by Cory Barclay
The four of them glanced at one another before again nodding, though less vigorously than before.
And with that, they were dismissed.
As the two couples walked back down the massive hallway, Hugo turned to Rolf and smiled. “Rolf, you old dog,” he said quietly, “how did you find this beautiful woman? I thought you for dead!”
The old man was suddenly in high spirits. Shuffling along the marble floor, he explained. “When your sister came to Bedburg looking for Dieter, she helped me escape the jailhouse. I fled Bedburg, knowing I couldn’t return to House Charmagne—that Heinrich would have my skin. I’ve since heard that Charmagne is haunted now, replete with apparitions of ghostly hounds. And that the spirit of Heinrich Franz drifts through the halls.”
He chuckled for a moment. “So I went to our southern neighbors, managed to escape the battle, and found this lovely woman once Gebhard fled.”
Addressing Hugo, Lucille tenderly put her hand on Rolf’s shoulder. “Your uncle is a good man. As heiress-apparent of Bergheim following my father and Heinrich’s deaths, I refused to settle with any of the suitors that approached me. Rolf is a softer, kinder man.”
Hugo reddened slightly. He didn’t correct Lucille’s statement about Rolf being his uncle, which he most assuredly was not. What lies the old man had been telling her! Nevertheless, Hugo was happy Rolf had found joy—the old man had been like a father to him when he’d needed it most.
Rolf raised a finger. “I’m also a fair politician and spokesman, as well, if I do say. Especially given my rather . . . sorted background.”
Hugo grinned. “That much is true, I suppose.”
They all chuckled as they reached the end of the hall. Two guards opened the doors and they were ferried into another room, this one leading to the cathedral’s front doors.
“Now it’s your turn to tell us,” Rolf said, turning to Hugo and Hedda. “How you two came to find each other? Is yours an example of this mythical thing called love?”
Hugo laughed, then nodded, smiling warmly at Hedda, whose eyes twinkled.
“Hugo helped me escape Bedburg’s jail as well,” Hedda said. “Since the entire city knew he’d killed Heinrich, his reputation preceded him and Lord Alvin didn’t stand a chance competing with him for the lordship,” she said proudly.
Rolf arched his brow at Hugo. “Though I’m happy for you, I am somewhat surprised you could take such a position given your youth.” Then he thought more about that and chuckled. “Though I dare say we just witnessed how youth and inexperience can mean nothing when it comes to positions of power.”
They all smiled at that.
Hedda then continued. “Anyway, that’s where I came in,” she said with a sly smile. “Helping this ‘young and inexperienced’ man navigate his way into his new lordship.” She kissed Hugo on the cheek. “I have long understood the ways of politics, given my day-to-day assistance working with Ludwig. So I’d say this young man was most fortunate to have my talents at his disposal.” Hugo grinned, grabbing her around waist.
“Ah! Besides being a mother of two, she’s also quite humble,” Rolf joked.
“With a third on the way,” Hedda added, rubbing her stomach.
“Congratulations,” Rolf said. “You two have been busy!”
Then Hugo faced Rolf, his expression turning serious. “I would like to visit your son some day, Rolf, if that might be possible. Our children could become friends.”
Lucille and Rolf both knew there was more to the suggestion than mere friendship. The birth of Lucille’s son—exactly eight and one-half months following her escape from Bedburg—certainly raised questions of paternity. Especially when Rolf’s advancing age and infirmities made the probability of bedroom follies less likely.
Rolf smiled knowingly. “You need only say the word, young master,” he said with full sincerity. “Bergheim’s doors are always open to you and your lovely wife.”
When they pushed out the cathedral’s double-doors, the warm sunshine greeted them with a rush of hope and happiness. As they stood at the top of the church steps, side-by-side, looking out over the vast German countryside, Hedda chuckled to herself.
“What?” Hugo asked.
“I was just thinking of the unexpected surprises life brings,” she answered. “Consider this . . . if it weren’t for the vilest of the vile, the four of us would never have ended up together with our loved ones here.”
