And, by God, he would find that pawn.
Meanwhile, Greta waited for death.
She didn’t know the exact time of its arrival, but it would certainly be soon. Probably in the shape of that huge Swiss mercenary who would torture her before his men would burn her at the stake in the castle’s courtyard.
Like my mother, she thought.
Contrary to her expectations, she hadn’t been thrown into some dark dungeon but had been brought to a comfortable chamber in one of the northern towers. There was a green tiled stove, tapestries on the freshly plastered walls, and in the corner, beneath a barred window, stood a chair and a table with an embroidery frame holding a half-finished pattern. It was a stag surrounded by fluttering birds and small rabbits—probably the work of some dusty, long-dead noblewoman. Did those fellows seriously believe she would do some needlework while she calmly waited to be put to death?
But then again, there was nothing left worth living for. John, the father of her unborn child, was dead—murdered by her own father. The only man she had ever felt true love for and with whom she’d wanted to spend the rest of her life had been stabbed to death like an animal. Greta had no more tears left. She was empty, spent, nothing more than a shell. She didn’t know where Karl was. When the guards had dragged them out of the crypt, he hadn’t been in his right mind. He had only smiled a stupid smile, as if he had no idea what was going on around him—unlike the other men and women, who had been dragged away kicking and screaming. They knew what was coming for them. Greta was aware that they were heretics—worse, Satanists, who prayed to the devil. Evil people. But still she shuddered at the thought of them all burning at the stake.
Along with me.
But then she remembered something that might be worth living for. She was carrying John’s child under her heart. She gently placed her hand on her belly and thought she could feel the baby growing. Pregnant women usually weren’t executed, or at least not right away. They were spared until the child was born. That’s how it had been with her mother when she was pregnant with Greta. Greta might die, but her child—John’s child—would live! She had to tell the guards about her pregnancy and maybe they would even refrain from torturing her.
A key was slid into the lock, and Greta stood up promptly. The time had come—they were fetching her for questioning! She clenched her fists and jutted out her chin. The guards would not catch her trembling.
But no guards entered, nor Hagen the giant. It was Viktor von Lahnstein. He wore a fresh snow-white robe and, instead of the leather belt, a scapular in cardinal red that gave him a dignified look—an effect that had certainly been intended. But it stood in stark contrast to his face. Down in the crypt, Lahnstein had worn a hood. Now Greta saw for the first time what a mess Little Satan had made of the man’s face back in Bamberg. In the place of a nose was a fleshy, pink stump with two gaping holes, almost like a pig’s snout.
With a silent wave of his hand, the Dominican signaled for Greta to sit down. He sat opposite her and studied her, his fingers playing with the wooden rosary hanging from his neck. His mouth was half-open, and Greta could hear his labored breathing. She decided to hold his gaze, which was difficult in view of the maimed visage. After a few moments, Lahnstein began to smile, which made Greta shiver.
“The daughter of the famous Doctor Faustus,” said Lahnstein. “And it looks as if she is his equal in pride. I like that. Most people can’t bear to look at me. They turn away in horror.” He fingered the scarcely healed scraps of meat on his face. “Strange, isn’t it, how the absence of such a small part of the human body calls the whole person into question? It doesn’t take much to turn a man into a monstrosity.”
“What do you want from me?” asked Greta quietly. “If you’re here to take me to torture—”
Lahnstein waved dismissively. “I don’t need glowing pincers or a rack to make conversation. In my experience, confessions made during torture are to be taken with a grain of salt.”
“What do you want, then?”
“I want to make conversation. About your father.”
Greta said nothing for a while. She found it hard to even think of her father’s name—it burned like acid inside her. “Trust me—I know nothing about him,” she said eventually. “At the end of the day, he was always a stranger to me. Especially in the last few weeks.”
“Your own father?” Lahnstein wrinkled his forehead. “And I’m supposed to believe that? How dumb do you think I am?” He leaned back. “I want to know everything, from the beginning. I have time.”
Greta thought. What did she have to lose? And so she started to talk while outside the morning sun slowly rose higher. She saw no reason to hide anything. Johann might have been her father, but there was nothing left that tied her to him. He was a murderer and maybe worse. And besides, she could understand Lahnstein’s motivation. Because of her father, the Dominican now looked like a monster—he had a right to learn about his enemy.
She told Lahnstein how she had met the great Faust when she was a young girl and how the two of them and Karl had traveled the German Empire and beyond as jugglers. She also told him about Faust’s disease, the pact with Tonio, about their visit at Leonardo da Vinci’s, and, finally, why they had come to Tiffauges. The words poured out of her like bitter bile, like poison, as if
