by Cory Barclay
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sybil pulled Rowaine’s covers up, then gently stroked her arm as she quickly fell asleep. Watching her sleep, tears came to Sybil’s eyes, overwhelmed with both pity for her good friend and thoughts of her beloved Dieter. But with Leon and Claire standing near the bedroom door, she stifled her sobs so she wouldn’t be seen as weak. Leaning over Rowaine, she whispered, “I pray that you feel better and that you recover, my dear friend. God has a purpose for you. I know it.”
It was something Dieter would have said, though Sybil wasn’t totally convinced of its truth quite yet. She stood up and followed Leon and Claire into the living room where Daxton was drinking ale by himself at the table, staring blankly into the unlit hearth. From a different room, Claire’s young daughter Rose began crying so the French couple excused themselves for the night.
Once they were gone, Daxton looked up at Sybil. “Big day ahead of us tomorrow,” he said, a bit drunk.
Sybil nodded, still thinking about poor Rowaine.
“Today I saw more action than I have in a long time,” Daxton continued. Despite his inebriated state, it was clear to Sybil how much he had missed being at sea.
“Go to sleep, Dax,” she urged.
Daxton stared at her with glazed eyes. He looked like he wanted to say something—that he needed to say something—but instead just nodded dumbly, closing his mouth and resting the side of his head on the table. Within seconds, he was snoring.
Rolling herself up in a blanket, Sybil lay on the bench in the corner and closed her eyes.
A loud thud.
Sybil’s eyes shot open. She wasn’t sure if the noise was real or a dream. She lay perfectly still and listened.
A moment later she heard it again. Very loud.
Then a groan pierced the quiet night.
She jumped up, sweating, her heart racing. Looking around in the dark, she could make out Daxton still fast asleep on his chair, snoring.
She heard another groan and dashed out of the room toward the sound.
Coming from Rowaine’s room.
Racing down the hall, she almost ran into Leon and Claire, both in their robes, anxious looks on their faces. Leon held a lit candle as they all rushed into Rowaine’s room.
She was sprawled out on the floor by the bed, on her back, rubbing her head and moaning.
“Row! Are you all right?” Sybil cried, rushing to her friend’s aid.
She noticed a spot of blood on the ground where Rowaine’s head had apparently hit. Sybil cradled her as Rowaine went into a fetal position and started weeping. Gently stroking Rowaine’s fiery red hair, suddenly all of Sybil’s pent-up feelings burst forth—pity, sadness, helplessness.
“Shh,” she said softly. “It’s all right. You must have had a bad dream and rolled off the bed.”
Trembling in Sybil’s arms, Rowaine’s continued sobbing. “I-it’s not all right, Beele. I’ll never be the same!”
Except for the sobs, several long moments of silence followed.
Suddenly Claire let out a gasp.
“My God,” Leon echoed.
Sybil turned to see what they were looking at. Wide-eyed, Claire made the sign of the cross over her heart.
“What?” Sybil demanded.
Claire pointed. “It’s her . . . her—”
“Her legs!” Leon cried out. “They’ve moved!”
It was true. Bent at the knees, Rowaine’s legs were now up toward her chest.
Sybil’s mouth fell open.
“By God, it’s a miracle!” Claire cried happily. “You prayed for it, Sybil, and it happened!”
Their loud voices woke Daxton who came rushing in, a knife in his hand, his eyes in a red-rimmed haze. “What the hell’s the commotion?”
“Beele has worked a miracle!” Leon announced, still pointing. “Rowaine’s legs are working!”
PART II
Resist the Iron Fist
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HEINRICH
Still sniveling from the effects of that damned potion, Heinrich spent the entire day alone in bed, giving himself plenty of time to dwell on things troubling him. Like, how he couldn’t trust anyone. That madman, Salvatore, was a perfect example. The so-called benandanti was still at House Charmagne and wouldn’t be allowed to leave until Heinrich figured out what to do with him. Heinrich had no doubt that the man had tried to kill him. Yes, his herbal rubbish had apparently nullified Heinrich’s dreams. But at what cost?
