by Cory Barclay
And it was no secret that Mother blamed him for that, as she did for just about everything else.
Following the birth of her beloved first-born son, Mother had prayed for a daughter. A pious woman—zealous, even, in her faith and obedience to God—she’d yearned for a daughter to carry on the family legacy when she died. A legacy of godliness, of righteousness, of advocacy for women.
But instead he’d been born.
Meanwhile, his older brother could do no wrong. Oscar constantly tormented him, yet was never reprimanded, never blamed for anything.
Oh, how he hated his brother.
And as his mother’s verbal barrage over the broken eggs continued, he let her words float off without hearing them, pretending to be shamed by the incident as he stared down at the yellow puddle. Inside though, his body trembled with rage and his thoughts grew dark.
When his mother realized he wasn’t listening, she grabbed his chin with one hand and, eyes wide with menace, slapped him hard across the face. His vision went white as she spoke like a woman possessed.
“We can’t afford to let eggs go to waste, can we now?”
When he still didn’t answer, she stormed off, heading for the front door where Oscar had gone.
He rubbed his cheek, feeling the prickly sensation of pins and needles, while he remained focused on the single image still etched in his mind: his mother’s shapely breasts swaying gently beneath her shift.
Alone in the house, he walked down the hall to his mother’s room. Quietly, he opened her door and peered inside.
Draped over the small bed lay his mother’s blue dress. Resting on the floor next to it was her pair of rope-soled shoes. As he approached the bed, he glanced to his right at the blotchy full-length mirror hanging on the wall, frowning at the image he saw there.
Then he took off his clothes.
Tunic, pants, undergarments.
She wants a daughter, he thought, sliding the blue dress on over his head.
Now she won’t yell at me.
The dress of course was much too big, its sleeves puffing out at his shoulders, its hems dragging on the floor. Yet he was still able to fasten it tightly at his waist. Glancing back to the mirror, he stretched his leg back and struck an effeminate pose.
And liked what he saw.
“Oh . . . my . . . GOD!”
Heinrich spun around. His bother stood at the doorway, wide-eyed, pointing a finger at him, his ten-year-old brain barely comprehending what it was seeing. Momentarily speechless, Oscar’s young vocabulary had trouble providing appropriate words of ridicule, so he just blurted, “You’re a girl! Look!” then broke into uncontrolled laughter. “An ugly, ugly girl,” he screamed, barely able to breathe, doubling over and rolling on the ground.
Heinrich’s face went blood-red. “N-no,” he squealed, tears streaming down his face.
“Wait till Mother hears about this!” Oscar bellowed between breaths.
Beneath the dress fabric, Heinrich clenched his fists. “You can’t! You can’t tell her, Oscar!”
Stumbling to his feet, still laughing, Oscar charged out of the room and down the hall. Heinrich started after him, then realized he was still wearing the dress. Quickly, he changed clothes, then shot down the hallway after his brother.
But Oscar never got a chance to tell his story. As soon as he got outside, shouting, “Mother, mother! You won’t believe it!” he found his mother standing out front, deep in conversation with a man. Before Oscar had a chance to say more, Mother snapped her fingers, instantly silencing him.
As the two adults continued their discussion, the man ran his hand over the stack of wool pelts beside him. “These fleeces are of a good quality,” he declared, smiling. “I’ll take them.”
Just then, Heinrich flew out the front door, his face still bright red. But before he could speak, Edith cut him off as well.
“Get away from here, both of you,” she yelled. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“But what shall we do?” Oscar asked, disappointed that he couldn’t relay his new lurid discovery to his mother.
“I don’t care,” Edith snarled. “Go fishing. Catch us some dinner. I’ll be at least another hour.”
At the mention of fishing, Oscar’s eyes lit up. He loved to fish. Nodding vigorously, he headed off to the shed to grab his fishing gear.
“And take your brother with you!” Edith added, crushing his hopes of fishing alone.
Retrieving his rod, net and knife from the shed, Oscar headed out to the river, a five-minute walk from the farmhouse. A short distance behind, Heinrich followed with his own gear. When they got to the river, Oscar immediately headed for his favorite spot, the curve where the river narrowed, the best place to catch fish, while his younger brother rushed to keep up.
