by Cory Barclay
When Ava heard it was Hugo, her face paled and her mouth fell open. She seemed about to faint.
Dieter noticed. “Are you all right, Ava?” She was holding Peter, so Dieter took him from her arms.
Handing the child to Dieter, she nodded. “Y-yes, I’m f-fine.” Though she didn’t look fine and took an unsteady seat on the bench behind her.
“You d-don’t s-s-sound fine,” Jerome stuttered. “You s-sound like me.”
Ava shook her head. “I have a . . . history with Hugo Griswold.”
Staring at Ava, Martin sounded edgy. “Hugo Griswold is not a virtuous man. I was his friend growing up, and he was innocent enough then. But now he’s an arm of Heinrich Franz, and thoroughly conditioned by that hateful man.”
Dieter nodded. “Which is why we must leave. Immediately.”
Ava opened her mouth to speak up, then paused. “Are you sure?”
Dieter nodded. “Hugo could tell Heinrich, or Ulrich, where we are. And if they somehow connect us to the poor Jacobos, our fates are sealed.”
As the color began to return to Ava’s face, she shook her head. “Do you really believe he’d do that? Your own wife’s brother?”
Martin had no doubt. “He is capable of much more treachery than just that. Dieter is right. We must leave my house at once.” Instinctively, Martin still referred to the house as “his” because he’d grown up there and still believed it rightfully belonged to his family, not to Bishop Balthasar and the church who now claimed it.
“Where can we go?” asked Ava.
“I know a place,” Dieter said. “But it, too, can only be temporary.” A place that will hopefully bring back memories too painful for Hugo to consider returning to, he thought. “It’s abandoned but should give us some respite until we find something more permanent.”
“Where?” asked Martin.
Instead of answering, Dieter walked to the far wall and stared out the small window—the same window he’d stared out many nights, years earlier, while waiting anxiously for Sybil when they first began their rendezvous. The sun was sinking below the horizon. Darkness was coming—the perfect time to make their escape.
“Where Dieter?” Ava repeated.
Dieter turned to the group.
“The Griswold estate—Sybil and Hugo’s childhood home.”
The group had meager belongings so it didn’t take long for Martin, Ava, and Jerome to ready themselves for their evacuation. Martin wore a large backpack with his, Ava’s, and little Peter’s clothes in it. Jerome carried his weathered medical supply bag. Ava held Peter in her arms.
Dieter stayed behind, watching solemnly as the foursome dashed into the night, up the hill and east. He’d told them he’d join them soon but first needed to speak with someone in Bedburg. Martin had thought that foolhardy. “Why risk your life again? Now you are acting foolish.”
But Dieter said it was nighttime and he’d be fine under the cover of darkness. So shortly after watching his friends and son disappear up the hill, he donned his cloak, pulled his hood over his head, and started off for Bedburg.
He kept in the shadows because, even in the darkness, the moon was bright, illuminating the streets in a murky yellow glow. Heading northeast, he made his way through the southern district until he heard loud, boisterous voices coming from a building down the road. Orange light poured out the structure’s windows.
For several moments he just stood there watching the place, then sighed, steeled himself for what was to follow, and headed for the entrance.
As he approached the tavern door, his heart beat in his throat.
Who will be here? What if I’m recognized?
In months past he’d been a regular here, while doing research with Rowaine and Sybil on Heinrich’s whereabouts. Thinking of those two lovely women now—his wife and their dear pirate-lady friend—brought him a pang of both guilt and grief. But he quickly buried the thought.
Pushing open the door, he stood for a moment to look around. No one stared back. Good. The drunks were drinking and story-telling around the tables, the whores were busy beckoning men up the stairs, and the bar counter was lined with happy customers enjoying another raucous evening.
Dieter breathed easier. Standing on his tiptoes to peer over a customer in front of him, he searched for a particular person.
And found her, easily.
The most beautiful harlot in Bedburg and surely one of the most popular. She was standing—animated and engaged—by a table occupied by three men, telling them a story that clearly had their undivided attention. Dieter couldn’t help smiling, thinking how it was likely not her story drawing the men’s attention. Not with those breasts bouncing, hips swaying, and jet-black hair flowing.