Will I die on this bed, surrounded by people who only want to see me in a casket?
So, after a day filled with such negative thoughts, Heinrich was understandably relieved to hear Hugo’s good news: that Lucille Engel had agreed to marry him. Well actually, that her father, Josef, and her ward, Ludwig, had come to that agreement.
Of course he hadn’t been quite as happy to hear that Hugo had given away so much of his land—three villages surrounding Bedburg—mostly because he didn’t trust Baron Josef, the man receiving those properties. He also wasn’t ecstatic about giving away his empty seat on Cologne’s parliament to Baron Ludwig.
But Hugo had assured him these concessions were necessary to secure the marriage agreement.
Ernst had better properly reward me for all this.
After all, it was the archbishop’s idea to marry a rich, bountiful Catholic woman. And the benefits flowing from that union would all go straight to the archbishop, not Heinrich, since, try as he might, Heinrich just couldn’t figure a way to personally profit from the arrangement.
Heinrich decided he needed to get away from his stuffy chambers and breathe some different air. He got out of bed slowly and, still in his sleeping robe, headed down stairs to feed his pets. Walking through the hall, he passed an opened doorway. Glancing in, he noticed the benandanti sitting off in a corner, conversing with himself. No, Heinrich corrected himself. On closer inspection the man was conversing with Rolf, who sat across from him, partially-obscured by the open door. The two were speaking in hushed tones and Heinrich wasn’t sure what to make of that.
He continued to the end of the hallway, then down the stone staircase that led to the cellar. The room was cold, damp, and smelled sickly and pungent. He walked to a barrel against the wall to his right and reached in, pulling out several morsels of rotting meat. He took them to the far end of the room where a large cage stood. He rattled it several times until he heard low growling. Six wolves crept out from the darkness, warily circling the cage. As they sniffed and snarled, Heinrich tossed in the meat strips and waited.
But the hounds ignored the food, instead continuing to snarl, their yellow eyes fixed on Heinrich as they continued to pace.
“Eat your food, damn beasts,” he yelled, knocking on the cage bars. But the wolves turned away, ignoring both him and the food, and continued their pacing.
Perhaps in my ill state, they don’t recognize me.
He watched as they kept circling.
Either that, or something is making them edgy.
He heard the patter of steps descending the stairs behind him. Turning, he saw Rolf and his madman friend. To Heinrich’s disgust, they approached the cage and stood beside him.
“Beautiful beasts,” Salvatore said in his thick Italian accent. “The minds of men trapped in the bodies of savage animals.”
Rolf chuckled at Salvatore’s strange comment, then said to Heinrich, “You shouldn’t be down here, my lord. You’ll get sicker.”
In no mood for Rolf’s wise words, Heinrich snapped, “Don’t tell me where I should be in my own house, old man.” Suddenly he wanted to be back in bed. His head ached and he wanted to be rid of these two. He eyed Rolf and Salvatore from the corner of his eye.
Perhaps they’re plotting together. Could Rolf be a Protestant sympathizer? He’s the only person who really knows my plans—to punish the Protestants and use my marriage to Lucille Engel to unify the Catholics.
He stroked his chin, his thoughts growing darker.
Yes . . . perhaps the
old man believes I’ve overstayed my welcome and he thinks it’s time for fresh blood. After all, this crazed witch-man could not have acted alone in trying to kill me.
At that moment, Heinrich wished he were armed. Then with a quick move he could slash Rolf’s soft neck beneath his jolly white beard and be done with him. And before his madman friend had a chance to react, he could plunge the same blade into his crazed skull, perhaps pry it open to see what his madness really looked like.
Salvatore interrupted Heinrich’s thoughts. “They’re not eating,” he commented, quickly moving his hands around in a crazy, waving motion.
“What are you doing?” Heinrich asked, wanting to kill the man even more. Salvatore muttered a few more words under his breath, this time in a language Heinrich didn’t understand, then made a strange whistling noise.
