“No!” Greta almost screamed and recoiled as if his hand were a poisonous adder. “I will never read anyone’s palm again. It is . . . Afterward, nothing is the way it was before. I don’t want to know when your end is near, John. I just want to be with you. But I also want to help my father, even if he lied to me for years. Damn it!”
Tears overcame her then and she was racked by sobs. She who was always so strong suddenly lost her footing as the events of the last few months seemed to come crashing down on her. John wrapped his arms around Greta and held her tightly. She felt his warmth, but now his closeness didn’t offer protection.
“All is going to be well, Greta,” he whispered. “All will be well with my help and with that of God.”
“With God’s help?” Greta gave a desperate chuckle. “Where is God? All I can see is evil, evil in human form! In the shape of Tonio del Moravia, evil walks upon this earth—just like that awful villain before him, Gilles de Rais, and others before him. It is always there.”
“Gilles de Rais?” John frowned. “Hang on a moment. What does Gilles de Rais have to do with all this?”
“You . . . you know of him?” Greta swallowed, realizing she hadn’t yet mentioned Gilles de Rais to John. She had spoken about Tonio and the devil, but not about Agrippa’s and Johann’s suspicion that Tonio and the former French marshal were in fact the same person.
“Everyone in the Loire Valley knows of Gilles de Rais—the bastard murdered children in this area, too. There are those who believe that Gilles de Rais is the child-eating ogre you’ve heard of. And some even believe that he is still taking children today. His former castle isn’t too far from here. It’s to the southwest, down in Brittany.”
Greta stared at him, her mouth open. She took a few moments to let the meaning of John’s words sink in.
His old castle isn’t too far from here.
John shrugged. “To be honest, I always thought it was just another scary story to frighten children.”
Greta was thunderstruck. Everything made sense to her all of a sudden. The pursuit in Orléans, the constant menace. Tonio hadn’t followed them.
He lived here.
A stone clattered somewhere and Greta gave a start. A raven cawed in the rafters. Little Satan growled and pricked up his ears, but nothing happened. Greta soon calmed down. The church was very old; it was probably just a loose roof tile. The spire was partially collapsed, which was why they hadn’t dared go up there, even if the view was probably spectacular. Across the island and the Loire, over to the castle and beyond . . . Tonio’s homeland.
“What is the name of the castle?” she asked.
“It’s more of a fortress. It is called Tiffauges and lies in the barony of Retz. People say it is cursed, even after all these years.”
Greta closed her eyes.
Tiffauges.
She remembered people talking about it at the taverns. She’d heard the name but hadn’t known what it meant. Now she did.
And she also knew what needed to be done.
Greta grabbed John’s hand with determination and dragged him to the door.
“Hey! What are you doing?” asked John. “You owe me at least one kiss.”
“I want you to come with me,” replied Greta firmly. “Whether my father likes you or not. But this news will rouse him.” She glanced back at the cross above the altar.
“Tiffauges,” she murmured almost inaudibly. The word tasted sour, like milk that had turned, or like a foul-smelling subterranean stream that had suddenly burst to the surface. And yet it offered her a solution.
It was as if God had shown her a new path.
Upstairs in the derelict spire, Viktor von Lahnstein ran his tongue over his cracked lips. He signaled Hagen to remain quiet. The coarse giant had almost given them away—then they never would have heard what they just had. Or only with much greater effort and accompanied by irritating screams and wailing.
This way had been much easier.
When they could no longer hear any footsteps, the papal representative rose from the dusty floor, which was covered in mouse droppings, dead flies, and mummified birds. He adjusted his coat and went to the window, where he watched the two lovers walk away. His plan had worked. When Faust had retreated to an inn, they had stuck to the heels of the girl, and now she turned out to be the doctor’s daughter. A pretty lass who would certainly come in handy.
Won’t you look at that—the doctor isn’t as prim as he pretends to be. What is it they say? He who has children also has worries.
Lahnstein smiled underneath his silken bandage, but only briefly, as any movement of his facial muscles still caused him pain. Lucky he had one homing pigeon left. The knowledge he possessed now would guarantee him the post of cardinal.
Because one thing was clear: the secret the Holy Father so desperately longed to learn was hiding at Tiffauges.
Lahnstein had always assumed he would have to take Faust to Rome, but now the doctor would lead him to the secret like a witless donkey with a carrot in front of its nose. And the best part was: afterward, Doctor Faustus would no longer be needed. He would be superfluous, like a weed ripped out by the roots. There would be no memories left of him. His name would be erased from the chronicles. Yes, God was just! After all his trials, he, Viktor von Lahnstein, God’s most loyal servant, would finally get the revenge he craved.
An eye for an eye.
The papal representative stared into the growing darkness for a long time. Lahnstein would have liked to hum a song, but it hurt too much. His facial muscles would never be the same again. But he could think of countless things they could do to the doctor, his daughter, and that young assistant.
“Gather our men,” he said to
