Devil in the Countryside Page 4

  If nothing else, Georg Sieghart was a tracker and a hunter, and he knew when he was being followed.

  It was the faint sound of another pair of boots slogging through the mud, slightly out of sync with his own. It came from behind him, at a hurried pace.

  Georg made sure not to give himself away. He kept his same stride and stared forward at the wet ground. Then he abruptly changed his course and started zigzagging around buildings, cutting corners sharply.

  The wind and rain drowned out the footsteps from behind him, and he rounded the corner of another building and put his back against the wall and nestled his head against the cold stones. He unsheathed a long knife from his belt, and waited with bated breath as his heart thumped in his chest.

  After a long moment, the footsteps grew louder.

  Then the footsteps stopped, and all Georg could hear was the rain falling against the mud, and his own heart beating faster and faster in his ears. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he breathed deeply, three times.

  Holding his breath, he leaped out from the corner to face his pursuer, dagger held taut in his hand.

  A dark, hooded figure stood motionless at the other end of the building, just ten paces away. He was a small man, but Georg couldn’t make out much more than that.

  They both stood silent, with the rain dripping down their bodies.

  Then the hooded figure jumped away and sprinted off to the left, away from Georg’s sight and around the side of the building.

  Georg took off running after the man, reached the end of the building, and sidestepped cautiously around the corner.

  He was met with nothing: no sword-point waiting to run him through, no hooded figure. It was as if the person had vanished into the rain. More likely, he had disappeared in the maze of labyrinthine alleyways and roads.

  Georg’s mind raced as he decided if it was worth giving chase. He sighed, waited for another moment, and sheathed his knife. For now, he just wanted a drink to celebrate his day.

  He’ll know where to find me, Georg thought.

  As he walked the rest of the way to the tavern, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulders, eyes darting in all directions. But he didn’t see the hooded figure for the rest of the trek.

  A tidal wave of warm, stale air sailed into Georg’s face as he walked into the tavern. The place was already bustling with commotion and lively patrons. On a night when a storm was imminent and the working men didn’t want to return to their wives and families, this was clearly the place to congregate.

  The fireplace was lit along the left wall, and men surrounded it and rubbed their hands to dry off and warm their bones. The tavern’s round-tables were occupied with drunks, and they all seemed to fancy themselves as master storytellers. The barmaids and wenches perused the tables and sat on laps, whispered into ears, giggled at the drunken, stupid jokes, and put up with getting their asses slapped as they walked away.

  All in all, it was a regular night at the tavern.

  One woman that caught Georg’s eye wore a short skirt that showed off her pale thighs, and her corset was wrapped tightly around her slim body. Her fiery red hair bounced on her slender shoulders as she sauntered over to a table of three men.

  As if on cue, one of the men slapped her ass as she walked by, and the redhead immediately spun and kicked out viciously, striking her high-heel straight into the man’s chest. The man gasped, lost the air in his lungs, and plummeted off his chair, hitting the wooden floor with a thud.

  The other two men were taken aback, shocked, and then they quickly broke into a fit of laughter. The fallen man tried to act angry, but he was too flustered, and his friends were laughing too hard, so he just ended up looking embarrassed and ashamed as he struggled to his chair. The redhead said something to the emasculated man, and the man nodded glumly, his eyes cast downward.

  Georg had met the redhead the other night, and he’d grown to like her. “Ah, sweet, vicious Josephine,” he said to himself, chuckling.

  “Are you going to stand in the doorway all night, or are you going to drink? Come on and close the door. It’s colder than my mother’s tits out there.”

  Georg turned to the voice, which came from the bar. He smiled. It was the same strange investigator from the night before.

  “Ah! It’s the spy,” Georg said, walking over to the bar with a grin on his face. He slapped the investigator hard on the back, and the thin man coughed. “How are you this evening?”

  Investigator Franz controlled his cough, and then looked Georg up and down, as if studying his goofy smile. “I’m assuming not as well as you,” he said.

