by Cory Barclay
Wilhelm nodded without looking up. “Father is missing. He helped us escape, but I worry he didn’t make it out alive, though I don’t have the heart to tell mother that. It would crush her. I just pray for the best.”
“You’re a good son,” said Sybil, causing Wilhelm to finally turn to her. “When you’re in a foreign place like this, it’s definitely best to keep hope alive. If you’re a worshiper, direct your questions to God.”
Sybil had her own feelings about God but thought it best to keep them to herself. It would do no good to dishearten this nice young man.
“I appreciate that, Frau Sybil,” Wilhelm said, “and I believe our rescuer would agree with you. Prayer is best in situations such as these.” He smiled sadly. “Who knows, my father could come walking down that road any day now.”
Sybil nodded. “Yes, don’t lose hope. It could just be that it takes your father longer to get here than it did you and your mother.”
“Aye,” Wilhelm agreed, “thanks to meeting Daxton, Georg, and Rowaine in Amsterdam, we were lucky to get here so quickly.” Wilhelm smiled, as if thinking back to when he and his mother had first met their rescuers. “We’d been instructed by our original rescuer to seek a ship to Norfolk, from Amsterdam, then go to a shire lorded by a reeve named Clarence Bailey. But at first, no one knew where that was . . . until ‘the Pale Diviner’ was mentioned.”
Sybil’s face reddened, blushing at the speed with which her new reputation had apparently circulated. Changing the subject, she asked, “You sought refuge here from persecution, you’ve said?”
Wilhelm nodded. “The Lion’s Pride happened to be at the right place at the right time.”
As it had turned out, Daxton, Georg, and Rowaine had just finished transporting their first batch of goods belonging to Reeve Bailey to Amsterdam when they’d run into Wilhelm, Mary, and Salvatore. From there, the textile shipment would continue down the waterways to Germany and ultimately to Cologne. The archbishop in Cologne would never know that his best clothing shipments had come illegally from England.
And since Wilhelm, Mary, and Salvatore were seeking passage from Amsterdam to the same harbor in England that the Lion’s Pride crew was headed, it had seemed like divine intervention when they’d crossed paths. Especially when it turned out that, not only were they all headed for the same port, but for the very same shire as well.
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Sybil said. “So keep your prayers alive, just like I’m sure your father is doing right now.”
Wilhelm smiled. “It certainly is what our liberator would have sought from us—to keep praying. He was a priest, after all.”
Sybil nodded slowly, then furrowed her brow. “The man who originally rescued you was a priest?”
Wilhelm grinned. “Well, a former priest, I suppose. But everyone still called him that and treated him as one. I think once you’ve lived that life, you never truly escape it.”
Sybil was quiet for a moment. Then, as she watched Wilhelm stir his dye, her adrenaline began to pump. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Where was it you said you escaped from, Wilhelm, before arriving in Amsterdam? Your hometown?”
“A place called Bedburg, madam. A small city in Germany.”
It couldn’t be him.
With her heart racing, she said, “And the man who rescued you was a priest . . .”
Wilhelm nodded, focusing back on his bucket. “Yes, madam, a one-armed priest,” he said nonchalantly.
One arm? Then clearly it could not have been my two-armed husband.
But she asked the question anyway. “What was this one-armed priest’s name, Wilhelm? The one who rescued you.”
“Well, I never learned his surname. But his first name was Dieter.” He looked up. “Are you all right, Sybil? You look ill.”
It took several minutes to regain her composure. After lying to Wilhelm that she was fine, she stood up and walked around the grass, gazing out at the countryside, trying to understand how the impossible could be possible. Finally, she sat back down and quietly watched Wilhelm work for a while.
After a time, she asked, “I hope you don’t take this badly, Wilhelm . . . but what was this man trying to accomplish by saving you?”
Wilhelm scratched his neck, then shrugged. “I’m not sure. I suppose he was simply a good man. We weren’t the first people he’d rescued. He is somewhat of a legendary figure in Bedburg, my lady.”
