The Devil's Pawn

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Hagen was about to give the signal when he noticed movement below the bridge. He squinted into the darkness.

  Someone was there!

  Hagen saw the figure clearly now, hunched amid the bridge’s beams like a giant bat. Then Hagen saw other men clad in black beneath the bridge—they were about to climb up.

  What the hell?

  Hagen’s thoughts raced. They certainly weren’t Frenchmen. Why should they climb their own bridge in a secret mission? And obviously, it wasn’t his own men. They were standing behind him awaiting his orders.

  Who are you?

  When the first mysterious intruders climbed over the bridge railing and headed toward the guards’ chamber, Hagen realized that he didn’t have much time. Hunched over, he started to run as soundlessly as possible in his heavy leather armor. Just as he reached the bridge, another figure climbed over the railing. He was entirely clad in black and, like the others, wore a black mask over his face. Hagen only saw the gleaming whites of the eyes. The man seemed just as surprised as Hagen, but he committed a crucial mistake.

  He spoke to Hagen.

  “¿Amigo o enemigo?” whispered the stranger.

  Those words told Hagen enough. He shoved the man hard on his chest, and the man screamed as he fell into the depths.

  A moment later, chaos broke loose on the bridge.

  Men roared commands and ran at each other with swords and knives. Crossbow bolts whirred through the air, and some hit their targets. The soldiers from the guards’ chamber ran onto the bridge. Hagen heard shouts in Spanish, French, and Swiss German, and he spun around when another masked man stormed toward him with his short sword raised. In one fluid movement, Hagen stepped to the side, drew his sword, and turned sideways. When the man’s sword struck thin air, the huge Swiss mercenary lunged and decapitated his opponent with one single stroke. The headless torso ran for a few more yards until it finally collapsed.

  A bolt shot into Hagen’s muscular thigh. He clenched his teeth and fended off another attack with his two-handed sword. This was where he felt most at home—in battle. His blood was rushing in his ears, and he felt a greater thrill than he ever did with women.

  This is my world!

  In the darkness of the night he couldn’t tell for sure whether he was fighting Frenchmen or Spaniards at any given moment. As he parried the enemies’ strokes with fluid movements, he considered what had just happened. Evidently, the Habsburgs had also learned of Faust’s secret and sent their Spanish soldiers. Just like Hagen and his men, they must have been watching the doctor for a while, and once the French had locked him up at Chinon Castle, they decided to break him out.

  Hagen swung the four-foot-long sword above his head, giving himself a short breather. All around him men screamed and died, and now he could hear the sound of horns and cries of alarm from the other towers.

  Hagen’s senses were heightened, as always in such situations. He saw, heard, and smelled more than others, which had saved his life on more than one occasion. But this time their situation seemed hopeless. Very soon, every single soldier at the castle would arrive here, and then it would be only a matter of time before they were all dead. What angered Hagen the most was that Viktor von Lahnstein would be spared—when it had been the damned priest in the first place who put them in this position with his reluctance to act.

  Lahnstein was probably sitting at a tavern with a jug of wine, while they would all have their heads chopped off. Yes, they would all die. Unless . . .

  Unless we have a valuable hostage.

  With an angry scream, the giant hurled himself at his enemies. He cut down the first one with two mighty strokes and tossed the next one off the bridge.

  Then Hagen stormed toward the tower that most likely contained the doctor.

  Down in the dungeon, Greta stared at the slimy green mold on the opposite wall, breathing in the smell of feces and rot. Karl had tried to speak with her several times since they were brought down here, but Greta had put up an invisible wall around herself. She still couldn’t believe she could have been so wrong. The man she had loved and desired was a traitor. He had only used her to get his hands on her father. All his love, charm, and wit, all his affection, had been nothing but an act. She felt incredibly stupid and at the same time awfully empty. It was as if someone had ripped out her heart. How could she have trusted John? She should have known in the port of Amboise, when he disappeared so suddenly. But her stupid feelings had been stronger.

  The three of them cowered on bug-ridden straw inside a circular shaft below Coudray Tower. Countless notches and scratched sketches served as reminders of the hundreds of prisoners who had been detained here over the centuries, including powerful men like the former grand master of the Templars of France. Well above their heads there was a door in the wall. The ladder they had climbed down—Johann with his one good arm and Karl’s help—had been taken away by the guards. It was damp in the tower and as icy as the deepest winter, but Greta didn’t feel the cold. Anger burned hotly inside her.

  Next to her, Karl coughed. He was sitting opposite her father, who also hadn’t spoken since they had been brought down here. He kept his eyes closed, like he often did when he was concentrating.

  “Believe me, Greta, I trusted him, too,” said Karl with a sad smile. His voice echoed through the shaft as if they were sitting at the bottom of a deep well. “He was so handsome and charismatic. No need to beat yourself up. I honestly thought—”

  Greta shut him up with a wave of her hand.

  “It won’t help if you—” tried Karl once more.