The wolves stopped dead in their tracks, their growling and pacing ceasing immediately. Then, amazingly, the animals stood on their haunches, their tongues lolling out their mouths, their eyes fixed on Salvatore in subordinate stares.
Alarmed, Heinrich asked, “W-what have you done to my hounds?”
Salvatore continued his strange, high-pitched whistle, tapping the top of the cage and snapping his fingers. He pointed to the meat near the center of the cage. Immediately, the wolves got off their haunches, walked slowly to the pile of food, each choosing a different piece without conflict. Then each of them withdrew to a different spot and calmly began eating.
The wolves always fought over food, which Heinrich enjoyed watching. Survival of the fittest and all that. So seeing this totally unnatural behavior shook Heinrich to his core. Something was not right with this madman and his sorcerous ways.
Seeing Heinrich’s reaction, Rolf tried to explain, “Some benandanti are well-known wolf charmers, my lord.” He smiled. “I believe Salvatore clearly has the touch.”
Salvatore rapidly nodded. “The touch of the ancients. Yes, yes. The pull of the spirits.”
Heinrich scoffed. He’d had enough. Pulling his robe more tightly around his waist, as if to ward off some unknown force, he stormed away. As he climbed the stairs he could hear the wolves calmly tearing off and chewing their food.
No snarling, no growls, no fighting.
Which only made him suspect Rolf even more.
That man is clearly trying to get rid of me. But would he really try replacing me with such a lunatic as Salvatore? I must learn more about this witch-man.
Once up in his room again, Heinrich donned proper clothes, then set out with Felix in the carriage for a trip to Bedburg.
It was time to pay a visit to his favorite torturer.
“You’ve gone soft on me, Ulrich,” Heinrich told him in a low voice.
Scratching his nose, Ulrich shrugged. “I just don’t think there’s anything I could learn of this man. But if you wish to bring him to me, I will certainly interrogate him for you,” adding almost as an afterthought, “. . . my lord.”
“You’ve never heard of this . . . benandanti?”
Ulrich shook his head. “I am not a learned man.”
Heinrich groaned, then another thought struck him.
Could it be Ulrich plotting against me? Maybe they’re all working together.
His eyes moved past Ulrich to the little room behind him, not much larger than a jail cell. In the middle stood a table with a small book on it, a book that Heinrich knew was Ulrich’s personal ledger. Heinrich’s eyes narrowed.
Ulrich has had that ledger for as long as I can remember. He writes every death and execution in it, as well as the names of all suspected Protestants. As I’ve instructed him to do. If anyone were to get a hold of that book . . .
“And what has happened to the stonemason family I was warned about?” Heinrich asked Ulrich. “What were their names again?” though he remembered them quite well and was just testing the man’s memory.
Ulrich responded quickly, without checking his ledger. “William and Mary Edmond, and their son Wilhelm, my lord.”
Heinrich nodded slowly. “And?”
Ulrich looked away, touching the scar on his face. “They’ve managed to escape my reach, my lord. I don’t know how. Someone must have alerted them.”
Heinrich’s stomach twisted into a knot. This is exactly what he feared. Someone had gotten to Ulrich’s ledger.
Or perhaps Ulrich himself had allowed someone to see it. That is a reasonable explanation. Who else could warn these damned Protestants if not Ulrich?
But Heinrich knew he couldn’t let his suspicions be known. So he said nothing, instead just breathing in deeply.
“I apologize, my lord,” Ulrich said. “I’ve sent patrols from Tomas to look for them. They will be found.”
“Tomas said it wasn’t his jurisdiction to arrest people,” Heinrich replied, trying to mask his growing anger.
“That may be the case,” Ulrich answered. “But once they became fugitives, any lawman has jurisdiction. Tomas, as garrison commander, has the power of the law on his side, and I told him so. I don’t have the manpower for a search party, but Tomas does.”
Heinrich frowned. “I want that family found, Ulrich. We need to set an example, as you did at the Town Fair, before the people forget.”
