“I swear by God and my dead mother, this is gravely serious! Someone is attacking Coudray Tower. I’m guessing they’re mercenaries who have come for the doctor.”
“Lahnstein’s men,” said Johann.
“Everyone is fighting everyone out there!” said John hastily. “We can use the confusion and escape. I know a secret passage on the northern side—”
“We can escape?” jeered Greta. “You can’t be serious! Why don’t you just wait until your men have sorted out everything? This is just another ruse designed to put pressure on my father.”
John gave her a pleading look and held out his hand to her. “Believe it or not, I didn’t want any of this. I . . . I love you, Greta. That’s why I’m helping you get out of here. I’m not going to let you rot in this hole. There won’t be another chance to flee like this. This is your only opportunity—your last opportunity.”
“What other choice do we have?” Johann stood up and started to scale the ladder with John’s help. He could only use one arm to climb. “We have nothing to lose, so we might as well follow this swindler.”
Behind him, Karl climbed up the slippery rungs. Only Greta stayed where she was.
“I won’t go,” she declared. “Not with that—”
“Christ, there is no other way! Don’t you see that?” snarled Johann. “Let’s get out of here and you can scratch out his eyes afterward.”
Greta clenched her fists and, a few moments later, stood up. At least her fury gave her renewed strength. When she reached the top, she glowered at John with hatred. “Don’t you think for one moment that I will fall for you again.”
“I don’t care what you do later, but I want you to stay alive.” John led the way. “Stay close to me,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s chaos out there. No matter what happens—follow me.”
Soon they had climbed the inside steps to the first floor and found themselves in the same chamber where the king had met them a few hours ago. The noise was very loud now, coming from behind the door that led outside.
“Are you ready?” asked John, clutching the hilt of his sword. The others nodded in silence. “Then let’s go!”
He opened the door.
Several dozen men were fighting in the dark courtyard. Some of them were covered in black, while others wore the king’s green uniform; cries came from all directions. There were dead and injured men on the ground, and someone was screaming with pain. Greta heard weapons clashing and blades swiping, then someone gasped for breath. To her horror, she saw that on the steps below them, two men were locked in a deadly fight, each with his knife lodged in the stomach of the other. John rushed toward them and kicked them until, arm in arm, they flew off the stairs and into the moat. The path to the courtyard was clear.
Greta took in the battle scenes from the corner of her eye. To her left, more men were fighting outside a guards’ chamber. Most of them bore swords, axes, or knives, but there was also a handful of crossbow shooters on the towers around them, firing deadly shots. The scent of fresh death, excrement, and fear filled the air like an exotic perfume. Greta staggered more than she walked, closely following John, who forced his way through with his sword. Behind them, Karl helped the doctor, who could barely walk.
“This way!” shouted John over the noise.
Several times one of the darkly clad men blocked his way, but John was a nimble fighter who dodged every stroke and lunged to his left and right as he hurried along, avoiding getting caught up in longer duels. A crossbow bolt zoomed past Greta’s face, then she caught a glimpse of a terrified pair of eyes that vanished a moment later. It was like being stuck in a nightmare. Bent low, Karl and her father hobbled along beside her, swerving around dead bodies and fighting men. They had almost reached the back of the courtyard when a harsh voice rolled across the square like thunder.
“The doctor! He can’t get away!”
Greta looked back and, to her horror, saw the giant of a man who had accompanied the papal representative in Bamberg. Back then he had also tried to hinder their escape, and this time it looked like he’d rather walk through hell than let them get away.
The enormous soldier ran toward their small group across the field of dead and dying men. Wielding his longsword, he looked like an avenging angel, like the black silhouette of Saint Michael. His harness was spattered with blood, and he was baring his teeth like a wolf. And even though he was limping, Greta knew that they wouldn’t get away from this giant.
John, too, had seen Hagen. He hesitated for a moment, then he faced their opponent. Without turning his head, he told Greta quietly and urgently: “Go to the westernmost end of the wall. There is a small postern that leads to a tunnel that will take you to the vineyards.” He fumbled for a key under his coat and gave it to her. “Don’t wait for me.”
Greta opened her mouth to say something, but John pressed his bloodied fingers to her lips. “I’ve made so many mistakes,” he whispered. “Allow me to do something right for once.”
Then he turned around and raised his sword in preparation. Greta gazed at the two unequal opponents: John, short and athletic, looking like a dancing fire sprite with his red hair, and the dark giant who roared as he stormed toward John. Greta saw John hold his sword with both hands as the blade of the giant smashed against it, the impact hurling John backward. He caught himself, feinted to the right, and attacked on the left, which the giant deflected as if he were a wall. But John continued to buzz around him like a fly looping around the nose of an angry bull.
“Run,
