When Greta saw her old friend, she couldn’t help but agree with Lahnstein. The Karl Wagner in front of her was nothing but a shell. He stared straight ahead like a dead fish, saliva running from the corner of his mouth, and his limbs seemed strangely lifeless and limp, as if his bones had dissolved.
Greta had hoped that Karl had only put on an act for the soldiers—which was why she had asked to enter the cell on her own. But now she saw that Karl truly wasn’t in his right mind. Lahnstein had explained to her that it was probably due to the poisonous drink he’d consumed. The poison had rendered him insane, and his spirit had traveled to another world.
Greta doubted it was a nice world.
“I . . . I’m so sorry, Karl,” she tried again. “I . . . you . . . we should never have come to Tiffauges. My father has brought us nothing but unhappiness. It was . . . it was our damned love that made us weak, wasn’t it? Now look what your love brought you.”
Karl didn’t respond, still staring straight ahead. Greta noticed then that he was missing all his fingernails. They had pulled them out one by one, but still he hadn’t uttered a word. Now she understood why his limbs seemed so lifeless—most likely, they were broken in several places or pulled out of their joints. Crazy or not—Karl would never survive a journey to Rome.
“Karl!” Greta knelt down in front of him and took his bloodied hands in hers. “Where are you, my friend? Wherever you’ve gone, I am here with you, do you hear me? But . . . but I can’t help you. I have to save my child—you understand, don’t you? I’m going to Rome, Karl. I will ask Lahnstein to take you to a hospital not far from here so that you can be looked after. He’s not a bad man, deep down. He . . . he will listen to me, I’m sure.” She nodded with determination as the words gushed out of her. “You’re no longer of use to him, unlike me.”
Tears streamed down Greta’s face, the first ones since the previous night, but she didn’t notice. She held Karl’s hands tightly. His face was still beautiful, but now it reminded her of a prettily painted ceramic doll.
“I will write to you, Karl. I won’t abandon you. But now I must go, to Rome, for my child’s sake. We were on the wrong side all along, Karl. I realize that now. I’m returning to God, and God will help you, too, I’m sure of it.”
Greta took off her necklace with the amulet. The little alabaster angel had opened her eyes, even if it hadn’t managed to protect her. But maybe it would protect Karl—maybe it could stop evil growing in him like it had in her father.
“Here, Karl, take this,” she said softly and placed the angel around his neck. “Let it be your guardian angel from now on. If you ever wake up again, this pendant will remind you of me. Of me and of God, who is always there for us, especially during our hours of need.” Gently, she stroked his cheek. “I . . . I must go now. My old friend, I love you. I will always love you.”
She suppressed a sob, not wishing for Karl to remember her thus. But then she recalled that it was just a puppet sitting in front of her who wouldn’t remember anything.
Or was he?
As Greta stood up, she thought she could see the briefest flash in Karl’s eyes, as if the fog lifted for a tiny moment. But on second glance there was nothing but emptiness. His head flopped to one side, and a strand of saliva hanging from his mouth reached almost to the ground.
“Farewell, Karl.”
She bent down and kissed his hot forehead. Then she knocked against the door and Hagen opened it.
When she climbed up the stairs, Greta breathed in the cool, fresh breeze that greeted her. It tasted of new beginnings.
And with each step she left a little more of her old life behind.
18
AMBOISE
19 JUNE, AD 1519
UNDER A MOONLESS NIGHT, A LONESOME HORSEMAN arrived at the gates of Amboise. His horse was as pitch black as his coat, so the guards didn’t notice more than a shadow. He was riding along the wall, through the watery meadows by the river where the fireflies glowed like will-o’-the-wisps. The smell of rot and sulfur wafted over from the muddy banks. Above the river burned the watch fires of Amboise Castle, rising above the edge of town like a giantess made of stone. The horse took a sharp turn onto the narrow road leading to Cloux behind the castle.
About a quarter of a mile before his destination, Johann dismounted and tied the dripping horse to a tree so that it could graze. Despite the darkness, he had ridden the last few hours at a gallop. His coat stuck to his back, and every muscle in his body ached. But it was a welcome pain, reminding him that his paralysis had indeed vanished.
It had taken Johann eight days and nights to get here from Tiffauges; he had ridden like the devil. He no longer wore the bloodstained robe of the dead priest but a jerkin, trousers, and a black coat with a hood that turned him almost invisible when he rode through the woods. The horse had been a stroke of luck, as its saddlebag had been filled with wine, food, and even a few gold and silver coins—probably loot belonging to a Swiss mercenary. In a dodgy tavern where the landlord didn’t care how the strange fellow in the dirty robe had come by his money, Johann had bought his new clothes. He had considered buying a hand cannon also but decided on a set of throwing knives instead. In his youth, knives had always been
