by Stuart Daly
‘I don’t trust him. And neither should you.’
‘What? You suspect he might be a spy?’ I ask, my eyes flashing in alarm, fearing that this mission may be betrayed from within, just like what happened back in Schloss Kriegsberg.
Armand raises a hand to calm my fears. ‘No. Not that. But I don’t want to talk about it just now. Someone might overhear our conversation. Let’s wait until we are in the air.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on him,’ I whisper, as we reach the net and climb into it. ‘But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not happy about your decision to volunteer us for this job. I wish you would have consulted me first. I’m sure there could have been a better way to earn their respect.’
‘Come on!’ Armand winks. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’
I’m not too sure where my sense of adventure is. But I can tell where my body is going to be shortly – driven into the cliff by heavy winds. It’s best if I keep my thoughts to myself, though. Particularly when Friedrich joins us and starts looping the ends of the net through a large iron hook – which is attached to the end of a rope descending from the overhanging winch-house – effectively bailing Armand and me up in a ball.
‘This is a bad idea,’ I mumble under my breath and sit cross-legged in the cradle of the net.
‘Well, bad idea or not, we’re committed now,’ Armand whispers and sits beside me. ‘So let’s just focus on the task at hand. Besides, I don’t think we will ever pass through these lands again. It might be our only chance to see the monastery.’ He pauses as, further above, through a hole in the floor of the overhanging room, a white rag is waved, signalling that the monks are ready to take us up. ‘Here goes nothing,’ he says, and takes a firm hold of the net.
Friedrich leans over us. ‘Ferdinand von Fürstenberg has already sent a message by carrier pigeon to Father Umberto del Fonzano, the head of the order of monks, informing him of our arrival and purpose. Your task is simple: get the daggers and come straight back down. Godspeed.’
He reaches through the net and hands me a leather bag in which I am to store the daggers. As I sling this over my shoulder, the rope goes taut and we begin to be hoisted up towards the monastery.
‘So what does Diego have against you?’ I ask Armand after we have been lifted some twenty yards in the air, as a means of distracting my attention from the height. ‘You didn’t really answer my question before.’
‘You know that I have lived an immoral past,’ the Frenchman says. ‘But I don’t think I’ve told you that, before my banishment from Paris, I used to make an annual pilgrimage to Venice, the Serenissima. Indeed, you could even go so far as to say that Venice had become my mistress. Beguiled by her beauty and charm, I fell deeply in love with her. But beneath her mesmerising veneer of gondolas and canals lurked a world of corruption, rife with gambling houses and illegal activities that it’s best someone of your impressionable age hear nothing about. Hidden behind the liberating anonymity of a mask during Carnival, I fell deep into the city’s corruption and came to the attention of the Council of Ten – and that’s something you wouldn’t wish upon your worst enemy.’
My eyes narrow in curiosity. ‘The Council of Ten?’
‘Venice’s secret internal police force, better known as the Black Inquisitors, named after the black mantles they wear,’ Armand explains, his voice lowered, almost as if the mere mention of their name will bring them hunting after him, even this far away in the heart of Greece. ‘They are a law unto themselves – even more powerful than the Venetian senate, some say. They have a network of spies and informers so vast it is said that they have seeped into the very stones of Venice itself. Every shadowed corner, every bridge overlooking the canals, every campanile overlooking the labyrinth of alleyways below – all of these are the observation posts of the Black Inquisitors’ spy network. And, much to my dismay, my gambling activities and several affairs with women whose husbands were in positions of authority brought me to their attention. I was tracked down by the Council of Ten. Before I could be transported by armed guards to their most infamous gaols beneath the palace of the Doge, however, I made my escape. Although I left with my life – none ever survive the torture chambers and prisons of the Black Inquisitors – it came at a terrible cost, for I can never return to the city.’
‘I had no idea of any of this,’ I say, concerned. ‘You’re lucky to be alive.’
Armand sighs longingly, his look distant, as if remembering the city he once loved. ‘I’m very lucky to have escaped.’
‘But what does this have to do with the Spaniard?’ I ask.
‘During one of my final days in Venice I went along to watch one of the battagliole – a mock battle fought on the city’s public bridges. These fights are waged by the lower classes as a means of extending their area of influence throughout the city, rather like dogs marking their territory. And on this particular occasion, the battle was fought between the Castellini and the Nicoletti, the inhabitants of two rival neighbourhoods.’
‘And they kill each other in these battles?’ I am surprised at how uncivilised it seems.
‘As I said, they are mock battles and are strictly regulated,’ Armand explains. ‘Combatants – sometimes well over a hundred – are restricted to fighting with lengths of cane. One bridge in particular – the Ponte dei Pugni – even has marble footprints embedded in its surface, indicating the starting positions of the combatants. But Diego turned a battagliole into a bloodbath.
‘Watching the fight from a gondola, I saw a masked man enter the fray on the side of the Castellini. But rather than wield a length of cane, he drew his blade, strode into the middle of the bridge and attacked the unsuspecting Nicoletti. By the time an alarm had been raised and the authorities arrived, the masked swordsman had slain over a dozen men. Having fought his way past the city guards, during which he killed a further four men, he took to the alleyways and rooftops and disappeared.’
