The Devil's Pawn

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Susie, dear Susie, what’s rustling in the straw?

  And there was something else she couldn’t stop thinking about.

  “This dead boy,” she said, cutting off John as he once more praised the smelly stew. “I can’t stop thinking about the mother’s words. ‘The ogre eats our children.’ You know what it means, right? I could see it in your face.”

  “Touché.” John sighed and put down his spoon. “I didn’t want to frighten you with old tales. I thought it wouldn’t be a good start for a merry evening together. But, very well, if you really want to know: the ogre is an ancient mythical creature. They say he eats little children. He makes jewelry from their bones and wears their skulls around his neck. Parents in the Loire Valley use his tale to frighten their children.” He raised a finger and made his voice sound low and menacing. “If you’re not good and don’t eat up your salty stew, the ogre will come and swallow you whole.”

  “That’s not a joking matter,” said Greta. “Do . . .” She hesitated. “Do children often die in this area?”

  “How do you mean?” John looked confused. “Well, no more than elsewhere, I guess. But now that you mention it . . .”

  Greta felt the hair on her neck stand on end. “Yes?”

  “I remember hearing some horror stories—a little farther southwest, though. Toward Brittany. I heard merchants talking about missing children being found with their throats slit open. They said that there wasn’t a drop of blood left in their bodies, as if someone had sucked them out like an oyster.” John shook his head. “That’s nonsense, of course. Most likely, those children fell victim to some scoundrels. The woods are full of bad fellows, madmen and lepers. Or they were taken by slave traders. It happens—the Atlantic Ocean isn’t far.”

  “How long has that been going on?” asked Greta.

  “How should I know? I’ve been going up and down the Loire for years. You hear all sorts of things.” John frowned. “Why are you so interested?”

  “You’re probably right—not a good topic of conversation for our evening together. Especially not with oversalted, tough ram stew.” Greta tried to smile, but it came out a little crooked. “Please don’t be offended if I’m not raving about your meal, in spite of your enthusiasm.”

  John laughed. “The look on your face when the bowl hit the table said enough. Scottish cuisine is perhaps a little peculiar. But you can make it up to me by not talking about such awful matters anymore.”

  “Agreed.” Greta nodded. But her mind continued to churn. Could those gruesome incidents be connected with Tonio? She thought about the missing children at Metz, the dead girl under the bridge, and the monster drinking her blood. But the murders John told her about seemed to have happened a while ago. If Tonio had been following them to France all this time, it couldn’t have been him. She decided not to mention anything to Johann for now. Maybe Karl was right and she was seeing ghosts where there were none. Karl was the only sensible one among them.

  He and John.

  She pushed the bowl of cold stew aside. “I’m full. If you don’t mind, I could really do with some fresh air.”

  “Not at all. I don’t like the dessert here, anyhow. Beer sweetened with honey.” John grinned and picked a piece of meat out from between his teeth. “I don’t think you’d like it. And I admit that the stew has been better. They didn’t put enough kidney in, and the ram was probably older than the lambs of Abraham.” He stood up. “Let’s go outside. I want to show you a place that you’ll never forget. It’ll take your mind off things.”

  He took her by the hand and led her outside, the dog trailing quietly. Greta was surprised how willingly she followed John. Just last night she’d feared that he might pounce on her like a common thief, and now she walked with him through the dark alleys of Blois. But she felt safe at his side. The encounter in the reeds near Orléans had shown her that Tonio and her nightmares could haunt her anywhere. She saw the glowing windows of the castle in the distance, dozens of them, and Greta wondered how many candles were burning inside.

  As many as there are stars in the sky, she thought. What a wondrous valley this is—divine and devilish at once.

  “Where are we going?” she asked John, but he merely smiled enigmatically.

  “It’s a surprise. You will like it.”

  They were headed straight toward the castle on the opposite hill. When they reached the lower walls, John turned and walked along the wall until they came to an ivy-covered older part. John pushed the ivy aside, and Greta saw there was a gap behind it, just wide enough for a person to slip through.