  “Leave her be,” said Johann tiredly. “It will take some time for her to recover from this. No amount of talking is going to help. And besides, I should have been more careful, too. At least now I understand why the dog didn’t sound the alarm in the woods—John lured him away. The fellow struck me as suspicious from the start. But for my daughter it had to be true love.”

  “Oh, shut up, Father,” snapped Greta. “What do you know of love? The only woman you ever loved died at the stake because of you. Don’t you dare talk to me about love.”

  Johann was about to reply but then changed his mind. Greta wondered if she’d gone too far. Her father suddenly looked terribly old and tired.

  “Let’s not talk about it anymore,” he said at last, his face ashen, his head tilted to one side. “We should be thinking about the king’s demand. I have no idea what to do. I can’t make gold—that’s utter nonsense!”

  “And yet on his deathbed Leonardo da Vinci spoke of a secret that you know,” said Karl. “What did he mean?”

  “How many more times do I have to say it, damn it? I don’t know!” Faust slammed his fist against the mold-covered wall. “The last time I was with him, he seemed confused, muttering as if he were in the grip of a fever. He said the greatest secrets were hidden at the innermost core. The innermost—that’s what he stressed several times. But I haven’t got the faintest clue what he meant by that.” He sighed. “Even if Leonardo intended to give me a message with those words, I have no idea what he was trying to tell me. And besides, I wouldn’t know why he would do such a thing.”

  “Because he considered you his equal,” said Karl. “Perhaps he mentioned you in his will?”

  “I don’t think in the usual sense, or else the king would know.” Johann pressed his lips together. “I’ve been racking my brain over Leonardo’s words, but I can’t figure them out. And as long as I don’t, we will rot down here. The king made himself very clear. The only good news is that I’ll probably spoil Francis’s fun by croaking beforehand.”

  “Has the paralysis grown worse?” asked Greta. She wanted to think of something other than John’s treason. She did have other problems, after all. The lines in her father’s palm suggested that his death wasn’t far off.

  Perhaps the time has come, she thought.

  “I’m no longer thinking of myself, Greta,” said her father in a low and depressed voice. “I’m thinking of you.
”

  “How . . . how do you mean?”

  Before Johann could answer, they heard a noise from upstairs. Greta listened. Were the guards coming already to fetch her father for torture? But the noise sounded different. She frowned.

  They could hear men shouting, weapons clanking, and a dull thumping. The noise grew louder, and moments later the door above them creaked open. When Greta looked up, she beheld the face of the man she despised the most.

  It was the face of John Reed.

  He was breathless and sweaty, blood dripping from the sword in his hand.

  “You need to get out of here, quickly,” he gasped, pushing the wooden ladder down to them.

  “What’s this about?” asked Greta coldly. “If you think I will follow you anywhere—”

  “There’s no time for explanations, damn it!” shouted John. “All hell has broken loose out here. If you three want to survive the next few minutes, you must do exactly as I tell you!”

  The ladder hit the floor and Karl reached for it, casting a suspicious glance at John. “Is this just another one of your tricks?”

  “I swear by God and my dead mother, this is gravely serious! Someone is attacking Coudray Tower. I’m guessing they’re mercenaries who have come for the doctor.”

  “Lahnstein’s men,” said Johann.

  “Everyone is fighting everyone out there!” said John hastily. “We can use the confusion and escape. I know a secret passage on the northern side—”

  “We can escape?” jeered Greta. “You can’t be serious! Why don’t you just wait until your men have sorted out everything? This is just another ruse designed to put pressure on my father.”

  John gave her a pleading look and held out his hand to her. “Believe it or not, I didn’t want any of this. I . . . I love you, Greta. That’s why I’m helping you get out of here. I’m not going to let you rot in this hole. There won’t be another chance to flee like this. This is your only opportunity—your last opportunity.”

  “What other choice do we have?” Johann stood up and started to scale the ladder with John’s help. He could only use one arm to climb. “We have nothing to lose, so we might as well follow this swindler.”

  Behind him, Karl climbed up the slippery rungs. Only Greta stayed where she was.

  “I won’t go,” she declared. “Not with that—”

  “Christ, there is no other way! Don’t you see that?” snarled Johann. “Let’s get out of here and you can scratch out his eyes afterward.”

  Greta clenched her fists and, a few moments later, stood up. At least her fury gave her renewed strength. When she reached the top, she glowered at John with hatred. “Don’t you think for one moment that I will fall for you again.”

  “I don’t care what you do later, but I want you to stay alive.” John led the way. “Stay close to me,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s chaos out there. No matter what happens—follow me.”

  Soon they had climbed the inside steps to the first floor and found themselves in the same chamber where the king had met them a few hours ago. The noise was very loud now, coming from behind the door that led outside.

  “Are you ready?” asked John, clutching the hilt of his sword. The others nodded in silence. “Then let’s go!”

  He opened the door.

  Several dozen men were fighting in the dark courtyard. Some of them were covered in black, while others wore the king’s green uniform; cries came from all directions. There were dead and injured men on the ground, and someone was screaming with pain. Greta heard weapons clashing and blades swiping, then someone gasped for breath. To her horror, she saw that on the steps below them, two men were locked in a deadly fight, each with his knife lodged in the stomach of the other. John rushed toward them and kicked them until, arm in arm, they flew off the stairs and into the moat. The path to the courtyard was clear.