“How so?” Lucille asked.
“Well . . . Rolf and I were both rescued from Heinrich’s jail, and you and Hugo from Heinrich’s House Charmagne.”
They all took in the view, pondering the irony of it all.
“So,” Rolf finally said, “I suppose in a twisted sort of way, we all owe the Devil his due and a bit of a thank you.”
As they headed down the stairs to their new lives, Hugo put his arm around Hedda.
“Though I’ll still never toast the bastard,” he mumbled.
In a little town in Norfolk called Strangers Shire, Sybil sat in her chair on Claire’s patio, fidgeting with her fingers. Though she had her own house now, she preferred spending time here, near her best friend. In the front yard, little Rose and Peter played in the grass as young children do, without a care in the world. They chased bugs, and laughed, and fell over each other and giggled. It gave Sybil such joy to watch them play like that. Her promise long ago to Claire, that her son and Claire’s daughter would be best friends, had become a reality.
Seated across from her, Claire also watched the children. Looking over at Sybil and her twitchy hands, she said, “You must calm down, Beele. Your nervousness makes me nervous.”
Sybil sighed. “I know, I know. But what do you think she’ll be like? Kind, as I’ve heard? Or mean, because I’m not English?”
Claire snickered, setting her thread and distaff in her lap. “We are called Strangers for a reason, dear girl! And besides, weren’t you the one who once said, ‘I’ve known enough nobles to know what they’re all like’ or something to that effect?”
Sybil took a deep breath, which didn’t help much, then gazed out at the town she now called home. It certainly looked different from when she’d first seen it. It now had two proper granaries, a smithy, a tavern, a tannery, several tailor shops and textile factories, and of course the church.
Truly a flourishing village.
People milled about, darting from building to building, to and from workshops, sweeping roadways, laying down drapes, doing all the busy things that growing towns do.
Down the roadway, Sybil saw Rowaine and Aellin walking toward them, holding hands. A few minutes later, when the two reached the porch, greetings and kisses were exchanged, then Aellin curtsied and went inside. Rowaine held out a jar of something which she presented to Sybil.
“From my father . . . he says it’s the best batch the tavern brews, made just for special occasions like this.”
Sybil took the jar and smiled, setting it down by her chair. “Thank Georg for me.”
Rowaine rolled her eyes. “I doubt I’ll be seeing much of him now that he’s got that damn harlot to rummage around the sheets with.”
“Row!” Sybil scolded. “You should be happy that your father is happy. After all, you’ve found delight of your own,” she added, referring to Aellin inside.
Rowaine nodded. “I know, I know.” She turned and, like Sybil and Claire, stared out to where the children played and to the bustling town beyond. After a time, she said, “My, how Daxton would love to see this, how much this place has changed.”
Sybil smiled warmly. Not a sad smile—Daxton wasn’t dead, just in a different place. Upon his return to Norfolk, he’d relocated with his family to King’s Lynn, taking over Georg’s job as the Hanseatic League’s representative so he could remain close to the sea. He still captained the Lion’s Pride, though now, instead of a pirate ship, it was officially a trading vessel. And he still sent a portion of his proceeds—a generous amount—back to the shire each month, which had
definitely contributed to the town’s growth and prosperity.
Sybil said, “Yes, it is quite a sight to see. Dax would indeed enjoy knowing how much he’s helped make it what it is.”
The three women drifted off into their own thoughts for a while, until Martin and Ava came running around the side of the house, clearly excited. Ava held her new one-year-old child in her arms. The boy already had Martin’s curly hair.
“They’re here, they’re here!” Ava announced with contagious enthusiasm. “The first procession just arrived on the other side of town!”
Sybil clasped her hands and said a silent prayer. Then she asked, “S-Should we go to them?”
“No, no,” Martin said, waving his hands. “They’re making their way here. Believe it or not, Reeve Bailey is directing their parade to you, rather than to his own house. I think even he is a bit overwhelmed this time!”
