“That night at Orléans when someone followed me in the reeds—that was you, wasn’t it?” she asked John. “I thought it was someone else, someone with a red cap, but it was your red hair all along.” Greta recalled her escape through the wetland and the eerie song that had probably been a product of her fears. She had been convinced that Tonio was after her.
John nodded. His face was stony, with no trace of triumph. “I wanted to find out where you were going,” he said quietly. “But then you spotted me and I was forced to run. I made it back to the tavern just in time. My men covered for me. Believe me, Greta, I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“Enough,” said the king. “Take them to the dungeon.” He turned to Johann once more. “Think, Doctor. I promise you one thing: the German throne weighs more than any life. Including yours. The grand master Jacques de Molay was mistaken to believe that he was irreplaceable. He burned for a long time, and then there was nothing left of him but ashes in the wind. Don’t make the same mistake.”
He snapped his fingers, and the soldiers grabbed the three prisoners, dragging them off the bench. They did not resist, like cattle on the way to slaughter.
On the sheer cliff below the castle, a figure pulled himself slowly but steadily upward. He inched forward like a monstrous spider, using a small hole for his hand here and a narrow ledge there. Tied to his muscular back was a leather scabbard holding a mighty sword.
Hagen paused for a moment on the wall and took a deep breath. He avoided looking down. It was the middle of the night, and clouds had moved in front of the pale moon. How many feet had he climbed? One hundred, two hundred? His eyes darted to the left, where more figures clad in black were clinging to the rock face. There were about a dozen of them, handpicked by Hagen for this mission. Miraculously, not one of them had fallen—yet.
When Viktor von Lahnstein had given him the order to break into Chinon Castle a few hours ago, Hagen had thought at first that it was a bad joke. The castle was situated on a long elevation consisting of three rocky outcrops connected by bridges. On the side where the Vienne River lazily flowed toward the Loire, the walls of the fortress rose steeply and impregnably behind the town. The north side looked a little better, with vineyards that gradually gave way to an increasingly steep slope. But even here there was still the problem of a tall wall with numerous towers filled with watchmen, making sure there was no attack from that side. The whole affair was complete madness, but Lahnstein had insisted. And so, after some deliberation, they had decided on the north side.
Hagen clenched his teeth and climbed on. The stones were wet and slippery. He tried his best to keep three of his four limbs attached to the wall at all times, just as he had done on many other walls before. But this one was particularly difficult to scale. As he reached up with his right hand, his legs slipped out from under him.
Damn!
Hanging on the rock with just one hand, Hagen dangled above the abyss. He forced himself to remain calm as he searched for a crack or some small ledge that might serve as a foothold. During his many years on the battlefields of Europe he had learned that rushing things often led to death. Hagen came from a poor peasant family near Bern that fell victim to a troop of mercenaries from Burgundy. His father and mother had been hanged from the rafters, while his sister had been allowed to stay alive a little longer as several men raped her before their leader slit her throat. The mercenaries had taken the small but strong boy with them and taught him to fight. At twelve years old, Hagen had at last grown bigger than the leader of their troop. He had rammed his sword into the filthy pig’s stomach and looked him in the eye as he whispered the name of his sister. Since then, Hagen had only worked for himself, a mercenary of death and the best at his game. He was always loyal to whoever paid him the most.
Even if that sometimes led to suicide missions like this one.
Cold sweat stood on his forehead when he finally discovered a gap that fitted his fingers. In an almost superhuman effort, Hagen heaved his more than two hundred pounds upward until his toes found a narrow ledge to stand on. He paused to catch his breath. He only hoped that the goddamned Doctor Faustus was worth all this. Or, rather, the secret he harbored.
The secret of how to make gold.
Hagen’s size, his beastly strength, and his taciturn way led people to believe that he was as dumb as an ox. But that was not at all the case. If he were dumb, he never would have made it into the uppermost ranks of the Swiss guard, serving the pope as a personal bodyguard. If he were dumb, he would be dead by now or inside the dungeons of Castel Sant’Angelo, which was much worse. Hagen was clever, his mind sharpened by the many political intrigues during which he had assisted the high and mighty. That was why he had grasped very quickly why the doctor was so valuable. And why he mustn’t land in
