by Cory Barclay
Looking over Hugo’s shoulder, on the shelf next to the bed, he saw a shape that sucked the fury from his soul. He looked back at Hugo, confused.
“W-where did you get that?” he muttered, eyeing the toy on the shelf.
A doll, carved from wood, yellow and brown, with little black dots for eyes.
A horse.
Hugo spun around, confused. “That doll?”
Heinrich nodded numbly. The arm holding the dagger dropped to his side. Hugo reached over the bed and took the wooden horse. With a faint smile, he said, “My sister carved it for me when I was a babe . . . It’s the only innocent memory I have of her.”
Memories rushed back to Heinrich, his past, shadows he’d tried to obliterate . . .
His older brother, Oscar. Standing on the side of the riverbank. Watching him climb the slippery rocks—balancing like a court jester.
“Please, don’t tell her, Oscar!” little eight-year-old Heinrich had cried after being exposed in his mother’s gown. “What do you want?”
“You know what I want!” Oscar had said.
What Oscar had wanted that day was a toy that Heinrich’s father—not Hugo’s sister—had carved for him. The only memory Heinrich had of his father, a man he’d never known.
A wooden horse. With little black dots for eyes.
Heinrich had always kept it with him, wherever he went.
Until he met Odela Grendel, the woman who had stolen his heart. He’d impregnated her, a feat he thought impossible at the time due to Odela’s advanced age. And when the baby was born and Odela had disappeared with the infant, so too had Heinrich’s childhood doll . . .
The same horse that Hugo now had in his hand.
Dieter was now standing between him and Hugo, shouting something at him. But Heinrich’s face felt numb, his ears deaf. He stared over Dieter’s shoulder into Hugo’s scared eyes.
I treated him like my own.
Because . . . he is my own.
Dumbfounded, Heinrich turned and walked out of the room.
Shutting the door behind him, he locked it from the outside, leaving Dieter, Hugo, and Hedda inside.
Then like a ghost he walked through the hall and down the stairs.
At the bottom, Beauregard stood, waiting. The butler started to speak, but saw Heinrich’s expression and said nothing.
Then Heinrich heard it before Beauregard could tell him.
Voices. Shouting. Outside.
An angry mob.
Or an army.
Turning to the window, Beauregard whispered to Heinrich in a shaky voice.
“W-we have . . . visitors, my lord. Many, many visitors.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
DIETER
Dieter studied the confused look on Hugo’s face. The boy still had no idea what had just happened. Heinrich, poised to kill, suddenly retreating with an expression Hugo had never seen on the man.
It had taken Dieter but an instant to recognize that expression on Heinrich’s face—from anger and betrayal when first seeing the “Mord” note, to shock then confusion, and finally emotional overload when the truth finally dawned on him. The man went from bloodthirsty rage to paternal despair in seconds, all from something he’d seen on the shelf.
It had been a truth Dieter had known for a long while. But it was never his place to divulge it to Hugo. Not only was he not family, but he had also promised his wife that he’d never tell her brother the truth. In fact, he had been with Sybil when she’d first discovered her brother’s true bloodline.
But that truth had just now almost cost Hugo his life. And no secret was worth that.
Hugo was still holding the carved horse, seemingly in a daze. Dieter put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He was still trembling. And that’s what he looked like to Dieter at that moment—a terrified twelve-year-old boy, trying to make sense of what he’d just seen. Gone was the prideful arrogance he’d carried around with him under Heinrich’s wing.
Dieter looked down at the wooden horse in Hugo’s hand. “Tell me about the toy, Hugo.” His voice was calm and reassuring, his hand still on the boy’s shoulder.
“What just happened?” Hedda wondered aloud, baffled that Hugo was still alive and breathing. She swiveled from Hugo to Dieter, but both men’s eyes were locked on each other as if she weren’t there.
“Sybil made it for me when I was a child,” Hugo said quietly.
“Did you ever see your sister carving it? Or working on it?”
Narrowing his eyes, Hugo thought for a moment. Then he shook his head slowly. “Not that I remember, no.”