They all laughed, nervously.
Ava saw Peter and Rose playing and, with love in her eyes, shook her head. “I can’t wait until little Ezra is old enough to play with Rose and my godson!”
Sybil took Ava by the hand and smiled. Following Dieter’s death, she’d asked Ava and Martin to become Peter’s godparents. It had filled a hole in their hearts, until of course the birth of their own child, which had raised everyone’s spirits.
Sybil finally rose from her chair and began pacing the patio.
“Christ Almighty,” Claire told her. “Could you please stop that?” She gestured down the hill to where a man with blue tattoos was sitting next to another young man on a bench, their foreheads almost touching. “We already have one madman in this town. We certainly don’t need a madwoman.” The “madman” she was referring to was of course Salvatore, the benandanti, who apparently was performing his “gift” on the bench down the road. As the town’s new resident soothsayer, he regularly had twenty or more citizens seeking him out each day to be “healed” or to have their dreams realized.
As for the other members of Sybil’s close-knit group, Wilhelm and his mother had settled in the heart of town, where Wilhelm made and sold his dyes to several local textile factories and tailors. He and Mary shared one of the largest estates in the shire, and both were constantly harried by suitors seeking a stake in their wealth—though neither had the time nor want for such frivolities, at least now. Mary still grieved for her husband William and Wilhelm was simply too busy for affairs of the heart or flesh.
And Corvin Carradine had gone missing at sea a few months back during a routine supply run to Amsterdam and no one knew if he was dead or alive.
Suddenly, the first line of emblazoned chariots and carriages appeared in the distance. Two lines of impeccably attired soldiers lined both sides of their route. A few minutes later the procession stopped at the foot of the hill. Nearly every citizen had come out to witness the spectacle. Guards now surrounded the main carriage, spears and arquebuses at the ready.
Sybil froze as her heart pounded so hard she could hear her pulse in her ears. Unable to contain herself any longer, she rushed down the porch, out past the front yard to greet her guest.
A royal squire in white gloves hurried out from another of the carriages to open the coach door for the guest of honor, delicately helping her out of the carriage.
Her hair was reddish-gold, the color of the sun at autumn sunset. Her skin was white and immaculate, her lips and nose thin. She was indeed a handsome woman with a regal aura befitting her station. She walked gracefully, confidently, from the carriage steps, escorted by the squire, as the townsfolk caught sight of her and gasped, then kneeled.
Sybil bowed her head in respect, then noticed that everyone was kneeling but her son Peter. Rushing over, she grabbed his arm and gently pushed him to the grass, then kneeled beside him.
When the guest and her guard were several yards from Sybil, the squire spoke the formal introduction, though of course none was needed.
“May I present to you the monarch of the House of Tudor, and savior to the people. First of her name, Her Majesty The Queen, Elizabeth!”
The Queen of England smiled warmly at Sybil, then wobbled a thin, long finger toward her, urging her to stand. She spoke in a surprisingly jovial tone.
“It’s my understanding that this place is named after me,” she announced with a slight smirk.
A few patters of nervous laughter sounded from the crowd, as they rose from their knees to better watch the proceedings.
Suddenly realizing the Queen was directing her comment to her, Sybil nodded—a bit too vigorously, since her words weren’t coming at the moment. Finally, she found her voice. “Indeed, Your Majesty. This is the home of Elizabeth’s Strangers, named such for the remarkable kindness Your Majesty has bestowed upon political and religious refugees of all creeds.”
A small smile crept across the Queen’s lips. “And with whom do I converse?”
Sybil stuttered. With her mouth open, she pointed dumbly at her own face. Elizabeth chuckled brightly, causing everyone else to do likewise.
“My n-name’s Sybil, ma’am. Sybil Griswold.”
Elizabeth clapped her gloved hands. “Ah, just the person I was hoping for.”
Sybil could only blush.
The Queen whispered to her squire, though loud enough to be heard. “I thought she was a German girl?”
The squire nodded back, speaking something indiscernible.