  Georg took a seat next to the investigator, reached into a pocket, and slammed a handful of silver coins on the table. “Next round is on me.”

  Investigator Franz took a sip from his mug, raised his eyebrows, and then made his hands into a steeple on the table. “Ah, empty pockets one day, buying rounds the next. A true soldier of fortune. Where does such fortune spring from?”

  “From the well of blood, my friend. Skinned myself three wolf pelts and a pair of antlers today,” Georg said with a smile. “So I’m out of poverty—at least for the next few days.”

  Investigator Franz looked shocked. “You trapped the wolves yourself?”

  Georg made a face that seemed to ask, Is there any other way? “Of course,” he said. “The tanner gave me a fair deal for the hides.”

  “And you were alone?” The investigator’s face was creased with wrinkles. He started twisting his thin mustache. “What about the beast?”

  “What about him? What do you think I was out there looking for?”

  Heinrich paused, opened his mouth, and then closed it. He raised his mug of ale. “You are a braver man than I, my good hunter.”

  A moment later, the barkeep, Lars, walked over to Georg and presented him with a mug. His eyes lit up when he saw the silver coins in front of the hunter. Lars was a tall, light-skinned man with short blond hair, and a beard to match. Georg flung the barkeep a silver coin, and Lars went back to his conversation with a stout man sitting on the other side of Investigator Franz.

  Georg took a long pull from his mug, belched loudly, and then wiped some drops from his beard. “So, how goes the investigation?”

  “I can’t talk about that,” Heinrich said. “It’s ongoing.”

  Georg shrugged, and both of the men were quiet for a time, people-watching and drinking their drinks.

  Obviously wanting to get something off his chest, Investigator Franz finally said, “I’ve hit a couple dead leads. But I have some others.”

  Georg wasn’t convinced. He smiled, drained the rest of his ale, and said, “How much would I have to pay you to stop chasing the werewolf?”

  Investigator Franz frowned and stared at the hunter.

  “You are my competition, after all,” Georg clarified.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “Both. I work for Lord Werner, Georg, and can’t stop until this . . . thing is found and killed.” He stopped and looked around the tavern. “Why are you so obsessed with this creature, anyway?” He nodded toward the silver coins sitting in front of Georg. “It seems you can make a good living trapping and hunting.”

  Georg grunted. “I could make a living, but where’s the glory in that? Imagine being the man who butchered the Werewolf of Bedburg. He’d be a hero.”

  “I plan on being that man,” Investigator Franz said.

  “Not if I find him first.”

  Georg could feel the investigator’s eyes boring into him. He suddenly felt tired, and he stared down at his empty mug and said, in a low voice, “I have a personal vendetta with the beast, you could say.”

  Lars walked over and put another drink in front of Georg.

  “Ah,” the investigator said, “so the truth comes out. A vendetta—how so?”

  Georg groaned, and then looked past Investigator Franz. “That Josephine sure is a fiery one, ain’t she
?”

  The investigator turned and gazed at the woman. He shrugged.

  Georg stared at another girl, smiled, and then looked at Heinrich “Want me to buy you one of them?” he asked, nudging his chin toward a busty brunette. “My treat. Have a little fun. I’ve got the money.”

  “No, that’s quite all right. Save your money.”

  Just then, the big man sitting next to Investigator Franz and conversing with Lars stood from his chair. People turned in his direction when he spoke with a booming voice. “How can you say that, Lars? The man is a staunch Catholic! Sigismund will do great things for Poland. You just watch.” He ended his spiel by thrusting a finger toward Lars.

  “International politics, how great,” Georg muttered to the investigator, shaking his head. King Sigismund III, the newly crowned king of Poland, faced frequent Protestant incursions, and his support amongst the Catholics was a hot topic of debate.

  But as Georg drank his ale and minded his own business, Investigator Heinrich Franz suddenly spoke up. “Well, what about Saul Wahl?”

