Greta remembered that in the course of their journey through Lorraine and Burgundy, she’d occasionally seen small clay figurines along the roadside. She’d assumed they were statues of Saint Mary, but now she realized they had all been dedicated to this famous Joan. Now they passed yet another memorial of her on the bridge.
“What happened to Joan?” asked Greta, gazing at the statue of the kneeling woman with armor and long hair. The statue prayed, alongside the French king, to a pietà.
“She suffered the same fate as your mother,” replied Johann curtly. “The Maid of Orléans was burned on the pyre as a heretic. By the English, who thereby turned her into a martyr.”
The island in the middle of the bridge was overgrown with grass and bushes and grazed by a handful of sheep. It held a hospital for pilgrims, which also contained an inn, and that was where they stayed. The rooms were plain, the pillows filled with flea-ridden straw, the windows drafty—no comparison to the lodgings the doctor usually preferred. But Johann didn’t want to draw attention; it wasn’t impossible that tales of him had even made it to France. They took care of their horses, left their few belongings with the landlord, and headed for the city. It was late afternoon by now, but the north bank of the river still sounded busy.
“We need to find passage on a ship that can take us all the way to Amboise,” said Johann as they walked across the bridge toward the bustling port to their right. “I don’t think it’s far—two, three days, perhaps.”
Soon they arrived at the port, where the ground was slippery from fish blood and the murky water sloshing over the bank. The smell was of spilled wine, smoke, and pungent spices that had arrived from faraway countries. Sweating day laborers lugged crates to the various boats, dodging tired-looking wagon drivers who had come from the north—some even all the way from Paris—to offload their freight here. Men gesticulated loudly, some argued, and there was noise and shouting like at a cattle market. Built directly against the city wall were numerous taverns and storehouses where barrels, crates, and bales of cloth piled up. Even though they were many miles away from the Atlantic coast, Greta felt like she was at a teeming sea harbor.
After a while they decided to split up and look separately for a ship passage. Now in spring, at the end of the long winter break, the ships were filled to capacity with freight, with no room left for passengers—or if there were any spots, they came at outrageous prices. Johann and Greta were about to head for the last few small barges west of the bridge when Karl came rushing toward them, visibly excited. At his side walked a young man whose wavy fiery-red hair stood out from the crowd. He had no hat and wore a tight-fitting leather jerkin and equally tight leather trousers. His clean-shaven face was covered in freckles. Karl introduced him to the others.
“This is John Reed, a merchant from Scotland. He’s willing to take us to Amboise.”
“To the end of the world if you can pay,” said Reed with a wide grin, exposing two complete rows of white teeth. He spoke German with a faint British accent. “John Reed at your service. Reed as in red—you can probably guess why.”
“We don’t have a lot of money,” said Johann, ignoring Reed’s chatter. “And as far as Amboise will do. How much do you charge?”
“Your companion said you come from Metz and are on your way to Fontevrault Abbey?” said the young merchant. “Then why do you want to go to Amboise? You’d be better off traveling to Tours or all the way to Angers. I could—”
“Let that be our concern,” said Johann.
John Reed eyed the travelers with curiosity, especially Greta. She noticed that the young man with the bright, mischievous eyes was of rather athletic build, his shape accentuated by the tight-fitting clothes. He was wiry and not very tall. A knife that could pass for a short sword dangled from his belt.
“My son and daughter and I are on pilgrimage,” said Johann with a dignified expression, intuiting that Reed expected some sort of explanation. “My beloved wife—God rest her soul—passed away a few months ago. She asked us to atone for her and our sins at the grave of the learned Eleanor of Aquitaine at Fontevrault. But first we’re going to visit relatives at Amboise. My daughter will remain at the abbey as a nun.”
“What a shame,” said John Reed, his eyes again scanning Greta’s body. He grinned, and she noticed that his nose was slightly crooked, like from an old injury. “The world in general and men in particular will lose a veritable gem. Who knows—perhaps you’ll find a wealthy gentleman at the court of the king in Amboise to wed this beauty before the doors of the abbey close forever.”
Greta could feel herself blush and cursed herself for it. The fellow had that very particular kind of charming cockiness that both repulsed and attracted her. And she had to admit that he was rather easy on the eye, even if he wasn’t classically handsome. The red hair and the crooked nose gave him a rakish look. Now it dawned on her why Karl had been so excited. He, too, liked the young man.
“I can pay fourteen livres for the passage,” said Johann, ignoring the flattery of his daughter. “Four for each of us and two for the dog. He is a rather large animal, as you can see.”
“Bloody large.” John Reed scratched his red head of hair as he watched Little Satan lick his private parts. “Fourteen livres isn’t much indeed, considering I’d have to leave profitable
