The Devil's Pawn

by Oliver Pötzsch

So this is how it ends, thought Greta.

  Karl was about to launch his club at one of the wolves when a loud thunderclap cracked through the air. At first Greta thought some of her father’s blackpowder hadn’t exploded the first time, but then there was another loud crack. The wolves pricked up their ears, put their tails between their legs, and ran off. Greta heard the rustle of leaves for a few more moments, and then the creatures had vanished like ghosts in the night. Soon she could hear the shouting of several men and saw torches in the darkness.

  The king’s soldiers, she thought immediately. They found us.

  But the men who stepped into the clearing were no soldiers. They looked like simple workers, armed with crossbows and hand cannons. In their midst, one man was riding on a horse. He was so fat that Greta wondered why the horse wasn’t collapsing. The luscious hair streaming out from beneath his black gugel was almost as bright red as John’s. Some of the other men also had red hair. The fat one studied the small group in front of him from keen eyes. When his gaze fell on the unconscious John, his bushy eyebrows shot up.

  “What’s the lad done now?” he asked. “If only he’d stayed in the Highlands. When I told his mother I’d look after him, I didnae ken how much bother he would cause me.”

  “Who . . . who are you?” asked Karl.

  “Who am I?” The big man straightened up in his saddle, a mountain of flesh with small red eyes that flashed at Karl, Greta, and Johann. “I am Albert MacSully of the old line of MacSullys. My family traces back to the glorious days of William Wallace. And the only reason you’re still alive is because there’s a MacSully among ye.” Suddenly the fat man gave a roaring laugh. “Bugger me! I set out to catch wolves and instead I catch my nephew. Blood runs thicker than water, ye ken.”

  He turned to his men. “If I know my pigheaded nephew at all, he’s a long way off joining our ancestors. Take him to Seuilly.” Albert MacSully looked at the filthy band in front of him. “And don’t forget the others. They all look like they need a cup of wine and a bucket of water to wash. And I can’t wait to hear what sort of a hair-raising tale they’ll serve us for breakfast. It better be good!”

  Greta looked up at the sky. The first red glow of dawn showed above the treetops. It seemed they had escaped death for now.

  But no one knew what the next day would bring.

  “Bloody hell, sounds like you had more luck than brains. Crossing the woods at night without any weapons, with all those wolves about. If we hadn’t come past by chance, you’d be wolf food by now—although the beasts would have spat my nephew back out, tough bastard that he is.”

  The big man laughed and refilled his mug from a large jug of brown ale. It was about eight in the morning, and Greta wondered how anyone could drink so much this early in the day.

  Probably a matter of practice, she thought as she looked at the enormous body of the man opposite her. Albert MacSully was indeed John’s uncle, and it would seem that John had saved them once more by leading them close to his uncle’s tavern at Seuilly.

  Albert MacSully had taken the six-year-old John with him from Scotland when the boy’s mother had died of the spotted fever. Albert had taken on the tavern at Seuilly and raised John there. At fourteen, John had joined the king’s household troops and, with the help of his dexterity, his strength, and especially his charm, had swiftly moved up the ranks—not exactly to the joy of his uncle, who didn’t overly love the French. Greta had learned all this from Albert in the last couple of hours while he devoured a whole loaf of bread with an omelet made from twelve eggs.

  “Hunting wolves is hungry work,” Albert grunted and washed his meal down with a long swig of ale. Then he burped noisily.

  Together with Karl and her father, Greta was sitting in the tavern’s taproom. The settlement in the middle of the forest consisted of the sturdy, stone-built inn, a small chapel, and a few sheds and stables. All the buildings were surrounded by a stone wall. Two trading routes crossed in this place, one of them leading south from the Loire, the other one west toward Fontevrault Abbey, which wasn’t far from here. Seuilly was more like a small fortification than a village, and for good reason. Here in the woods south of the Loire, the law of war still reigned, even with Chinon Castle nearby.

