“Which is?”
“By boat, of course.” Johann winked at his two companions. “And I know just where to find one. I expect you two will love the lively city. It’s called Orléans. Allez! ”
He gave his horse a slap on the hindquarters and, followed by Little Satan, rode down the hill toward the road that led west.
Johann hadn’t exaggerated—Orléans was indeed a city to Greta’s taste. It was not gloomy like Metz but spacious and bright, as if a different sun shone in the south.
The Loire was navigable from Orléans, and so the northern bank was crowded with moored boats and rafts of all shapes and sizes. A large bridge with an island in the middle led across the water. Greta saw with amazement how some of the ships folded down their masts to pass beneath the bridge. Behind the defensive walls of the city stood the towers of a cathedral that seemed to be unfinished. The riverside by the ships was as bustling as a fairground. The air was full of the shouting of the skippers on their vessels and the laborers carting the freight off the barges into town.
They had crossed the river at Gien, so that now they approached Orléans via the great bridge. A solid gate tower formed the entrance to the city; it was marked by soot, shot holes, and gashes that looked like wounds.
“The Englishmen tried to take Orléans several times during the war,” explained Johann as they passed through the gate. “The city was an important bridgehead to gain control of the south. The fact that the English didn’t succeed comes down to a single woman. Her name was Joan, daughter of the farmer Jacques d’Arc. In France, she is revered like a saint. They call her Jeanne d’Arc.”
Greta remembered that in the course of their journey through Lorraine and Burgundy, she’d occasionally seen small clay figurines along the roadside. She’d assumed they were statues of Saint Mary, but now she realized they had all been dedicated to this famous Joan. Now they passed yet another memorial of her on the bridge.
“What happened to Joan?” asked Greta, gazing at the statue of the kneeling woman with armor and long hair. The statue prayed, alongside the French king, to a pietà.
“She suffered the same fate as your mother,” replied Johann curtly. “The Maid of Orléans was burned on the pyre as a heretic. By the English, who thereby turned her into a martyr.”
The island in the middle of the bridge was overgrown with grass and bushes and grazed by a handful of sheep. It held a hospital for pilgrims, which also contained an inn, and that was where they stayed. The rooms were plain, the pillows filled with flea-ridden straw, the windows drafty—no comparison to the lodgings the doctor usually preferred. But Johann didn’t want to draw attention; it wasn’t impossible that tales of him had even made it to France. They took care of their horses, left their few belongings with the landlord, and headed for the city. It was late afternoon by now, but the north bank of the river still sounded busy.
“We need to find passage on a ship that can take us all the way to Amboise,” said Johann as they walked across the bridge toward the bustling port to their right. “I don’t think it’s far—two, three days, perhaps.”
Soon they arrived at the port, where the ground was slippery from fish blood and the murky water sloshing over the bank. The smell was of spilled wine, smoke, and pungent spices that had arrived from faraway countries. Sweating day laborers lugged crates to the various boats, dodging tired-looking wagon drivers who had come from the north—some even all the way from Paris—to offload their freight here. Men gesticulated loudly, some argued, and there was noise and shouting like at a cattle market. Built directly against the city wall were numerous taverns and storehouses where barrels, crates, and bales of cloth piled up. Even though they were many miles away from the Atlantic coast, Greta felt like she was at a teeming sea harbor.
After a while they decided to split up and look separately for a ship passage. Now in spring, at the end of the long winter break, the ships were filled to capacity with freight, with no room left for passengers—or if there were any spots, they came at outrageous prices. Johann and Greta were about to head for the last few small barges west of the bridge when Karl came rushing toward them, visibly excited. At his side walked a young man whose wavy fiery-red hair stood out from the crowd. He had no hat and wore a tight-fitting leather jerkin and equally tight leather trousers. His clean-shaven face was covered in freckles. Karl introduced him to the others.
“This is John Reed, a merchant from Scotland. He’s willing to take us to Amboise.”