  With a grin, John held up a half-chewed bone he’d been hiding in his pocket. “If the old ram isn’t much good for anything else, at least it’ll keep the dog occupied for a little while.”

  He tossed the bone into the air, and Little Satan caught it nimbly. He immediately settled down to chew on it. Meanwhile, John slipped through the gap, and a moment later Greta heard his voice from the other side.

  “Your turn.”

  Greta felt like she was ten years old again. A faded memory came to her mind. She had lived with Valentin in Nuremberg at the Order of the Teutonic Knights, and sometimes a boy her age, the son of a girdle maker, visited her by climbing over the wall of the commandery. Together they had roamed the lanes of Nuremberg by night—the dirty yards, the bridges, the deserted cemeteries. At John’s side she felt like a little girl again.

  And just like back then, you’re doing foolish things.

  She followed John though the gap and found him waiting on the other side. They were standing among boxwood bushes looking like fantastic beasts in the light of the moon. Further on, Greta could see rosebushes bearing the first buds. The air smelled of flowers and spring. A chilly breeze swept through the bushes, but Greta wasn’t cold.

  “The royal garden,” explained John in a whisper. “I found the hole in the wall not long ago.”

  “And how many girls have you brought here since?” jeered Greta, trying, unsuccessfully, to sound confident. She allowed John to lead her past the rosebushes and freshly raked flower beds to a brick wall as high as her hips. On the other side, the land dropped steeply, and the Loire gleamed below them like a ribbon of black silk. Above the garden, the stars and the moon seemed to compete with the sparkling lights of the castle. John looked at her.

  “Did I promise too much?”

  He grasped her hands and pulled her close. Greta hesitated. How dare he? Did he believe she’d let him take her like some sort of hussy? But then she just let go. So many awful things had happened in the last few weeks, so much death and suffering, but this park here seemed to be a different world—a better, safer world, where she was protected by John Reed, this red-haired braggart of a Scotsman with his crooked nose and flashing eyes. He gave her the feeling that there was a normal life beyond all the horrible things that had been going on. She smelled his sweat and it reminded her of a young fox. Then her lips found his.

  “I . . . I’m not one of those, you know . . . ,” said Greta between kisses.

  John chuckled softly. “Neither am I. That’s one thing we have in common.”

  His tongue was wet and demanding, toying with her, and she let herself fall. It was as if John was taking away all her fears from the last few days and weeks. In his arms she could forget everything—Tonio del Moravia, her father, the horrible things she’d seen, and her fear of the future.

  If she really had to, there would be plenty of time tomorrow to regret her weakness.

  8

  THEY HAD ONLY ABOUT TWENTY MILES TO GO UNTIL Amboise, but Johann felt like it was an eternity. Every single mile stretched as if they were fighting their way through muddy swamps. Fog covered the river, bathing the landscape in a milky white that seemed to swallow everything.

  Shortly after their departure from Blois, Johann had walked to the boat’s prow and gazed ahead, as if he could somehow speed up their journey. Once he thought he saw an old raven with ruffled feathers in a willow tree,
but he could have been mistaken. Back then, many years ago, Tonio had him followed by his crows and the raven, and it wasn’t impossible that he was doing so again.

  Hundreds of doubts and worries raced through Johann’s mind. What if Leonardo wasn’t currently at Amboise? What if he didn’t want to receive Johann? And even if he managed to get through to the old genius, who was to say that Leonardo knew anything about this accursed disease—if he was still sick at all? Maybe da Vinci’s illness had passed by now like an upset stomach, and the whole journey was for nothing.

  And Johann’s strength waned with every day, with every hour.

  How much time do I have left? Who is going to look after Greta when I’m no longer around? Karl? I’ll have to talk to him.

