Of Witches and Werewolves Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  Hugo entered the room. “Are you all right, my lord? You don’t look well.”

  Heinrich could only imagine how he must look. He certainly knew how he felt—heart beating irregularly, face soaked in perspiration, anxiety over all these potential traitors eating away at him.

  “I’m fine,” he lied, waving for Hugo to come closer.

  Hugo stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back, which gave Heinrich a sense of pride over the young man’s progress.

  After a long moment of silence, Hugo finally said, “You called, my lord?”

  Heinrich nodded. “I wish you to send a message to Bergheim—by way of Felix, so that you may stay here close by my side.”

  “Of course, my lord. What should the message say?”

  “Tell the barons Ludwig and Josef, and Lady Lucille Engel, that they are cordially invited to House Charmagne for a dinner feast, in celebration of our marriage agreement. Tell them that I wish to have the marriage settled as soon as possible with the ceremony here.”

  Perhaps new alliances will shore up my strength.

  Hugo smiled brightly. “Very good, my lord. Is there anything else?”

  Heinrich nodded. “I’d like you to extend invitations to Ulrich, Tomas Reiner, dear Rolf Anders, and Bishop Balthasar Schreib. Ask the bishop if he will administer the service.”

  He stroked his chin and leaned forward. “And now, my boy, tell me what you think of that crazed benandanti, Salvatore, will you?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DIETER

  Like many German cities, Bonn was settled by the Romans. One of the oldest cities in Germany, it was nestled between the Cologne lowlands and the thick-wooded, mountainous region of Eifel. Traveling southeast from the Griswold house in Bedburg, it took Dieter nearly two days to reach it.

  The trip had been arranged by Jerome, the surgeon. Being less-recognizable in Bedburg than Dieter, he’d rented a small palfrey at the stables for Dieter’s journey.

  It was Dieter’s first trip alone from Bedburg. In the past, Sybil had always accompanied him, whether from Bedburg to Amsterdam—to flee persecution—or from England across the North Sea—after being captured by Gustav Koehler and rescued by Rowaine Donnelly.

  Dieter arrived in Bonn on his docile steed in the early morning hours of a cold autumn morning. As he passed through the city’s medieval wall, his first impression was how subdued things were. Along the roadways people kept to themselves, their heads bent low.

  The reason Dieter had come to Bonn was of course to seek the help of Gebhard Truchsess. With Dieter’s ever-growing clan of associates and Protestant sympathizers back in Bedburg, he just couldn’t continue his plan without some outside support. Gebhard had been the former archbishop of Cologne until he’d converted to Protestantism and the Cologne War had erupted. So there was no love lost between him and the current Catholic leader in Cologne, Archbishop Ernst.

  But now came the most important part of Dieter’s trip—finding Gebhard Truchsess, who he did not personally know, and asking for his help.

  Dieter had no idea Bonn had such a stronghold of Protestants. Yet there was no other explanation for why Gebhard would be here if not to raise support or seek out like-minded Protestant leaders. Dieter would have thought that, being so close to Cologne, Bonn would have been one of the first cities Ernst would have taken over to force it back to Catholicism. In fact, were Ernst to find out Gebhard was a mere twenty miles from Cologne, Dieter had no doubt that Gebhard would be quickly imprisoned on some trumped-up charges and never heard from again.

  So the fact that this town of Bonn was so hushed, where the residents didn’t seem to worry about other people’s business, was—at least to Dieter—a very good thing for Gebhard’s continued well-being. It meant that, assuming he was here, it was unlikely Ernst would discover him.

  Dieter asked for directions to Bonn Minster. It was the premiere church in Bonn, built some four hundred years earlier, making it one of Germany’s oldest holy places. When Dieter arrived, the immense cathedral was an awesome site to behold. The massive gray structure was an homage to Saint Martin, with a huge, blue-roofed spire that rose to the heavens.

  Dieter hesitated for a moment before going inside, recognizing full well the symbolism in play here—that he was a Protestant sympathizer stepping foot in an iconic Catholic church. Also, that he wasn’t here to pray, but rather to seek information.

  Stepping through the massive doors, the interior was busy with activity—parishioners giving prayer in the nave, paying respects to the sacred ground, kneeling before altars and statues. Dieter sat down in a pew surrounded by worshippers speaking in low tones. He hoped that, although unlikely, maybe he’d overhear a conversation about Gebhard’s whereabouts.