  A wave of gasps swept through the tavern, and all eyes were on the big drunk, and Investigator Franz. The angry man looked as though Heinrich had just spit in his mug. “You mean the Jew? Saul Wahl, the One-Day King?”

  Investigator Franz nodded. “One and the same. Jew or gentile, a man’s leadership should not rest on his religion, no?”

  Georg put a hand on the investigator’s shoulder, and whispered, “Heinrich, I don’t think this is a good—”

  “And what are you, some blasphemous heathen?” the loud drunk said. “The pope is our voice, in polity and sanctity. Anyone who says otherwise is a heretic and a cur, you filthy Jew-lover.”

  The large man’s nose nearly touched the top of Heinrich’s head, and his stale breath pushed past the investigator.

  “I’m not a Jew-lover,” the investigator said, “I am simply a man.”

  By this point, most of the conversations in the tavern had paused. People were backing away from the two men. The drunk Catholic was twice the weight of the investigator, and nearly a head taller.

  “Want to find out how much of a man you are?” the big man asked, cracking his knuckles.

  Investigator Franz shrugged and sighed. He started to turn away from the man, and said, “It’s no matter—”

  And then he was flying to the floor, away from his stool, with ale cascading over his head. The punch sent the investigator crashing to the ground, in a heap.

  More gasps came from around the tavern.

  The big man drove his foot into Heinrich’s side, who was gasping for air and writhing in pain.

  Georg’s eyes went wide, and he grabbed the nearest hard object: his clay mug. He clenched the mug hard and slammed it into the side of the big man’s head. The mug broke into a thousand pieces, and the dazed drunk went slack and flew into a nearby table, sending more mugs crashing to the ground. Ale spilled from the tables like small waterfalls.

  Blood seeped from the big Catholic’s head, and he was silent. Investigator Franz choked for breath, slowly bringing himself to his knees.

  Georg stood between the crumpled Catholic and Investigator Franz, the handle of his clay mug still resting in his raised hand.

  Heinrich got to his knees and started to say, “I sh—I should arrest . . .” and then he broke into a coughing fit.

  Georg helped him up by his arm. “No, no, friend,” he said. “I think it’s best if you get out of here. Sleep it off, eh? You’ll be fine in the morning.”

  Investigator Franz looked dazed, and his eyes were wild with anger. He stumbled into a stool, nearly fell onto another table, and made his way to the door. Before leaving, he declared that, “You’re all criminal fanatics!” and he pointed at each and every person in the tavern, one by one. “Letting your religious ridiculousness dictate y-your . . . your conscience.”

  Georg slapped himself on the forehead. He helped push the investigator out of the tavern, and Heinrich went stumbling out into the rain.

  When Georg turned to go back in for another drink, the redheaded bargirl, Josephine, was standing in front of him. She glanced at the dazed Catholic man on the ground.

  “That man is an asshole,” she said.

  “Which one?” Georg asked.

  Josephine looked up at him. She was prettier than he’d even recognized—sparkling green eyes the color of emeralds, big red lips, soft freckles dotting her nose. She smiled, and dimples formed on her rosy cheeks. “Both of them,” she said.

  Georg grinned dumbly back at her.

  “That was nice of you to protect your friend, lumberjack.” She grabbed him by the arm, and ran her soft hand down his rough forearm. “Though it was stupid of him to thrust himself into other people’s business.”

  “He was drunk.”

  “Well, he should learn his place and not get into fights he can’t win.”

  “I think he believes he can win every fight.”

  Josephine chuckled. It was a soft, airy laugh—sweet and sour at the same time.

  Georg pulled at his beard and shrugged. Then he grinned again. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  She nodded toward the stairs at the back of the tavern, and then smiled with her big red lips. “Come on, lumberjack. My business is one that I won’t mind you . . . thrusting into.”

  Georg stuttered and stammered and lost all motor control. Josephine led him by the hand, practically dragging him, and they stepped over the dazed, prone Catholic, and vanished up the stairs.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DIETER

  The next morning was dreary and gray. Rain kept falling and fog swirled through the streets. Father Dieter Nicolaus expected the weather to deplete his congregation at Mass. He’d become the regular minister, taking the aging Bishop Solomon’s place, who seemed increasingly frustrated with life in Bedburg.

