by Cory Barclay
“There seems to be a good amount of acreage here, Heinrich,” Josef commented. “I am pleased with this place. Where now are the other two villages?”
Heinrich nudged his head forward. “To the north, on the other side of Bedburg. They’re neighboring villages, each smaller than this one. But together, with their good soil and potential for hefty tithes, all three should produce you great wealth.”
Heinrich knew that the soil quality in this part of Germany was actually not that robust. Which was why oats, barley, rye, and potatoes were the premiere crops of the land. All were simple crops requiring only mediocre conditions at best. He presumed that Josef, being a successful estate mogul, knew this too but the baron said nothing.
They rode on from Kirdorf, skirting around the western border of Bedburg. Along the way, Baron Ludwig spoke up. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to see Bedburg.”
Heinrich narrowed his eyes and thrust his thumb in the town’s direction. “It’s right over there,” trying only slightly to hide his sarcasm.
Ludwig frowned. “I mean inside the city, Heinrich.”
Heinrich sighed. This was what he’d worried about—a rival lord spying on his land and people. “We can make greater speed here in the open countryside, Ludwig.”
Ludwig grumbled, probably taking offense at not being addressed by his proper title. “Are we in such a rush?” he asked.
Having no answer for that, Heinrich steered his horse toward the city. As he did, Ludwig added insult to injury. “I’ve heard you’ve had quite a Protestant problem here lately. I’d like to see it firsthand.”
They entered Bedburg through the western gate. The two guards at the gate saluted, stiffening a bit at the sight of so many lords. Passing by the guards, Heinrich gritted his teeth to mask his concern. He didn’t want Baron Ludwig to exploit his town by discovering its weaknesses. Hopefully Tomas had been successful in maintaining control over the Protestants and their sympathizers and all would be calm and quiet. No matter how much he disliked his riding guests, he certainly didn’t want to ride them into some sort of religious riot. Not only would that be embarrassing, it would also get back to Archbishop Ernst.
Heinrich’s incompetence.
Perhaps that is Ludwig’s plan. Using any perceived weakness in my city against me. No need to wage war on Bedburg if he can just get Archbishop Ernst to do it for him.
Such could cost me my lordship.
He grew angrier by the minute just thinking about Ludwig’s likely plan.
Fortunately for Heinrich, Bedburg seemed relatively serene. Apart from the usual beggars ambling up to the group, they saw no preachers espousing the words of Martin Luther or John Calvin, or rebels screaming out “tyrant” or “warmonger.”
Then Heinrich realized why. As he watched peasants duck away as they passed, and merchants quickly wheel their goods in the opposite direction, it hit him: they feared him. In fact, his presence truly terrified them.
Which made Heinrich smile.
Since becoming lord of Bedburg, he’d worked hard to achieve this goal. He understood well that the most efficient way to rule was through terror: forcing the masses into psychological submission. And now, riding through Bedburg for the first time in a long time, the success of his efforts overjoyed him. As the group rode through town, not a single man, woman, or child made eye contact with him.
Just to make sure, he slowed his horse, but the result was the same: no one returned his look. And anyone who accidentally did so immediately averted his or her eyes.
Heinrich inhaled deeply, breathing in the pungent scent of mud and horseshit. At any other time the smell would make him gag. But at this moment, watching his town yield unconditionally to his presence, the stink took on the sweet smell of success.
With an uncharacteristic smile, Heinrich turned to his guests. “Shall we now venture into the next village, my lords and lady?”
Ludwig mumbled something under his breath and, for the first time all day, Lucille spoke.
“The people here seem miserable.”
Josef just scoffed. “Yes, fine, let’s get going,” he answered Heinrich. “I’ve seen enough here.”
Rounding a bend in the road, they came to the poor district of town, near Bedburg’s church. A small gang was huddled together in the roadway. Heinrich figured them to be just more beggars waiting to harass the rich noblemen. But as Heinrich’s group drew closer, the beggars didn’t disperse. As Heinrich opened his mouth to shout them away, a voice from behind yelled “There he is!” and Heinrich’s blood ran cold.
They all turned to locate the source of the outcry but couldn’t. All they saw were several people milling about the buildings, but none appeared to be the speaker.
Then they heard another voice.
“It’s the bastard who killed the Jacobos!”
Heinrich’s eyes shot upward, to the vaulted roof of a nearby building. A man stood on the roof, shadowed by the slanted tiling. A makeshift bridge of wooden planks and crates connected one building to the next, and the next to the next, creating a ragged rooftop city.
“He dares show his face here!” the first voice yelled back. Now they could see someone appear from the top of a different roof with an object in his hand.
“This is my city, you devilish dog!” Heinrich shouted up to him. He felt his ears grow hot as he balled one hand into a fist and pointed the other at the man on the roof. “Get down from there this instant and show yourself!”
But Heinrich’s anger quickly turned to fear when he sensed something rushing toward him. Instinctively raising his arm, he felt a sharp pain jolt his shoulder.
A hand-sized rock fell to the ground beside Heinrich’s steed, causing the horse to neigh, buck once, then stop dead in its tracks. At the same moment, another man, on another rooftop, hurled a second stone at one of Heinrich’s guards. But at the last minute the guard knocked the projectile out of the air with his iron wristguard.