  Greta had washed the worst of the dirt from her face and hair. Karl and her father looked a little cleaner, too, especially since Albert had lent them some fresh clothes. Johann had scarcely spoken; the death of his beloved dog had hit him hard. He looked older and more drained than Greta had ever seen him before, although that could also have been due to his illness. John was lying in a chamber next door, where Albert’s wife looked after him.

  “The boy will live,” said the fat tavern keeper. “He’s got proper Scottish Highland blood running through his veins—the sword wound is but a scratch for him. Though I’d love to know who gave it to him. John rarely loses a fight.” He eyed the three travelers sharply. “But I think I can work it out myself. John asked me to send any French soldier within a mile of the tavern packing. Sounds to me like you’re up to your necks in shit.”

  John hadn’t told his uncle what exactly had happened, but he’d made it clear that they were on the run and that Albert ought to claim he hadn’t seen them if asked. Greta doubted this plan would work for long. The king most likely knew where John had spent his childhood and would send out people to look for him there.

  The big man sighed and reached for a lump of cheese. “I told the lad years ago not to join those bleeding frog eaters. But he didnae want to listen. A proper man doesna like the French, aye—but he likes to drink their wine. And the cheese isn’t bad.” He went on with his mouth full. “Maybe it was for the best that John left when he did. Here at the tavern he turned the head of every lass and drove my workers crazy.”

  Greta nodded, her lips a thin line. “Sounds just like John.”

  “Better watch out for that one, lassie. No woman can tame our John!” Albert wiped his greasy hands on his leather pants. “Not that it’s any of my business, but the boy reckoned you want to travel to the barony of Retz. If I were you, I’d reconsider.”

  “Why?” asked Johann, who finally looked a little healthier after a hearty breakfast. Aside from his left shoulder sagging down, he looked almost normal.

  “Not a good area down there,” replied Albert. “I’m surprised the king hasn’t done anything about it, to be honest. But I hear he’s too busy trying to become the ruler of the world.” He gave a laugh. “And besides, officially, Brittany belongs to his wife and not to France at all—although you cannae say that out loud.”

  Albert lowered his voice. “I’ve heard from travelers that the Duke of Brittany, Louis de Vendôme, has been fighting for France in Italy for years. His steward rules Retz in his stead, but he’s a right drunkard. Apparently, someone else pulls all the strings in the background.”

  “And who would that be?” asked Karl, leaning forward.

  “I don’t know anything for certain, but there’s been this new priest at Tiffauges Castle for a few years—”

  “Did you say Tiffauges?” asked Johann, cutting him off, the muscles in his face twitching uncontrollably.

  Albert shot him an irritated look. “Yes, it’s the duke’s main residence. Folks are saying that things have never been right at that castle. I dinnae ken if ye’ve heard of a certain Gilles de Rais—a right scumbag if there ever was one.”

  “Indeed we have,” said Johann, exchanging glances with Karl and Greta.

  “Terrible story, even though all that was years ago. But now folks are saying that since this priest is at the castle, children are vanishing again.” Albert shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t usually buy into such gossip, but I must admit that several different travelers have told me about it. And other strange people came into the castle along with this priest. Even those damned wolves seem to come from that area. Ye ken, Brittany has always been a wild and eerie place, and the people speak a terrible gibberish, but this . . .” He shook his
head, then watched Johann, who was struggling to gain control of his muscles. “What sort of disease do you have?”

  “I don’t know, unfortunately. The physicians say there is no cure. That is why I’m on a pilgrimage to Fontevrault with my family.”

  “I thought you were going to Retz?”

  “Um, yes, after our pilgrimage,” said Johann evasively. “We have some . . . family matters to settle there.”

  “Family matters, I see. With the king’s army at your heels? What a strange journey.” Albert winked at him. “Like I said, none of my business. But you do seem familiar, like I’ve seen you before—maybe on one of those leaflets.” He grinned broadly. “No, you’re not just a simple pilgrim if my nephew gives up his post in the household troops to follow you. But John doesna want to say a word, and that’s all right. There are three things us Highland folks can do better than anyone else in the world: drink, fight, and keep our traps shut.”