‘But how do you know it was the Spaniard?’ I ask. ‘Didn’t you say that the stranger was wearing a mask?’
‘That’s correct. But later that night, whilst walking through the narrow streets leading off Piazza San Marco, I came across the stranger. He had abandoned his mask and donned different clothing, but I recognised him instantly by the blade jostling by his side. As you know, I am somewhat of a connoisseur of swords, and I recognised the Spanish cup-hilt rapier as that belonging to the swordsman who had massacred the Nicoletti. Fortunately, I was wearing a mask, needing to hide from the Council myself. But I got a good look at the stranger’s face – and it was Diego.
‘As the street was so narrow, it was impossible for us not to pass each other without brushing shoulders. Diego took great offence at this, his hand flying to his sword, and accused me of deliberately walking into him. Not wanting to draw any attention and keen to get out of Venice, I tried to resolve the matter as peacefully as possible, reassuring the Spaniard that he was mistaken and that it had been naught but an accident. But Diego wouldn’t hear of it. He pursued me to the end of the street, where he tried to run me through the back.’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘Fortunately, I managed to avoid the Spaniard’s thrust and a fight ensued,’ Armand continues. ‘I think we woke up half the city that night, and it wasn’t long before the city watch came after us. Before they trapped us on a bridge, I managed to launch one final attack at Diego, leaving a deep gash on the left side of his face.’
‘That was you?’ I gasp.
Armand nods. ‘As he drew in close and grappled with me, he tore off my mask. Just as the guards closed in on us, we toppled into the canal. Having swum away under the cover of the night, I climbed out of the water at some deserted wharf and made my way out of the city. I didn’t know what had become of Diego. For all I knew he had been dragged out of the canal and killed by the guards. That
is, of course, until I saw him three weeks ago, waiting by his horse in the bailey at Burg Grimmheim.’
‘That must have given you one hell of a surprise,’ I say.
‘Yes, it did, to put it mildly.’
‘Do you think he has recognised you?’
Armand rubs his jaw and shrugs uncertainly. ‘I’m not sure. It was dark when we fought, and I don’t think he got a good look at my face. He hasn’t said anything to suggest that he recognises me. But I often catch him looking at me with what appears to be hatred in his eyes.’
I nod. ‘It’s a bit hard to miss. I had thought he disliked you for taunting Francesca.’
Armand smiles roguishly and sniggers. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve angered another man over a woman.’
‘But what if it’s because he has recognised you?’ I ask, concerned for Armand’s safety.
‘Then there’s not much I can do about it other than keep my distance from him,’ Armand says. ‘And I’d advise you to do the same. Von Konigsmarck has told me that Diego has set himself the goal of becoming the most famous swordsman in Europe. I’ve met men like him before – men who are ardent for glory, irrespective of the cost, and who draw their blades at the slightest provocation. All too often they bait other swordsmen into duels just for the sake of demonstrating their skill with a blade. There is no honour in what they do. Be warned: do not place your trust in that man. He is driven by one purpose alone – to prove his fighting skill.’
From the moment I had been introduced to Diego, I was immediately aware of his challenging stare and brooding nature, and I knew that he was a man I could never truly befriend. But I had never suspected that he had once fought Armand, and that he was so driven by his ambition to be a great swordsman that he could not be trusted. I make a personal promise to keep a careful watch over him.
Time passes slowly as we are lifted up the cliff face. Conscious of how high we have been hoisted, I dare not look down. My encounter with von Frankenthal atop the keep at Schloss Kriegsberg has left me terrified of heights, and I try to distract myself by thinking of how my uncle and aunt are faring. I still feel great guilt for the way in which I abandoned them, and I imagine it will take some time before I reconcile myself with what I had done. My uncle in particular had great hopes for me, and had thought I would follow in his footsteps, becoming a Warden in Dresden’s Guild of Farriers.
I know that he will not be coping well, not having heard from me since I joined the Hexenjäger. I have been meaning to write him a letter, explaining that I am in good health and learning all that I can from the friends I have made. But despite my good intentions, I have been too busy to find the time to put quill to paper. Irrespective of the guilt I feel in having abandoned my uncle and aunt, however, I know that I have done the right thing in joining the Hexenjäger. Indeed, if it wasn’t for my decision to join the order, I would have never met Dietrich Hommel and discovered what had befallen my father in the Low Countries.
I often find myself thinking of my father. I’ve had a lot to distract me over the past few weeks, but my father has always been there, lurking in the back of my mind. I find myself lying awake at night, wondering if he is chained up in a prison in Rotterdam, deep within the Dutch Republic. And it’s during these hours of troubled sleep that I become critical of my complacency. I made a vow that I would go in search of him and find out what really happened during his last stand on the bridge at Breda. Other than asking Armand and von Frankenthal if they would accompany me into the Low Countries – which they agreed to do – I have made no preparations for such a journey. Granted, I needed time to recover from the wounds I sustained during the mission to Schloss Kriegsberg. And then I was sent to Wurzen, and events have spiralled out of my control since then. But once this mission is over I intend to ask Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel for some leave, during which I will find out what happened to my father. It will be a dangerous undertaking, entering a war zone, with the Dutch and English at war in the Dutch Republic. Armand’s and von Frankenthal’s friendship and skills with a blade will be invaluable on such a perilous mission.