Once there, Oscar watched the clear water for a moment before jumping onto a stone embedded in the river bank. From there, with his arms held out like a T, he balanced, then hopped, from rock to rock, reaching higher and higher ground with each step. Yelling back to his younger brother, he kept up his taunting. “I can’t wait to tell Mother what a fop you are!” With his back to Heinrich, he couldn’t see his brother’s expression change—the grinding teeth, the narrowing eyes.
“I should have guessed it,” Oscar continued, oblivious to his brother’s darkening mood. “I always knew you were a freak, but I didn’t expect you’d be so . . . so . . . foppish!” he added, chuckling.
Heinrich squeezed the handle of his fishing knife so hard his knuckles turned white. He looked down at the glistening blade, then shook his head.
He couldn’t.
Instead he pleaded with his brother again. “Please don’t tell her, Oscar.”
But Oscar, still climbing the rocks with arms extended, just glanced back and sneered. “What will you give me if I keep it a secret?” he asked, climbing up another stone before spinning back around with a glint in his eye.
“What do you want?” Heinrich asked.
“You know what I want.”
“No!” Heinrich shouted, so loudly and high-pitched that it startled Oscar, making him wobble then lose his balance and, in an effort to regain it, jump too quickly to the next level of stones. As his feet made contact, his back foot gave way, sliding off the slippery surface. With arms flailing like a windmill, he tried in vain to avoid falling to the rocks below by pushing off toward the water.
But he couldn’t. With a final breathless gasp, his body tumbled down the jagged embankment, the side of his head bouncing off a large rock with a sickening crack.
Then everything went quiet, the river’s rippling current the only sound.
For an instant Heinrich was immobilized by the shock of it all. Then he called out to his brother but got no response. Quickly, he scurried down the bank on all fours—not nearly as daring or nimble as Oscar—and finally reached his brother’s limp body. Immediately he saw the bright red gash above his right ear. Gently, he turned him over. His eyes were open but rolled back. Then he noticed his chest—rising and falling.
Faintly. Slowly. Still breathing.
Unconscious but alive.
The sight of his severely injured brother strained Heinrich’s young mind. Unsure what to do, he knew he needed to get help quickly.
Yes, that was it.
But then a soothing darkness swept over him.
And suddenly things became crystal clear.
The memory of what his brother had seen.
Of what his brother had said.
Of what his brother had threatened.
And with a disturbing calmness Heinrich knew exactly what needed to be done.
How all his pain, all his mother’s anger and disappointment and disgust, all the punishments he’d endured over his short life could finally, completely, be resolved . . .
And before he was even aware, he was dragging his brother’s limp body by his arms down the rocks.
And then he was standing over him near the gurgling river. His brother was
on his stomach again, so at least Heinrich couldn’t see his face.
He looked back toward the house. Then across the empty fields. No one was watching.
He knelt down and dragged his brother’s body to the water’s edge until his face hung over the side.
Then he pushed Oscar’s head beneath the rushing stream and held tight, a thin smile forming on his face.
Not unlike a baptism, he thought.
A baptism in Hell.
Suddenly the chilly water seemed to revive Oscar’s survival instincts and he began to thrash. But he was too dazed and injured to resist his younger brother’s determined grip. And soon the thrashing stopped.
When he saw no more bubbles rising to the surface, he counted to fifty to be sure before gently releasing his grip. Then he stood, wiping his icy hands on his pants, and stared down at what he had done, his brother’s lifeless head still bobbing in the water like a fishing float.
He felt no remorse. Only calm relief.
How he loved the darkness.
And now it was time to tell Mother of the tragic passing of her favorite son.
He feigned panic and grief as he arrived back at the farmhouse and told his mother of the catastrophe at the riverside. Back at the scene, her face twisted in heartache, the tears flowing freely down her face. He watched with a grim sense of satisfaction as his mother knelt beside her beloved son and wailed like an anguished animal.
“Oh my lord!” she bellowed, again and again.
“Oh my lord!”