Dieter dipped his eyes away from Hugo and inhaled sharply. And as delicately as he could, he told him.
“Hugo. I . . . don’t think Sybil made that doll for you. I’m sorry to tell you this. I think she just wanted you to believe that. Trying be a good, protective sister to her new brother.”
Puzzled, Hugo asked, “Why does that matter?”
Dieter walked to the edge of the bed and sat. He leaned forward and joined his hands in front of him, staring up at Hugo. “Because I think that doll belonged to Heinrich Franz. When . . . he was a child.”
“That’s impossible!” Hugo exclaimed. “I didn’t even know Heinrich when I was a child or when he was . . .” Suddenly his words trailed off as the realization slowly hit him.
Dieter said nothing, letting Hugo put the pieces together himself. Minutes earlier, when Hugo had been staring death in the face, he’d been incapable of rational thought. Now, however, he was much calmer and could think through Dieter’s words and Heinrich’s actions, and follow where they led.
Finally, he looked into Dieter’s eyes with a knowing expression.
Dieter only nodded. Then, after a long moment passed, he said quietly, “I swore an oath to Sybil not to tell you . . . I’m not family, and she wanted to be the one to inform you, when and if the time was right. If ever. I actually believe she may have thought it best to allow you to live your entire life without knowing such pain.”
Speaking from his heart, he tried to reassure the boy. “Believe me, Hugo, when I say that she was only trying to protect you. From a life of pain, and shame, and confusion. She was only doing what she thought was right. But now that she’s gone—”
“Then let me hear it from you, Dieter. Say the words.”
Staring at the ground, he did. “Heinrich Franz is your father.”
The boy showed no reaction, the statement just confirming what he’d already figured out. But as he gazed around the room in a disoriented haze, something Dieter just said suddenly registered on him. He looked at Dieter.
“What did you just mean, ‘now that she’s gone’?”
Dieter frowned. “You know what I meant, now that she’s dead . . . in Trier.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dieter furrowed his brow.
Hugo shook his head. “Sybil isn’t dead. My sist—your wife—is very much alive!”
“What in God’s name do you mean?”
Hugo gave Dieter a puzzled look. “Haven’t you heard the rumors around town, the stories, about the ‘Daughter of the Beast’?”
“Of course I have. But that’s all they are—rumors.”
Hugo shook his head. “It was an act of God, no doubt. Surely, she should have burned to death at the stake in Trier. But she didn’t! When the hood was lifted . . . an old woman had taken her place. An old woman died that day, Dieter, not Sybil. I assure you. And while I don’t know where my sister is . . . I do know she did not die on the stake in Trier.”
Dieter was speechless. He coughed, trying to compose himself. He sat back on the bed with a heavy thud. “All this time . . .”
Hugo was still thinking back to that day in Trier. He looked up at the ceiling, recalling a distant detail. “And when that old crone burned, screaming like a white-haired banshee, Heinrich seemed very upset. He was dressed as Lord Inquisitor Adalbert at the time, but he raced from the pulpit when that woman died. I always
wondered why . . .”
And because Dieter had more pieces of that puzzle than Hugo did, he quickly put them together. Looking at the boy, he spoke softly. “Hearing your description of Heinrich’s reaction that day, Hugo, I’m convinced that that woman you speak of—that white-haired banshee—was likely your mother. Your biological mother at least. Her name was Odela Grendel, Heinrich’s lover when they were younger. They had a child—you—and Odela stole you from Heinrich when she learned of his murderous ways. She was terrified for your safety, so she took you to a family that she came upon during her blind travels.
“A family that had just buried their own stillborn babe. The Griswold family—your family, Hugo—Peter, Sybil, and the woman you were told was your mother, who died shortly after her baby’s stillbirth.”
Hugo stared at Dieter, tears glistening his eyes. “Peter . . . Sybil . . . mother . . . they weren’t my real blood?”
