The Beast Within Read online

  Heinrich was intrigued. He spun the ends of his mustache. “So he took territory for the Spanish crown, but created more strife outside of Antwerp. That is how things go, is it not, Your Grace? It still seems like a major victory for the Catholics.”

  Ernst nodded. “It was. It is. But by taking Antwerp, he also inadvertently cut off the sugar trade here, which has impacted our economy greatly, giving more power to Amsterdam! In the past five years, Amsterdam has taken Antwerp’s place as Europe’s center of commerce. And, as you know, we have a . . . tenuous relationship with Amsterdam because of their trade deals with England . . . and their tolerance of Protestants.”

  Heinrich indeed understood. Ernst had lost a powerful piece on the chessboard when Duke Farnese had taken Antwerp. Even worse, an ally had caused the damage. Nonetheless, Heinrich didn’t see it as Farnese’s fault. Spain was the culprit.

  Interrupting Heinrich’s thoughts, Ernst added, “Many of our textile imports came from Antwerp as well, and that trade has been severed since Farnese took the city. So, Lord Franz, you can see why I’m ‘vexed,’ as you put it, yes?”

  Heinrich bowed his head. “Yes, Your Grace. I understand. I’m sorry to hear that and I wish there was something I could do.”

  “Never mind that,” Ernst said. “There are other things I need from you.”

  Heinrich tilted his head. “Such as?”

  “For one, the progress of the conversion efforts in Bedburg. How are they going? You’ve had several months to settle in as lord there. What is the situation with the Protestants?”

  Heinrich cleared his throat. “If I’m being honest, my lord, the Protestants are becoming more ambitious. To counter that—and their growing audacity—I’ve had to strengthen my grip and resolve against them. When they rebel, when they refuse to convert, I am forced to focus on more ‘creative’ means of punishment—scaring them into submission, much like we did with the werewolf issue a few years back.”

  Archbishop Ernst chuckled. “Of course. Yes, the werewolf. It was a masterstroke, Heinrich. Its legend still carries throughout the land.”

  His ego swelling, Heinrich feigned modesty, nodding simply without smiling.

  “So we are becoming more . . . proactive,” he told the archbishop, “when dealing with the Protestants.”

  “Don’t coat your words in sugar, Heinrich,” Ernst said, then realized his own play-on-words and smiled. “We don’t have enough sugar for that!” Taking on a more serious tone, he asked, “What does becoming more ‘proactive’ entail?”

  Heinrich sighed, standing a bit straighter, clasping his hands behind his back. This felt more like a battlefield report to a general—which, he supposed, it was.

  “As soon as a Protestant is discovered, sprouting up like a weed to cause the city turmoil, he is punished. If we cannot locate him, we find his family, which always draws out our target.”

  Archbishop Ernst thought for a moment, running his hands over his chin.

  “An excellent strategy, Lord Franz,” the young Ferdinand interjected. “Punish the faithless so they cannot get a foothold in the city. The last thing we need is another rebellion.”

  “Indeed, young master,” Heinrich said, a bit annoyed at being talked to as an equal by a young pup simply born into his high position. Let the men do the talking, boy, he wanted to say, but of course couldn’t.

  “Scare them into submission.” The archbishop nodded. “Good, good.”

  Heinrich shrugged. “It seemed to work before.”

  Ernst stood from his desk. Walking in front of Ferdinand, he began pacing the room, clearly uneasy about what he had to say next.

  “What is it, Your Grace?” Heinrich asked cautiously.

  Ernst walked to the stained-glass window on the far side of the room, his shape bathed in the rose-tinted light. “There’s one other thing I must ask of you, Heinrich. It’s very important for the survival of Cologne and the entire electorate.”

  “Name it, Your Grace, and it will be done.” And Heinrich meant it. Archbishop Ernst was the only man he truly felt honored to please.

  Slowly, Ernst turned from the window, fixing on Heinrich’s eyes. “I need you to marry a good Catholic woman.”

  Heinrich was dumbstruck. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After all the terrible things this man knows I’ve done? The horrors I’ve inflicted on women—for his cause? He would have me marry one?