With a bemused look, Sybil chuckled. Hearing all this now—after so long hearing nothing, after thinking her husband dead—it was all so difficult to process.
Several minutes passed, then Sybil spoke in almost a whisper. “Legendary? How so, Wilhelm? Please, tell me everything.”
Wilhelm stopped working and looked at her carefully. Clearly, there was more to her questions than simple curiosity. He thought for a moment exactly how to answer her. Finally, he said, “There’s a nasty uprising happening in my homeland, I’m afraid. One side calls it a rebellion, the other a revolution. Dieter is one of the leaders of that revolution.”
He always wanted a calling. Perhaps this is God’s answer to his cries!
Wilhelm tilted his head. “Your demeanor has changed, my lady, if you don’t mind my saying. Why are you so curious about this priest?”
Sybil sighed. “Because, Wilhelm, Dieter Nicolaus is my husband. “And thank you,” she added, leaning over and planting a big wet kiss on his cheek before hurrying off.
Rowaine was equally ecstatic hearing the news about Dieter.
Lying in bed, nursing her sore back, she jubilantly sat up. “If he’s in danger, we must rescue him!”
“I agree. We must!” Sybil said, turning to Daxton who’d been eavesdropping in the doorway. “How quickly can we set sail on the Pride?”
Daxton scratched his favorite spot on his bald head. “Er, well, Georg is with the ship in King’s Lynn, preparing it for their next voyage.”
Rowaine nodded. “Father told me he had a huge shipment to arrange, headed for the same place.”
“Amsterdam?” Sybil asked.
Smiling, Rowaine nodded. “And Germany beyond. But if we hurry, I’m sure we could get to King’s Lynn before he sends it off.”
Sybil’s mind was still reeling, thinking of seeing Dieter again. “I can be ready by nightfall,” she said, unconsciously clenching and relaxing her fists. “I have little to pack.”
“We could make it there within a day if we hurry,” Daxton said. “Perhaps we can catch Georg before he sends the ship off.”
“We?” Sybil asked. She and Rowaine were both staring at him.
“Of course,” Daxton replied. “Obviously I’m going with you. The rough seas are no place for an excitable, beautiful wom—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Rowaine barked, holding up her hand. Daxton knew enough to heed her warning. Rising from her bed, Rowaine put a hand on Sybil’s shoulder. “I’m joining you as well.”
Sybil smiled sadly. “It will be dangerous . . .”
“More dangerous if you go alone,” Daxton countered. “And besides, even though I passed off the Pride to Georg for our work in King’s Lynn, that was just temporary. I’m still her captain. And you won’t be sailing anywhere without me!”
“Nor me,” Rowaine added.
Daxton spoke with finality. “I can use this opportunity to gather up Darlene and Abigail, my wife and daughter. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen them. I’d like to bring them here so we may settle in Strangers Shire.”
“And I,” Rowaine said, her eyes growing dark, “still wish to serve justice to my mother’s killer. And now I can resume that quest, with my legs working again.”
Sybil smiled. How could she deny her friends? Especially when their reasoning was so sound? Besides, it was naïve to believe she could rescue Dieter by herself, knowing nothing of the sea or the rivers leading to Bedburg. Then her face grew serious.
“Wilhelm tells me the Protestants are rising up,” she said.
�
��As they always will, so long as there are any of them left alive,” Daxton added.
Rowaine looked out the room’s single window. “We’d better get ready. We’ve only an hour or so of daylight left.”
So the trio set to work packing their things for their trip to King’s Lynn and, eventually, on to Amsterdam and Germany.
And hopefully their final voyage across the North Sea.
As it turned out, everyone seemed to want to join Sybil on her adventure—despite the dangers. And those dangers would indeed be great:
First would be the trip up to King’s Lynn to the Lion’s Pride. Then, the sail across the North Sea to Amsterdam. And finally, navigating through the rivers that snaked through Germany to eventually extract Dieter from a war-torn city.
