Albert shot him an irritated look. “Yes, it’s the duke’s main residence. Folks are saying that things have never been right at that castle. I dinnae ken if ye’ve heard of a certain Gilles de Rais—a right scumbag if there ever was one.”
“Indeed we have,” said Johann, exchanging glances with Karl and Greta.
“Terrible story, even though all that was years ago. But now folks are saying that since this priest is at the castle, children are vanishing again.” Albert shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t usually buy into such gossip, but I must admit that several different travelers have told me about it. And other strange people came into the castle along with this priest. Even those damned wolves seem to come from that area. Ye ken, Brittany has always been a wild and eerie place, and the people speak a terrible gibberish, but this . . .” He shook his head, then watched Johann, who was struggling to gain control of his muscles. “What sort of disease do you have?”
“I don’t know, unfortunately. The physicians say there is no cure. That is why I’m on a pilgrimage to Fontevrault with my family.”
“I thought you were going to Retz?”
“Um, yes, after our pilgrimage,” said Johann evasively. “We have some . . . family matters to settle there.”
“Family matters, I see. With the king’s army at your heels? What a strange journey.” Albert winked at him. “Like I said, none of my business. But you do seem familiar, like I’ve seen you before—maybe on one of those leaflets.” He grinned broadly. “No, you’re not just a simple pilgrim if my nephew gives up his post in the household troops to follow you. But John doesna want to say a word, and that’s all right. There are three things us Highland folks can do better than anyone else in the world: drink, fight, and keep our traps shut.”
Albert took another long gulp, let out another burp, and said, “If John reckons ye need to get to Fontevrault and then to the barony of Retz, then I’ll be damned if I don’t help ye get there. We MacSullys stick like the mud on our boots.”
Three times the king’s soldiers came to Seuilly in the following days, but Albert managed to send them on every time. One of those times, they searched the tavern and its outbuildings, but the MacSullys had seen it coming. There was a cellar that was accessed via a trapdoor hidden underneath a large bearskin, and that was where the four wanted fugitives hid until the soldiers had gone. After the first morning, they never showed their faces at the tavern again but stayed at the family’s living quarters, hoping to avoid the attention of any nosy travelers.
Albert hugely enjoyed the game of misleading the “frog and snail eaters,” as he liked to call the French. Whenever he spoke with soldiers, he pretended that his French was very poor. He claimed he hadn’t seen his nephew, “the bleedin’ bastard,” for years. Albert was enthusiastically helped in this game by his many sons, who each had a red shock of hair like their father. Greta kept mixing them up and struggled with the complicated Scottish names.
She soon recovered from the tribulations of their escape, and John, too, became better by the day. Greta often visited his bedside, which she had to share with MacSully’s wife, who didn’t like to leave her beloved nephew and who was doing her best to shore him up with various meaty meals.
With every visit, Greta and John grew closer. Greta soon realized she couldn’t stay mad at him, even if a certain distance remained. But it was jinxed—she loved this fellow and couldn’t do anything about it. Not even the most sensible arguments helped. Who was to say that John was truly on their side now and this wasn’t just another ploy by the king? But when John smiled at her, Greta’s doubts melted like snow in the sunshine. And there was something else that tied her to him more than ever.
“I had a dream,” said John when they were alone for a moment while Albert’s wife fetched fresh water to clean his wounds. “I dreamed that you looked after me when I was lying injured in the woods. You gently stroked the hair from my face.”
“You must have indeed been dreaming. Why should I do that? I mean, for a rotten traitor like yourself.” Greta looked at him sternly, but then smiled. “Admittedly, a rather good-looking traitor.”
“Please, Greta, try to understand.” John took her hand. “I just didn’t know what to do. It’s true that the king sent me to catch you, and at first that was exactly what I was trying to do—use you to get to the doctor.”
“And you did rather well,” said Greta bitterly.
“Yes, but then I noticed that for the first time I had real feelings for a girl—for you, Greta. And yet I was bound by my loyalty to the king. I wanted to tell you, honestly, but I kept putting it off until—” He fell silent.
“Until it was too late,” said Greta for him. “Back in the tower at Chinon I wanted to tear you into a thousand pieces. I was filled with hatred.”
“Love and hatred are poles of the same magnet,” said John. “A wise man once said that. They attract and repulse one another, but they’re based on one single force.”
“I much prefer love to hatred,” replied Greta. “And . . .” She faltered.
“What is it?”
Greta shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
She had briefly considered telling John that she hadn’t bled in weeks. They had always been careful, but back then, during their first night at Blois, passion had swept them away. Greta decided to hold off telling John a little longer; she wanted to be sure. Perhaps her monthly bleedings had only stopped because of their exhausting journey. And she had plenty of other things to worry about.
“I . . . I merely wondered whether
