The Devil's Pawn

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Johann stared into the night without saying anything.

  “I think I would recognize Hagen anywhere,” went on Karl. “A hellish apparition like the grim reaper from a painting. That means Lahnstein and his men really did follow us. But the Spanish? Do you think there are other rulers who are after the secret Leonardo supposedly shared with you?”

  “If Francis has spies everywhere, then Charles will, too,” said Johann, struggling to bring his shaking under control. “It seems like the whole world is after me. Lahnstein, the French, the Habsburgs . . . And all because of a bloody secret that I just don’t know!” He shook his head. “Who put the idea in the pope’s head? It’s almost as if—”

  A bloodcurdling howl rang out, followed by barking. A large black shadow came darting up the vineyard toward them. Johann was the first to recognize it.

  “Little Satan!” he exclaimed happily. “He must have found a different way out of the castle and his nose led him to us. I only wonder who let him out of the kennel. It’s all right, boy. I’m here now.” He patted the dog and studied his fur, which was speckled with blood. There was blood on his snout, too. “Hmm, whoever tried to block your way must be regretting it.”

  “Shh!” Greta raised a hand. “Do you hear that?”

  The others, too, heard the scraping noises, a soft scratching that was coming closer. Little Satan pricked up his ears and growled as the others listened.

  Someone was climbing down the shaft.

  “Damn, it must be the giant!” uttered Johann. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Greta’s mouth was bone dry and her limbs ached from the long climb; she didn’t know if she could run away again—not from this monster. Together with the others she hurried over to the vines, which looked like gnarled dwarfs in the darkness. Only Little Satan stayed where he was, panting and wagging his tail.

  “The damned mutt will give us all away,” whispered Karl. “Come here, Satan, sit!”

  But the dog didn’t listen. Instead, he started to yelp almost joyfully. Greta wondered if Hagen could smell them, like a predator that had picked up the scent of its prey, just as Little Satan had smelled them.

  And she thought of John. If Hagen was after them, then John was probably dead by now. Again she felt a stab of pain in her heart. She couldn’t let him go—not yet. Why had he turned up once more and rescued them? It had been so much easier to hate him wholeheartedly, truly thinking he was a traitorous scoundrel.

  Little Satan had walked back to the grotto by now. The scraping became louder, and then someone jumped the last few yards to the bottom of the shaft. Their pursuer groaned and coughed, and then he emerged from the cave, staggering like a drunk.

  It was not Hagen but John Reed.

  Wagging his tail, the dog jumped up on him, and John toppled like a sack.

  “John!” exclaimed Greta, cursing herself for the relief that flooded her. Her feelings hadn’t disappeared, not in such a short space of time.

  John was clearly wounded, if not dead; he didn’t stir. Greta made to go to him, but her father held her back with his good hand.

  “What are you doing?” he said between clenched teeth. “Have you still not had enough of him?”

  “He saved us,” said Karl.

  “It’s just another trap,” hissed Johann. “Who’s to say that this wasn’t another plot by the king?”

  “He . . . he is hurt or even . . . dead.” Greta was torn by her emotions. She would have liked to wish John to hell, or at least to the moon, and yet she longed to hold him, to take care of his wounds and wash the blood off his face.

  “If he’s dead, he doesn’t need your help anymore,” said Johann. “And if he’s just injured—hey!”

  Greta pulled her arm free and rushed over to John. She pushed aside Little Satan, who had begun to lick the blood off John’s face; evidently the animal viewed him as his new playmate, or as his dinner. John’s coat was ripped and covered in dark bloodstains, but he was breathing. Greta spotted a deep gash on his right thigh that bled profusely.

  “He’s going to bleed to death!” she called to Karl and her father, who were still standing among the vines.

  “Let him,” grumbled Johann. “He is a traitor. You could say he’s getting away lightly. Usually, traitors are boiled in seething oil.”

  Karl looked at his master with a mix of bewilderment and quiet rebellion. “A long time ago I studied medicine,” he said. “And there I learned that every life is precious, even that of a traitor.”