  He soon realized he’d have no such luck. Not only could he barely hear others’ conversations, he felt guilty even trying. So he stood up from the pew, walked to the aisle and crossed himself in front of Saint Martin, then left.

  Leading his palfrey by the reins, he made his way to the central marketplace. As he passed a group of merchants setting up their wares for the morning, his eyes caught something highly irregular. Near a small, nondescript building off in the corner, about ten horses were huddled together, big and imposing, many in armored barding and dressage with red crosses and suns displayed on their hindquarters.

  Warhorses.

  Dieter walked over to them. Two men-at-arms stood stoically nearby, guarding the entrance to the building, their hands on spears.

  “Excuse me, my lord,” Dieter said meekly. He asked, “What is this building?” while pointing to the structure behind them.

  Staring straight ahead without the slightest glance toward Dieter, the guard curtly replied, “None of your business, priest. Be on your way.”

  Dieter wasn’t dressed in priest’s robes and he certainly didn’t otherwise look like one. “You must mistake me for someone else, my lord,” he replied. “I am a friend of Martin Luther.”

  The guard frowned, tilting the spear toward Dieter. “I said be away with you!”

  Dieter stepped back. Though not easily deterred, he also wasn’t foolhardy. He walked back toward the marketplace.

  After milling around in the shadows for almost an hour, keeping a watchful eye on the guards by the building, he noticed a merchant carry a pan of freshly baked bread to the house. The merchant spoke briefly with the guards, who then allowed him to proceed into the house.

  Despite hunger pangs now actively distracting him, Dieter was afraid he’d miss something should he take the time to buy food from one of the merchants, so he continued to keep watch from the shadows for the better part of another hour until the guards by the structure finally changed shifts.

  Both guards retreated into the house and the spear-wielding one who had reprimanded him was replaced by a younger guard. When Dieter noticed more servants bringing food and gifts up to the house, he got an idea. He walked over to a wine-seller in a nearby booth and, with the precious little money he’d brought, bought a clay flask of wine. Then, donning his hood, he walked back to the new guards, joining the line of people bringing their wares to the house. When his turn came, he said to the guard, “I bring wine from my vineyards near Bedburg, my lord. I hope His Grace will take favor in it.”

  The guard narrowed his eyes, but didn’t deny the presence of a holy man in the house. “Take a sip of your wine,” he demanded.

  “Pardon?”

  The guard rolled his wrist at Dieter. “Go on. Show me that you don’t bring poison.”

  Dieter uncapped the flask and drank a small sip, sloshing it around his mouth for a time before swallowing. For several minutes the guard stood there patiently watching Dieter. When he was convinced there was no sign of Dieter’s impending death, he motioned him through.

  Dieter smiled as he stepped into the doorway, still wondering what the small house was. He followed a line of other peasants and merchants into a wide room where four men were seated at a table. At t
he head sat a tall, gangly gentleman with short-cropped hair and a small mustache, dressed not like a holy man but more like a nobleman or baron. As the man accepted each person’s offering, he nonchalantly blessed him or her with the sign of the cross as the train of offerors cycled through the room.

  When it was Dieter’s turn, he placed the wine-flask on the table. “From Bedburg, Your Grace,” Dieter told him, “where we are in desperate need of your aid.”

  The tall man paid him no mind, blankly blessing him while chatting absently with the others at the table.

  No response. No recognition.

  This journey has been pointless.

  As the next man in line pushed and shoved, Dieter was forced to walk off, allowing the next man to present his offering. Then the tall man at the table suddenly quieted the crowd, holding up his hand and demanding silence. He pointed to Dieter. “You there.”

  Dieter, now close to the door, turned around, realizing the man was addressing him.

  “You’re from Bedburg, you say?”

  Dieter nodded vigorously.

  “I remember the fighting at Bedburg, three years back, when Ferdinand of Bavaria came and routed my forces commanded by Count Adolf. I was ashamed I could not make it to the battlegrounds. Were you there?”

  Dieter nodded again. “It was a bloody battle, Your Grace. Many great men were lost that day.”

  The man asked, “What is your name, my son?”

