“For acting like a fool last night. You aren’t a common thief or one of those men who prey upon young girls in the night.”
“Oh, now you’re doing me another injustice. I’m definitely a rascal.” John looked up and Greta saw the mischief in his grin. “I think it’s in my blood. The Scottish are a small, stubborn people, forever careful to keep our bigger neighbor at bay with wit and cunning. But I know just how you can make it up to me.” He put down the pole and stood up.
Greta hesitated. “And how is that?”
“First, don’t talk to me like I’m some sort of fop—I’m John, plain and simple, John. Got it?” He held out his hand and smiled, showing his white teeth again. “Second, you and I are going out for a cup of wine in Blois. I know a cozy little pub where they cook a stew almost as good as in the Scottish Highlands. Simple, soggy, and salty—no frills, unlike most grub you get in this land of frog eaters and oyster slurpers.”
“All right,” replied Greta, laughing. “On one condition.” She gestured toward Johann, who was just throwing a piece of meat to Little Satan, who caught it and swallowed it with one big gulp. “The dog comes along. Little Satan will make sure no harm befalls me.”
John’s eyebrows shot up. “The dog is called Little Satan?” He laughed out loud. “The devil watches over the nun. For heaven’s sake. Well, I’m sure we’ll both be very safe.”
They arrived at Blois in the early evening. After one last bend in the river, the hills suddenly opened up, and Greta’s eyes beheld a city so beautiful that she thought she was dreaming. If Orléans had been stunning, then Blois was the definition of royal pomp. Sitting enthroned above the Loire was a large, three-winged castle with oriels and little towers, its rows of glass windows reflecting the sunlight. The castle was surrounded by gardens landscaped in terraces. The houses down by the river were tiled with slate, and several flights of wide steps led to a large church and more houses. Through the evening haze Greta could make out palatial buildings that probably belonged to noblemen or court officials. There seemed to be nothing ugly in this city—no poverty, no malice, and no dirt.
Karl, too, appeared to be impressed.
“Think about the holes we call castles and towns back home,” he muttered as the boat navigated toward the other vessels in the harbor. Many of them had hoisted the flag of the French king, depicting a fire-spitting salamander. “All those dirt-poor German knights in their drafty keeps. The nobility here truly knows how to live. Savoir-vivre—that’s what they say about the French.”
“Not bad, huh?” John grinned. He was standing at the prow with a rope in his hand, ready to dock when the boat reached the moorings. “You’ll see more of those castles in the coming days. The valley is full of them. But Château de Blois certainly is one of the most beautiful. Blois was the main residence of the previous king, Louis XII. Francis I also comes to stay a lot, but I think he prefers Amboise. His wife, Claude, spent her childhood at Blois.”
“Spare us your commentary,” said Johann abruptly. “All I want to know is how long we’re going to stay here.”
“At least until midday tomorrow. I have business to take care of. You can attend early mass at Saint Nicolas Church and touch the relics of Saint Laudomar, considering you’re a pious pilgrim. The saint was said to be a grumpy hermit—just to your taste.” John winked at the doctor, who ignored the jest.
Greta had told her father that she was going to a tavern with John that evening. Johann hadn’t been thrilled, but when she assured him that she would take the dog, he had given his consent—he knew he couldn’t stop her, anyway.
“You’ll do it whether or not I say you can,” he’d answered. “But please be careful.”
The crew tossed the ropes ashore, where a handful of laborers caught them and pulled the boat parallel against the dock. A plank was extended, and the ostensible pilgrim family went ashore. They left their few belongings on the boat, where the crew would also be staying. They were immediately assailed by enterprising locals trying to sell them a room at an inn, but John fobbed them all off.
“You’re staying at the Hotel Tambour,” he said decisively. “It’s the best you’ll get if you don’t want to spend too much. Follow me.”
A few royal soldiers hung about the port and unenthusiastically checked the newly arrived wares. The harbormaster sat at a table and noted down the freight. The unshaved man with his red-and-blue officer’s cap had nothing but a tired glance for the three travelers. Karl and Johann were walking ahead when Greta noticed a crowd of people down by the shore a little off to the side, close to the fishing vessels. She could hear loud wailing and crying, and then a woman screamed out. Greta stopped and listened.
“What is going on there?” she asked.
“Hmm, an accident, perhaps?” John squinted but couldn’t make out much in the evening light. He walked down to the group and returned a short while later with a sad expression on his face.
“They fished a dead child out of the water,” he explained. “A little boy. Apparently he’s from a village up the river. It looks as though the poor lad got caught in a net and drowned. His mother just arrived.”
Another scream rang out, and Greta shuddered. The woman cried and wailed, and now they could make out words between the sobs.
“L’ogre!” she lamented. “Mon Dieu, l’ogre mange nos enfants! L’ogre!”
Greta’s French was good enough by then to understand the gist of what the woman was saying.
“‘The ogre eats our children’?” She turned to John. “What is