“To the end of the world if you can pay,” said Reed with a wide grin, exposing two complete rows of white teeth. He spoke German with a faint British accent. “John Reed at your service. Reed as in red—you can probably guess why.”
“We don’t have a lot of money,” said Johann, ignoring Reed’s chatter. “And as far as Amboise will do. How much do you charge?”
“Your companion said you come from Metz and are on your way to Fontevrault Abbey?” said the young merchant. “Then why do you want to go to Amboise? You’d be better off traveling to Tours or all the way to Angers. I could—”
“Let that be our concern,” said Johann.
John Reed eyed the travelers with curiosity, especially Greta. She noticed that the young man with the bright, mischievous eyes was of rather athletic build, his shape accentuated by the tight-fitting clothes. He was wiry and not very tall. A knife that could pass for a short sword dangled from his belt.
“My son and daughter and I are on pilgrimage,” said Johann with a dignified expression, intuiting that Reed expected some sort of explanation. “My beloved wife—God rest her soul—passed away a few months ago. She asked us to atone for her and our sins at the grave of the learned Eleanor of Aquitaine at Fontevrault. But first we’re going to visit relatives at Amboise. My daughter will remain at the abbey as a nun.”
“What a shame,” said John Reed, his eyes again scanning Greta’s body. He grinned, and she noticed that his nose was slightly crooked, like from an old injury. “The world in general and men in particular will lose a veritable gem. Who knows—perhaps you’ll find a wealthy gentleman at the court of the king in Amboise to wed this beauty before the doors of the abbey close forever.”
Greta could feel herself blush and cursed herself for it. The fellow had that very particular kind of charming cockiness that both repulsed and attracted her. And she had to admit that he was rather easy on the eye, even if he wasn’t classically handsome. The red hair and the crooked nose gave him a rakish look. Now it dawned on her why Karl had been so excited. He, too, liked the young man.
“I can pay fourteen livres for the passage,” said Johann, ignoring the flattery of his daughter. “Four for each of us and two for the dog. He is a rather large animal, as you can see.”
“Bloody large.” John Reed scratched his red head of hair as he watched Little Satan lick his private parts. “Fourteen livres isn’t much indeed, considering I’d have to leave profitable freight behind to allow for you. What the hell! I’ll do it.” He winked at Greta and gave a small bow. “The sight of your lovely face will more than make up for it.”
“Better keep your eyes on the river so we don’t have any accidents,” she replied coldly. The fellow was beginning to annoy her.
“In any case,” he said, still smiling, “I’ll see you tomorrow at sunrise. My boat is moored near the bridge. It’s the Étoile de Mer, you can’t miss it.” Reed held out his hand. “You pay half now, and the other half when we arrive at Amboise.”
“You will get the first half once we’re aboard tomorrow, and not a minute sooner,” replied Johann. “I may be a landlubber but I’m not stupid. Good evening to you, Master Reed. We must retire to our prayers.”
“Prayers, of course.” John Reed grinned once more. “Then don’t forget to include Saint Nepomuk in your prayers, the patron saint of skippers and raftsmen, and ask him to keep us safe on our journey. God bless you!”
For some reason Greta had the feeling that the young merchant wasn’t buying thei
r pilgrimage story. But before she could give him another look, he vanished in the crowd with one last nod.
That evening, Karl and Johann sat bent over a chessboard in the taproom of their lodgings. Greta decided to take a stroll through the city. Her father hadn’t been particularly thrilled at the thought, but he accepted the fact that he couldn’t order her around. And so he had said a grumbling farewell and asked her not to be home too late.
Orléans was a large, vibrant city, and Karl understood Greta’s desire to see faces other than his and Johann’s. He regretted now that he had kept the truth from Greta for so long.
As for him, he had enjoyed the journey from Metz to France, especially because there was a chance they would meet the great Leonardo da Vinci at the end of it. Karl had been fortunate enough to admire some of the master’s paintings in person, including a mural at a monastery in Milan that showed Jesus and his disciples at the Last Supper. Karl revered Leonardo’s technique, especially the way in which he seemed to create light as if he knew how to fetch the sun from the sky. But Karl doubted the man’s abilities as a physician.
