When the city gates closed, she felt like meandering along the river for a while. The setting sun painted red reflections on the current of the Loire. Greta dreamily gazed out at the mighty river, which was almost three hundred paces wide in this spot. Ships and smaller barges drifted past. Some of the young boatmen cast lascivious glances at her, and some even whistled, but Greta had only a thin smile for them. Most of those boys were younger than her and acted as if they were tough men. It was always the same—either men were still wet behind the ears or they were old and fat and overly proud of their well-filled purses. Most likely, the right man for her didn’t exist. Greta thought of Agrippa’s Elsbeth, his friendly, content wife and a mother. Would Greta ever have a family of her own? She felt a twinge of pain in her heart.
Perhaps I’m more like my father than I knew, and I will always be alone.
Greta was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice as the houses grew more sparse. The shouts of the port workers became quieter; the moorings ended. Not far past the city, the muddy riverbank turned into marshland with reeds and cattails as tall as a man. A few startled herons took off. Dusk spread over the water and turned its rich green color first to gray and then to black.
Greta was about to turn back when she spotted something moving in the reeds. She saw a flash of red and heard furtive footsteps. She gave a little jump but told herself to relax. It was likely just that John Reed following her. He probably thought his cheeky manners and a few compliments would suffice to seduce her among the reeds. The impertinent fellow wouldn’t be the first to get nothing but a bloody nose from her.
“Why don’t you come on out, you coward?” she called, bracing her hands on her hips. “I know it’s you, John Redhead. Didn’t my father tell you that I’m going to the nunnery? You’re wasting your time. But you’re welcome to join me for a rosary!”
There was more rustling in the reeds nearby, the brown seed heads of the cattails swaying gently in the wind.
Then Greta realized that there was no wind. The reeds swayed because someone was moving them. Maybe there was even more than one. She began to feel a little concerned, reaching for her knife and looking all around her.
“If you think you can frighten me, you’re mistaken!” she shouted into the darkness. “All you’ll get from me is a bloody nose.”
But all remained silent. In the distance, she could hear the noises of the port—soft laughter, shouts, and even a faint melody. Someone was playing the flute. Greta recognized the tune, surprised that someone would play an old children’s song.
Susie, dear Susie, what’s rustling in the straw?
Greta listened. Did the melody actually come from the port? The sound was so faint, played on a willow whistle like the type shepherds sometimes used. Suddenly she felt certain that the melody wasn’t coming from the port.
But from the reeds.
Susie, dear Susie what’s—
The melody broke off as abruptly as if the flute player had his throat cut. Greta kept her eyes peeled, listening. There! Another glimpse of something red among the rushes. It had to be a shock of hair, but it vanished in an instant. The reeds swayed again and a whirring sound arose, a swooshing and rushing as if a storm was swiftly approaching.
Greta suddenly wasn’t so sure whether it was John Reed lurking in the reeds or . . . something else.
She started to run. She ran back along the same narrow dirt track she had followed here, the first lights of the harbor only about fifty paces away, and yet the distance seemed to stretch forever. The cattails rushed and whispered beside her as if they were talking to her.
Greta . . . Greta . . . ssstay . . . ssstay with ussss . . .
As she continued to race along in panic, she realized the reeds were moving with her! Something or someone was running alongside her, very closely, concealed by the rushes.
Ssstay with usss . . .
And there was another sound she now heard.
Panting.
Greta ran as if the devil were after her. Reeds hit her face, then suddenly she felt gravel underneath her feet followed by the slippery timber of planks. She had reached the moorings. But she didn’t stop—she ran and ran and ran until she came to the first brightly illuminated tavern. Only then did she stop, doubling over and gasping for breath. Her heart was beating in her throat, almost drowning out the noise from inside the tavern. She turned around and looked at the reeds, which stood out as a black silhouette against the night sky. She thought she could still see some of the rushes move, like waving hands.
Farewell, Greta.
Greta shook herself. What was the matter with her? She wasn’t usually easily frightened. But what if—
A hand grasped her by the shoulder. Greta screamed.
“Can I help you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She spun around and saw the face of John Reed. The flickering lantern above the tavern door shone on his red hair, making it look like flames. He must have just come from the narrow alley next to the building.
Or he had been very close behind her.
Greta’s hands moved to the dagger at her side.
“Thanks, I’m fine,” she said, carefully glancing about. A merry group of men walked past, gawking at her. Now she was glad of it, because at least she wasn’t alone with the creepy Scotsman.
John’s face darkened. “Listen, lass, I don’t know what you think of me, but I’ll tell you one thing: I’m not