As Dieter approached, he could see how frustrated she was becoming that her audience was paying more attention to her “assets” than her story.
“Aellin?” Dieter called out softly.
The woman paused mid-sentence to look over her shoulder, ready to bite the rude intruder’s head off. But, immediately recognizing Dieter, her face brightened with a warm smile.
“Priest!” she shouted, dropping her hands from the air, instantly forgetting the drunks at the table. She grabbed Dieter’s arm and pulled him aside. One of the men at the table bellowed, “What’s he got that we ain’t got, girl?”
“A brain,” Aellin shot back, drawing laughter from the others. Taking Dieter to a quieter corner, they sat at an empty table. “Haven’t seen you in some time, priest. And where’s that beautiful, fiery mermaid?” She’d had a fascination with Rowaine.
“Rowaine’s gone. I don’t know where.”
Aellin pouted.
Dieter gazed at Aellin’s face for a long moment. She was still as beautiful as ever. High cheekbones, fair complexion, dark eyes matching gorgeous hair, and, yes, an awe-inspiring bosom. Dieter felt a twinge of desire, immediately felt guilty, then, with much difficulty, suppressed it.
But more than just beauty, Aellin was a woman who knew her way around town. Better than probably anyone else. It had been she who’d helped him, Sybil, and Rowaine find the secret underground tunnels that led to Castle Bedburg’s kitchens. Which had pointed them to Heinrich Franz’s lover, Odela Grendel.
Following Dieter’s eyes on her, Aeillin playfully joked, “Focus on my eyes, you lecherous dog.”
Shaking the blank look from his face, he turned beet-red. “M-my apologies.”
It had been months since he’d been with a woman, not since his wife’s disappearance, and it literally pained him to sit next to someone so beautiful. Refocusing his thoughts, his face turned grim. “I have a problem, Aellin, and I believe it’s your fault.”
Her playful look disappeared. “What on earth are you talking about, priest?”
“Why did you send Adam and Martha Jacobo to my residence—no, to my hiding place? Why did you think I could help them?”
Aellin held out her palms. “Hey now, calm down,” she said. “Everyone in town knows you’re a Protestant convert, priest. It’s no secret.”
Dieter groaned. “But how did you know where to find me?”
Aellin looked over Dieter’s shoulder, at the busy tavern, the tables, the bar, the men huddled around the hearthfire. “I have my ways of finding things out, Dieter.”
Dieter narrowed his eyes. “You must stop sending people my way. You put my entire family in danger—”
“Your wife is gone . . .” she interrupted, trailing off. Then she winked and Dieter’s face flushed again.
Gritting his teeth, he returned to the subject at hand. “I can’t help these people.” Then he thought of something else. “What made Adam and Martha Jacobo so important, anyway?”
Aellin shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose. They were simply names on a note. For some reason, someone wants to save these Protestants.”
“You still have no idea where these notes are coming from?”
Aellin shrugged again. “They’ve been slipped under the front door a couple
times, before dawn. That’s all I know.”
Another dead end, he thought.
He stood up, looking around the tavern, then heard something.
Or maybe not . . .
It was a conversation at the next table. Despite the room’s loudness, certain words coming from two men had caught his attention. He wandered in closer, pretending to be searching for someone across the room. Aellin stood behind him. He heard one of the men say, “If the archbishop had any idea his rival was so close, he’d turn red with bloodlust.” The other responded, “Gebhard has no power now, and Ernst knows that. The archbishop has nothing to fear from that old man.”
Aellin whispered over Dieter’s shoulder. “What are you doing?” But Dieter held up his hand to quiet her.
The first man continued. “Nonsense! I heard that Gebhard recently became bishop of Strasbourg. Sounds like he’s trying to regain power.”
“In France?” the second man said, gulping down his ale. “Then what in hell is he doing in Bonn?”
The first man shrugged. “No idea, but I can guess. Campaigning for Protestants, I suspect . . . needs more support!”