The sun had gone down by now, and smelly tallow candles were placed on the tables in the taproom. Johann and Karl had chosen a table off to the side where other patrons wouldn’t disturb them, although the large black wolfhound chewing on a ham bone under the table already ensured their privacy.
Johann loved playing chess, and Karl, too, had grown to enjoy the game over the years. These days he even won every now and then, which caused the doctor to quibble and complain. Karl felt proud when he beat Faust at a game considered to be one of cool intellect and known as the game of kings. In those moments he felt closer than ever to the doctor; it was like a game of love that was carried out with pawns instead of kisses—the only form of passion Faust allowed between the two of them. They were two men completely unlike one another who got on best during a round of chess and their scientific discussions of anatomy and Leonardo’s Figura Umana.
“Check,” said Karl, sliding one of his bishops diagonally.
Johann smirked as if he had already anticipated the move. He pushed his pawn forward by one square, forcing Karl to think hard. He hadn’t expected this move; the pawn was completely unprotected. He adjusted his eye glasses and leaned over the chessboard.
“This Reed,” said Johann after a while, interrupting Karl’s train of thought. “What do you think of him?”
“What?” Karl looked startled. “He’s a handsome, bright fellow. A little loudmouthed perhaps, but—”
Johann waved impatiently. “I want to know what you think of him, not whether you want to hop in bed with him. I saw you admiring him. Don’t you go do anything stupid!” He lowered his voice. “I’ve told you a hundred times that your escapades will be our downfall someday. Don’t forget—sodomites end up in the seventh circle of Dante’s hell, together with blasphemers and usurers.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” replied Karl, hurt by Johann’s caustic reproach. “I know the Bamberg penal code as well as you. And Dante’s Inferno.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nasty.” Johann sighed and fiddled with one of the chess pieces that was already off the board. “What I meant was, Do you think Reed is trustworthy?”
Karl shrugged. “Why not? He’s just a Scottish merchant who wants to earn a little extra.”
“A Scottish merchant with remarkably good German,” said Johann somberly. “The sum I offered is laughably low, and yet he didn’t negotiate, not even a little. He agreed immediately.”
“Maybe because he likes the look of Greta?” suggested Karl. “It was rather obvious that he was interested in her.”
Karl hoped the doctor didn’t hear the frustrated note in his voice. It wasn’t the first time that Karl had an eye on a man just to watch him fuss over Greta.
“How did you meet him by the river?”
“Well, he . . . he approached me and . . .” Karl paused. He realized now that it wasn’t he who had found Reed but the other way around. John Reed had asked him if he required passage. The smile of the handsome young man had won Karl over instantly.
“I think we ought to at least be careful,” Johann said, staring at the chessboard as if their onward journey was drawn on it. “Who is to say Tonio hasn’t followed us to Orléans?”
“You . . . you’re saying John might actually be Tonio?” asked Karl with disbelief. “Then he would be incredibly well disguised. I mean, Reed is much younger, his hair is red, and—”
“And he’s making sheep’s eyes at my daughter.” Johann gave a little laugh. “You’re right, I’m seeing ghosts. I’m probably just jealous. Still . . .” He turned serious again. “Did the French delegate look like the same Tonio you met at Nuremberg? He might have changed his guise again, and he’s a master of masquerade. Trust me, I know.”
Karl said nothing. He was no longer certain whether the figure at Metz really had been the French delegate Louis Cifre. All this talk about the devil and his many faces seemed so fantastical to him—he believed in science. A new age was dawning, and what they talked about here sounded like old-fashioned superstition.
“Have you ever considered that all those stories might be the result of your own fears?” said Karl as he made his next move. “You’re plagued by a terrible illness and you’re looking for someone to blame. It’s understandable. And now you’ve found the devil. But what if it is nothing but a disease? There’s no evidence that Tonio is following us, and none at all that he is responsible for everything. Not one scrap!”