  Greta took in the battle scenes from the corner of her eye. To her left, more men were fighting outside a guards’ chamber. Most of them bore swords, axes, or knives, but there was also a handful of crossbow shooters on the towers around them, firing deadly shots. The scent of fresh death, excrement, and fear filled the air like an exotic perfume. Greta staggered more than she walked, closely following John, who forced his way through with his sword. Behind them, Karl helped the doctor, who could barely walk.

  “This way!” shouted John over the noise.

  Several times one of the darkly clad men blocked his way, but John was a nimble fighter who dodged every stroke and lunged to his left and right as he hurried along, avoiding getting caught up in longer duels. A crossbow bolt zoomed past Greta’s face, then she caught a glimpse of a terrified pair of eyes that vanished a moment later. It was like being stuck in a nightmare. Bent low, Karl and her father hobbled along beside her, swerving around dead bodies and fighting men. They had almost reached the back of the courtyard when a harsh voice rolled across the square like thunder.

  “The doctor! He can’t get away!”

  Greta looked back and, to her horror, saw the giant of a man who had accompanied the papal representative in Bamberg. Back then he had also tried to hinder their escape, and this time it looked like he’d rather walk through hell than let them get away.

  The enormous soldier ran toward their small group across the field of dead and dying men. Wielding his longsword, he looked like an avenging angel, like the black silhouette of Saint Michael. His harness was spattered with blood, and he was baring his teeth like a wolf. And even though he was limping, Greta knew that they wouldn’t get away from this giant.

  John, too, had seen Hagen. He hesitated for a moment, then he faced their opponent. Without turning his head, he told Greta quietly and urgently: “Go to the westernmost end of the wall. There is a small postern that leads to a tunnel that will take you to the vineyards.” He fumbled for a key under his coat and gave it to her. “Don’t wait for me.”

  Greta opened her mouth to say something, but John pressed his bloodied fingers to her lips. “I’ve made so many mistakes,” he whispered. “Allow me to do something right for once.”

  Then he turned around and raised his sword in preparation. Greta gazed at the two unequal opponents: John, short and athletic, looking like a dancing fire sprite with his red hair, and the dark giant who roared as he stormed toward John. Greta saw John hold his sword with both hands as the blade of the giant smashed against it, the impact hurling John backward. He caught himself, feinted to the right, and attacked on the left, which the giant deflected as if he were a wall. But John continued to buzz around him like a fly looping around the nose of an angry bull.

  “Run, Greta!” he shouted at her. “Run! It’s your only chance!”

  Greta’s hand clutched the small key tightly, and she ran toward the outermost corner of the wall with Karl and her father.

  Behind her, she could still hear the screams and noises of battle. In spite of herself she listened for John’s voice, but she couldn’t hear him.

  After searching for a while they found a narrow, rusty gate in the northern wall. Greta trembled as she pushed the key into the lock. It fit. The door swung outward, and on the other side was a low corridor that reeked of blackpowder and had an arrow slit every few yards. The three of them hurried along the tunnel until it ended by a trapdoor in the ground. Karl opened the bolt, pulled up the door, and gazed at the iron rungs leading down a black shaft. A cold wind howled toward them.

  “We’re supposed to go down there?” asked Karl, holding up Johann by the arm. “Your father is never going to make it.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” growled Johann. “If I don’t make it, I’ll be dead one way or the other.”

  He signaled to Greta and she started to climb down the shaft. Her fingers clung to the rusty metal, and she felt her way through the darkness. Every other rung was missing, and her feet searched the walls for any footholds. Above her she heard Karl and her father follow. Johann panted and groaned, but he seemed to manage despite his paralysis.
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  To her horror, Greta realized that in their rush they hadn’t locked the escape door behind them. Once the giant mercenary killed John—which she assumed would happen—he would run after them and find the open gate. Greta felt grief overcome her at the thought. As much as she hated John, her love hadn’t fully died yet. She listened hard but couldn’t make out anything apart from her own breathing and the sounds of Karl and her father.

  After what felt like an eternity, the shaft ended in a natural grotto that was blocked with very old iron bars. On the other side, Greta could discern the sloping vineyards on the north side of the castle. When she pushed against the bars, they simply fell outward. The sudden noise echoed in the grotto like musket fire. But nothing happened, and so Greta stepped outside. She was standing at the foot of the cliff, the outlines of vines in front of her, a warm May breeze caressing her cheeks. There was not a noise to be heard from the chaos raging above them.

  The sound of coughing made Greta spin around. It was her father, leaning on Karl. Johann was deathly pale and shaking all over, his left arm hanging down stiffly. Greta wondered how much willpower it had taken him to climb down the shaft. For a while no one spoke. A nightingale chirped in a nearby bush.

  “What the devil was going on up there?” asked Karl eventually. He shook himself. “I heard men shouting in Swiss German, Spanish, and French.”