Dieter’s face hardened. “No, Hugo, they were better than blood, they were your family. Peter was your father and Sybil was your sister. Don’t ever forget that. ‘Family’ is who loves and raises you. Peter Griswold raised you to be the man you’ve become. Peter Griswold was a fine, wonderful soul, whom you should be proud to call your father. He was the namesake for my very own son—”
The mention of his son Peter stopped Dieter cold. He choked up, feeling guilty that—what with Heinrich’s ferocious rampage and Hugo’s last-minute reprieve from death—he’d almost forgotten about his own precious child.
Will I ever see you again? God! Please let me see my son!
But the overload of information was unraveling Hugo’s emotions. “He ‘raised me to be the man I’ve become’?” Hugo bellowed, throwing up his hands. “Just look at what I’ve become, Dieter. A killer! An operative for a monster!”
The outburst took Dieter by surprise. After seeing how close Hugo and Heinrich had become—virtually “mentor-protégé”—he never imagined hearing Hugo describe his master as a monster. Maybe he’d been misreading Hugo all along. Which made him think of something else. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the note Heinrich had handed him.
Dieter Nicolaus—
~ Mord
Yes, the handwriting was the same as on all the earlier ones.
Hugo had been writing the warning messages!
By God!
“Why did you do it?” Dieter asked, showing him the note.
Hugo shrugged. He glanced at Hedda, still huddled in the corner, quietly observing the spectacle playing out between the two men. She tilted her head, as if wondering the same thing as Dieter.
Hugo exhaled loudly. “After Trier, I became wary of all the killing I’d borne witness to. On the way to that Godforsaken city, I befriended a minstrel, Klemens, and his dog . . . Mord. That minstrel died, thanks to me—I did terrible things in Trier, Dieter, and I felt I had to atone for those sins.” Hugo spoke slowly, deliberately, measuring his words as if he’d never truly understood his own motivation until now.
“My first act of atonement was helping the people of Bedburg. When I came back here, I decided Bedburg was my home—my rightful place. I had been so curious to see the outside world. Yet once I found it to be so cruel and unforgiving, I no longer wanted a part in it.” He gave Dieter a tight smile. “And when you took the mantle as the champion of the people, it was mere coincidence. I had planned to help the next natural leader, using my new position by Heinrich’s side. But I never expected that person to be you, Dieter. Though I was very proud that it was you, and knew Sybil would be pleased, too.”
Dieter’s face reddened.
Pointing to Hedda in the corner, Hugo said, “I’d met Hedda briefly in Trier, when she was working for Baron Ludwig and while I was operating under Heinrich’s directive. There, we formulated a rough scheme, yes?”
Hedda nodded, leaning back against the wall and stretching out her legs. “Hugo was a natural-born renegade,” she added, “having grown up on the streets of Bedburg. So while he worked under Heinrich and gained his trust, he had a near-constant flow of information coming to him. And he relayed that information to two people, via those anonymous letters—me and you.”
Dieter ran his hand through his stubbly beard. “So you learned of future Protestant targets straight from Heinrich’s mouth?” he asked.
Hugo shook his head. “Not entirely. Also from Ulrich’s ledger, and from Tomas, who was usually the one ordered to make the arrests. And even from Bishop Balthasar.” He smirked, somewhat proud of himself. “For claiming to be so discreet, Heinrich really wasn’t too guarded or cautious about his secrets.”
Dieter thought back to the carriage ride he’d just shared with Heinrich. “So you two put this army together, then? The one Heinrich spoke to me about—Gebhard Truchsess’ army?”
Hedda and Hugo looked at each other, then both shook their heads.
“Gebhard had always planned to attack Cologne,” Hugo said. “He’s been planning it for nearly a decade.”
Hedda smiled. “We just . . . nudged him in a certain direction.”
Dieter chuckled, shaking his head. This young man and woman—Hugo was five years his junior, Hedda nearly his own age—were much sharper than he’d ever imagined. “You nudged him toward Bedburg?”
Hugo shrugged. “We hoped he’d want to take a town close to Cologne, especially if he had help.”