  Johann hated depending on others. He had always been free and made his own decisions. But now he needed help. His paralysis had become worse overnight. His left arm was nothing but a dead piece of meat, and he felt as though his facial expressions sometimes froze for brief moments. He hoped Greta hadn’t yet noticed how poorly he was doing. It wouldn’t do any good if she worried even more. Although she appeared to be preoccupied with something else.

  Or rather someone else.

  Johann now and then glanced to the back, where Greta stood beside John, flirting. Johann had noticed that their demeanor had changed since the previous night, even though they tried to hide it. There were certain moments between them, smiles, furtive touches. At least Amboise was near, and therewith the end of their journey on the Étoile de Mer.

  Farewell forever, John Reed.

  “If looks could kill, our John would long be floating in the river. But I guess that’s the difference between you and a real sorcerer.”

  Karl had stepped beside Johann. The younger man smiled thinly. “I was afraid Greta might like the boy. I know her taste. He’s got that little something. He may not be a Greek god, but he makes up for it with wit and charm.”

  “Only yesterday you thought he was rather handsome, didn’t you?” said Johann grumpily. “To be honest, I would rather the fellow were dallying with you, not with my daughter. I told you I don’t trust the guy farther than I can spit. I never should have left them alone last night.”

  “You forget once more that Greta is no longer a child,” said Karl with a twinkle in his eye. “And you kept the secret of your paternity from her for too long to have any say in her life. Besides, I think you’re too suspicious. John might be a flirt, but—”

  “Well, we won’t have to worry about him for much longer,” said Johann, turning away brusquely.

  It was true, he mistrusted Reed. But the truth was, he was also consumed by jealousy. While he slowly rotted alive, his daughter amused herself with this ginger fop. He had never before felt this helpless. A cripple without a plan. What had become of the famous Doctor Faustus and his great mind always devising a solution?

  A fanfare tore him from his daydreams. It had come from somewhere in the fog in front of them. A second fanfare followed, and emerging from the fog on the left bank was another castle, the biggest one so far. It stood on a terrace-like elevation and looked splendid with its towers, crenellations, and large windows, just like Blois and other castles they’d seen along the way. The buildings seemed familiar to Johann. Evidently, the French kings had sent for architects from Italy but also added their own twists, something dreamy that went well with the swamps and the milky sun under which the Loire ran its course. Fairy-tale castles—beautiful and eerie at once.

  Amboise, thought Johann, his heart beating faster.

  The harbor was just as bustling as the ones at Orléans and Blois. Johann could hardly wait for the boat to be tied up. When they finally stopped moving, he picked up his bundle and handed Reed a few coins.

  “I thank you. We will no longer require your services.”

  John looked astonished. “So fast? Why don’t you at least wait until—”

  “I’m afraid we can’t put off the visit to our relatives any longer. I hope your business will continue to go well.”

  Johann briefly raised his pilgrim’s hat and walked ashore, hastily followed by Karl. Greta stood next to John for another moment, then she ran after her father.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” she asked angrily and tugged at his sleeve. “We’ve been traveling for weeks and now we’re suddenly out of time?”

  She turned to look at John, who was still standing at the railing, staring after them. He waved, and Greta waved back.

  “It’s because of him, isn’t it?” she said bitterly. “You don’t like that I went with him. You don’t want me to go with anyone.”

  “I freely admit that I don’t like the fellow. But you seem to like it when the next-best harbor rat courts you. In your disguise as a future nun you ought to—”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you. That I become a nun with you as my only god. Do you have any idea how self-absorbed and bullheaded you are, you . . . you sick old man!”

  Greta clearly regretted her harsh words the moment she’d said them. She stopped and gave her father a sad look.

  “By God, I just don’t know what’s going to happen. To me, to us, to . . .” She looked back toward John. “Everything is about as clear as this damned fog. I just need a bit of a diversion from all the creepy things that have been happening.”

  “And you shall have it,” replied Johann. “We’re visiting the most famous painter and inventor in the world, remember?” He closed the gap between them and touched her gently. “I’m sorry for being so abrupt. I’m sure your John will stay here for the day. You can call on him later, all right?”

