“Arthos, Wotan, hush!” ordered the man in a similar growl. He gave the pair of guards by the door a signal. “You can leave us. I think we can handle those two on our own.”
Karl was still wondering whether we was supposed to mean the dogs or another person when the man addressed the doctor.
“So you are the famous Doctor Faustus from the German lands,” he said with a heavy tongue. He took a long gulp from his goblet and wiped his dirty shirtsleeve across his beard. His eyes were small and red, as if from years of drinking.
Johann gave a small bow. “At your service, Your Excellency.”
“Tell me, how do I know that you are indeed Faust and not some kind of impostor, huh?” The man’s eyes grew even smaller, and he scrutinized Johann and Karl as if they were a pair of cockroaches. “I’ve heard about Doctor Faustus. He is a powerful wizard, but you don’t look powerful. Not to mention the fellow next to you. He looks more like a wench.”
“It’s him, no doubt,” said another voice. “The legendary Doctor Johann Georg Faustus and his assistant, Karl Wagner. Am I right? Welcome to Tiffauges Castle!”
The voice had come from the rear of the room by the fireplace. Stepping out from the clouds of smoke was a gaunt middle-aged man clad in the black robe of a priest. His comely, beardless cheeks and chin were scarred by pockmarks that added a cruel streak to the otherwise handsome face, like cracks in a beautiful vase. His hair was raven black and long, flowing down his shoulders like pitch.
“Unlike the honorable lord steward, who is far too busy for such things, I have seen leaflets with your image at the markets,” he added by way of explanation, looking at Johann. “It’s a bad habit, I admit. Those leaflets often contain the most hair-raising nonsense. Oh dear!” The man gave a laugh. “Now I’m talking too much again. And I haven’t even introduced myself.” He gave a bow. “Father Jerome, the castle chaplain.”
Johann looked at him sharply. “Is it customary in French castles for the guests to be greeted by the chaplain, not the lord of the castle?”
“You must forgive us.” Father Jerome smiled. “The lord steward often feels indisposed. And in such cases he is glad when I . . . well, fulfill the occasional burdensome task for him. I’m afraid this is one such case.” He gestured at the table, where the steward’s head had sunk onto his chest. The old drunkard snored like a bear in hibernation, his beard hanging into his goblet.
“Yes, yes, so much work.” Father Jerome gave a shrug. “Sir Albert is normally the duke’s master of hunt, but the duke has been in Italy since the Battle of Marignano, and Sir Albert has been running things at Tiffauges since.” He chuckled softly. “The duke probably didn’t consider the fact that Albert is a better huntsman than administrator. I like to think he would be pleased to know that his humble chaplain goes over his bills and the lists of his estates. Especially since Sir Albert can barely read.”
Father Jerome smiled once more, his black eyes glistening like cold crystals. He gestured at the long table covered with silver platters of cold meats, cheese, bread, and smoked fish, as well as a large wine carafe. “Why don’t we sit? You must be hungry, venerable doctor, and you can tell me over dinner what brings you to Tiffauges.”
They sat down and Johann helped himself to meat and wine. Karl briefly panicked at the thought that the food might be poisoned, but then he realized that there was no reason to kill them like this.
They were prisoners already.
As they ate in silence, Karl studied the priest. The man sat opposite them at the table and merely sipped on his cup of wine. If the old midwife had spoken the truth, then Father Jerome was the same man who’d called upon the devil with Gilles de Rais about a hundred years ago. Back then he called himself François Prelati and used to be something like the playmate of the dark marshal.
But maybe that was just another rumor. Karl knew from painful experience that heretics and sodomites were often lumped together. Still, he had to admit that something was gravely amiss in this castle. Clearly, the chaplain had seized control at Tiffauges—that must have been what the guards had hinted at. But that didn’t mean that the man in front of them was an undying monster. In any case, he was extremely polite.
“How do you enjoy France, Doctor?” asked Father Jerome, eyeing Johann with curiosity.
“It’s a beautiful country if you have an eye for castles, an ear for music, and a palate for fine food,” answered Johann between mouthfuls. He seemed very calm and focused, as during a difficult game of chess.
Father Jerome laughed, causing the steward to start up briefly before falling back asleep. “You’re right. But I believe you are not here because of the good food.” With an expression of concern, the father gestured at Johann’s lifeless arm and slumping shoulder. “I’m inclined to believe you are seriously ill. Have you traveled to France in the hope of a cure? We have excellent doctors, especially in university cities like Avignon and Paris. Brittany, however, is truly like the end of the world in that regard.”
“I am indeed searching for a cure.” Johann looked up from his meal. “I