My thoughts elsewhere, I’m surprised when Armand announces that we are about four-fifths of the way up to the monastery. As I look up at the overhanging winch-house, my heart freezes.
For a monk has just fallen through the opening in the floor!
The monk plummets past us with a bloodcurdling scream, his arms flailing wildly. All I can do is watch in morbid fascination as he falls to his death – only averting my eyes at the last moment, just before he crunches into the solid rock at the base of the cliff. Fortunately, no one below is hit.
‘Did you see that?’ I stammer.
‘I did. And it can’t be good,’ Armand says, but he’s not looking down. Instead, he’s staring up at the overhanging room in which the winch is located.
This room is essentially an enclosed wooden platform that extends out over the rock, allowing the net to be drawn up through a hole in the floor of the platform. And it’s through this hole that we can see a struggle taking place. There’s a flash of steel and the whirr of black clothing, followed by a horrific scream. And then the net comes to a sudden halt – leaving us dangling, as we squint upwards against the pouring rain and howling wind, fearful of what will happen next.
We barely dare breathe. Our lives are literally hanging by a thread.
Armand shakes his head, fearing the worst. ‘Someone’s attacking the monastery! And it won’t take them long to work out what those monks were doing at the winch. We’ve got to get out of here.’ He casts about, looking for a possible means of escape. It only takes a split second before his eyes flash with sudden hope. ‘We need to swing the net over to the cliff – to that ladder. Can you see it? If we can swing over to it, we can grab hold and cut ourselves out of here.’
As the cliff is so high, five separate sections of rope ladder are required to scale its face. Armand has spotted the final section of ladder, but it’s located some twenty yards or so over to our right. And it looks so frail and worn in parts that I very much doubt it could even support the weight of an infant.
But it’s our only means of escape. So, without further discussion, we start to rock the net, throwing our weight against it, back and forth, back and forth, getting closer to the cliff with each passing second.
Eventually I reach out a hand. I’m so close to the ladder that my fingertips brush against it. But I’m not near enough, and we swing back again out into the open. I lick my lips eagerly, preparing myself for the return swing, determined to grab the ladder with my next attempt.
We swing back towards the cliff, and the ladder draws nearer. I reach out, stretching my hand out as far as possible, my fingertips only a mere inch from the ladder. I’m so close! Only a second more!
It’s at that precise moment that the monks’ attacker must have worked out the purpose of the winch and looked down through the hole in the overhanging room, spotting Armand and I dangling in the net.
And then severs the rope from the winch!
We plummet.
The cliff face rushes past us. But our momentum carries us over to the ladder, crashing us into the cliff, making the wind explode from our chests. We stay there for a second, stunned, amazed that we haven’t broken every bone in our bodies. Then we start to fall again.
In a last-ditch effort, we reach out – desperately – our hands clawing through the air, reaching for the ladder.
I’ve grabbed hold of it. And so has Armand.
We draw ourselves up against the cliff to safety. We stay there for a while, clinging for our lives, buffeted by the wind and rain. Armand and I are afraid to move – fearful that the ladder will not support our weight and that we will fall over a hundred and fifty yards to our deaths.
But the ladder holds fast to the cliff. Squeezing my eyes tight, I whisper a hasty prayer. Armand sprin
gs into action. Having wrapped the sides of the rope-ladder around his legs to secure his hold, he draws a dagger from the fold of one of his knee-high boots. It only takes a minute or so for him to cut a hole through the net, and we climb out onto the ladder.
‘We need to find out what’s happened,’ Armand says, scurrying up the ladder and looking down at me, his eyes blazing with a fiery determination. ‘But, above all, we must find the daggers. Now follow me. And don’t look down!’
‘It’s too late for that – I just did! I don’t think I can do this,’ I say, my throat constricting in fear and my head reeling with vertigo. I lock my eyes on the rock face directly in front of me, terrified of looking down again.
‘We don’t have time for this right now,’ Armand urges, a desperate edge to his voice. ‘We have to climb up before we are spotted. So let’s get moving.’
But fear has taken hold of me. I shake my head emphatically and lock my fingers tighter around the ladder’s rungs. ‘Go without me,’ I stammer. ‘I’ll catch up later.’
‘Jakob – look at me. Look at me!’ Armand commands, and the authority in his voice is startling, momentarily distracting me from my own fears, and makes me look up at him. ‘As much as I hate the thought of scaling the ladder in a raging storm and possibly engaging an enemy in combat atop the monastery, we have no other option. If whoever severed the net saw us swing across to the rope-ladder, then I’m sure their next plan will be to prevent us from gaining the monastery – and that will mean severing the rope-ladder.’
