Greta’s hand clutched the small key tightly, and she ran toward the outermost corner of the wall with Karl and her father.
Behind her, she could still hear the screams and noises of battle. In spite of herself she listened for John’s voice, but she couldn’t hear him.
After searching for a while they found a narrow, rusty gate in the northern wall. Greta trembled as she pushed the key into the lock. It fit. The door swung outward, and on the other side was a low corridor that reeked of blackpowder and had an arrow slit every few yards. The three of them hurried along the tunnel until it ended by a trapdoor in the ground. Karl opened the bolt, pulled up the door, and gazed at the iron rungs leading down a black shaft. A cold wind howled toward them.
“We’re supposed to go down there?” asked Karl, holding up Johann by the arm. “Your father is never going to make it.”
“Don’t worry about me,” growled Johann. “If I don’t make it, I’ll be dead one way or the other.”
He signaled to Greta and she started to climb down the shaft. Her fingers clung to the rusty metal, and she felt her way through the darkness. Every other rung was missing, and her feet searched the walls for any footholds. Above her she heard Karl and her father follow. Johann panted and groaned, but he seemed to manage despite his paralysis.
To her horror, Greta realized that in their rush they hadn’t locked the escape door behind them. Once the giant mercenary killed John—which she assumed would happen—he would run after them and find the open gate. Greta felt grief overcome her at the thought. As much as she hated John, her love hadn’t fully died yet. She listened hard but couldn’t make out anything apart from her own breathing and the sounds of Karl and her father.
After what felt like an eternity, the shaft ended in a natural grotto that was blocked with very old iron bars. On the other side, Greta could discern the sloping vineyards on the north side of the castle. When she pushed against the bars, they simply fell outward. The sudden noise echoed in the grotto like musket fire. But nothing happened, and so Greta stepped outside. She was standing at the foot of the cliff, the outlines of vines in front of her, a warm May breeze caressing her cheeks. There was not a noise to be heard from the chaos raging above them.
The sound of coughing made Greta spin around. It was her father, leaning on Karl. Johann was deathly pale and shaking all over, his left arm hanging down stiffly. Greta wondered how much willpower it had taken him to climb down the shaft. For a while no one spoke. A nightingale chirped in a nearby bush.
“What the devil was going on up there?” asked Karl eventually. He shook himself. “I heard men shouting in Swiss German, Spanish, and French.”
Johann stared into the night without saying anything.
“I think I would recognize Hagen anywhere,” went on Karl. “A hellish apparition like the grim reaper from a painting. That means Lahnstein and his men really did follow us. But the Spanish? Do you think there are other rulers who are after the secret Leonardo supposedly shared with you?”
“If Francis has spies everywhere, then Charles will, too,” said Johann, struggling to bring his shaking under control. “It seems like the whole world is after me. Lahnstein, the French, the Habsburgs . . . And all because of a bloody secret that I just don’t know!” He shook his head. “Who put the idea in the pope’s head? It’s almost as if—”
A bloodcurdling howl rang out, followed by barking. A large black shadow came darting up the vineyard toward them. Johann was the first to recognize it.
“Little Satan!” he exclaimed happily. “He must have found a different way out of the castle and his nose led him to us. I only wonder who let him out of the kennel. It’s all right, boy. I’m here now.” He patted the dog and studied his fur, which was speckled with blood. There was blood on his snout, too. “Hmm, whoever tried to block your way must be regretting it.”
“Shh!” Greta raised a hand. “Do you hear that?”
The others, too, heard the scraping noises, a soft scratching that was coming closer. Little Satan pricked up his ears and growled as the others listened.
Someone was climbing down the shaft.
“Damn, it must be the giant!” uttered Johann. “Let’s get out of here.”
Greta’s mouth was bone dry and her limbs ached from the long climb; she didn’t know if she could run away again—not from this monster. Together with the others she hurried over to the vines, which looked like gnarled dwarfs in the darkness. Only Little Satan stayed where he was, panting and wagging his tail.
“The damned mutt will give us all away,” whispered Karl. “Come here, Satan, sit!”
But the dog didn’t listen. Instead, he started to yelp almost joyfully. Greta wondered if Hagen could smell them, like a predator that had picked up the scent of its prey, just as Little Satan had smelled them.
And she thought of John. If Hagen was after them, then John was probably dead by now. Again she felt a stab of pain in her heart. She couldn’t let him go—not yet. Why had he turned up once more and rescued them? It had been so much easier to hate him wholeheartedly, truly thinking he was a traitorous scoundrel.
Little Satan had walked back to the grotto by now. The scraping became louder, and then someone jumped the last few yards to the bottom of the shaft. Their pursuer groaned and coughed, and then he emerged from the cave, staggering like a drunk.
It was not Hagen but John Reed.
Wagging his tail, the dog jumped up on him, and John toppled like a sack.
“John!” exclaimed Greta, cursing herself for the relief