Elizabeth furrowed her brow at Sybil, who nodded and said, “I am, ma’am, a German refugee. But I sought sanctuary here, with my family”—she nudged her chin toward her son—“and was given shelter thanks to your tolerance and kindness.”
“And you speak English! I do say, I had not expected that.”
Sybil smiled. “I’m still learning, Your Majesty.”
Elizabeth took a step toward Sybil so they were eye to eye. Then, much to her amazement, the Queen took Sybil’s arm.
“I’ve come to give my gratitude to the woman who fought so hard against our enemies in Germany, my dear. And, besides, it’s been some time since I’ve seen the countryside of Norfolk and I was due a visit.”
She started to lead Sybil by the arm away from the house. Immediately, a contingent of guards took positions around them, but the Queen waved them off.
As they walked on, Elizabeth said, “I also wish to give my heartfelt sympathy to you at having lost your husband in the battle. It is such a terrible thing, war.”
Sybil nodded, literally touching shoulders with the most powerful woman on earth.
“He would have loved to hear you say that, ma’am,” Sybil replied softly.
“And now, you must tell me how you came to be known as the Pale Diviner. Oh, what a magnificent title that is! And, please, leave no secrets untold. I want to learn all about you, Sybil Griswold, and how anguished Pope Clement was at the loss of his leading archbishop, and how Ernst must have squealed! And please leave no detail unsaid, my dear girl . . .”
Sybil chuckled lightly. “I’ll try, ma’am.”
As they strolled along arm-in-arm, enjoying a fine day in the English countryside—two very different symbols of hope and goodness, doing their best in difficult times—only faint parts of their conversation could be heard.
“It all started one day by the church when I was picking apples for the homeless, and Dieter walked into my life . . .”
THE END
Fact Versus Fiction
I took a bit more creative liberties with this novel than with the two previous installments of the trilogy. That said, the story was still inspired by many actual historical events occurring in late 16th century Europe.
The Hanseatic League was a real and powerful organization in Europe, formed to help protect traders and merchants from tyrannical laws and despots, although its influence had greatly diminished by the time this story begins in 1592.
Of course Queen Elizabeth was real, as were the Strangers, although I’m not sure if the monarch ever visited the actual refugee community—Elizabeth’s Strangers�
�that was indeed her namesake (though there was never an actual village called Strangers Shire).
Amsterdam did become one of Europe’s commercial superpowers after the Duke of Parma (Alexander Farnese) sacked Antwerp on behalf of Spain. And when the Protestants fled north after Antwerp’s fall, they forced the Catholics to flee en masse to Cologne and other parts of Germany.
By 1595, Ferdinand of Bavaria—Archbishop Ernst’s nephew—had taken over all secular duties for his uncle, becoming the de facto Archbishop of Cologne. He also orchestrated one of the largest increases in witch-hunts during his reign.
His uncle, Ernst, retired to Arnsberg, Germany, where he lived until his death in 1612.
England and Germany were definitely not on friendly terms when my story takes place, mostly because of religious differences. As a result, most trading between them occurred on the sly through neutral regions like Amsterdam.
From 1597 through 1794, Bonn, Germany was the capital of the Electorate of Cologne and the residence of the Archbishops and Prince-electors of Cologne. My story displayed only a small glimpse of what Bonn would become.
The novel describes the political unrest prevalent in and around Cologne during this time period, resulting in repeated land-grabs, power struggles, and economic uncertainty.
Historians point to many reasons behind these turbulent times, including unfair taxation, public spending, regulation of business, excessive market supervision, and limits on corporate autonomy, to name a few. Of course, right up there at or near the top is (as always) religion.
Lastly, the benandanti were in fact true “spirit wanderers,” regularly persecuted as witches and warlocks, although Salvatore himself was my invention.
Once again thank you all for reading my stories and for your tremendous support! I hope you enjoyed the trilogy. And, who knows, I’ve grown pretty attached to some of these characters, so it’s quite possible that someday they’ll return. ;)