  The bishop sealed himself away in his lavish chambers for nearly all hours of the day, presumably writing letters to other members of the diocese about the growing discord and insolence of the Lutherans and Calvinists in his city. While they remained subdued and quiet for the most part, the Protestant numbers seemed to be growing, in secret.

  For Dieter, it seemed like only a matter of time before some kind of civil revolt took place in town, despite Castle Bedburg being a major hub for Catholic mercenaries in the region. Dieter feared what kind of bloodshed would result from an uprising, and it was his job, he felt, to quell the violent rumors that he heard from his people. He was a man of peace, and it was his duty to pass that notion onto others.

  It was becoming harder and harder for the young priest to continue preaching the hate-filled sermons that Bishop Solomon made him preach. If anything, the sermons decrying the Protestants only seemed to strengthen their cause, and made them more rebellious.

  There had been peace in Bedburg for nearly a year, but Dieter feared that peace was coming to an end, which is why he decided to reach out to Bishop Solomon before Mass. He hoped to change the old man’s thoughts—or at least his public stance—on the hateful sermonizing.

  As he walked through the empty church with his hands tucked beneath his robe, a young, shaggy-headed boy—just on the cusp of adolescence—ran out from the hallway that led to the bishop’s chambers. The boy’s eyes were red-rimmed and cast downward as he stormed past Dieter, toward the doors of the church.

  The young adolescent was an altar boy, one whom Dieter recognized. The priest gave the altar boy a concerned look as they passed each other.

  What is he doing here so early, before the first light of dawn? Dieter wondered.

  Dieter shook his head and turned the corner to the hallway, continuing toward the bishop’s chambers. As he turned the corner, Sister Salome was walking toward him, and they both hopped backwards to avoid running into each other.

  “Sister,” Dieter said with a nod.

  “Father,” Salome said, a solemn expression on her face. “I have the information you requested.”


  Dieter cocked his head. “Information?”

  “About the hunter, Georg Sieghart.”

  “Ah, yes. I’d nearly forgotten about him.” Dieter hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Sybil Griswold over the past day, and it was quite a distraction. As much as he tried, he simply couldn’t get her out of his head. “What have you uncovered?” he asked.

  “Before he was a hunter, Herr Georg Sieghart was a pikeman and arquebusier in the Spanish Army of Flanders,” the nun said. She had her hands clasped behind her back.

  “He looked as though he had a military background,” Dieter said, rubbing his chin. “Where was he stationed?”

  “He was a mercenary fighting for the Duke of Parma, Alexander Farnese. He fought in and around Westphalia, and together with Farnese he fought at the Battle of Werl against Martin Schenck, a general of Cologne’s former archbishop.”

  “He fought against the Calvinists?”

  Sister Salome nodded. “He was involved in numerous campaigns and battles, and helped raze many Protestant villages—including ones filled with women and children.”

  Dieter frowned and ran a hand through his hair. He felt somewhat perturbed at Sister Salome’s ability to speak about the most disturbing things in such a matter-of-fact way. “So he is troubled for a reason. I can see why he’d question his faith.”

  “Moreover,” Salome continued, “he deserted his army for unknown reasons. Upon returning to his family farm near Cologne, he discovered his wife and unborn son brutally murdered . . . supposedly by the Werewolf of Bedburg.”

  Dieter sighed. “God have mercy. Do you suppose it’s true?”

  Salome shrugged.

  Dieter narrowed his eyes on the nun. “How did you come about all this information, Salome?”

  “Herr Sieghart frequents a tavern, and the barkeep there is a gossipmonger of sorts. Lars, as he’s called, will tell you anything for the right price. He says that Georg Sieghart comes to the tavern nearly every night, and when he’s drunk enough, he either takes a . . . lady to the rooms upstairs, or he leaves to a nearby inn.”