
Tomas glanced at Hugo before respectfully nodding.
“I look forward to . . . the opportunity . . . my lord.”
CHAPTER FORTY
GUSTAV
They made the trip from Bedburg to Trier in three days instead of what normally would take five. In the process, Gustav had nearly ridden his horse to death, taking minimal stops for food and rest.
Admittedly, Gustav had enjoyed sharing his saddle with his lovely prisoner for most of the journey. But he knew that once they got to Trier that image would simply not do. He needed to project leadership. So, as they now approached the city’s gates, they were on foot—Gustav in the lead, Sybil and their horse trudging along side-by-side behind him. Sybil’s wrists were tied with a section of the horse’s reins so Gustav could use the reins as a leash to pull both horse and captive through the streets of Trier.
As he led his horse and captive through town, Gustav took notice of the three days’ worth of grime caked on his clothes and boots. It made him grimace, especially when several noblemen passed by wearing crisp, clean attire—in sharp contrast to the embarrassingly smelly, disheveled clothes he wore.
He decided that his very first item of business—well, after throwing Sybil to the wolves, of course—would be a steaming hot bath.
Except . . . maybe it would be best to wait until after bathing before presenting his prisoner to his father. All the better to make a good impression on the aristocrats he expected to meet.
Then again . . . the task at hand—delivering the witch to her well-deserved fate—did outweigh his personal hygiene . . . he supposed.
So, yes, dumping off his prisoner would come first, immediately followed by a nice long bath.
That decided, he began taking in the sights around him. And wasn’t impressed. Having traveled extensively as his father’s courier, he’d seen it all—from the dingiest cesspools of society to the most glamorous cityscapes of Germany.
And Trier fit somewhere in the middle.
They’d entered Trier through its northern gate, which was decidedly the ugliest part of town. Not at all fit for nobility. The brothels they passed stank of booze and unabashed lewdness. Plus, the women were hideous—nothing he’d ever pay for, no matter how hard they might try. A few of them even tried crowding around Sybil, but Gustav quickly tugged her away.
It didn’t take long for him to realize he had no idea where he was—that he needed directions. Searching for a place to ask for help, they passed several fields with rows of life-sized crosses bearing human-shaped shells of black char on them.
A definite detractor to visitors.
Gustav’s face brightened when he saw a passing patrol of guardsmen. He approached the five men—does it really take that many to keep this place beggar-free?—tapping one of them on the shoulder.
The guard turned to him with a sullen expression. Gustav smiled. The guard didn’t. The other guards circled Gustav, frowns of suspicion on their faces.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, I am seeking the city jailhouse,” Gustav said cheerfully, pulling Sybil close for emphasis—and to show off his prize.
“Which one?” the guard asked, inspecting Sybil head to toe.
Gustav raised an eyebrow. “This town has more than one jailhouse?”
The guard nodded. “On the archbishop’s orders, we built us a new one. You’ll find the . . . nicer jail in the south of town, near the Moselle’s bend.” He glanced at Sybil again. “But for a pretty slave like that, you’re best suited to the dungeons, a quarter-mile down this road.” He pointed down a street lined with brothels, taverns, and shabby inns. With a chuckle, he added, “Or you could simply unchain her here. I’m sure she’d bring some happy brothel-owner a nice bit of coin. Though she’s a bit bony.”
Sybil’s face hardened. “I’m not a slave,” she spat, eyeing the guard sharply. “Or a whore.”
The guard snorted and went on his way with the rest of his group.
Gustav tugged Sybil along through the gritty streets of sin until they eventually reached a more auspicious neighborhood. The houses were white and the streets were clean. He loosened his hold on Sybil’s reins a bit. After a small span of pleasant dwellings, he rounded a turn in the road and found himself back in the heart of the poor. He did his best to weave around the peasants and farmers, leering at anyone who stepped too close.
At one point, he saw an elderly woman heading straight for him, unaware, her head bent toward the ground. Though he tried to avoid her, he bumped her shoulder. The old lady bounced with a start and said, “Pardon me, young man.”
Her hair was long and white and a partial veil covered her head. Sybil locked eyes with the woman. As Gustav dragged Sybil along, he noticed she remained fixed on the old lady.
He lost interest when the white-haired woman disappeared from view.
Finally, they arrived at the jail. And from the outside, it was everything the guard had described: grungy, old, decrepit. Gustav could only imagine how it must look inside.
The perfect place for this wench.
After cutting the reins and tying his horse, he led Sybil inside, the cut section of reins still wrapped around her wrists. Just past the door, an armed and armored soldier stopped him. The man was tall—almost as tall as Gustav—and held his hand near the hilt of his sword. “Who are you, and who is that?”
Gustav reached into his tunic, clinking his hand against his half-empty laudanum bottle, and located his crumpled paperwork. He presented it to the guard. “Gustav Koehler, son of Baron Ludwig Koehler von Bergheim. I am bringing you a prisoner. The rest of the details are in that paper.”
Halfheartedly, the man glanced at the paper. His eyes twitched as he tried reading it. Gustav sighed.
Giving up on the paper, the guard looked up. “Bounty hunter?” he asked.
Gustav shook his head. “I’ve told you my credentials, good sir.”
“And the girl’s charge?”
“A witch. I’ve transported her here from Bedburg, so that I may present her to my father. He is a current judge and barrister of the archbishop’s.”
At the mention of a witch, the guard stepped back. He handed the paper back
to Gustav, turned, and left without another word. Gustav watched him approach another person, clearly his superior, and speak in hushed tones. A minute later he returned with his superior, a skinny man with a skinny robe and skinny spectacles.
“How is this woman touched by the Devil?” the man asked, nudging his spectacles.
“She’s the daughter of the Werewolf of Bedburg. Among other things.” Gustav hadn’t quite figured out those “other things” yet, but he would in time. He’d been in such a rush to get Sybil to Trier that he hadn’t concocted the exact wording of the charges against her—other than being related to a man executed for sorcery and cannibalism and murder.
Seemingly convinced, the superior nodded. “Van here will take the girl.” He smiled. “And I will take you to your father.”
“You are an inquisitor for the archbishop?”
The man bowed. “I am Inquisitor Frimont. Now, please follow me.”
Gustav handed the reins to the armored guard and left with the skinny man, glancing one last time over his shoulder to make sure Sybil was being taken to the dungeons.
Walking down the street with Inquisitor Frimont to meet his father, they came to a two-story inn, which Gustav stopped at to clean up. While Frimont waited outside, Gustav oiled his blond hair, slicked it back, shined his boots, then ordered a fresh suit from the innkeeper, providing an extra gratuity for quick delivery.
Pleased with what he saw in the mirror, he straightened his jacket and returned outside to join Frimont.
The sun was beginning to set. They passed under the Porta Nigra, a brilliantly pillared city-gate that Frimont explained was built during Roman times. A short distance later, the Cathedral of Saint Peter came into view—a white-bricked monument to God of massive proportions, and, as Frimont described, the oldest cathedral in the country.
Just past the cathedral, Frimont stopped in front of a large complex of townhalls and courthouses, nearly rivaling in size the cathedral they’d just passed. At the bottom of a stone staircase leading up to the complex stood Gustav’s father, Ludwig, arms crossed.