“He is,” grumbled Johann.
“And the proof? Where is the proof? We would do better to ask ourselves why the pope is after you. Now that is a real danger, not some random ghost story about the devil.”
Karl shook his head. He still couldn’t understand how his master, normally the most rational person in the world, could become so entangled with the occult.
“And why should Tonio be following us in the first place?” asked Karl more gently. “Let us assume for the moment that he really did send you this curse, perhaps as a kind of reminder of your pact. Then why should he be sniffing after you like a dog? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Because it is not me he is after, but her.” Johann moved his white queen forward, close to the black king. “He is after Greta. Back then in Nuremberg, Tonio said that he could also perform the ritual with her. That he would beget a child with her. A child of the devil.”
“You can’t be serious,” Karl hissed.
“He who dances with the devil must be ready for anything,” said Johann. “I’ve been watching the birds in the sky. Tonio always used to send out his birds as scouts. Two crows and an old raven. I think I saw them again. And where the birds are, Tonio is never far.” His gaze went into the distance. “Now make your next move.”
Karl moved his rook into a new position without really thinking about it. His mind was on other things now. The doctor was slipping away from him, living more and more in his own world—a circumstance that Karl found incredibly painful. Faust was moving beyond his grasp. And Karl would have so much liked to take care of him.
“I spoke to a few people earlier about the great war that took place around here a hundred years ago,” said Johann, his eyes now fixed on the chessboard. “The war is still very much in people’s minds in these parts, and especially Jeanne d’Arc. Did you know that was precisely the time when Gilles de Rais was marshal of France? He was at Joan’s side when she rode against the English—he was her champion.”
Karl looked up. “Gilles de Rais and that martyr woman knew each other?”
“Oh yes, and more. Agrippa showed me the old records. The villain was always at her side. Later, too, during the battles of Jargeau and Patay. Her loyal liege and bodyguard. There were people who claimed the two were a couple. At the very least, Gilles was devoted to her until the day she was burned at the stake in Rouen.”
“By the devil and all the saints.” Karl shook his head. “Reali
ty is sometimes more bizarre than any ghost story. I’m only glad—”
He faltered when he noticed the doctor’s trembling. Johann’s left hand hovered about a finger’s breadth above the table, trying desperately to reach one of the chess pieces. But he couldn’t do it. His arm was completely stiff.
“Your arm is paralyzed,” called out Karl, loudly enough for some of the patrons to turn their heads.
“Damn,” uttered Johann through clenched teeth and dropped the hand back down. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead. “Yes, in God’s name, it is paralyzed. It’s been coming and going for weeks. Usually it is worse in the evenings. Greta noticed a long time ago.”
He fell silent, and Karl knew what they were both thinking. If the paralysis continued to spread, the doctor would soon be nothing but a stiff puppet.
“All the more reason to travel as fast as we can,” gasped Johann, leaning back in his chair, his face as white as chalk. “Order wine for me.”
“I don’t think you should—”
“Get me wine, I said! If I can’t play chess, at least I want to get drunk.”
Karl was about to stand up and signal to the tavern keeper when he saw a movement behind the window. It was Greta, wildly knocking on the window with an expression of horror on her face. She looked as though she’d just seen a ghost.
Two hours earlier, Greta had felt free for the first time in a long while.
After saying goodbye to Karl and her father, she had strolled through the lanes of Orléans, crossed lively little squares, and walked past the many taverns and colorfully painted half-timbered houses, the sounds of city life streaming through open windows. She drank wine, drifted with the crowd, and caught scraps of French conversations. Her father was right. News of the German emperor’s death had made it to France. The French king had cut short one of his many hunting parties for consultations at court—after all, he was a possible candidate for the German throne. Apparently Francis I had already paid an incredible sum of money in bribes to the German electors—money that France needed badly, and more than a few people grumbled about it.
The Devil's Pawn Page 17