  At a loss for words, Heinrich sputtered, “W-why?” Nodding to Ernst’s nephew, he added, “Was this his idea as well?”

  Ernst smirked. “If you take more than a moment, Heinrich, I’m sure you’ll see why. And, no, this was my idea.” Turning back to look out the window, he explained. “I must solidify my strongholds and territories. Many of my lords, barons, and earls are stalwart Catholics. They would never turn their backs on the True faith, since they know the consequences—”

  “Nor would I, Your Grace.”

  “I know that, Heinrich, but you are an anomaly. People don’t see you as a proper Catholic. You have a shadowy past. In a sense, you’re mysterious. You are not a member of parliament or the royal courts—you could be, of course, but you choose not to. You keep yourself in solitude in that Gothic estate of yours, like a ghost.”

  Heinrich clenched his jaw. “So . . . I am different,” he said. “Why does that matter?”

  “Because I can’t have conflict amongst my subjects! The diocese must clearly be allied and connected. I need to solidify my power in the principality—no, God’s power. There must be a clear lineage of your Catholic roots in Bedburg. There can be no doubt as to whom that place belongs.”

  And by that you mean you.

  The archbishop turned around. “I don’t know why you’re fighting me on this, Heinrich. Wouldn’t you like a warm body to sleep next to—even an heir, perhaps? See this as a good thing. Maybe you can find someone you can learn to love.”

  Heinrich stifled a groan. He knew arguing was futile. Whatever Archbishop Ernst wanted, he got. It had been that way ever since the archbishop had fought the Cologne War against Gebhard Truchsess, stolen the archbishopric away from the Protestants, and taken the electoral seat for himself. Above all, Archbishop Ernst was conniving. And, as much as Heinrich wished he were wrong, the truth was Ernst’s strategy behind the marriage proposal was sound. It would indeed strengthen his power base. Perhaps the man was preparing a move to an even higher position. Maybe that explained the grooming of his nephew.

  Yes, Heinrich thought, that makes sense. He wants a unified Catholic front for whenever he appeals to Emperor Rudolf or that new pope, Clement. That’s why he’s so worried about trade in Cologne. He can’t appear weak for when he decides to move forward with his plan. His city must be the most prosperous region of the entire Holy Roman Empire . . .

  “So, Heinrich, what do you say?”

  What could he say? After a long pause, he nodded. “I’ll do it, Your Grace. For you, I’ll do it.”

  Archbishop Ernst clasped his hands together and smiled broadly, seemingly happy for the first time since Heinrich’s arrival.

  “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “And now with that out of the way, I’d like you to view some portraits. We must find you the right woman. And I have several powerful ones in mind. Fantastic candidates, in fact—ones that could indeed strengthen your own standing. If you’ll follow my courier outside the hall, he’ll show you to the meeting room and the portraits.”

  Nodding, Heinrich bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.” He paused. “Before I go, my lord, I’d like to add someone to the list of possible brides.”

  “Oh?” Ernst said, his eyebrows arching. “Very good, Heinrich. I’m glad you’re taking this seriously. Yes, as long as I approve your charge before you make any rash decisions, that is quite acceptable.” He smiled, adding, “Who might it be?”

  Someone Heinrich had kept an eye on for some time, ever since becoming lord of Bedburg. A striking woman—rich, cunning, beautiful. And recently widowed. At first, Heinrich ha
d worried she could become an enemy, but now he realized he could explore an entirely different route . . .

  “Her name is Lucille Engel von Bergheim.”

  The daughter-in-law of Ludwig Koehler, lord of Bergheim, she was also the widowed wife of Gustav Koehler, the contemptuous man Heinrich had killed in Trier.

  A fact Lady Lucille never needed to know.

  Nor did the archbishop.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DIETER

  1592 – Bedburg, Germany

  Dieter Nicolaus winced as Jerome Penderwick, the strange little stuttering surgeon from the Lion’s Pride, peeled off the bandage around his left elbow. He stared at the end of the stump, where the skin was pulled tight together. It had turned purple from the soldering used to cauterize the wound.

  “If you d-don’t regularly ch-ch-change this, it’ll get infected,” Jerome said, his beady eyes darting to Dieter’s grimacing face.