  Dieter walked back closer to the table, his heart beating faster. “Dieter Nicolaus, Your Grace. I am a friend to Martin Luther and a friend to Hanns Richter.”

  A glint shone in the nobleman’s eye. He stood and held out his hand for Dieter. Rather than shake it, Dieter knelt then kissed the man’s knuckle.

  “Do you know who I am?” the man asked.

  “I believe you’re Gebhard Truchsess von Waldburg, Your Grace. Former archbishop of Cologne, now bishop of Strasbourg, France.”

  The man smiled fondly. “Then you’ll know that Hanns Richter was a great friend and ally of mine, too.”

  Dieter tilted his head. “Was he?”

  Gebhard chuckled. “I sent him to Bedburg to disrupt the corrupt teachings going on there.”

  Dieter smiled. “Well, he succeeded. He nearly brought the city to its knees. He also baptized me in the cleansing waters.”

  Gebhard nodded, his face taking on a serious tone. “Why are you here, my brother?”

  Dieter wanted to ask the bishop the same question. “Bedburg is again brought to its knees, Your Grace. Only this time it is from a tyrannical secular ruler, rather than from a lost brother.”

  “I wish I could help, my friend. But alas, my forces are spread thin.”

  Dieter bowed his head. He didn’t know what else to say. Then he realized this was possibly his only chance to ask the man directly: “Why are you here, Your Grace, if you don’t mind my asking? Surely Archbishop Ernst would—”

  Gebhard held up his palm. “Yes, I’ve heard that from my advisors. Please, Herr Nicolaus, not from you as well.” He cleared his throat. “I am here on campaign, to raise a new army. I have just been elected bishop in Strasbourg. Rather than retire, as I had originally planned, my new position has reinvigorated me to fight for the Lord. I am speaking with my peers and allies”—he motioned to the other three men at the table—“and making sure I still have some.”

  “You have many in Bedburg, Your Grace,” Dieter said, “but they are oppressed and hunted like beasts. Just the other day two Protestant sympathizers were hanged without trial in the town square. Lord Heinrich Franz shows no mercy for our ilk.”

  Gebhard frowned, lines forming down his cheeks. “I only wish I had the support in Bedburg that I do here in Bonn. But I’m afraid that city is already lost to me. I cannot help you.”

  The air seemed to escape Dieter’s lungs. So that was it, then. Other than meeting a wise and holy man, this journey had been in vain. Dejected, he lowered his head.

  Gebhard gently placed his hand on Dieter’s shoulder. “I can see your distress, Dieter Nicolaus. And your disappointment. Clearly, you love your people.”

  Dieter nodded.

  “And what is it you’re doing for your oppressed brothers and sisters?”

  “Trying to smuggle them out of the city, Your Grace, before they’re all caught and murdered.”

  Gebhard sighed. “A noble cause, brother. And one I wish I could help with. Perhaps once my army is raised, and I can properly battle the Pretender Ernst, I could come to Bedburg’s rescue. But until then, I can only offer you a name.”

  Dieter’s ears perked. He looked into Gebhard’s solemn eyes. “A name, Your Grace?”

  The man nodded. “I have two men in Bedburg, working covertly. I cannot give you the name of one, he is too entrenched. But the other has always been a great help to my cause, having served me well for years, in secret of course.”

  Dieter waited.

  Gebhard continued. “During my lost war against Ernst, this man provided much pertinent information. If you like, I can send you to him.”

  Dieter’s eyes sparkled. “Yes! That would be most advantageous, Your Grace! Who is he?”

  “His name is Patric Clauson. May God bless your endeavor to find him, and may He also bless your most worthy cause.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HUGO

  Hugo could see the changes in Heinrich—his hyper-edginess, the wild look in his eyes, his growing paranoia. He suspected it was his master’s illness causing these symptoms. Heinrich had been feverish for days now and Hugo wondered if the man was going mad.

  He only hoped that Heinrich’s paranoia wouldn’t extend to him. Hugo had always been completely loyal to Heinrich and certainly didn’t deserve suspicion. But more importantly, Hugo was well aware of the extreme measures Heinrich was capable of for those he no longer trusted.