Hugo spoke without arrogance or pride—in an honest, humble tone Dieter hadn’t seen in the boy before. He’d always assumed Hugo took after his biological father, that he’d let power go to his head. Now he realized how wrong he’d been. Another question came to him.
“And what about Tomas? Why do you think Heinrich was so sure he was ‘Mord’?”
Hugo scratched the back of his neck.
“At one point or other, Heinrich suspected everyone of betraying him. His rampant paranoia has become notorious. I reckon he thought that, because Tomas was a military man and garrison commander, he must have opened the gates for Gebhard, possibly set up the supply lines. And since Tomas met with Bishop Balthasar, there was more reason to suspect he’d colluded with the priest.”
“It sounds to me that Heinrich Franz’s paranoia has traveled to the edges of delusion,” Dieter said, drawing smiles from both Hugo and Hedda.
“I’m sure he seems perfectly sane in his own mind,” Hedda commented.
“As do most, my dear,” Dieter added. “I doubt anyone crazy has ever thought they were.”
Hugo smiled, then continued explaining Tomas. “Like myself, maybe even more so, Tomas has become very repentant of late. Especially since his actions at Trier. I believe remorse and regret have greatly affected him. He’s now married with a beautiful baby boy. He gives penitence at the church at least three times a week. That’s what he so often meets with Bishop Balthasar for.”
After a long silence, as each of them considered the significance of their conversation, Dieter finally said, “You’re a very brave young man, Hugo. I just wanted you to know that. It takes a strong will to do what you have done.”
Hugo sighed, waving Dieter off. “You would have done the same, had you been in my position. I just did what I thought was right.”
“But that’s the point, isn’t it, Hugo?” said Hedda. “Not everyone would do what’s right. I must agree with the priest here.” She stood and slowly walked to the bed where Hugo sat, sitting next to him in silence.
A loud boom broke the quiet. Dieter spun around. The noise got louder. Hugo stood and ran to the window, Hedda and Dieter following.
They stared down at the courtyard in shock.
“Where did they all come from?” Hedda mumbled.
“Lots of them,” said Hugo.
A huge crowd had gathered in the courtyard. They were rowdy, loud. Some looked angry, others drunk.
“How did they get in?” Dieter wondered.
“They must have broken down the front gate . . .”
As the chorus of shouting and yelling grew louder, so did
the mob’s actions. Arms swung wildly in the air, some holding pitchforks, others torches, still others waving swords and axes.
This was no military force, and not a part of Tomas’ garrison.
This was a peasant army. This was an uprising.
This was a revolution.
Dieter smiled to himself. This was exactly what he’d been fighting for all this time. While two armies squared off against each other back in Bedburg proper, out here in the darkness of the countryside was where the real passion burned. The power of the people! The honest dedication of the masses to the worthiest of causes: fighting tyranny and injustice. Agitated peasants and farmers and common folk, joining together, throwing aside their differences, to fight the common enemy—the evil that was Heinrich Franz.
Dieter put a hand on Hugo’s shoulder, causing him to flinch. “You must continue to be brave, Hugo,” he said in a solemn voice. “For all our sakes.”
Hugo held his breath as he watched the scene below intensify. There was so much to think about, so much at stake. How Heinrich would react. How Bedburg’s army would react. Whether these angry citizens had any chance against professional soldiers. It was all so overwhelming.
“I don’t know if I can, Dieter,” Hugo replied. “I think I might have used up all my bravery. I’m so tired . . . and not the person people think I am.”
“That’s the beauty of it, Hugo. You can reinvent yourself when this is done.”
Hugo winced again, recalling something from the distant past. “Severin said something like that, right before . . . Trier,” he muttered to himself.
“Who?”
“Never mind.” Hugo brushed off the thought.
“Regardless,” Dieter continued, “you must remember that you have a responsibility to these people. They may be drunk with rage and drunk with liquor. But either way, they need a leader. They are loud because they must be. That’s the only way they will be heard. But it will take a brave man, someone quiet and observant, to be their guide. And that must be you, Hugo!”
