Like a kobold child, thought Lahnstein with disgust as he averted his eyes.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” he thundered. “Is the boy in pain? You know that you vouch with your life for the child’s well-being!”
The nursemaid smiled as she pushed another spoonful of porridge into the boy’s mouth. After the many months she’d worked here, she was used to the sight of Lahnstein’s monstrous face, just as little Sebastian was; the boy gazed at Lahnstein rather blankly, opening his mouth wide. “He is hungry, Your Reverence. That’s all.”
“And that’s why he’s making such a racket?”
“That’s what children do. Though I must admit that Sebastian has powerful lungs. He’s going to be a big and strong man, I’m sure.” She brushed the boy’s red curls with her hand. “And a handsome one to boot.”
Children would always remain a mystery to Lahnstein, partly because he didn’t remember much of his own childhood. Since he was a second-born son, his father had placed him at a monastery very early. Small children had only ever struck him as a nuisance, and now he was personally responsible for the life of this squawking brat. Several times a week Lahnstein checked on the boy’s well-being, ordering clothing for him and even the occasional toy. He always felt sick in the lead-up to his visits, remembering the smell of baby shit that hit him every time, and the sight of full diapers and spilled porridge on the floor. At first he had found the thought of raising the grandson of the famous Doctor Faustus at Castel Sant’Angelo enticing. He had arranged for the mother to work at the Hospital Santo Spirito—a position she evidently excelled at—and employed a nursemaid whose silence he had bought with a pile of money. He was proud of the fact that Greta believed her father to be the devil incarnate. During long, empathetic conversations he had succeeded in winning over Greta. In the beginning he had thought it was the perfect revenge, but now he found the whole affair abhorrent. Especially now that Faust was in town.
And yet Lahnstein wasn’t allowed to arrest the doctor, but instead was forced to look after this screaming child at the express command of the pope. Until now, Leo’s intentions had been a mystery to him, though he’d been harboring a growing suspicion. And the previous night, everything had changed.
Down in the dungeons below Castel Sant’Angelo, where only a few select people were allowed to go, the pope had given Lahnstein several very specific orders. And he had put two and two together. The result hadn’t been particularly satisfying—rather, deeply frightening.
But at least he thought he understood now why the boy was still here. Lahnstein knew what sort of books were stacked next to the pope’s enormous four-poster bed. And he also knew what Leo was doing down in the dungeons at night. Could it be madness or divine providence?
At least we’ll soon be rid of the brat.
Lahnstein gazed pensively at little Sebastian, who had stopped eating to defiantly stare at the gaunt man with the maimed face. His eyes were as black as pitch and reminded Lahnstein of the person he loathed the most.
“Man away. Play with Martha,” Sebastian said surprisingly loudly as he threw his sticky spoon at the representative’s gown. “Man away!”
“Truly a vigorous lad,” said Lahnstein with a forced smile. Repulsed, he brushed the splattered porridge off his gown. “With a strong mind and healthy, firm flesh. Make sure he doesn’t lose weight.”
Then he turned around and left the room.
Only a little more patience.
He would send Hagen right away to fetch the necessary items.
“God in heaven!”
With a small cry Greta shot up and paused in her task. The gray-haired man whose stump of a leg she was rebandaging gave her a quizzical look.
“Is everything all right, Sister?” he asked.
“Yes, yes.” She tried to smile. “A quick prayer, that’s all. I think I’m working too much.”
“You certainly are, Sister.” The old man grinned with his toothless mouth. “I don’t know any other sister in the hospital who cares for the sick as much as you do. Nor do I know a prettier one. I’m sure God will reward you plentifully.”
“God already rewards me by lending me comfort and strength every day. You ought to pray for both, too.” Greta wrung out the cloth and soaked it in the bowl of warm water. Carefully she dabbed the stump, which was overgrown with blackened flesh and pus. Recently, it happened increasingly often that she was struck by something in the middle of working, as if an invisible force was touching her, trying to shake her awake.
The old man watched her as she went about her task. At least his fever had gone down, which meant the worst days following the operation were probably over. A cart had run over the beggar’s leg, and an amputation had been unavoidable. Greta had poured brandy down the wounded man’s throat and uttered words of reassurance as the doctor placed the bone saw. Whether the old man would survive the procedure remained to be seen.
Or I could find out right now, thought Greta.
“May I ask you something?” asked the old man, waking Greta from her thoughts.
“What would you like to know?”
“You are young and beautiful. The men lie at your feet, even here at the hospital. Why are you doing this work? I know canonesses usually come from wealthy families. You could long be happily married, to a cloth merchant, a patrician—”
“I am married to God.”
“And there never was a man in your life?”
“There . . . there was one. He died too soon. Terrible things happened. God gave me the strength to forget, and that is why I’m here.”
The old man nodded, scrutinizing Greta as if he could see right through her bonnet and read what was truly going on inside her. Sometimes she didn’t know that herself. More than two years ago she had traveled to Rome with Viktor von Lahnstein. It had