“Cowardly heathens!” Heinrich screamed, his injured arm now numb. Thrusting a finger up toward the roof, he yelled, “Get those men and bring them to me!”
Heinrich’s three guards jumped from their steeds and rushed down an alley, looking for a way up the building. Bursting into a house where an old woman began shrieking, they knocked her out of the way and found the stairs. Watching the scene unfold below him, one of the men on the roof scurried across a rickety platform, jumped to another roof, then vanished behind a tapestry of hanging clothes.
Heinrich seethed, clenching his horse’s mane with his good hand. Turning to the gang of beggars still in front of them, he yelled, “Move out of the damn way, fools!”
But instead of dispersing, the beggars began slowly walking toward Heinrich and his party, looking more like a single, ghostly apparition flowing their way. Hoods hid their faces as they menacingly approached the noblemen’s horses.
Heinrich’s steed, already anxious, whinnied and began backing up, its hooves clomping the ground as the other horses followed. While they retreated, Baran Josef whispered in a frightened tone, “What’s going on here, Lord Franz?” Tightening his grip on the reins, he scooted closer to Lady Lucille.
Heinrich’s mind raced. He’d been so confident in his superior position that he hadn’t considered an escape route. As their horses continued to retreat, nearing several buildings that would block their escape, Heinrich brought out his pistol, pointing it at the group.
“This is ridiculous, Heinrich!” Ludwig shouted, his voice mixed with rage and fear. “Control your people!”
The gun quivered in Heinrich’s hand. Closing one eye, he aimed at the approaching group—not at a particular target but at the shadowy heart of the mass of dark figures threatening him.
Then yelling came from above.
All eyes turned toward the rooftops where a guard was now chasing one of the men who’d thrown a rock. The two stumbled over planks and platforms, then Heinrich saw both of them bound over a rickety bridge connecting two buildin
gs. Meanwhile, the hooded gang continued toward Heinrich’s group. Then another shout came from above.
Heinrich didn’t know where to look.
Glancing up at the rooftop, he saw a figure trip and lose its balance. It was the man the guard had been chasing. For a moment the man’s foot caught in a roof tile giving the guard enough time to close in. The man put his arms up to fight, but the guard simply reached out and shoved the man forcefully. The heel of the man’s foot briefly hit something before the man tumbled backwards off the edge. Screaming in midair, he crashed to the ground directly in front of Heinrich, the top of his head hitting first before folding into his chest as his neck snapped loudly.
The crumbled body lay between the approaching group and Heinrich’s noblemen, momentarily freezing everyone in place. Which gave Heinrich time to knock back his matchlock and fire into the crowd, a cloud of smoke wafting up from the gun’s barrel. One of the hooded figures spun around, clutching his shoulder before falling to the ground.
Heinrich dug his heels into his horse and screamed, “Now!” his tone instantly triggering the animal’s flight instinct. The steed reared on its hind legs, lunged over the fallen body and barreled directly into and through the crowd. The rest of Heinrich’s party followed, trampling the man Heinrich had shot as the other hooded pursuers scattered to avoid being thrashed by the frenzied horses.
Once well past the carnage, Heinrich’s horses slowed to a canter, then a trot.
Huffing and puffing, Baron Josef sputtered, “In all my years, I’ve never seen such rebellion!” Beads of sweat rolled down his fat face while he tried to regain control of his reins.
Heinrich didn’t speak. His mind was still reeling at the thought of these haughty noblemen describing to Archbishop Ernst what they had just seen:
Heinrich has no control over his people!
He’s more scared of them than they of him!
Bedburg runs wild with cutthroats and insurgents!
When he finally turned to scan his entourage, he was stunned to see Ludwig peering back at him with a wicked smirk on his face. The man wasn’t even trying to hide his satisfaction at seeing Heinrich’s loss of control.
One man was dead—probably two—and Heinrich still had no idea who his attackers were. But that didn’t bother him. They were probably just Protestants anyway.
What did bother him was that look on Ludwig’s face.
Through gritted teeth Heinrich said, “I think we’ve seen enough for today. Let’s head back to House Charmagne.”
Baron Josef and his daughter nodded in agreement.
But Ludwig just smiled. “Nonsense, Heinrich. We still have two more villages to inspect. Lead the way, will you?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DIETER
The Erft River flowed north through the heart of Bedburg, then just past Castle Bedburg it meandered east, away from the city and into the nearby woods. It furnished water for the city’s wells and fish for its food supply. At its densest point, houses and commercial buildings lined both its banks.
Dieter was walking along the eastern shore of the river, in the same woods where Pastor Hanns Richter had baptized him years before. He finally came upon what he’d been looking for—an old, decrepit canoe, which obviously hadn’t seen use in a long time. When the Protestant forces led by Count Adolf had attacked Bedburg three years earlier, Dieter had remembered seeing many such small vessels floating down the river. It was the best way for messengers to reach other regiments and deliver their orders to Adolf’s army.
Though many other similar boats dotted the banks of the Erft, he only needed one, and this one—partially hidden beneath low-hanging branches of a large tree—suited his purposes just fine.