Heinrich awoke with a jolt, his body covered in sticky sweat, his hands clutching the arms of his chair.
A doe-eyed young man, looking scared and bewildered, stood over him, his hand resting loosely on Heinrich’s knee.
“What is it?” Heinrich snapped, trying to clear the foggy dream from his senses.
“Are you all right, my lord?” the young man asked. “You were shaking in your sleep.”
Heinrich Franz grimaced, his bushy eyebrows scrunching together. “I’m fine, boy. Why have you disturbed me?”
“Er, the archbishop is ready to see you, my lord.”
Standing up from the chair, Heinrich felt his joints creak. He’d been waiting to see Archbishop Ernst for some time, and must have dozed off. He hadn’t slept during his trip to Cologne to see Ernst—the archbishop had said the meeting was urgent so Heinrich and his entourage had ridden their horses hard.
“Then lead on,” he told the boy, waving him forward.
The courier took Heinrich down a hallway, to the familiar double-sided oak doors of Ernst’s conference room. He knocked on the door and was admitted by two armored guards holding spears.
Archbishop Ernst looked much the same as he had when Heinrich last saw him, when the archbishop had crowned him the lord of Bedburg in appreciation for his success in Trier. He sat—straight-backed and stiff-lipped—behind his large desk, dressed in an embroidered robe. Another man stood next to him. Both Ernst and the other fellow shared similar facial hair features: long mustaches and closely-cropped hair, though Ernst’s companion was much younger, perhaps sixteen.
“Ah, Lord Franz, how nice to see you,” Ernst said, greeting Heinrich as entered the room. Quickly, he shooed off the courier and both guards. This clearly was to be a private conversation.
So who’s the handsome young pup, then? Heinrich wondered. Why does he get to stay?
Once the three were alone, Ernst’s entire attitude changed. Sighing and slumping in his chair, he went from blasé to dejected.
“This is my nephew, Ferdinand,” Ernst said, motioning to the young man beside him. “I am grooming him for the future.”
“The future, Your Grace?”
“I am getting old, Heinrich,” Ernst replied, frowning. Heinrich almost felt sorry for him. This man, who Heinrich had helped get seated on the electoral seat of Cologne many years before, was perhaps the only man Heinrich had ever cared for. They’d shared years of turmoil, war, and masterful schemes together.
“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Franz,” young Ferdinand said, his voice calm and polite.
“The pleasure is mine, young master,” Heinrich replied, sounding equally polite, despite not feeling that way. If anything, he wanted Ferdinand to leave, to let the “adults” conduct their private conversation.
Ernst pointed to the boy. “In fact, Trier was his idea. He’s a brilliant young man who one day will make a fine elector. My brother raised him right.”
Heinrich’s eyes bulged. The witch-trials in Trier were his idea? If that is true, then I certainly shouldn’t misconstrue his politeness for weakness. The young man is a calculated killer.
Much like his uncle . . .
“Is that so?” Heinrich muttered.
Ferdinand smirked shyly. “You give me too much credit, Uncle.”
Ernst shrugged. “Regardless, I’m having him shadow me while I conduct business. I hope you don’t mind.”
Even if Heinrich did mind, he wouldn’t say so. “Of course not, Your Grace.”
Ernst nodded, then his shoulders slumped again.
“What’s bothering you, Your Grace? You seem . . . vexed,” Heinrich said.
“Sugar, Heinrich. Sugar is bothering me.” Ernst sighed. He paused, then thought better of it and waved a hand at Heinrich. “It doesn’t concern you, though.”
Heinrich crossed his arms over his chest. He had no idea what the archbishop was referring to. And he didn’t like being brushed aside like that, either, especially not since becoming the lord of Bedburg.
He tried again. “Even so, Your Grace, what’s on your mind?”
Archbishop Ernst put his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. “Eight years ago, the Duke of Parma, Alexander Farnese, blockaded Antwerp’s port in the Netherlands, trying to regain the city for the Spanish Catholics. It was the largest trading hub in Europe at the time.”
