He turned to his men. “If I know my pigheaded nephew at all, he’s a long way off joining our ancestors. Take him to Seuilly.” Albert MacSully looked at the filthy band in front of him. “And don’t forget the others. They all look like they need a cup of wine and a bucket of water to wash. And I can’t wait to hear what sort of a hair-raising tale they’ll serve us for breakfast. It better be good!”
Greta looked up at the sky. The first red glow of dawn showed above the treetops. It seemed they had escaped death for now.
But no one knew what the next day would bring.
“Bloody hell, sounds like you had more luck than brains. Crossing the woods at night without any weapons, with all those wolves about. If we hadn’t come past by chance, you’d be wolf food by now—although the beasts would have spat my nephew back out, tough bastard that he is.”
The big man laughed and refilled his mug from a large jug of brown ale. It was about eight in the morning, and Greta wondered how anyone could drink so much this early in the day.
Probably a matter of practice, she thought as she looked at the enormous body of the man opposite her. Albert MacSully was indeed John’s uncle, and it would seem that John had saved them once more by leading them close to his uncle’s tavern at Seuilly.
Albert MacSully had taken the six-year-old John with him from Scotland when the boy’s mother had died of the spotted fever. Albert had taken on the tavern at Seuilly and raised John there. At fourteen, John had joined the king’s household troops and, with the help of his dexterity, his strength, and especially his charm, had swiftly moved up the ranks—not exactly to the joy of his uncle, who didn’t overly love the French. Greta had learned all this from Albert in the last couple of hours while he devoured a whole loaf of bread with an omelet made from twelve eggs.
“Hunting wolves is hungry work,” Albert grunted and washed his meal down with a long swig of ale. Then he burped noisily.
Together with Karl and her father, Greta was sitting in the tavern’s taproom. The settlement in the middle of the forest consisted of the sturdy, stone-built inn, a small chapel, and a few sheds and stables. All the buildings were surrounded by a stone wall. Two trading routes crossed in this place, one of them leading south from the Loire, the other one west toward Fontevrault Abbey, which wasn’t far from here. Seuilly was more like a small fortification than a village, and for good reason. Here in the woods south of the Loire, the law of war still reigned, even with Chinon Castle nearby.
Greta had washed the worst of the dirt from her face and hair. Karl and her father looked a little cleaner, too, especially since Albert had lent them some fresh clothes. Johann had scarcely spoken; the death of his beloved dog had hit him hard. He looked older and more drained than Greta had ever seen him before, although that could also have been due to his illness. John was lying in a chamber next door, where Albert’s wife looked after him.
“The boy will live,” said the fat tavern keeper. “He’s got proper Scottish Highland blood running through his veins—the sword wound is but a scratch for him. Though I’d love to know who gave it to him. John rarely loses a fight.” He eyed the three travelers sharply. “But I think I can work it out myself. John asked me to send any French soldier within a mile of the tavern packing. Sounds to me like you’re up to your necks in shit.”
John hadn’t told his uncle what exactly had happened, but he’d made it clear that they were on the run and that Albert ought to claim he hadn’t seen them if asked. Greta doubted this plan would work for long. The king most likely knew where John had spent his childhood and would send out people to look for him there.
The big man sighed and reached for a lump of cheese. “I told the lad years ago not to join those bleeding frog eaters. But he didnae want to listen. A proper man doesna like the French, aye—but he likes to drink their wine. And the cheese isn’t bad.” He went on with his mouth full. “Maybe it was for the best that John left when he did. Here at the tavern he turned the head of every lass and drove my workers crazy.”
Greta nodded, her lips a thin line. “Sounds just like John.”
“Better watch out for that one, lassie. No woman can tame our John!” Albert wiped his greasy hands on his leather pants. “Not that it’s any of my business, but the boy reckoned you want to travel to the barony of Retz. If I were you, I’d reconsider.”
“Why?” asked Johann, who finally looked a little healthier after a hearty breakfast. Aside from his left shoulder sagging down, he looked almost normal.
“Not a good area down there,” replied Albert. “I’m surprised the king hasn’t done anything about it, to be honest. But I hear he’s too busy trying to become the ruler of the world.” He gave a laugh. “And besides, officially, Brittany belongs to his wife and not to France at all—although you cannae say that out loud.”
Albert lowered his voice. “I’ve heard from travelers that the Duke of Brittany, Louis de Vendôme, has been fighting for France in Italy for years. His steward rules Retz in his stead, but he’s a right drunkard. Apparently, someone else pulls all the strings in the background.”
“And who would that be?” asked Karl, leaning forward.
“I don’t know anything for certain, but there’s been this new priest at Tiffauges Castle for a few years—”
“Did you say Tiffauges?” asked Johann,
