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  “I think I do understand,” Dieter said.

  The pastor stopped. “Excuse me?”

  Dieter leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “I think I’m beginning to understand your cause. I’ve read Martin Luther’s work.”

  “Have you?” Pastor Richter asked, facing Dieter with a furrowed brow. “Why? Don’t you believe the Werewolf of Bedburg is the work of Protestant devilry?”

  Dieter shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore, and that’s why I’m here. I don’t wish to speak about the werewolf, Herr Richter. I believe he’s as much a fabrication of my faith as he is yours. I wish to speak about the tenets of Martin Luther.”

  Pastor Richter pulled at his long beard. “Do you now?” he said, and then chuckled. “An open-minded Catholic. Now I’ve seen everything. What is it you wish to discuss?”

  Dieter gripped the cold bars. “Your leader was a man, just like the pope . . . but he was firmly against indulgences and pardons. You spoke for him, in public, with danger all around you. Why?”

  “Simple,” Hanns said. “We’ve been oppressed for too long, by your pope. Yes, Martin Luther was a man, but he didn’t have the impudence to believe that he was the sole messenger of God. People should hear the truth.” The pastor began pacing in his cell. “Pope Sixtus appoints his nephews as cardinals, without them showing a hint of merit. He sells positions of power to his friends. His acts of nepotism and simony cannot stand. Your church is powerful, and yet your pope believes he collects taxes in God’s name. His actions are egregious and greedy.” The pastor faced Dieter and cocked his head. “This can’t be new to you, can it?”

  Dieter shook his head. “I’ve been trained to ignore it all, but I can’t do that any longer. What can I do to help you?”

  Pastor Richter paused, and then broke into a deep laugh. “Help?” he said, coughing. “You have no power here, priest. I will die in this cell, or at the end of a rope. But my people will not forget my cause. They will come for retribution—not out of vengeance, but out of love. Your bishop, Solomon, is ridiculed behind his back. The people do not respect him here.”

  “I’m aware,” Dieter said. “I hardly respect him any more, either.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Dieter sighed. He wasn’t sure what he was saying, and his words were coming out faster and looser than he’d planned. He decided to speak from his heart, before his mind could get the better of him. “I wish for a sign. I wish for something or someone to show me which path to follow.”

  “Only God can decide that, Father Nicolaus. You will either find a sign through tragedy, or through epiphany. I cannot help you in that.” The pastor frowned and began pacing again. “Besides, like I said, I’m stuck in here.”

  “When do you go to trial?”

  Hanns smiled. “You’re naïve, priest. Do you really think your bishop and lord will take me to trial? They’ll torture me for any information I might have, and then kill me out of sight from the public. They’ll try to tarnish my reputation and make me forgotten. But they will fail.”

  “Torture you for information? What kind of information do you speak of?”

  “Nice try, Father Nicolaus,” the pastor said, still smiling. “I’m not convinced if you’re talking to me out of guilt, or if you’ve been sent by the bishop to harass me. I think our time here is done.”

  As if on cue, the door of the room opened, and Ulrich showed his scarred face. “Your time’s up, priest. You need to be on your way.”

  Dieter raised a finger to the man. “Just one more moment—”

  “No,” Hanns Richter said. “The punisher is right. It’s time for you to go home, Father Nicolaus. You don’t belong here.”

  Dieter had a renewed energy at Mass the next morning. He was dismayed that Sybil wasn’t in the congregation, but he spoke with an enthusiasm that he hadn’t felt in some time.

  Still, he was worried that Bishop Solomon would find out about the forged letter. He felt that the sins and lies he’d been committing were leading him toward some kind of self-discovery. He just didn’t know if what he’d discover was a bad thing, or a good thing.

  As the congregation emptied out of the church, Dieter decided he’d go visit Sybil, to see how she was doing.

  Hopefully she still wants to see me.

  Before he could get the chance to leave the church, however, Bishop Solomon approached him. “Father Nicolaus,” the old man said, hobbling his way from the back hallway.