  Albert took another long gulp, let out another burp, and said, “If John reckons ye need to get to Fontevrault and then to the barony of Retz, then I’ll be damned if I don’t help ye get there. We MacSullys stick like the mud on our boots.”

  Three times the king’s soldiers came to Seuilly in the following days, but Albert managed to send them on every time. One of those times, they searched the tavern and its outbuildings, but the MacSullys had seen it coming. There was a cellar that was accessed via a trapdoor hidden underneath a large bearskin, and that was where the four wanted fugitives hid until the soldiers had gone. After the first morning, they never showed their faces at the tavern again but stayed at the family’s living quarters, hoping to avoid the attention of any nosy travelers.

  Albert hugely enjoyed the game of misleading the “frog and snail eaters,” as he liked to call the French. Whenever he spoke with soldiers, he pretended that his French was very poor. He claimed he hadn’t seen his nephew, “the bleedin’ bastard,” for years. Albert was enthusiastically helped in this game by his many sons, who each had a red shock of hair like their father. Greta kept mixing them up and struggled with the complicated Scottish names.

  She soon recovered from the tribulations of their escape, and John, too, became better by the day. Greta often visited his bedside, which she had to share with MacSully’s wife, who didn’t like to leave her beloved nephew and who was doing her best to shore him up with various meaty meals.

  With every visit, Greta and John grew closer. Greta soon realized she couldn’t stay mad at him, even if a certain distance remained. But it was jinxed—she loved this fellow and couldn’t do anything about it. Not even the most sensible arguments helped. Who was to say that John was truly on their side now and this wasn’t just another ploy by the king? But when John smiled at her, Greta’s doubts melted like snow in the sunshine. And there was something else that tied her to him more than ever.

  “I had a dream,” said John when they were alone for a moment while Albert’s wife fetched fresh water to clean his wounds. “I dreamed that you looked after me when I was lying injured in the woods. You gently stroked the hair from my face.”

  “You must have indeed been dreaming. Why should I do that? I mean, for a rotten traitor like yourself.” Greta looked at him sternly, but then smiled. “Admittedly, a rather good-looking traitor.”

  “Please, Greta, try to understand.” John took her hand. “I just didn’t know what to do. It’s true that the king sent me to catch you, and at first that was exactly what I was trying to do—use you to get to the doctor.”

  “And you did rather well,” said Greta bitterly.

  “Yes, but then I noticed that for the first time I had real feelings for a girl—for you, Greta. And yet I was bound by my loyalty to the king. I wanted to tell you, honestly, but I kept putting it off until—” He fell silent.

  “Until it was too late,” said Greta for him. “Back in the tower at Chinon I wanted to tear you into a thousand pieces. I was filled with hatred.”

  “Love and hatred are poles of the same magnet,” said John. “A wise man once said that. They attract and repulse one another, but they’re based on one single force.”

  “I much prefer love to hatred,” replied Greta. “And . . .” She faltered.

  “What is it?”

  Greta shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  She had briefly considered telling John that she hadn’t bled in weeks. They had always been careful, but back then, during their first night at Blois, passion had swept them away. Greta decided to hold off telling John a little longer; she wanted to be sure. Perhaps her monthly bleedings had only stopped because of their exhausting journey. And she had plenty of other things to worry about.

  “I . . . I merely wondered whether you really want to come to Tiffauges with us,” said Greta. “What your uncle told us—”

  “Makes me all the more determined.” John squeezed her hand. “I go where you go, Greta. And if you think you must go with your father, then I will even follow you to that cursed castle. But is it what you really want, Greta? Is it?”

  He looked at her closely and she averted her gaze.

  She had dreamed of Tonio. He had waved to her, and she had followed him willingly. Willingly! That was what disturbed her the most: that that creature had somehow put a spell on her. As if he wasn’t just Faust’s master but hers as well. That was why she wanted to see him with her own eyes—to face up to him.

