Hagen had warned Lahnstein that it was a mistake to observe the doctor for this long—they should have struck a long time ago. But Lahnstein had wanted to wait and see what the doctor intended to do at Tiffauges Castle. And now those damned frog eaters had snatched him away.
A harsh Swiss curse on his lips, Hagen climbed on. He was high enough now that he could make out individual soldiers in the watchtowers. They laughed and warmed their hands over braziers, unaware of the almost invisible shapes crawling up the wall like lizards.
Two more times Hagen almost fell but found a hold in the last moment. Then he finally reached the battlements and pulled himself over the top, soundlessly jumping into the courtyard on the other side. A large building towered in front of him—the palas of the main castle, he guessed—and to his left, the track led across a bridge. To his right, another bridge led to the third rocky outcrop that held several squat towers.
Where are you, little doctor?
Meanwhile, the other Swiss mercenaries had also jumped over the battlements. All of them were experienced warriors, armed with long knives and crossbows; only Hagen had brought his German longsword, despite the additional weight. Most of them knew each other from wars; they were hardened soldiers who spoke the same language and who could communicate by gestures alone if need be. The Swiss guard was considered an elite troop, and these men were the best of the best. Hagen signaled to the men, and together they moved along the battlements to the west.
Hagen grinned when he saw that the moon was completely covered by clouds now. The heavens were on their side. At least Lahnstein had done his homework and, for a few coins down in the village, had found that the dungeons were situated inside Coudray Tower, which was immediately beyond the second bridge. In the light of the torches, Hagen could make out several heavily armed guards and an external staircase that led to the tower’s second story and a door. The door was additionally secured by a small walled balcony from which the guards could stymie any advance without exposing themselves. Hagen counted five or six men downstairs, while his own group was twice as strong. If they were swift and silent, and nothing unexpected happened, they would eliminate the enemy before anyone could sound the alarm.
Hagen was about to give the signal when he noticed movement below the bridge. He squinted into the darkness.
Someone was there!
Hagen saw the figure clearly now, hunched amid the bridge’s beams like a giant bat. Then Hagen saw other men clad in black beneath the bridge—they were about to climb up.
What the hell?
Hagen’s thoughts raced. They certainly weren’t Frenchmen. Why should they climb their own bridge in a secret mission? And obviously, it wasn’t his own men. They were standing behind him awaiting his orders.
Who are you?
When the first mysterious intruders climbed over the bridge railing and headed toward the guards’ chamber, Hagen realized that he didn’t have much time. Hunched over, he started to run as soundlessly as possible in his heavy leather armor. Just as he reached the bridge, another figure climbed over the railing. He was entirely clad in black and, like the others, wore a black mask over his face. Hagen only saw the gleaming whites of the eyes. The man seemed just as surprised as Hagen, but he committed a crucial mistake.
He spoke to Hagen.
“¿Amigo o enemigo?” whispered the stranger.
Those words told Hagen enough. He shoved the man hard on his chest, and the man screamed as he fell into the depths.
A moment later, chaos broke loose on the bridge.
Men roared commands and ran at each other with swords and knives. Crossbow bolts whirred through the air, and some hit their targets. The soldiers from the guards’ chamber ran onto the bridge. Hagen heard shouts in Spanish, French, and Swiss German, and he spun around when another masked man stormed toward him with his short sword raised. In one fluid movement, Hagen stepped to the side, drew his sword, and turned sideways. When the man’s sword struck thin air, the huge Swiss mercenary lunged and decapitated his opponent with one single stroke. The headless torso ran for a few more yards until it finally collapsed.
A bolt shot into Hagen’s muscular thigh. He clenched his teeth and fended off another attack with his two-handed sword. This was where he felt most at home—in battle. His blood was rushing in his ears, and he felt a greater thrill than he ever did with women.
This is my world!
In the darkness of the night he couldn’t tell for sure whether he was fighting Frenchmen or Spaniards at any given moment. As he parried the enemies’ strokes with fluid movements, he considered what had just happened. Evidently, the Habsburgs had also learned of Faust’s secret and sent their Spanish soldiers. Just like Hagen and his men, they must have been watching the doctor for a while, and once the French had locked him up at Chinon Castle, they decided to break him out.
Hagen swung the four-foot-long sword above his head, giving himself a short breather. All around him men screamed and died, and now he could hear the sound of horns and cries of alarm from the other towers.
Hagen’s senses were heightened, as always in such situations. He saw, heard, and smelled more than others, which had saved his life on more than one occasion. But this time their situation seemed hopeless. Very soon, every single soldier at the castle would arrive here, and then it would be only a matter of time before they were all dead. What angered Hagen the most was that Viktor von Lahnstein would be spared—when it had been the damned priest in the first place who put them in this position with his reluctance to act.
Lahnstein was probably sitting at a tavern with a jug of wine, while they would