  “We don’t have time. It’s highly likely that Hagen or someone else is at our heels. If we don’t get away from here as fast as we can, we’re done for!”

  “He’s bleeding to death, damn it,” shouted Greta. Frightened, she gazed into John’s pale face. His eyes were closed but it seemed he could hear her.

  “Greta,” he whispered. “Is this paradise?”

  “Paradise for a fraud like you?” she hissed, gripped by an overwhelming sense of relief at finding him conscious. “Forget it! For every kiss you stole from me you shall burn a hundred years in hell.” In spite of her harsh words, she started to tear strips off her dress for a bandage.

  “Let me,” Karl said, kneeling beside her. “It’s been a while since my days at the university, but I think I remember a few things.” He leaned over John and felt for his heartbeat. Confidently he started to bandage John’s leg and brace it with a stick. “His heart is beating weakly,” he said. “We must stanch the bleeding as fast as we can.”

  Johann still stood among the vines, a little crooked, like a tough old oak tree in the wind. The paralyzed side seemed to push him down.

  “Damned love,” he cursed.

  Then he limped over to the others.

  13

  A FEW HOURS LATER, THE FOUR ESCAPEES COWERED BENEATH a rocky overhang inside a wet hollow filled with rotting foliage. It had started to drizzle, and Greta shivered despite the mild temperatures. They had waded through several streams to shake off the dogs that were bound to be at their heels. Greta’s clothes were dripping wet, and twigs and leaves stuck in her hair. Karl and her father didn’t look much better.

  But worst of all was John. He had stopped bleeding, but he was barely conscious. The wound on his thigh wasn’t the only injury he had carried away. Karl and Greta had braced him between them during their escape, and Karl had carried him through the streams. One time Karl broke down under the heavy burden, and they’d had to drag the injured man out of the bog.

  Greta leaned over John and wiped the mud from his pale face. He opened his eyes for an instant and smiled at her.

  “You are so beautiful,” he breathed.

  “Liar!” snapped Greta. “I look like a scarecrow. Spare me your compliments.”

  For the hundredth time she wondered how long it would take the king’s soldiers to find them. They couldn’t have covered more than two or three miles in the last few hours. Little Satan was standing guard outside their hiding place, and Greta hoped that the dog would bark if anyone approached. But then what? They didn’t stand a chance with one man seriously injured and the other one sick.

  “At least I gave it to that hulk,” moaned John in one of his lucid moments. “What . . . what did he want from you? He was a Swiss guard, so probably one of the men the pope sent after you. But the others were Habsburgs.”

  “You ask a lot of questions for a wounded man,” said Johann, leaning back against the rock. “No one asked you to help us.”

  “You don’t have to like him, Father. I no longer trust him, either,” said Greta. “But without John we’d still be in the dungeon. That’s a fact.”

  “It’s also a fact that we’ll soon be back inside the dungeon along with him.” Johann gave a desperate laugh. “The king of France isn’t going to stand by and watch as we simply walk away. I’m guessing half an army is searching for us right now. And we are stuck in this filthy hole. I say we leave the traitor behind and—”

  “No way,” said Greta. “On his own, J
ohn is as good as dead. And you aren’t particularly suited for an escape yourself. Look at you! A bitter old man who limps and stumbles more than he walks.”

  Karl cleared his throat. He had just renewed John’s bandage and inspected the wound. Now he looked at Faust sternly through his eye glasses, which, miraculously, had survived their escape. “We would be no faster even if we left John behind. And our chances are next to nil either way. We have no horses, no provisions, no money—nothing! Not to mention your physical condition. How do you propose to travel to Tiffauges in your state?”

  “We must. We have no other option.”

  “Jesus, why do you have to be so pigheaded?” shouted Greta at her father. “We have a badly wounded man here, you can barely walk, hundreds of soldiers are searching for us, but you don’t care! You are the oh-so-famous Doctor Faustus—you can fly away if need be, or conjure up a demon that will fight back the enemy. Wake up, Father! Your mission is over.”

