Lahnstein listened in silence, only occasionally interrupting with brief questions. “What about the lapis philosophorum, the philosopher’s stone?” he asked when Greta reached the end of her tale after about an hour. “Did he ever mention it to you?”
Greta shook her head. “I doubt my father is privy to that secret. And, like I said, that wasn’t the reason for our journey to Tiffauges. Faust wanted to face Tonio, his greatest enemy, who he believes to be the immortal Gilles de Rais, or even the devil himself.”
“He has to know the secret, damn it!” Lahnstein rose and started to pace the room. The stump of his nose quivered as if he was trying to pick up a scent. “The French king is also seeking the philosopher’s stone, and so are the Habsburgs. Whoever finds the formula first rules Europe, and with Europe, the world. Especially now that warfare is becoming more and more expensive. Mercenaries, equipment, provisions—it all costs horrendous amounts of money.” He spun around, his eyes small and narrow. “Do you believe your father fled to King Francis to sell him the stone?”
“Certainly not.”
Greta looked at the papal representative, thinking he no longer struck her as a monster but more as a haunted man. She almost felt sorry for him. The pope had become obsessed by an idea and sent his most loyal servant on an impossible mission—a mission for which Lahnstein had already paid dearly.
“The French king is only after Faust because you are chasing him,” she said. “It was you who gave Francis the idea that he knew how to make gold. I’ll say it again: my father doesn’t know that secret.”
“But we have it on good authority that Gilles de Rais personally told him during a summoning of the dead.”
“Who told you that?”
“That is beside the point.” Viktor von Lahnstein continued to pace the room and muttered, more to himself, “Faust has invoked Gilles de Rais before, just like he was trying to do last night in the crypt with those other heretics. The proof is irrevocable. But this time we got there early, and the whole nest of heretics will burn!”
“There . . . there is something else,” said Greta reluctantly. “Something I want you to know.” She raised her chin and spoke with a firm voice. “I am pregnant. By John Reed. That’s the man my father killed down in the crypt.”
Viktor von Lahnstein turned around, looking as if she’d interrupted his train of thought. “Indeed?” He didn’t seem as surprised as Greta had expected. More like his hunch had just been confirmed. “Hmm, interesting.” He rocked his head from side to side. “By that former royal household guard? Because that’s what he was, right? My spies at the French court told me about John Reed’s treason.” He gave a devilish smile. “Faust’s assistant is such a handsome young man. I would have put my money on Karl Wagner. You’ve known each other for a long time.”
“Where is Karl?” asked Greta. “How is he doing?”
“Who knows?” Lahnstein shrugged. “He probably doesn’t even know himself.”
“What . . . what are you saying?”
“The devil entered his body during the ceremony, and I think we have lost him. He doesn’t even flinch when glowing splinters are driven under his fingernails. Believe me, we have tried a lot in the last few hours. If you ask me, the father of your child is better off dead than insane like that poor dog.”
“Oh no!” Greta gave a groan. “My God, Karl . . . my dear Karl.” Greta’s world became a little darker still. It seemed that the only true friend she’d ever had was gone now.
“Forget him,” said Lahnstein. “We’ll take him to Rome in case he comes to his senses and we can question him. But to be honest, I doubt that he’ll be of any use to us.” Lahnstein stepped toward Greta, scrutinizing her. “Unlike you.”
“I already told you—I know nothing. I . . .” Greta faltered. Everything around her seemed black and gray, only her unborn child keeping her alive. God was as far away as a tiny, dying star. “If you torture me, I’m sure I will say many things. But they will all be lies. I’ll tell you anything you want to hear, but it won’t be the truth!”
“Dear child, I want to ask you a question.” Lahnstein leaned down close to Greta, and she smelled something rotten—probably the poorly healed stump of his nose. “A very important question. I want you to consider your answer well.” She noticed now how gaunt the Dominican was. With his disfigured face and the wide robe, he resembled a scarecrow.
“Have you ever wondered if you stand on the right side?” asked Lahnstein calmly. The rosary dangled in front of Greta’s face.
“How . . . how do you mean?”
“Up until now you’d assumed we were the villains, right? We chase you, your father, and your dear friends, hunting you like animals to take you to Rome and hand you over to the pope and the Inquisition.” Viktor von Lahnstein took a step back and smoothed his white robe with his hands. “Try to look at it from the other side. Your father is a heretic, a Satanist—that is proven. He summoned the devil before all the delegates of the empire and set his dog on the papal nuncio. And you saw for yourself what came to pass in the crypt last night. That was no peaceful evening mass but a devilish ritual. Faust came to Tiffauges to invoke Gilles de Rais, his master, the one he calls Tonio. And he stopped at nothing to achieve this.”
The papal representative leaned down to her again and reached for the small angel the old midwife had given her. “What’s that?”
“A . . . protective amulet,” said Greta. “It reminds me that God is with me even in the darkest hour. That I can always pray to Him.”
Lahnstein raised an eyebrow. “You pray much?”
“Daily. Even more since my father started to
