“Duke Louis de Vendôme? Well, like I said, he’s in Milan and—”
“I meant your other master.”
Father Jerome looked stupefied. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Then his expression brightened. “Oh, you are speaking of the uppermost lord, the ruler of us all, whom I serve as chaplain.” He grinned. “Well, you didn’t have to travel to Tiffauges to speak with him. You can pray to my lord from anywhere and hope to be healed.”
“And yet I would like to meet him face to face. Would that be possible?”
“Hmm, he doesn’t show himself to many, only to very few select people and those who serve him wholeheartedly. You should know that, Doctor. Only those who meditate and pray deeply—”
“Tell him I want to see him,” interrupted Johann.
Father Jerome laughed again, and it was a soft, jingling laugh that made the dogs prick up their ears. “What makes you think that I, of all people, can get in contact with the great lord? I’m just a little priest, the chaplain of Tiffauges, nothing more.”
“Oh, I know you can do it.” For the first time Johann smiled, too, but his smile was as cold as ice. “You are his most faithful servant, are you not?” He rose. “I would like to retire now. It was a long day and my limbs are sore.”
Father Jerome also stood up. Karl watched the two unequal men. So far, neither man had shown his true face. It was like a charade, and the audience waited to see who would first tear off the mask of the other.
“I will show you to your rooms,” said Father Jerome, walking toward the door. “Let us hope that the lord in his grace hears your pleas. A bedtime prayer certainly wouldn’t hurt.”
Behind them, the steward snored on.
Johann struggled to fall asleep that night. He was lying in a musty four-poster bed covered with cobwebs on the second floor of the keep. Stretched above him was a dusty, threadbare baldachin, and the old boards of the bed creaked with every movement. The room was hot and stuffy. Johann wondered who had last slept in this bed—Gilles de Rais himself, together with Prelati the priest, who now called himself Father Jerome? Poitou, Henriet, La Meffraye? Or another one of his many hunters and bloodsuckers? Or perhaps even a child, lured here with sweets and then slaughtered like a lamb by Gilles de Rais? What had these walls witnessed?
Karl was in the chamber next to his, separated only by a thin door. Before they had gone to bed, they had given the agreed-upon signal with the torch in the window. Even if Johann was feeling afraid, he didn’t think he was in any imminent danger. Not yet. Standing by the window earlier, gazing down at the lights of the small town, he had noticed a large black bird rising up from the castle’s battlements. Probably a raven.
Send my greetings to your master. I am waiting for him!
Johann knew: wherever Tonio was, he would come. Father Jerome might have been a false priest, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of keeping Johann’s presence from his master. If Tonio wasn’t at the castle, he probably wasn’t far. Johann found the thought strangely reassuring. He felt as though he had been running all his life without knowing where he was headed. Now he had finally arrived.
I’m here, Tonio.
As Johann slowly nodded off, his thoughts turned to Greta. He never should have brought her this far. Maybe it really was better if John Reed was by her side, even if Johann couldn’t stand the loudmouthed fellow. John would be able to protect Greta now that Johann no longer could. He would have preferred for the two of them to depart right away. Now he could only hope that nothing happened to her—after all, lurking out there were still Lahnstein, Hagen, and the mercenaries he and Karl had only just managed to get away from.
John. Greta. Margarethe.
Slowly, Johann slid into the realm of dreams where his beloved Margarethe reached out her hand for him, where his mother in Knittlingen sang a Palatinate lullaby, and where old Father Antonius at Maulbronn Monastery handed him a volume of Greek fables. His old friend Valentin stood outside the monastery and waved to him; he had forgiven Johann—they all had forgiven him.
When Johann opened his eyes, he saw a tall figure standing by his bed. Was he still dreaming? He tried to sit up but his limbs wouldn’t move—not just his left arm, but his whole body. He felt as if he were buried alive. Behind the figure, a door was ajar, and it wasn’t the door to Karl’s chamber but a different one, one that had been hidden behind one of the tapestries. The figure bent down to him, staring at him from dead black eyes that gleamed like the eyes of a large insect. Long, clawlike fingers crawled across his body.
Cold sweat stood on Johann’s forehead, and his heart raced. He wanted to move, wanted to lift at least one hand, one finger, but he couldn’t. He felt a rough tongue on his face as if an ancient reptile was licking him, smelling him.
You’re mine, Faustusss. You’re mine, little Faustusss.
Then Johann fell into a deep unconsciousness and awoke only when it was bright daylight.
Greta and John also struggled to find rest that night. They had built a shelter deep in the woods, covering a hollow in the ground with branches and leaves, where they cuddled together like two young cats. The pale moon shone above them. Greta knew she should have been afraid of wild animals, or of the soldiers who might still be searching for them, but once again she felt safe at John’s side—as safe as she used to feel with Johann when she was younger.
Pensively, she played with the small amulet the midwife had given her. The alabaster angel was warm, as if it were alive. A thousand thoughts