  Greta hesitated for a moment and glanced back at John. “Give me a minute,” she said to Johann.

  She walked back to John and they exchanged a few words. Johann saw that their hands touched for longer than was proper. Then Greta returned.

  “All right.” She nodded. “John has to take care of the freight, anyway. It’s not like I don’t want to meet this famous man, this genius the whole world talks about. It isn’t every day that I meet someone who is even more famous and smarter than my father.”

  “And he is probably only half as self-absorbed as me,” said Johann with a smile.

  Amboise clearly owed its prosperity to the castle, towering like a huge shadow directly above the town, and a wide bridge that led across the Loire. It was the first bridge since Orléans, and the road was accordingly busy. Carts clattered across the timber planks, and horses and donkeys laden with sacks and bales were led toward the market.

  The town itself was wedged between the Loire and a smaller river. It was narrow in shape and consisted mainly of a few parallel lanes lined by half-timbered houses and a few more significant stone houses, which probably accommodated court officials. The fog had lifted. As the small group with the dog passed through the city gate, Johann noticed a bell tower above them with a clock that had a minute hand. Only the wealthiest cities could afford such clocks. The burghers they passed were dressed in fine garments with bright colors. They all seemed to be in a hurry and kept their eyes straight ahead, as if every one of them fulfilled a particularly important task.

  It wasn’t difficult to find the house of Leonardo da Vinci. The first passerby they asked told them the way. They left town through the back gate and walked past several houses made of volcanic tuff that were built into the rock like caves. The dusty road led along the same terrace where the royal castle was located. After about a quarter mile they reached a wall surrounding a two-storied house built with red roof tiles and gray tuff, and several smaller outbuildings. In contrast to the castle, which they could still see in the background, the house seemed modest, more appropriate for a higher administrator than for one of the greatest minds of Christendom.

  Johann could tell by the crowd gathered outside the gate that they were at the right place. The people seemed to wait as reverently as the disciples of a messiah. Most of them, with their dusty clothes and creased hats, looked like they had traveled far
to be here. Several court officials in livery were among the crowd, accompanied by a handful of soldiers. The men armed with halberds paced the rows of supplicants and appeared to question each one about their business. Johann noticed that people spoke in hushed voices, like at a funeral.

  “Is it always this busy?” asked Karl, looking around. “I mean, Leonardo is a famous painter and inventor, but this . . .” He tapped the onlooker closest to him, an older man who looked like a scribe with his black garb and slightly inflamed eyes. “Are all those people here to see Leonardo da Vinci?”

  “Well, only very few will actually get to see him,” the man said with a shrug. “But everyone wants to pay their respects to the great artist before it’s too late.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Johann.

  The man looked at him with wonder. “Haven’t you heard? Leonardo da Vinci is seriously ill. The physicians say he won’t be with us for much longer. The king has already been to say farewell. Apparently his majesty would have liked to stay longer—he loves Leonardo like a father, after all—but the election in the German Empire forced him—”

  “I must see him,” said Johann, trying to hide his shock. At the same time he felt strangely empty.

  It can’t be! Please, God, tell me it isn’t true!

  “See Leonardo da Vinci?” The man gave a low chuckle. “Look around you!” He gestured at the crowd of others waiting outside the gate. “Everyone here feels somehow connected to Leonardo. And many have come a long way to be here. The master worked in Rome as well as Florence and Milan. I myself have traveled from Romorantin, where we still hope for a canal system thought up by the great Leonardo that will drain our swamps. I am the second mayor there.” He made a sweeping gesture at everyone around them. “These people are patricians, officials, and some commoners who want to thank the master for a small sketch or a painting in a church. Others are here to seek his advice, or they hope to gain access to his famous notebooks where he recorded many of his inventions. There is so much the master knows, and it would be a pity if it were forgotten after his death.”