Yet no one was deterred, each having his or her own agenda:
Daxton wanted to captain his ship again, and retrieve his wife and daughter.
Rowaine sought vengeance against her mother’s killer, as well as a chance to polish up her navigational skills.
Wilhelm and Mary wanted to rescue their father and husband, William—and if he wasn’t in Bedburg, at least find out where he might be. Plus, they felt a strong kinship and indebtedness to Dieter for all he’d done for them.
And then there was Salvatore, who had found Strangers Shire entirely too dull, and also wished to follow Sybil to learn more of the Pale Diviner’s ways—while staying far away from Heinrich Franz.
And lastly there was Corvin Carradine, who simply thought the adventure sounded exciting. He likely maintained hopeful thoughts of seducing Sybil along the way.
Early next morning, after riding hard all night, when the seven of them arrived at Georg’s dark warehouse in King’s Lynn, he was rolling barrels and placing them onto a cart.
“Perfect,” he said, once the situation was explained to him. “Then I’m going too.” Within minutes he’d found a local friend who gladly accepted his offer to lease his position as the Hanseatic League’s port representative, pending his eventual return.
As the group stood in the warehouse, ready to load the ship, Georg slapped the side of one of the barrels. “I have plenty of these filled with sugar, headed for Cologne. Apparently it’s another commodity the archbishop would rather buy in secret—for cheap—from rivals across the sea.”
When the barrels were loaded onto the Pride, the group was shocked to discover that the hold was already crammed with caskets and chests loaded with arquebuses, pistols, spears, and armor.
“Where is all this headed?” Corvin asked, gesturing to the weapons.
Daxton bent down to inspect one of the tags. “Let’s see . . . Bergheim, Germany.”
“That’s Bedburg’s neighbor,” Sybil said.
“Seems someone is expecting a war,” Rowaine said.
“I suppose we all should be expecting one,” Daxton said with a smirk, cracking his knuckles.
An hour later, with the sun just emerging above the horizon, waiting to spring another day, the crew of eight set sail out of King’s Lynn, toward their fate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SYBIL
Heinrich sat at the window, staring out into the darkness. He was alone in a small cabinet room in Cologne Cathedral that overlooked the city. Below him, dots of flickering orange light lit the foggy streets in random places, like faraway stars twinkling.
He’d never much cared for the bustling metropolis, but this was where the power was. Appeasing the city’s masters was the only way for him to get what he wanted.
And what were his wants?
Originally, to placate and impress Archbishop Ernst, one of the most powerful and influential men in the entire Empire.
But once Heinrich was given his lordship of Bedburg, his greed and ambition swelled, becoming unstoppable like lava flowing down a volcano. He realized that he was destined for much more than just Bedburg. He needed to grow his lordship, conquer the surrounding cities, and rise in the ranks of nobility.
Yes, rise to the ranks of that same nobility he’d always despised. But he rationalized that it was different in his case because, unlike the noblemen he hated, he had earned his authority—on his merits, not through birthright.
But right at that moment, staring off into the vast expanse of the sleeping city, his wants felt different. As did his emotions.
He’d never known his father, and his mother and brother had both died when he was young—it was irrelevant to him that he may have been the cause of both deaths; all that mattered was how lonely he’d been for so much of his early life. Originally, that void had been filled by Odela Grendel, all those years ago when she took him in after his mother was burned at the stake.
But ever since then—maybe because of the family he never had, maybe because of his fondness for power, or maybe a little of both—he realized that someone else had filled that void. A man. A man he cared for dearly.
Ernst.
And he also knew it was far more than just caring. Far more than respect and gratitude for all he’d done for him. No, that tug at his heart, that ache in his soul, was something different. Something much stronger.
Love.
And even if that love wasn’t reciprocated, it still burned with such passion that he knew he must defend the man at all costs.