“It will be done, my lord.” Ulrich bowed, hoping Heinrich was done.
But he wasn’t. “And even more than that family, I want the man responsible for warning them we were coming! Do you understand?”
“Of course, my lord,” Ulrich said. “He will be found.”
Yes, Ulrich could easily be the traitor. He has the means—the ledger, and he knows the people—especially the criminals—better than anyone!
But what is his motive?
Heinrich nodded to Ulrich, then left the jailhouse. The sun was setting. This trip to Bedburg had taken much longer than he’d intended, and, as sick as he felt, he was ready to return home. But as he sneezed, an idea popped into his head. Instead of heading for his carriage, he turned down the road leading to the garrison.
He’d speak with Tomas, find out how the search for the family was progressing. He’d also confirm if what Ulrich had told him was true—about Tomas sending out a search party to look for the fugitives. Because if Ulrich had lied about that, he would surely be capable of much worse.
Passing the base of the hill leading up to the church, his eyes instinctively glanced up in that direction. As he began to look away, he did a double-take.
There was Tomas, standing in front of the church, arms crossed, talking to a robed man.
Tomas seems to spend more time at that church than at the garrison.
Even worse, the man Tomas was talking to was none other than Bishop Balthasar.
Heinrich squinted up at the two. They continued talking, not noticing him.
Balthasar had already made his animosity toward Hugo clear the last time he visited House Charmagne. He’d been furious that Heinrich had chosen Hugo to oversee things during Heinrich’s trip to Cologne.
Perhaps the bishop not only hates Hugo, but me as well.
Heinrich thought back to that first time he’d led Balthasar—a Jesuit priest and vicar of Cologne at the time—to Bedburg. How he and Balthsasar had so strongly debated the existence of God.
Balthasar surely thinks he’s better than other men, as most priests do. Perhaps his entitlement encompasses the entirety of Bedburg. Maybe he would like to see me deposed so he could elect a more Godly man as lord of Bedburg. Perhaps even himself . . .
Heinrich’s eyes moved to Tomas.
And with the commander of the militia at his side, Balthasar would surely have the potential to accomplish such a thing. If these two are friends, what’s stopping them from arming the citizenry and creating a rebellion for their own cause? By nightfall, they could be at my doorstep, with soldiers and guns and swords.
And perhaps they’d use Ulrich to hang me.
Heinrich had seen enough. He moved away before Tomas or Balthasar could see him, and headed back to the sta
ble where Felix waited with the carriage.
And soon he’d be back within the safety of House Charmagne.
But how safe am I really?
And for how long?
He couldn’t sleep. Not because of nightmares. But rather because of how those nightmares now filled his waking world as well.
Covered in blankets, he sat in his straight-backed chair in his conference room, slowly tapping his fingers on the chair’s arms. Thinking, scheming, his mind racing.
He had called for the only man he still truly trusted. He needed his opinion. He smirked thinking how this man he trusted was barely a man at all.
And as he waited, he thought of all the men he wouldn’t call. Because he could no longer trust them.
Rolf, from my own household, jovial and endearing. The man who, as a former assassin, had taught me everything about killing and politics. Yet he could be plotting with Baron Ludwig, whom I’ve never trusted. Or perhaps with the witch-man, Salvatore, as his agent of chaos.
And Ulrich, my own torturer. A man I’ve trusted with my life, a man who’s always followed orders. Yet he has that ledger, the ultimate means of outing my secrets. He could be angry at his station in life, angry that he hasn’t seen more promotions. And seeking to destroy me.
And Tomas and Balthasar. One—the military man, my former bodyguard, my right-hand man in Trier. The other—a man of God, with a hunger for all things spiritual. Separated, they are not threats; Tomas is not cunning enough, Balthasar doesn’t have the support. But together . . . they could be my most fearsome foes. Tomas with his influence over the military; Balthasar who may wish to see Tomas in charge . . . a stray voice whispering treacherous thoughts in my former bodyguard’s ear . . .