  “Why do you think I’m doing all this? For myself? It’s for you, Greta!” Johann gave her a pleading look. “I must find Tonio and face him. If he wants to take me—fine, so be it. But I will do everything in my power to protect you!”

  “Is that the bargain you want to offer him?” asked Greta softly. Suddenly she regretted having yelled at her father. “Your life for mine?”

  Johann was about to reply when he noticed that John was repeatedly uttering a word. Greta hadn’t understood him until then, but now his voice was loud and clear.

  “Seuilly,” he said, trying to lift his head. “Seuilly . . . We have to go to Seuilly . . .”

  “What do you mean?” asked Greta. “What in God’s name is Seuilly?”

  “It’s a . . . a tavern in the woods. By a crossroads. The . . . the tavern keeper will help us . . .”

  “How far?” asked Karl.

  “Seven, eight miles from here.” John groaned in pain. “I . . . I know the way.”

  “Eight miles?” Johann shook his head. “Impossible. Not with him.”

  “He is the only one who can guide us,” said Greta. “And I’ll say it one more time: I am not leaving John behind.” She gave a thin smile. “Besides—since when is anything impossible to Doctor Faustus?”

  Johann sighed. “Very well. Let’s give it a try. I admit that our options are somewhat limited at the moment.” He gave John a hard look. “I only hope that this isn’t another trick. I wouldn’t put anything past him, even in his current state.”

  They left their hiding place and continued to make their way through the dark forest, Karl holding up John while Greta helped her father. They scarcely spoke, and not just because of the exertion. Greta had the feeling that any further conversation would only end in argument. She couldn’t understand how her father could be so heartless. Yes, John had betrayed them—her, first and foremost. He had delivered them into the hands of the French king, but then he had risked his life to help them escape. His love for her was stronger than his love for the king.

  Or was he just playing another game? Greta had realized that she still loved John despite everything that had happened. Why did feelings have to be so complicated?

  Hour after hour they trudged through the deep woods, arduously following narrow game paths and streams, step for step. Thankfully the moon had emerged from behind the clouds and they could make out the shapes of bushes and trees. Karl had fashioned a torch from a stick, some dry moss, and scraps of clothing and managed to light it with John’s tinderbox. The pathetic little flame was supposed to serve as protection against wild animals rather than a light source. Every now and then a stag or a wild boar would move in the underbrush nearby, but aside from that and the occasional hooting of an owl, all was silent. John needed to rest frequently. Then he would gaze into the starry sky or touch the moss on the trees before continuing on their way.

  “Seuilly lies east of the castle,” he muttered. “I used to go hunting with the king at Chinon, so I know this area almost as well as the Scottish Highlands.” He tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace of pain. “The . . . the next time we come to a creek we must follow it. It will lead straight to the tavern.”

  “How can you be sure that the tavern keeper won’t deliver us to the king?” asked Karl.

  John again attempted a grin but failed. “Let’s say . . . we’ve known each other for a while.”

  Little Satan stayed close to John’s side; he appeared to have taken a true liking to the red-haired bodyguard. Every now and then the dog paused and pricked up his ears. When they crossed an old, overgrown clearing, he suddenly started to growl. At first Greta thought he had caught a whiff of their pursuers, but then a loud howling rang out, followed by the howling of a second beast.

  “Wolves,” breathed Karl. “That’s the last thing we need. And they’re close!”

  Greta remembered people at the inns along their way speaking of a veritable wolf infestation, even though it wasn’t even winter. The animals came from the west—from Brittany, where the forests were sparsely populated and wild. Another high-pitched, long howling rose up, much closer this time.

  “They picked up our scent,” said John. “We have to find the stream.”

  He tried to walk a few steps by himself and fell. Karl helped him up.

  “This is madness,” groaned Karl. The trials of the last few hours were showing in his face. “We don’t even have weapons to defend ourselves. Everything we owned is at Chinon!”