For it had been Heinrich’s blunders and violent impulses that had caused the archbishop to now face dethroning. This great man—who had fought a war to earn his high position in the Counter-Reformation, who was an unparalleled champion of the Catholic cause in Germany, who had fought his entire life against the teachings of Martin Luther and John Calvin, who had given Heinrich everything, and yes, who had turned Heinrich into a monstrous killer—this great man was now in jeopardy of losing everything because of Heinrich.
Which left Heinrich no choice. He had to ensure that Ernst’s power was restored. That his name was returned to its rightful place of glory.
This was more than a mere assignment or obligation.
This was his responsibility. His reason for being.
To seat Ernst back on his throne. To return him to his proper place of respect.
For now, and for all of history.
But he didn’t know how.
Then, as his eyes swept across the sleeping city before him, he recalled the last words Ernst had spoken to him.
Prove it.
He’d challenged Heinrich to prove that Ludwig von Bergheim and Josef von Erftstadt had in fact been plotting against Bedburg before their deaths.
But could he? And was that even true? The two barons could have been totally innocent, never plotting against his lordship or his city.
Could my thoughts have been delusional? Could my illusions of grandeur have torn me asunder, turned me paranoid, made me do terrible things, all because of my lust for power?
Turning away from the window, his gut told him he’d been right. Those men had been enemies. He just knew it.
But how could he prove it?
On the desk next to him sat a stack of books. His eyes scanned the titles—a treatise on war, another on politics, another translating the Protestant Bible—apparent favorites of Ernst that he read at his leisure. But the book on top was one Heinrich had brought with him from Bedburg on a whim. It was the ledger from Ludwig Koehler’s scribe and assistant, Hedda. The one he’d confiscated after slaying her lord.
Suddenly he had an idea. He took the ledger from the stack and, sitting down at the desk, opened it. He moved a small candle burning in a dish closer, so he could read more clearly, and began poring over the pages of the book. Some contained numbers and columns and graphs he had no interest in. But others were filled with conversations Hedda had transcribed between Ludwig and the people he did business with.
He began to read the transcriptions. Scooting his chair in closer, he lost track of time. Before he knew it, dawn was approaching.
Leaning back in his chair he yawned and rubbed his eyes. But just as he was about to close the ledger, a singl
e word on the opened page caught his eye.
Mord.
Bubbling anger rose as Heinrich’s jaw clenched. He’d seen and heard that word many times since becoming lord of Bedburg. It was an alias, a pseudonym, of an unknown bastard trying to save the Protestants and other rebels from their doomed fate. It had been Ulrich who had first brought the name to his attention, on notes apparently written by the rogue.
In Heinrich’s efforts to shape his control over the citizens of Bedburg, he’d devised numerous strategies for rooting out non-Catholics. Since his time before becoming the lord of Bedburg, back when he played the role of Chief Inquisitor Adalbert in Trier, Heinrich had acquired a knack for learning secrets circulating his town. And under the authority of Archbishop Ernst, he’d mastered that art, becoming a vicious inquisitor in his own right, in his efforts to help keep his city a Catholic majority.
And that required names. Names of those to be imprisoned or executed, brought to him in several ways: in hushed tones from concerned Catholics; through confessions with Bishop Balthasar; from backstabbing landowners willing to give up their neighbors in exchange for their land; and from tavern-dwellers and alleyway rumormongers.
But someone—this Mord—had been thwarting those efforts. And to Heinrich’s infuriation, this person was apparently a better schemer than he was, having somehow created a system which figured out in advance who Heinrich would brand as traitor, witch, or Protestant. As a result, too many insurgents were managing to escape the city without facing their deserved punishment.
So Heinrich was very interested in this Mord person.
And by God, Baron Ludwig was actually having a conversation with this bastard!
He continued reading the transcript of that conversation:
Mord – Give me what I want and your city will be safe.
L – What guarantees do I have of your success? It’s my neck in a noose if you fail . . .
M – My superior will reward you handsomely. You don’t even have to take part in the battle.
