“Makes me all the more determined.” John squeezed her hand. “I go where you go, Greta. And if you think you must go with your father, then I will even follow you to that cursed castle. But is it what you really want, Greta? Is it?”
He looked at her closely and she averted her gaze.
She had dreamed of Tonio. He had waved to her, and she had followed him willingly. Willingly! That was what disturbed her the most: that that creature had somehow put a spell on her. As if he wasn’t just Faust’s master but hers as well. That was why she wanted to see him with her own eyes—to face up to him.
“If you had asked me a few weeks ago, I would have said no.” Greta rose and wrung out the cloth she had used to cool John’s forehead. “But I want to know what’s going on at Tiffauges. I want to know if my father is right. And I can’t abandon him now that . . . now that he’s so sick. I no longer dare to look at the lines in his hands, but I fear they’re still vanishing.”
“Then I’ll be by your side. Even if I struggle to believe that your father will defeat his illness at the castle, let alone confront Gilles de Rais.”
“Whatever the case—something seems to be not quite right in the barony of Retz,” said Greta. “And we need to help my father get to the bottom of it. Also, the French aren’t the only ones in pursuit of us—perhaps it isn’t the worst idea to head for a wild territory and cover our tracks.”
“You’re right.” John nodded. “I, too, should get as many miles as possible between me and the king. Francis seems like a charming ruler at first glance, but he is rather vindictive.” He gave a grim laugh. “And he won’t rest until your father tells him how to make gold. The election of the German king is soon—Francis is running out of time. If he is to stand any chance against Habsburg Charles and his Fuggers, then he needs your father’s help.”
“My father who doesn’t even know how to make gold.” Greta rolled her eyes. “How many more times do I have to tell you?”
“Are you absolutely certain?” John looked at her searchingly. “How well do you know your father, Greta?”
Once more she sensed that she didn’t know Johann Georg Faustus well at all. Worse still, as their journey went on, he was becoming more and more of an enigma. Sometimes she wondered what side her father was on. Was he still on the side of light, or had he long moved into the realm of shadows?
“And how well do I know you?” she asked, avoiding John’s eyes. “Now hold still before your wound breaks open again.”
She placed a fresh, cold cloth on his forehead, pleased she didn’t have to keep talking.
On the tenth day after their arrival, John was well enough to travel. His leg was still a little stiff, but he no longer required crutches. The royal soldiers hadn’t returned; they had probably widened their search and weren’t looking near the castle anymore.
“Their guess will be that you’re traveling on the Loire,” said Albert, who was standing in the courtyard alongside his family to say farewell.
For the journey, the plump tavern keeper had given them one of his horses—a big, stoical draft horse that carried Johann as if he was made of straw—as well as a donkey for their luggage, a hand cannon with powder and lead, knives, and two short swords for John and Karl. The whole party was clad in light, inconspicuous clothing in muted colors. There were no other guests around on this rainy day in May, so they could speak freely.
“Sell the animals once you’ve arrived—wherever that’ll be,” said Albert. “Coins will be easier for John to carry when he’s in the area next to pay me back.”
They all knew this wasn’t going to happen. John would never return to Seuilly, because it would be far too dangerous. And Albert had a hunch that the crippled man on the horse was no plain pilgrim, but he stuck to the Scottish rule of never asking nosy questions.
“I promised your mother on her deathbed that I’d look after ye until ye go your own path,” said the big man to John. “I think the time has come. I always knew ye wouldn’t stay with the frog eaters forever. Perhaps ye should go back to Scotland, to our clan. They could do with a warrior like yourself.” He winked at Greta. “And also with a bonny, clever lass at your side to give bairns to the clan of MacSully. No matter if they’re red haired or not.”
John smiled. “We’ll see, Uncle. Thank you for everything you’ve done for us.”
Albert waved him off. Then he turned back to John. “For heaven’s sake—I almost forgot.” He said something to one of his many red-haired sons, who ran back inside the house, returning a few moments later with a bundle. Albert handed it to Johann, who accepted it with a puzzled look.
“You took your dog’s death very hard,” the tavern keeper said. “I understand. It was a beautiful beast, and frightening, too. I asked my men to find it and skin it. It’s my parting gift to you, mysterious traveler. May it warm you on your cold nights in the wilderness.”
Johann unwrapped the bundle and stared down at Little Satan’s black fur. At first he looked as if he was going to throw it far away, but then he buried his nose in it, smiling.
“Thank you very much,” said Johann. “The dog meant a lot to me. He wasn’t my first, and we shall see whether he will be the last.”
He draped the warm fur around his shoulders. Then he flicked the reins, and the large horse headed toward the gate at a