“Maybe,” the second man said, finishing his own mug of ale. “Got a feelin’ we ain’t seen the last of that wily old man.”
An idea started forming in Dieter’s head. A good one, but dangerous.
He turned to Aellin and walked her a few paces away.
“What was that all about?” she asked, frowning. “Eavesdropping on my patrons?”
Dieter smiled. “I’d like to hire your services.”
Aellin’s eyebrows arched and she suppressed a chuckle. “Men! You’re all the same!”
Dieter shook his head. “No, not that. I don’t want your body.” He paused, giving her a quick up-and-down look. “Well, at least that’s not what I meant. I want your mind.”
Aellin looked confused. “I don’t take kindly to riddles, priest. Even I know my mind ain’t exactly my prized possession.”
“Nonsense,” Dieter said, resting his hand on her shoulder and staring into her beautiful face. “I think you know more than you think you know, Aellin.”
And then he told her his dangerous new plan.
Later that night, when he returned to the hill above the Achterberg estate, his premonition proved true. Hiding in the shrubbery, he watched armed guards and patrolmen from Bedburg raiding the premises they’d all vacated just hours earlier. Some searched the grounds, others milled about inside.
And there was no doubt who to blame for this.
Martin had been right. Hugo Griswold was no longer a virtuous young man. He’d obviously been transformed into Heinrich’s puppet. At least with Sybil gone, she’d never have to know how her own brother had betrayed them.
As he watched the house being torn apart, and the disgruntled soldiers groaning and complaining for being brought out in the middle of the night for a pointless excursion, a new idea began taking shape in his mind.
Rubbing the stump of his aching left arm, he knew that if he decided to follow through with this new plan, someone would try to talk him out of it.
It was both foolhardy and dangerous.
But his guilt over the fate of poor Adam and Martha Jacobo was just too much for his conscience to bear. I could have saved them.
And if he chose this new path, there’d be no turning back.
I will be an enemy of the state.
A fugitive, an outlaw, a criminal.
If Heinrich Franz finds me, I will hang.
I know I will never see my sweet Sybil again. But at least this would honor her memory. Perhaps she’ll look down on me proudly . . .
He sighed and headed off to the Griswold estate—the childhood home of his wife.
And the further he walked, the more his new idea came to life.
And by the time he reached the Griswold estate, he was sure.
Only through dumb luck had he overheard those two drunks at the tavern talking about Gebhard Truchsess—the Protestant archbishop of Cologne before the Catholic Ernst took over.
But now he knew it was not by chance. That, and today’s other events, had brought him to this moment, to this life-changing decision.
I will help all Protestants and their sympathizers escape the persecution of Bedburg and Heinrich Franz.
I will protect them. I will give them refuge.
And I will bring this ruthless regime to its knees.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HUGO
Hugo and his driver left Bedburg on a cool, gray morning, traveling out Bedburg’s southern gate and down a road paralleling the Erft River.
Although they didn’t expect trouble traveling the short distance to Bergheim, Hugo still brought two men-at-arms with him from Bedburg’s garrison. Not so much for protection as appearance—he wanted to present himself to the gentry of Bergheim as a person of importance, not just a boy and his chaperone.
The truth was, Hugo wasn’t sure how he’d be received once they got there. Being sent by Heinrich Franz was tricky. An anomaly to many, Heinrich wasn’t a true nobleman since he hadn’t been born into it. So Hugo worried that, as his representative, he could be met with a certain degree of condescension.
His driver, Felix, proved to be a perfect travel companion. He spoke only when spoken to and, when he did, was easy to talk to. So whenever Hugo had a question about the notes he was reviewing during the trip, Felix was happy to offer his opinions.
From the documents, Hugo learned that Lucille Engel was the daughter of Josef Witten von Erftstadt, a wealthy old baron in control of his family’s namesake, the city of Erftstadt. Hugo knew that seven electorates—or territories—basically controlled all of Germany and that a key one of those seven was Cologne, whose territory included the cities of Bedburg, Bergheim and Erftstadt, among others. Hugo understood that having power in Cologne’s parliament was very significant.
