“Jesus, why do you have to be so pigheaded?” shouted Greta at her father. “We have a badly wounded man here, you can barely walk, hundreds of soldiers are searching for us, but you don’t care! You are the oh-so-famous Doctor Faustus—you can fly away if need be, or conjure up a demon that will fight back the enemy. Wake up, Father! Your mission is over.”
“Why do you think I’m doing all this? For myself? It’s for you, Greta!” Johann gave her a pleading look. “I must find Tonio and face him. If he wants to take me—fine, so be it. But I will do everything in my power to protect you!”
“Is that the bargain you want to offer him?” asked Greta softly. Suddenly she regretted having yelled at her father. “Your life for mine?”
Johann was about to reply when he noticed that John was repeatedly uttering a word. Greta hadn’t understood him until then, but now his voice was loud and clear.
“Seuilly,” he said, trying to lift his head. “Seuilly . . . We have to go to Seuilly . . .”
“What do you mean?” asked Greta. “What in God’s name is Seuilly?”
“It’s a . . . a tavern in the woods. By a crossroads. The . . . the tavern keeper will help us . . .”
“How far?” asked Karl.
“Seven, eight miles from here.” John groaned in pain. “I . . . I know the way.”
“Eight miles?” Johann shook his head. “Impossible. Not with him.”
“He is the only one who can guide us,” said Greta. “And I’ll say it one more time: I am not leaving John behind.” She gave a thin smile. “Besides—since when is anything impossible to Doctor Faustus?”
Johann sighed. “Very well. Let’s give it a try. I admit that our options are somewhat limited at the moment.” He gave John a hard look. “I only hope that this isn’t another trick. I wouldn’t put anything past him, even in his current state.”
They left their hiding place and continued to make their way through the dark forest, Karl holding up John while Greta helped her father. They scarcely spoke, and not just because of the exertion. Greta had the feeling that any further conversation would only end in argument. She couldn’t understand how her father could be so heartless. Yes, John had betrayed them—her, first and foremost. He had delivered them into the hands of the French king, but then he had risked his life to help them escape. His love for her was stronger than his love for the king.
Or was he just playing another game? Greta had realized that she still loved John despite everything that had happened. Why did feelings have to be so complicated?
Hour after hour they trudged through the deep woods, arduously following narrow game paths and streams, step for step. Thankfully the moon had emerged from behind the clouds and they could make out the shapes of bushes and trees. Karl had fashioned a torch from a stick, some dry moss, and scraps of clothing and managed to light it with John’s tinderbox. The pathetic little flame was supposed to serve as protection against wild animals rather than a light source. Every now and then a stag or a wild boar would move in the underbrush nearby, but aside from that and the occasional hooting of an owl, all was silent. John needed to rest frequently. Then he would gaze into the starry sky or touch the moss on the trees before continuing on their way.
“Seuilly lies east of the castle,” he muttered. “I used to go hunting with the king at Chinon, so I know this area almost as well as the Scottish Highlands.” He tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace of pain. “The . . . the next time we come to a creek we must follow it. It will lead straight to the tavern.”
“How can you be sure that the tavern keeper won’t deliver us to the king?” asked Karl.
John again attempted a grin but failed. “Let’s say . . . we’ve known each other for a while.”
Little Satan stayed close to John’s side; he appeared to have taken a true liking to the red-haired bodyguard. Every now and then the dog paused and pricked up his ears. When they crossed an old, overgrown clearing, he suddenly started to growl. At first Greta thought he had caught a whiff of their pursuers, but then a loud howling rang out, followed by the howling of a second beast.
“Wolves,” breathed Karl. “That’s the last thing we need. And they’re close!”
Greta remembered people at the inns along their way speaking of a veritable wolf infestation, even though it wasn’t even winter. The animals came from the west—from Brittany, where the forests were sparsely populated and wild. Another high-pitched, long howling rose up, much closer this time.
“They picked up our scent,” said John. “We have to find the stream.”
He tried to walk a few steps by himself and fell. Karl helped him up.
“This is madness,” groaned Karl. The trials of the last few hours were showing in his face. “We don’t even have weapons to defend ourselves. Everything we owned is at Chinon!”
Little Satan sniffed, barked, and leaped into the bushes at the edge of the clearing. Greta thought she could see several pairs of eyes in the darkness. There was a loud bark followed by a yelp. Greta guessed Little Satan had bravely attacked the pack of wolves. Now she could make out the outlines of the bodies behind the pairs of eyes. They were large beasts, almost as big as Little Satan, and they prowled around the clearing waiting for their chance. The biggest of them broke through the undergrowth and stalked toward Greta, growling. His fur was black and shaggy, and he was holding his ears flat and his jowls raised, exposing two rows of long, pointed teeth.
“Up the trees!” commanded Karl, pointing at several oaks at the edge of the clearing. “We have to climb up the trees!”
“How?” snarled Faust. “The traitor can barely walk,