  Little Satan sniffed, barked, and leaped into the bushes at the edge of the clearing. Greta thought she could see several pairs of eyes in the darkness. There was a loud bark followed by a yelp. Greta guessed Little Satan had bravely attacked the pack of wolves. Now she could make out the outlines of the bodies behind the pairs of eyes. They were large beasts, almost as big as Little Satan, and they prowled around the clearing waiting for their chance. The biggest of them broke through the undergrowth and stalked toward Greta, growling. His fur was black and shaggy, and he was holding his ears flat and his jowls raised, exposing two rows of long, pointed teeth.

  “Up the trees!” commanded Karl, pointing at several oaks at the edge of the clearing. “We have to climb up the trees!”

  “How?” snarled Faust. “The traitor can barely walk, and I won’t even make it to the first branches without help. If only . . .” He fumbled in his pockets, and suddenly his expression brightened. “Stand back!” he shouted. From one of his many coat pockets, Faust produced a small bottle and pulled out the cork with his teeth. He carefully poured a black powder onto the ground. Then he took a few steps back.

  “What are you doing?” asked Karl.

  “When the beasts get closer, throw your torch. The torch must land on the powder. Can you do that?”

  Karl nodded. Moments later, half a dozen wolves emerged from the trees, while Little Satan continued to growl, bark, and yelp somewhere in the darkness beyond, probably fighting the rest of the pack. The six beasts in front of them were enough to make Greta’s blood run cold. They were almost as big as their leader, and their eyes glinted voraciously.

  When they had reached the spot with the powder, Johann shouted, “Now!”

  Karl threw the torch. For a moment Greta thought the flame would be extinguished on the wet forest floor, but then a hissing broke out, followed by a deafening explosion and a red flash that lit up the clearing for a split second. The wolves yowled and scattered; two of them lay dead in the clearing.

  “Blackpowder,” whispered Johann, “with a pinch of cinnabar for effect. I always carry a small bottle on me—this lot was from our show at Bamberg.” He grinned. “You never know when you might need it.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t keep the wolves away for long.” Karl pointed at John, who had collapsed once more and was lying on the ground not far from the wolves. “We can’t keep carrying him. He’s too heavy.”

  Greta saw her father’s look. “Don’t you dare think about it,” she said coldly. “I stay with John. He might be a rascal and a swindler
, but he saved our lives. I’m not going to throw him to the wolves.”

  On cue, there was movement between the trees again. Greta reached for a fallen branch with a grim expression on her face.

  Come and get me, you mongrels! she thought. My life won’t come cheap—nor that of the red-haired scoundrel.

  But then she dropped the branch. It was only Little Satan limping toward them. The huge wolfhound was bleeding from several wounds. There was a hole where his right eye used to be, his fur was torn like an old cloth, and he was dragging one of his back feet.

  “Little Satan,” exclaimed Johann. He dropped to his knees and stroked the dog’s blood-smeared head, the left ear hanging down in shreds. “My God, you poor thing . . .” His voice was shaking.

  It hurt Greta to see how much more Johann cared for the dog than for John, but she knew that Little Satan was his favorite companion. She thought her father probably loved the dog more than he loved most people.

  The dog, who had been so strong just a short while ago, whimpered in pain. He tried to stand up but couldn’t, and a shudder went through his body. Greta saw that he was dying. Johann continued to stroke him as if he were a small child. Tears stood in his eyes.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he murmured. “It’s going to be all right, my darling.”

  Johann didn’t even move when the wolves’ reddish eyes gleamed at them again from the bushes.

  Greta uttered a curse and hurled a branch at them. “Haven’t you had enough?” she screamed. “Then come if you dare, you damned beasts! I will rip out your throats myself!”

  It was courage born out of despair, out of hopelessness. At her feet lay John Reed, the man who had betrayed her but whom she loved nonetheless. Her father had buried his face in the bloodied fur of his dying dog; only Karl, her old friend, still stood beside her. He, too, had picked up a branch and waited for the wolves to attack. He looked over to Johann with a sad smile.

  “I wonder if he’d care for me thus if I lay dying?” he said to Greta. “I guess I’ll never find out.”