Johann gave a start. He had been so preoccupied with the thought of meeting Tonio soon that he’d almost forgotten about his promise to send the signal each night. Instead he had been staring at the dots of light signaling the arrival of the guests. He looked around for the brazier by his bed.
But it wasn’t there. Only a ring of soot on the floor showed where it used to stand.
Karl followed his gaze. “Same in my chamber,” he said. “I had hoped there’d be fire in your room. The torches have also been removed.”
Johann looked at the rusty brackets on the wall—they were empty. Someone must have taken the torches away while they were in the hall.
“Damn it,” groused Johann. “Looks as if someone noticed what we’ve been doing each night. Let’s go—maybe we’ll find a torch in the corridor that we—”
He turned to the door and stopped dead.
Father Jerome stood in front of him with a torch in his hand.
Karl hadn’t heard him enter, either. The priest hadn’t come in through the regular entrance; that door was still closed. Had he entered through Karl’s door or . . . ?
Or through the same secret door that he used to visit me that first night, thought Johann.
He wondered how much of their conversation the chaplain had overheard. Father Jerome’s face betrayed nothing. After a few moments, he hinted at a bow.
“I thought it would be polite to fetch you personally for mass,” he said. “It’s a little early, but the guests are growing impatient. They long to see you, Doctor. Are you ready?”
Johann would have liked to ask for more time, but he couldn’t think of an excuse. How could he give the signal when he and Karl went with the priest now? Father Jerome had probably ordered the torches and braziers to be removed himself. Johann should have thought of it sooner—now it was too late. But it didn’t really matter. He had only given the signal in the last few nights to put Greta’s mind at ease. Tonight, everything was going to be resolved, so there was no more need for signals.
“I am ready,” he said.
“Then follow me.”
They stepped into the dark corridor. Here, too, any lights had been removed, making Father Jerome’s torch the only source of light in the darkness of the old walls. They followed the priest down the stairs, left the donjon, and turned right toward the church. There was no sign of any of the guards, and no watch fires had been lit on the towers like usual. Johann suspected the guards had been bribed—unless the chaplain had other means of making them compliant.
Father Jerome pushed against the two-winged church portal, which swung open silently as if freshly oiled. They were greeted by a surprising brightness, and Johann was forced to squint. The nave was illuminated by dozens of torches, and, as during morning mass, the organ was playing, but it sounded incredibly low and the tune was very strange, like music meant not for mankind but for something much older. Once Johann’s eye had adjusted to the brightness, he looked around searchingly. Contrary to his expectations, the church was empty. No one was sitting in the pews.
“Where are your guests?” asked Karl, who had been following Johann and the priest in silence.
Father Jerome waved dismissively. “Don’t worry, everything is prepared.”
He walked ahead, leading them behind the altar in the apse. Johann saw now that narrow stairs led down through an opening in the ground. During the morning services, it had been closed with a hatch that now stood open. Father Jerome pointed down below where, Johann realized, the organ music came from.
“After you.”
Johann hesitated briefly, then he started to descend the slippery, moss-covered steps. If the priest and his friends wanted to kill Johann, they would do so anyway. But he didn’t think they were going to—for some reason, Father Jerome treated him with something like respect.
The steps led down into a low crypt directly beneath the church. Here, too, many torches had been lit, illuminating a long room that was supported by two rows of stout columns. Farther back, a type of well was built into the ground, torchlight reflecting in the water. The organ music was so loud that it hurt Johann’s ears, but he still couldn’t spot the instrument.
Instead, Johann saw the guests.
There were about two dozen of them, and it was the strangest conglomeration of people Johann had ever seen. It was a mix of men and women, older ones and younger ones, although Johann couldn’t see any very old people or children. It took him a few moments to figure out what was so odd about them.
It was their clothes.
Only a few of the guests wore regular garments; the rest were dressed like people in a painting.
In a very old painting.
Johann saw pale noblewomen with divided hennins and veils on their heads, men with pointed crakows and cloak-like upper garments that had been in fashion decades ago. The colors were garish and loud, the leggings tight fitting, accentuating the men’s private parts, and some wore scarves around their heads wrapped into turbans. Silver cloak pins and jingling bells on the garments gave some of them the air of jugglers.
But on second glance, the outfits didn’t seem quite as magnificent. Some were faded, others threadbare and full of mold stains, as if they’d spent many years lying in a chest.
Or in a coffin, thought Johann.
The guests nodded at him and Karl. Some of them gave an elegant bow, but no one uttered a word. Each of their movements was measured and grave. Father Jerome pointed out an older man wearing a slightly scratched silver cuirass with a faded red cape of velvet. The deafening organ music ended as if on cue.
“May I introduce you to Henri Montcourt,” said Father Jerome, “the Duke of Burgundy, valued friend of the king,
