John gave a big smile, and this slightly crooked, sheepish grin finally won her over. The space outside church was deserted now; it was just the two of them.
Greta gave a little sigh and hoped John wouldn’t hear it. She remembered that not long ago she’d demanded of her father to always tell the truth. How could she judge John for doing just that? It felt so good to have him near her again. There was something familiar about him—it felt like they’d known each other for a long time. And there was something romantic about smugglers.
“You . . . you selfish, dumb—” she began.
The rest of the sentence drowned in a long kiss. Greta tried to resist at first, but then she returned John’s kiss with passion. John had kindled a fire inside her that had continued to smolder after his disappearance, and now it was flaring back up. But this time, she wouldn’t be the weak girl who was getting seduced. She turned her face away abruptly and stood up.
“What are you doing?” asked John in surprise.
Greta smiled. “There might not be anyone watching, but this here behind us is still a church. I know an overgrown orchard nearby. It’s not as magnificent as the royal gardens at Blois, but it’s at least as beautiful.” She pulled John up and led him by his sleeve, and he followed without protest. Arm in arm they walked down the narrow lane that led to the vineyards and gardens outside of town.
That was why Greta didn’t see the old raven perched on the walls of the church, staring down at her with hateful red eyes.
When Greta hurried back toward Château du Cloux with a spring in her step that evening, two other shadows followed her progress from one of the caverns in the tuff rock along the way. In the darkness of the cave, only the outlines of their bodies and the whites of their eyes showed, the one shadow towering above the other like a mountain.
“There she is!” hissed Viktor von Lahnstein. “The doctor’s wench.”
“Do you want me to grab her so we can question her?” asked Hagen, adjusting the long, bloodstained sword on his back. “It’s a good opportunity. For once she isn’t with that mutt.” He pulled the blade from its scabbard with a swooshing noise. At his feet lay the dead beggar who had been unfortunate enough to sleep off the booze inside this cavern. At least he hadn’t felt much.
Lahnstein considered, then shook his head. “No. We’d have to get rid of her afterward, just like this poor devil. And who knows if she’d spill anything at all. If she goes missing, questions will be asked—and the doctor would disappear. There must be another solution.”
“We could take her as a hostage,” suggested Hagen. His Swiss accent sounded hard and gnarled, like creaking timber.
“Blockhead!” snarled Lahnstein. Speaking was still difficult. A patch made of red silk covered the gash where his nose used to be. The wound still wept, and the patch was always a little wet. The pain nearly drove him insane, especially at night. Lahnstein had decided that all this must be a test from God. Whenever hatred threatened to get the better of him, he reached for the rosary hanging around his neck. Oh yes, God would reward him for resisting revenge for the good of the church.
“Faust is a clever, ruthless fellow. The life of this girl probably isn’t worth more to him than that of a fly. She’s a nobody—just a servant, or perhaps his plaything. Besides, I doubt a stupid girl like her will know much.” Lahnstein adjusted his nose patch so that his speech was a little clearer. “No, let us wait a little longer. I want to know what the bastard is doing at Leonardo da Vinci’s. Leonardo, of all people—it can’t be coincidence!”
Viktor von Lahnstein clenched his teeth and thought hard as darkness descended over the valley. It had taken them almost two months to locate the doctor. They had nearly caught him at Metz, but the papal soldiers had no sway in the free imperial city. Lahnstein had been forced to conduct secret negotiations with the authorities. And then Faust had vanished all of a sudden, just when Lahnstein had finally secured the permission for his arrest. It was enough to drive a man insane!
They had picked up his scent again here in the Loire Valley. A traveling merchant had told them at Orléans that the famous Doctor Faustus had asked for an audience with the mortally ill Leonardo da Vinci. Lahnstein could hardly believe it at first—Leonardo da Vinci, the old heretic! Only a few years ago, Leonardo had been a guest of the pope, but the Holy Father’s dislike for the painter and inventor had eventually driven the man into the arms of the French king. There had been rumors of blasphemous dissections of corpses and similar heinous crimes. In addition, Leonardo was considered to be a sodomite.
What in God’s name could Faust want from this shady old man?
They had headed for Amboise as if the devil was after them, and Lahnstein had made inquiries. The girl had been the final clue that they had truly found the doctor.
A cool breeze brushed Lahnstein’s cheek. Now, in April, it probably carried the scents of meadows and fields, but Lahnstein couldn’t tell because he had lost his sense of smell. In its stead was nothing but pain.
And you will pay for it, Doctor! A thousandfold. But not now. The welfare of the church—of the whole of Christendom—is more important than my own.
“We wait,” Lahnstein said eventually and retreated into the darkness of the cave. He turned to Hagen, who sheathed his sword with a grunt and dragged the body of the beggar to the back, where beasts of prey would soon find it and chew it down to the bones. No one could know about their presence here, least of all