  “If you had asked me a few weeks ago, I would have said no.” Greta rose and wrung out the cloth she had used to cool John’s forehead. “But I want to know what’s going on at Tiffauges. I want to know if my father is right. And I can’t abandon him now that . . . now that he’s so sick. I no longer dare to look at the lines in his hands, but I fear they’re still vanishing.”

  “Then I’ll be by your side. Even if I struggle to believe that your father will defeat his illness at the castle, let alone confront Gilles de Rais.”

  “Whatever the case—something seems to be not quite right in the barony of Retz,” said Greta. “And we need to help my father get to the bottom of it. Also, the French aren’t the only ones in pursuit of us—perhaps it isn’t the worst idea to head for a wild territory and cover our tracks.”

  “You’re right.” John nodded. “I, too, should get as many miles as possible between me and the king. Francis seems like a charming ruler at first glance, but he is rather vindictive.” He gave a grim laugh. “And he won’t rest until your father tells him how to make gold. The election of the German king is soon—Francis is running out of time. If he is to stand any chance against Habsburg Charles and his Fuggers, then he needs your father’s help.”

  “My father who doesn’t even know how to make gold.” Greta rolled her eyes. “How many more times do I have to tell you?”

  “Are you absolutely certain?” John looked at her searchingly. “How well do you know your father, Greta?”

  Once more she sensed that she didn’t know Johann Georg Faustus well at all. Worse still, as their journey went on, he was becoming more and more of an enigma. Sometimes she wondered what side her father was on. Was he still on the side of light, or had he long moved into the realm of shadows?

  “And how well do I know you?” she asked, avoiding John’s eyes. “Now hold still before your wound breaks open again.”

  She placed a fresh, cold cloth on his forehead, pleased she didn’t have to keep talking.

  On the tenth day after their arrival, John was well enough to travel. His leg was still a little stiff, but he no longer required crutches. The royal soldiers hadn’t returned; they had probably widened their search and weren’t looking near the castle anymore.

  “Their guess will be that you’re traveling on the Loire,” said Albert, who was standing in the courtyard alongside his family to say farewell.

  For the journey, the plump tavern keeper had given them one of his horses—a big, stoical draft horse that carried Johann as if he was made of straw—as well as a donkey for their luggage,
a hand cannon with powder and lead, knives, and two short swords for John and Karl. The whole party was clad in light, inconspicuous clothing in muted colors. There were no other guests around on this rainy day in May, so they could speak freely.

  “Sell the animals once you’ve arrived—wherever that’ll be,” said Albert. “Coins will be easier for John to carry when he’s in the area next to pay me back.”

  They all knew this wasn’t going to happen. John would never return to Seuilly, because it would be far too dangerous. And Albert had a hunch that the crippled man on the horse was no plain pilgrim, but he stuck to the Scottish rule of never asking nosy questions.

  “I promised your mother on her deathbed that I’d look after ye until ye go your own path,” said the big man to John. “I think the time has come. I always knew ye wouldn’t stay with the frog eaters forever. Perhaps ye should go back to Scotland, to our clan. They could do with a warrior like yourself.” He winked at Greta. “And also with a bonny, clever lass at your side to give bairns to the clan of MacSully. No matter if they’re red haired or not.”

  John smiled. “We’ll see, Uncle. Thank you for everything you’ve done for us.”

  Albert waved him off. Then he turned back to John. “For heaven’s sake—I almost forgot.” He said something to one of his many red-haired sons, who ran back inside the house, returning a few moments later with a bundle. Albert handed it to Johann, who accepted it with a puzzled look.

  “You took your dog’s death very hard,” the tavern keeper said. “I understand. It was a beautiful beast, and frightening, too. I asked my men to find it and skin it. It’s my parting gift to you, mysterious traveler. May it warm you on your cold nights in the wilderness.”

  Johann unwrapped the bundle and stared down at Little Satan’s black fur. At first he looked as if he was going to throw it far away, but then he buried his nose in it, smiling.

  “Thank you very much,” said Johann. “The dog meant a lot to me. He wasn’t my first, and we shall see whether he will be the last.”