  Dieter felt a pang of panic rush through his body. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “We are to meet with Lord Werner and Vicar Balthasar at Bedburg Castle.”

  “We?” Dieter said, a bit confused.

  “Yes, you will come with me, to support my endeavor. But I want you to stay quiet unless spoken to. Understand?” The bishop seemed frazzled, and his thin white hair was ragged and unkempt. As he walked out of the church, Dieter followed him. A carriage sat in front of the church, waiting for the bishop and priest.

  Once they were in the carriage and on their way to the castle, Dieter asked, “What, if I may ask, is the reason for our meeting with the lord and the vicar, Your Grace?”

  “We’re going to find out what to do with that damnable pastor, my son.”

  Bishop Solomon and Vicar Balthasar stood side by side, facing the diminutive Lord Werner. Dieter stood behind the bishop, with his hands folded in front of him, and one of Balthasar’s Jesuit missionaries stood behind the vicar.

  In the lord’s room, Werner’s young son ran around ceaselessly, causing a commotion. Vicar Balthasar smiled and waved to the boy. The child was simple, and hardly ever made public appearances. He was clearly an embarrassment to Lord Werner. Some say the boy was God-touched and mad. But since arriving in Bedburg, Vicar Balthasar had taken to the boy, and was teaching him the word of Christ.

  In fact, since arriving, the Jesuit had made short work of turning the tide of conversions in the Catholic’s favor. He was friendly and authoritative, and the people liked him.

  Vicar Balthasar took a unique approach with conversion, first dealing with the nobility. He believed that, in order to get the townsfolk involved, one had to begin with the leadership.

  Bishop Solomon hated the man, of course. He hated Balthasar’s charisma, and he feared that Balthasar was trying to uncover everything he’d worked so hard to veil over the years. Solomon believed Balthasar was trying to usurp power, and that he had Archbishop Ernst’s approval to do it.

  In Dieter’s eyes, Vicar Balthasar was doing just that. He had the ear of Lord Werner—more than the bishop ever seemed to have had.

  “Since this is a matter of tolerance and religion,” Lord Werner began, “I would like both of your opinions on Pastor Hanns Richter. What should be done with him?”

  Solomon cleared his throat. It was customary to allow the eldest counsel the first opportunity to speak, and Vicar Balthasar made no move to steal that tradition from the bishop.

  “If I may, my lord,” Solomon began, “I believe the man is a nuisance to Bedburg, a travesty to the bishopric, and a wart on your good name. He is a hate-fueled, blasphemous bigot, and he must be silenced. We cannot allow such a person free reign in Bedburg, as he aims to denounce the word of Christ and God.” The bishop nodded, seemingly proud of himself for delivering such a succinct oration.

  Dieter raised his eyebrows. Well, he made his position clear in a hurry.

  Vicar Balthasar stayed quiet and calm.

  Lord Werner said, “What are you implying, Solomon?”

  The bishop stretched his arms out wide, like he was trying to steal all the air from the room. “In order to defeat and silence the Protestant rebels, I believe he should be made an example of. We should publicly denounce the pastor’s claims, and he should be summarily executed for all to see. That is the best way to quell the rebellion, my lord.”

  A long silence followed, and Lord Werner tapped his chin.

  “What if it doesn’t?”

&nb
sp; All heads turned to see who’d spoken out of turn.

  “Excuse me?” Lord Werner asked, cocking his head.

  “Yes, excuse me?” Bishop Solomon said, pursing his lips and scowling.

  Dieter stepped forward. “What if his death doesn’t quell the rebellion, my lord? Is frightening the public really in our best interest? What if his death does the opposite and stokes the flames, or makes Herr Richter a martyr? We saw the size of the crowds the man was preaching to. Is publicly killing him the best way to silence the Protestants, or will it only serve to bolster their arguments and claims?”

  Bishop Solomon gasped, and he had a befuddled look on his face.

  Vicar Balthasar simply smirked.

  Lord Werner’s brows went high on his forehead.

  It was Vicar Balthasar who spoke next. “I’m inclined to agree with the young priest.”