For a moment he thought of just getting into the boat and rowing away—leaving Bedburg behind so he could search for his wife. But he tossed that cowardly thought aside. He’d made commitments: he had a son who needed him, and he’d agreed to rescue the stonemason and his family.
It took the better part of an hour for Dieter to find, and then whittle down, two large branches into usable oars. Satisfied with his efforts, he set the oars inside the vessel, then dragged it to the water, pushing it down to test for leaks. He smiled when he saw no water bubble up from the bottom.
He pulled the boat back out of the water and positioned it on a grassy patch just up the shoreline. After camouflaging it with uprooted shrubs and tree branches, he rode his horse back through the woods to Bedburg’s eastern gate.
By the time he arrived in Bedburg, it was dark. And typical for the time of year, cold and breezy. After the strenuous work with the boat and oars, the muscles in his hands hurt, almost spasming as he clutched the reins of his horse.
Dismounting near the gate, he huddled in among a group of farmers returning to town to gain entrance without the guards noticing him. Just another weary peasant returning from a hard day of labor, heading for the brothels and taverns.
Which was exactly where he was headed. On his way to Cristoff’s tavern, he passed the stonemason family’s empty house and thought about them and the others—Martin, Ava, Peter, and Jerome—and wondered how they had all faired in his absence. His journey to speak with former archbishop Gebhard Truchsess in Bonn had taken five days and he hoped all was well back at the Griswold residence.
When he got to the tavern he paused out front to look around, more out of habit than suspicion. Everything appeared normal; no one seemed to be following him. Turning back around, he entered the establishment and was immediately hit with the familiar stench of stale sweat, sour ale, and overpowering humidity.
He gazed around. Cristoff was in his usual position behind the bar, tending to a few patrons, while the bar wenches hovered around tables crowded with the standard variety of rowdy travelers and workers. The night was just getting underway but, judging from the size of the crowd, Dieter figured it would be a profitable night for both Cristoff and his staff.
Rather than order a drink, he marched directly toward Aellin, whom he saw leaning over a table of men in the corner. With her dark hair flowing, and her bosom squeezed together to offer the men a tantalizing view, she was quite a sight. Dieter approached her from behind, resting his hand lightly on her shoulder. She immediately swatted it away, turning to glare at whomever had the nerve to touch her without permission.
“Get your hands off me,” she blurted before realizing it was Dieter. He stepped back, raising his hands in surrender.
Her scowl immediately disappeared as she grabbed Dieter and hugged him in a tight embrace. Standing on her tiptoes, she planted a long kiss on his cheek. His face turned almost as red as her lips.
“You’re the only one I’ll allow to interrupt me without getting my boot up your arse, priest,” she whispered in his ear. Then she turned to the men at the table. “These bastards would probably fancy that, in fact,” she added, grabbing Dieter by the hand and playfully pulling him away, sashaying toward an empty table in the opposite corner.
“Hey!” shouted one of the men she’d just left. “Where’re you going, beautiful?”
Aellin smirked over her shoulder and stuck out her tongue. “Give me a moment, big boy.” Then she leaned into Dieter. “You can’t be showing up here unannounced like this, priest.”
Dieter didn’t understand. “Excuse me?”
“There’s talk of you rescuing and harboring Protestant fugitives. Is it true?”
Dieter scratched his chin through his beard. “Does it matter?”
Aellin smiled. “I suppose not—the rumors alone are enough to get you in trouble. And me in trouble, too, don’t forget!”
Dieter nodded. “I apologize, Aellin. But I have urgent business.”
Either not hearing him or ignoring him, she stared off in the distance and said, “Even though that bastard did get a good scare today, I reckon.” She looked back at Dieter with a wicked smile.
“Today? What happened?”
“From what I heard, Heinrich was chaperoning
some of his lordling cronies around town.” She leaned in closer. “Actually, I helped set up a roadblock of sorts . . .” Suddenly her face contorted, her eyes glistening. “It got violent. We lost two good men.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Aellin waved her hand in front of her face, to make sure no one saw her emotional moment. “What was it you need to talk about?”
“I need a name. To find a man.”
Aellin waited. “Well?”
“Patric Clauson.”
Aellin paused for a moment, then broke into laughter. Leaning in, this time she kissed Dieter full on the mouth. Dieter’s throat went dry and his skin turned hot.
“W-what was that—”
“You are a handsome fool, Dieter Nicolaus. I’ll say that much truthfully—a fool of the best kind.”
The inn was near the tavern. Standing in front, Dieter shook his head. When he’d first heard that name, he should have guessed. That’s why Aellin had laughed. The place was just as he remembered it. He went inside. The old innkeeper stood behind the counter, at his usual spot, watching the hearthfire across the room as it flickered and roared.
Nearly a year ago, Dieter and Sybil had entrusted this man with their young son so they could sneak underneath the tunnels for what he now wished they’d never uncovered.
When he and Sybil eventually returned for their child, Gustav Koehler and his brutes had been waiting for them. A horrible confrontation ensued, outside the very doors of this inn, with many men and women—including Mia, Rowaine’s lover—ending up dead.