  When Heinrich had asked Hugo what he thought of their newest “houseguest”—who’d basically become a prisoner in House Charmagne—Hugo had said, truthfully, that he thought Salvatore was strange but not malevolent. Hugo honestly believed the man was sincere in his desire to help Heinrich with his nightmares. He just thought his potion was ill-conceived—and likely responsible for Heinrich’s physical and mental deterioration.

  Heinrich, however, had dismissed Hugo’s opinion of Salvatore, implying that Hugo’s belief that the “witch-man”—as Heinrich often referred to him—wasn’t intentionally trying to harm him was simply naïve. Hugo had silently fumed about that. To Hugo, such a casual dismissal of his opinion was like an insolent parent patting his child on the head before telling him to “run along and play.”

  The morning after Heinrich had spoken to him about Salvatore, Hugo prepared for his trip to Bedburg. His instructions were to personally invite Tomas, Ulrich, and Bishop Balthasar to join the wedding feast Heinrich had planned.

  Before leaving, he and Rolf had breakfast at the dining table.

  For several minutes the two ate in silence. Then Rolf said, “Heinrich asked you about Salvatore, I presume?”

  Hugo nodded, stabbing at his eggs and watching the yolks leak out.

  “What did he want to know, specifically, my boy?”

  Hugo narrowed his eyes at the old man.

  Why does he care? Is everyone becoming paranoid in this house?

  “He thinks Salvatore tried to kill him with that potion,” Hugo answered.

  Rolf chuckled. “He told me the same. What do you think?”

  Hugo took several more bites of food, then looked up. “About what?”

  “Do you think Salvatore tried to kill Heinrich?”

  Hugo put down his fork. “Well . . . my lord seems to be getting better now. Somewhat. If Salvatore were really the evil witch-doctor Heinrich claims him to be, I’m sure he’d have a better poison to use.”

  Rolf smiled. “You are wise beyond your years, my boy.”

  “I think Lord Heinrich is just being paranoid.”

  “And why do you think that is?
”

  Hugo thought for a moment. “I’m not sure.” He began eating again, then stopped. “I suppose one can be justifiably paranoid, no?”

  “Meaning what?” asked Rolf.

  “Meaning he might have good reason to be suspicious.”

  Rolf shrugged. “Perhaps he believes his lordship is in jeopardy. He’s done so much to please Archbishop Ernst—punishing the Protestants, this marriage to Lucille Engel—that he hasn’t thought much about his own people. Perhaps the citizens of Bedburg are getting angry with him about that.”

  “It’s not the first time people would be angry with Heinrich Franz,” Hugo added.

  “True, my boy.” Then Rolf’s smile disappeared. Leaning forward on the table, he put his hands together. “He’s done many unforgivable deeds . . .” His words trailed off, his eyes turned sad. Hugo could tell the old man was fond of Heinrich—yet conflicted. He’d been helping Heinrich since Heinrich wasn’t much older than Hugo was now.

  “Heinrich turned into something I didn’t expect,” Rolf said in a soft voice.

  When he didn’t continue, Hugo prompted him. “Into what?”

  Rolf thought for a while, pulling on his white beard. Looking deeply into Hugo’s eyes, he said, “A fearmonger.”

  Hugo’s nostrils flared. He leaned back in his chair.

  “I suppose he learned that from me,” Rolf confessed. “He plays on the consternation of others to get what he wants. He molds people’s terror to suit his own needs. He’s a master manipulator—as I was once. So I suppose I shouldn’t be terribly surprised. No doubt, it’s taken him to great heights. He knows how to play the chessboard well.”

  Rolf’s words reminded Hugo of his own past. He’d started out an innocent boy, wide-eyed and believing. Then his father died and his sister left him. He’d grown up quickly after that, placing his trust in the wrong people: Severin, Karstan, Ava, Ulrich, Tomas. He’d watched the massacre in the mountains near Trier, where his new, dear friend Klemens had been slaughtered before his eyes. Which had forged a rage inside him he hadn’t known was possible, ultimately leading him to his own murderous ways—first killing Severin, a long-time acquaintance he’d never trusted; then progressing on to help Tomas and Heinrich kill many others in Trier under the guise of a witch-hunt and inquisition. Looking back, he realized that that first killing of Severin, instead of evoking remorse, had only served to reinforce his confidence, giving him a twisted sense of satisfaction knowing he was capable of such violence.