  “Why is that?” Lord Werner asked, facing the vicar.

  “Because God is merciful, not vengeful. What better way to show God’s mercy than to act with tolerance? Protestant or not, Pastor Hanns Richter is a man of God, and many of the townsfolk listen to him. It might do us a disservice if we were to kill their only outlet to God, no matter how wrong his views might be, my lord. I believe I can sway his people to our just path—without the need for death.”

  Bishop Solomon shook his hands furiously. “And I’m inclined to think that you might be a Protestant yourself, vicar, after hearing you speak in such a baffling manner!” The bishop’s face was bright red as he turned from Balthasar to Lord Werner. “My lord, you can’t really believe—”

  Lord Werner stuck his palm out toward the bishop, and the old man was left stammering, with his mouth hanging open. Then Werner turned to the vicar and asked, “What would you recommend?”

  “I believe,” Balthasar said, clearing his throat, “if we are to act in good faith and tolerance—that we do not execute Hanns Richter. Showing him kindness and mercy will in turn reflect nicely with the peasantry. The Catholics will seem like the bigger people—turning the other cheek, if you will. If we do that, then we simply allow him to fade away. He will never have the same power in Bedburg that he once had, I assure you, my lord.”

  Bishop Solomon shook his head over and over. “A-are you actually implying that we just . . . that we just . . . let him go? Have you gone mad, vicar? What were you even sent here for? Has Cologne rotted your brain?” The bishop’s speeches were much less succinct when they weren’t prepared or practiced.

  “Bishop, please,” Lord Werner said.

  Vicar Balthasar faced the angry bishop, calmly, and nodded. “I’m not implying it, Your Grace. I’m saying it. I believe we should move for the immediate release and banishment of Pastor Hanns Richter.”

  “But you were the man who arrested him, dammit!” Solomon screeched. He faced Lord Werner and said, “My lord, you can’t actually believe this to be a good idea?”

  The little lord was tapping his chin, apparently deep in thought. Dieter could see the cogs turning in his mind.

  “You would come across as a peaceful lord, and would regain the favor of the peasantry,” Balthasar said, putting more of his ideas in Lord Werner’s head.

  This man is good, Dieter thought. He took my words, which sparked a controversy, and is using them as a breaking point between himself and the bishop. Dieter chuckled beneath his breath. Pastor Richter said I have no power here. Let this prove him wrong.

  “You would come across as weak!” Solomon rebutted.

  “All right, all right,” Lord Werner said, putting his palms forward again to silence the raging bishop. “I am inclined to agree with Vicar Balthasar and Father Nicolaus.”

  And just like that, the power that Bishop Solomon had enjoyed for so many years in Bedburg practically vanished, in an instant, right before his eyes. Dieter knew that Solomon would no longer be the religious voice that Lord Werner turned to. Whenever Lord Werner wishes for advice, he’ll think of this moment in time, as precedence. There’s a new voice in Bedburg, and it comes from the mouth of a stout, limping Jesuit—it comes from an outsider.

  “My lord,” Solomon begged, “please reconsider. Hanns Richter is a nuisance and a tyrant. He will spell the downfall of the Catholic faith in Bedburg! And Vicar Balthasar is colluding with him!”

  Lord Werner chuckled. “Bishop, you’re being quite dramatic, don’t you think? My mind is made up. We’ll keep the pastor in jail to try and gain information from him. A week from now, he’ll be released, pardoned, and removed from Bedburg. Hopefully his influence goes away with him.” The lord turned to the vicar. “I hope you’re right about this, Herr Schreib, or God help us.”

  “His influence would die with him, my lord, if you only said the words!” Solomon protested. But his words fell on deaf ears.

  With a flick of his wrist, Lord Werner dismissed everyone from the room.

  Outside the lord’s room, Bishop Solomon fumed. Vicar Bathasar looked smug, and he gave Dieter a nod, before limping away with his staff clacking on the tiled floor.