  In the two months since he’d lost the arm—the result of a nasty knife-wound he’d received outside Claus’ inn—Dieter had let his hair grow out. Facial and scalp. His goal was to be unrecognizable and so far it seemed to be working. The brown, curly beard running down his neck, combined with hair that now extended past his shoulders, had changed his appearance considerably.

  At first, the surgeon Penderwick had been concerned, worrying that Dieter’s changed appearance was the result of depression over losing his wife. But the former priest had assured him that this wasn’t the case. It was solely because Heinrich Franz was now in charge of the region and Dieter knew that being recognized would lead straight to jail. Heinrich wouldn’t even need a reason; he’d make one up if necessary. Whatever it took to get Dieter behind bars.

  But Dieter now had two things going for him that hopefully would prevent that: one, his new appearance. And two, the fact that Heinrich was rarely in Bedburg—despite being its lord—preferring to spend most nights at his estate at House Charmagne, a half day’s ride east.

  But Heinrich Franz had many eyes and ears in Bedburg. So Dieter couldn’t let his guard down; hence, the beard, the long hair, and this secret hideaway—a farmhouse he now spent most of his time at—on the southern outskirts of town.

  There were five of them sharing the house. Besides Dieter, there was his dear son Peter, the surgeon Penderwick, Martin Achterberg, and Martin’s lover Ava Hahn. The place was actually Martin’s old family house and the floorboards were still stained with the blood of Martin’s father, who’d been killed by Martin three years earlier—a dark reminder of those horrific days.

  Back then, Dieter had often snuck away to the house to secretly rendezvous with Sybil when they’d first met. But that was three long years ago, when the search for the Werewolf of Bedburg was in full swing and the townsfolk were too tense and terrified to bother them. Things were different now. Calmer. So he had to keep his guard up and hope no one would come looking for him.

  But even if things were a bit calmer, there was still tension in the area. And that especially worried Dieter. Whenever he’d slink into town, he’d hear the whispers—people describing what a tyrant Lord Franz had become. His renewed crusades against witches and Protestants had destroyed all hope of due process or fair trials. Fear loomed everywhere.

  And of course Dieter was one of those Protestants. Which meant he had to do all in his power, for the sake of his son, to not become a prisoner of Lord Franz. Peter’s mother—Dieter’s wife Sybil—was gone. For this, he blamed himself. And he couldn’t fail his son again.

  The one saving grace was that Peter had blossomed into a beautiful child. Curious, handsome, the shining star of the household. Also, Martin’s lover Ava had taken to him as a mother figure which, although Dieter somewhat resented, was clearly something young Peter needed. So while the thought of his beloved Sybil ever being replaced in his son’s life disturbed him deeply, he viewed Ava’s new female presence as a necessary evil.

  Unraveling a fresh cotton bandage, Jerome began wrapping it around Dieter’s ugly stump. Over the past month, most of the pain had stopped, except for the occasional phantom aches Dieter had been warned about. As if his missing arm were still attached. But as Jerome tightened the bandage, he did feel a sudden jolt of pain.

  “S-so, what will you d-d-do?” Jerome asked.

  Dieter gritted his teeth in discomfort. “Don’t worry, Jerome. I’ll replace the bandage every week.”

  Jerome gently patted his patient on the back and smiled, his only three teeth protruding from his nasty gums.

  Just then, the door of the house swung open, frightening Dieter and Ava, who was bouncing young Peter in her arms. Dieter spun around and Ava quickly tucked Peter deeper into the folds of her clothes. But it was just Martin, darting in from the cold. The sixteen-year-old had practically doubled in size over the past few months. He now stood nearly as tall as his father had been—with defined muscles and broad shoulders and, even at his young age, a full beard.

  Another man bounded in behind Martin. Larger and definitely rounder, with a soft face shaped like an apple, about the same age as Martin, but with a much darker glint in his eyes, as if he’d been robbed of his young innocence.

  “I’ve come across another note,” Martin exclaimed, holding up a piece of parchment.