According to Heinrich’s notes, Josef Witten von Erftstadt’s original plan had been to give his daughter away in marriage to the powerful Koehler family, the rulers of Bergheim, specifically to be married to Ludwig Koehler’s eldest son, Gustav. In return, Erftstadt would receive a seat from the elder Koehler in Cologne’s parliament.
And while a part of that plan was realized and Lucille did marry Gustav, the parliamentary power never passed to the elder Josef because Gustav was killed and his marriage to Josef’s daughter annulled.
From this information, it was clear to Hugo that the cities of Bergheim and Erftstadt, separated by a mere fifteen miles, were at odds. And that the tension between them was likely fueled by the two fathers—Ludwig Koehler of Bergheim and Josef Witten of Erftstadt—each one in control of his respective city and both responsible for the failed marriage.
The most important document among Heinrich’s notes was of course the one reciting exactly what Heinrich hoped to achieve from his marriage to Lucille—what he would give and what he would get. It was Heinrich’s plan to turn tension between the two cities and their rulers into positives. And Hugo was intrigued by the way Heinrich explained in his instructions how Hugo was to accomplish that.
As the carriage drew closer to Bergheim, in an effort to ease his nerves Hugo kept re-reading the papers. He had a heavy responsibility ahead of him and the last thing he needed was to be unprepared. Disappointing Heinrich—knowing his temper and tendency for swift, vicious punishment—was usually not a survivable option.
In Hugo’s mind there was just one glaring omission Heinrich had failed to take into account: that Heinrich himself might not be the most viable groom in the eyes of either father Koehler or father Erftstadt, not to mention Lucille herself. But there wasn’t much Hugo could do about that.
By the time the sun had peaked in the sky, Hugo’s carriage pulled through the northwestern gate of Bergheim. And immediately, Hugo was overwhelmed.
Nearly three times the size of Bedburg, Bergheim’s streets reflected the city’s bustling population. Workers, peasants, and travelers buzzed abo
ut in all directions. Tall buildings of stone competed for space with wattle-and-daub huts. And nestled in the center, a large natural park occupied a huge patch of hilly, green countryside.
After his experiences in the metropolis of Trier, Hugo was well aware that the size of a town directly correlated with how poorly its inhabitants treated foreigners. The larger the city, the snobbier its citizens. Once the people of Trier had learned that Hugo was not just an outsider, but from a smaller town as well, he had not been treated kindly. The only thing saving his dignity had been the fact that he’d played the role of an inquisitor’s assistant.
Which meant Hugo had his work cut out for him in this very large, likely haughty municipality.
As their carriage rumbled down the main thoroughfare, a few beggars surrounded them, shaking their cans and hats. No matter a town’s size, some things remain the same, he thought. Not wanting to be associated with the poor—which could only exacerbate the snobbery—he ordered Felix to ride around the beggars quickly and head straight for Bergheim Castle.
As the castle came into view, Hugo realized it was not much bigger than the one in Bedburg. They rode through a grand archway with ornate spires on top, stopping in front of the mostly-brick structure where a valet greeted them. While Felix transferred the care of the carriage to the valet, Hugo took in the full measure of the place, craning his neck and squinting his eyes. Accompanied by his two armored men, he then headed to the castle entrance while Felix stayed behind with the carriage.
To Hugo’s surprise, the inside of Castle Bergheim wasn’t at all flashy. Unlike most castles—which tended to resemble grand cathedrals more than luxury living quarters—this one was quite practical and reasonable. No circular staircases or marbled floors or other expensive extravagances. Just a simple structure intended for one purpose only: to serve as a fortress to ward off invaders, not impress visitors.
At the bottom of the staircase, Baron Ludwig Koehler stood waiting, his arms crossed over his chest. A thin man with a beaked nose and permanent scowl, his clothing preference gravitated to the darker side: a deep purple tunic under a crimson cloak. Though Hugo had seen the baron less than three months earlier in Trier, Ludwig had clearly aged. Lines creased the edges of his temples and puffy purple skin sagged below his eyes.