  The bishop’s cheeks looked like two red-hot tomatoes. He faced Dieter, and with all the venom and spite he could muster, he hissed, “That’s the last time I allow you to undermine me, boy. Et consummata sunt.”

  You are finished.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SYBIL

  Sybil heard voices as she drifted in and out of consciousness.

  “. . . And you’re sure?” said one voice. It sounded like her father’s.

  “Yes. She is no longer chaste.” A long pause, and then Sybil slipped back into darkness.

  When she awoke, it was the afternoon. A splitting headache rippled through her head, down her back. She felt sore all over her body, especially around her thighs. She blinked a few times and then wiped the muck from her eyes. Sitting up, she held her head in her hands and groaned. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep, and was surprised to find herself in her own bed.

  “Father?” she called out.

  Peter barged into the room within seconds. “Beele, my dear, you’re awake!”

  “Where’s Hugo,” Sybil asked. She wasn’t sure why that was the first question that came to mind.

  “He’s asleep in my room. I wanted to let you rest.” Peter walked over to his daughter and put a hand on her forehead. “You’re still warm, but it seems your fever broke.”

  “Fever? How long have I been asleep?” Sybil could hear her head throbbing in her ears, and she couldn’t think clearly.

  “Baron Bergheim returned you late last morning. You slept all day and night. He said that you’d been drinking with his son.” Peter’s voice sounded on edge. “What’s the last thing you remember, Sybil?”

  She tried to think. After a long silence, she said, “I remember being at Baron Bergheim’s mansion with his son . . .” she trailed off. “The last thing I recall is Johannes saying, ‘That took longer than expected.’” She blinked and started massaging her temples.

  Peter closed his eyes and sighed. “Do you remember what you did with Lord Johannes?”

  Sybil shook her head. “I remember drinking a bit of wine, but that’s it.”

  A hard knock came from the front door of the house. Peter stood from Sybil’s bed, cursed under his breath, and called out, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Father Nicolaus, sir. Please, let me in. I must see Sybil.”

  “I’m growing tired of all these visitors, priest,” Peter said through the closed door. “You’ll have to come back—Sybil is unwell.”

  “N-no, father, please,” Sybil said, “let him in. I want to speak with him.” She hadn’t seen Dieter in nearly a week, since their passionate stay at the Achterberg’s estate.

  Peter groaned, but after a moment of staring at his bedridden daughter, he relented. “Fine. But when you’re feeling better, you must get ready.”

  “Ready?”

  Peter swiped his forehead with the back of his forearm. “Yes, ready to leave with Lords Ludwig and Johannes.
Do you not remember the arrangement?”

  Sybil narrowed her eyes at her father. “Who were you talking to while I was sleeping? I heard voices.”

  Peter’s eyes looked around the room, and he scratched the back of his neck. “That was a . . . a physician, sent by Lord Ludwig.”

  “And what did he tell you, father?” Sybil said, growing increasingly suspicious. Her father seemed anxious and skittish. Thoughts of the night with Johannes started to flood through her mind as her head became less hazy. She scowled at the thought of Lord Johannes’ face.

  “Well . . . Lord Bergheim told me that . . . that your relationship with Johannes had been . . . consummated, Beele. The physician confirmed it.”

  An image flashed through Sybil’s mind. She remembered the wineglass falling from her hand, and the sound it made as it hit the ground. Her eyes were suddenly wet, and her lips trembled.

  Peter opened his mouth, and then closed it. He hesitated, and then he left the room and went to open the front door.

  Anything but this, Sybil thought, touching her legs and thighs.

  Dieter popped his head into the room. He had a warm smile on his face. He rushed over to Sybil and embraced her. As he looked at her face at arm’s-length, his smile disappeared.

  “Beele, are you all right? What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Beele?” Peter said, coming to stand next to Dieter. “Only her friends and family call her that.”

  Dieter glanced at Peter, and then turned back to Sybil. “I know that.”

  “Father,” Beele said, sniffling, “please give us privacy.”

  Peter sighed, crossed his arms over his chest, and then slowly nodded and ambled out of the room. He closed the door behind him.