“I’m aware,” Heinrich said, nodding along. “But Duke Farnese is an ally. You seem disappointed that he did such a thing. After all, he regained territory for the Catholics . . .”
“Still, two-thirds of my sugar imports came from Antwerp! Yes, he’s an invaluable ally—helping us during our own war in Cologne. He’s done great things for the True faith. But still, by taking Antwerp . . . he’s caused us some . . . difficulties.
“For one, he chased the Calvinists from the city, forcing them north en masse. Which forced the Catholics living there to flee . . . here, to Cologne.”
Heinrich was intrigued. He spun the ends of his mustache. “So he took territory for the Spanish crown, but created more strife outside of Antwerp. That is how things go, is it not, Your Grace? It still seems like a major victory for the Catholics.”
Ernst nodded. “It was. It is. But by taking Antwerp, he also inadvertently cut off the sugar trade here, which has impacted our economy greatly, giving more power to Amsterdam! In the past five years, Amsterdam has taken Antwerp’s place as Europe’s center of commerce. And, as you know, we have a . . . tenuous relationship with Amsterdam because of their trade deals with England . . . and their tolerance of Protestants.”
Heinrich indeed understood. Ernst had lost a powerful piece on the chessboard when Duke Farnese had taken Antwerp. Even worse, an ally had caused the damage. Nonetheless, Heinrich didn’t see it as Farnese’s fault. Spain was the culprit.
Interrupting Heinrich’s thoughts, Ernst added, “Many of our textile imports came from Antwerp as well, and that trade has been severed since Farnese took the city. So, Lord Franz, you can see why I’m ‘vexed,’ as you put it, yes?”
Heinrich bowed his head. “Yes, Your Grace. I understand. I’m sorry to hear that and I wish there was something I could do.”
“Never mind that,” Ernst said. “There are other things I need from you.”
Heinrich tilted his head. “Such as?”
“For one, the progress of the conversion efforts in Bedburg. How are they going? You’ve had several months to settle in as lord there. What is the situation with t
he Protestants?”
Heinrich cleared his throat. “If I’m being honest, my lord, the Protestants are becoming more ambitious. To counter that—and their growing audacity—I’ve had to strengthen my grip and resolve against them. When they rebel, when they refuse to convert, I am forced to focus on more ‘creative’ means of punishment—scaring them into submission, much like we did with the werewolf issue a few years back.”
Archbishop Ernst chuckled. “Of course. Yes, the werewolf. It was a masterstroke, Heinrich. Its legend still carries throughout the land.”
His ego swelling, Heinrich feigned modesty, nodding simply without smiling.
“So we are becoming more . . . proactive,” he told the archbishop, “when dealing with the Protestants.”
“Don’t coat your words in sugar, Heinrich,” Ernst said, then realized his own play-on-words and smiled. “We don’t have enough sugar for that!” Taking on a more serious tone, he asked, “What does becoming more ‘proactive’ entail?”
Heinrich sighed, standing a bit straighter, clasping his hands behind his back. This felt more like a battlefield report to a general—which, he supposed, it was.
“As soon as a Protestant is discovered, sprouting up like a weed to cause the city turmoil, he is punished. If we cannot locate him, we find his family, which always draws out our target.”
Archbishop Ernst thought for a moment, running his hands over his chin.
“An excellent strategy, Lord Franz,” the young Ferdinand interjected. “Punish the faithless so they cannot get a foothold in the city. The last thing we need is another rebellion.”
“Indeed, young master,” Heinrich said, a bit annoyed at being talked to as an equal by a young pup simply born into his high position. Let the men do the talking, boy, he wanted to say, but of course couldn’t.
“Scare them into submission.” The archbishop nodded. “Good, good.”
Heinrich shrugged. “It seemed to work before.”
Ernst stood from his desk. Walking in front of Ferdinand, he began pacing the room, clearly uneasy about what he had to say next.
“What is it, Your Grace?” Heinrich asked cautiously.
Ernst walked to the stained-glass window on the far side of the room, his shape bathed in the rose-tinted light. “There’s one other thing I must ask of you, Heinrich. It’s very important for the survival of Cologne and the entire electorate.”