  Ignoring Martin for the moment, Dieter stared at the larger figure behind him. He recognized that face. Through the corner of his eye he saw that Ava also recognized him. Wide-eyed, face perspiring, she was frozen.

  “K-Kars . . .” she muttered, stepping back a pace.

  Gazing at Ava, the large man-boy’s mouth fell open. “Ava!” he shouted, smiling awkwardly.

  “What are you doing here?” Ava asked, “I thought you were rotting in that jail!”

  “They finally let me out,” Karstan said. “But I’d rather not talk about it.”

  His expression turned dark, probably remembering that Ava had played a role in sending him to rot in that jail.

  As the tension hung in the air, Dieter turned to Martin. “Martin, what is the meaning of this? We are trying to be discreet. I thought you understood that.”

  “Don’t worry, we weren’t followed,” he replied, unravelling the parchment. “Karstan has nowhere to go since his release from jail. I found him at the tavern. He approached me just as I discovered this new note under the table.”

  Dieter looked at Karstan, then Ava. The last thing he needed was turmoil in the household. Ava had betrayed Karstan. They’d been fellow thieves for years before Ava had finally sold him out. Making matters worse, Martin had then won over Ava, something Karstan would now realize and be none too pleased about.

  Wars had started over much less.

  Trying to divert the subject from Ava and Karstan, Dieter asked, “What does the note say?”

  Martin stared at the page, his eyes working line by line.

  The notes had started about two weeks ago. The initial one had been found pushed under the front door of the local tavern. Aellin, a wench there, had seen it first and, not knowing what to make of it or whom to show it to, had given it to Martin, knowing he was secretly staying with Dieter.

  That note had had two names on it, neither of which Martin or Dieter recognized, though Ava had. She explained that the first name belonged to a tanner and the second, the tanner’s wife. But since none of them had relations with any tanners in town, they hadn’t paid much attention to it, chalking it up to just some misplaced mistake.

  “Take a look,” Martin said, handing the new note to Dieter.

  Dieter read it aloud: “‘Adam Jacobo’ and ‘Martha Jacobo.’ Same signature, too: ‘Mord.’”

  Mord. A telling clue. “Who would sign a letter as Murder?” Martin asked.

  Dieter looked up. “Obviously someone trying to tell us something, anonymously.”

  “Ever heard of Adam or Martha Jacobo?” Martin asked.

  Heads shook around the room.

  Dieter was stumped. Who was writing these notes? Where’d they come from? What was
their point? And, most intriguing, why give them to Dieter and his group?

  Perhaps if I go into town I can learn more. It’s dangerous, but this is too perplexing, he thought.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  Dieter growled. What in God’s name is going on here! This place is getting far too much attention!

  Rushing to the door, he creaked it open a few inches. Two people stood outside, a man and woman. Middle-aged and clearly scared. The man was clutching a cap in his hands. “A-are you Dieter Nicolaus?” he asked.

  “Who’s asking?”

  Without answering, the man continued. “An acquaintance says you might be able to protect me and my wife.”

  “Who is your acquaintance?”

  “H-her name is Aellin, my lord.”

  Aellin, the black-haired beauty, the wench at the tavern, the one who’d found the first note. Somehow, she was right in the middle of this mystery. Yet Dieter was skeptical. There was only one way he knew that this man would be an “acquaintance” to a woman like Aellin. And that didn’t make a lot of sense with his frightened wife standing behind him.

  “I can’t help you,” Dieter said.

  The man looked ready to weep. And his wife did, bawling suddenly, uncontrollably.

  “P-please, sir, you must help us!” the man pleaded.

  Dieter opened the door a bit further, showing Jerome, Martin, Karstan, Ava, and little Peter all staring back. “I can’t!” he growled. “Don’t you see how many people we have packed into this place, man? We have no room.”

  “Aellin said you’d protect Protestants,” the man said. “She said you were a . . . a saintly man.” His shoulders and head slumped.

  Dieter wanted to yell, How could you ever trust that whore? Then realized his anger was misplaced. These people looked innocent and hardworking. He wondered what trouble they could be in. A pang of guilt swept over him. Once he’d been a priest and would have helped them. And if he were alone, he’d also help them.