Or something else, thought Greta, moving closer to the fire.
Days and weeks went by. They rode through Nancy, the magnificent capital of the duchy of Lotharingia, an outpost of the German Empire. Then they came to the large, vibrant market town of Bar-sur-Aube in the county of Champagne, its lanes full of bleating lambs, goats, and calves. They had crossed the border into France without even noticing. For a while now, people had been speaking the soft, poetic language Greta knew from a few songs, so different from the harsh-sounding German. Communication was arduous at first, but Greta soon found that she had a knack for learning languages. She listened when her father negotiated their quarters or bought supplies in the small towns along their route, and soon she could lead halting conversations herself.
Greta noticed that her father often gazed into the sky, growing visibly restless as soon as a swarm of birds circled above them. Ravens especially seemed to make him nervous. But when Greta asked him about it, he just waved it off.
“An old habit,” he said. “I’ve never liked those beasts.”
They swiftly trotted and cantered through the green lands of the duchy of Burgundy, the formerly large realm that used to stretch across half of Europe and which now belonged to France. If anyone asked, they were pilgrims on their way to the abbey in Fontevrault. The abbey was situated in the county of Anjou, not far from the Loire Valley, and was one of the biggest and best-known abbeys in France. It had been Johann’s idea to tell people that they were a deeply religious goldsmith family from Metz, the father with his son and younger daughter. The daughter would, so their story went, remain at the abbey as a nun to fulfill a family pledge.
“The pilgrims’ clothes suit you,” said Karl with a wink, riding next to Greta. The two of them had become closer again. “Although I can’t really picture you as a nun. A life without juggling, music, and colors—how sad!”
Greta snorted. She wore a plain brown woolen coat and a wide-brimmed hat typical for pilgrims. “Johann would love that, locking me up in a nunnery.” She hardly ever called him “Father”; she found it hard to say the word. “Ever since he told me that I’m his daughter, he is even more jealous.”
“You can’t blame him.” Karl smirked. “You’re his greatest treasure.”
“That is precisely how I feel. A treasure, not a person. A treasure that must be guarded. And I’ve got enough on my mind without a French love affair.”
Greta kicked her heels into the horse’s sides and galloped off.
At Gien, a pretty little town with colorful half-timbered houses and a newly erected castle, they finally reached the Loire River. They let their horses graze on the top of a hill and gazed down onto the glittering green ribbon below. Now, in spring, the river was even mightier than usual, its rippling current twirling branches, leaves, and logs. It was wider than most rivers Greta knew—almost as wide as the Rhine.
“The Loire is the biggest river in France,” Johann said and raised his hand toward the south. “Its spring lies deep in the mountains, and its mouth beyond Nantes on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. Some say the Loire is the country’s main artery. In any case, it divides this vast kingdom into north and south, which might be one reason for the French kings’ preference for the Loire Valley. During the long war against the Englishmen, when Paris was in the hands of the enemy, they even ruled from here.” He grinned. “Even now, it is said, Francis I likes to spend more time at his beautiful castles along the Loire than in stinking old Paris. He is a passionate hunter.”
“How do you know all that?” asked Greta.
Johann shrugged. “I read a lot, including those new leaflets called newspapers. Granted, there’s much nonsense in them about earthquakes, falling stars, and the wrath of God. But also the odd interesting bit. At the moment it’s all about the election of the new German king, since Maximilian has passed away. The French want to stay informed because their king is part of the game.”
He gazed down the wide river until it disappeared behind a bend. “There really is only one way to travel the Loire Valley.”
“Which is?”
“By boat, of course.” Johann winked at his two companions. “And I know just where to find one. I expect you two will love the lively city. It’s called Orléans. Allez! ”
He gave his horse a slap on the hindquarters and, followed by Little Satan, rode down the hill toward the road that led west.
Johann hadn’t exaggerated—Orléans was indeed a city to Greta’s taste. It was not gloomy like Metz but spacious and bright, as if a different sun shone in the south.
The Loire was navigable from Orléans, and so the northern bank was crowded with moored boats and rafts of all shapes and sizes. A large bridge with an island in the middle led across the water. Greta saw with amazement how some of the ships folded down their masts to pass beneath the bridge. Behind the defensive walls of the city stood the towers of a cathedral that seemed to be unfinished. The riverside by the ships was as bustling as a fairground. The air was full of the shouting of the skippers on their vessels and the laborers carting the freight off the barges into town.
They had crossed the river at Gien, so that now they approached Orléans via the great bridge. A solid gate tower formed the entrance to the city; it was marked by soot, shot holes, and gashes that looked like wounds.
“The Englishmen tried to take Orléans several times during the war,” explained Johann as they passed through the gate. “The city was an important bridgehead to gain control
