The Devil's Pawn Page 15

  “The fellow once lost a trial against me as lawyer for the city,” Agrippa whispered to Greta as they waited below the windowsill for the onslaught to ease. “Perhaps he thinks he can take his revenge this way.” When things calmed down a little, Agrippa rose cautiously and addressed the crowd once more.

  “And who is the witch supposed to have murdered?”

  “Our children!” cried a younger woman now, tears in her eyes. “They just found my little Marie dead by the Pont des Morts with her throat ripped open. And two other children from town have gone missing, just like the children from the country a few weeks back. It was the witch, that accursed Corbin, and you defend her. May God punish you for it!”

  Greta swore under her breath. The people had found the dead girl and come straight here. And another mob had most likely rushed to the prison at Place Sainte Croix, throwing rocks and demanding the guards hand over Josette Corbin.

  Agrippa lifted his hands with the palms up. “And how is she supposed to murder children from her prison cell?”

  The people said nothing, some muttering under their breath.

  “She’s a witch,” yelled a skinny old man with a scythe, looking like Death himself. “Witches can do such things. She uses magic to get out of prison for each murder.”

  “Hmm, if what you say is true, then I’m sure she’s not in her cell right now,” replied Agrippa. “And that means I can’t have her handed over to you. She’ll have used magic to get over the hill and far away—she’s probably on Blocksberg Mountain by now, dancing with the other witches.”

  It was too much logic for the plain people, most of them illiterate day laborers, and tired and drunk to boot. The uproar subsided as quickly as it had begun. The crowd muttered and cursed for a while longer, then the first people turned to leave. That was when Karl touched Greta by the shoulder.

  “I need your help,” he said. “The doctor.”

  Greta turned around and saw to her horror that her uncle was lying on the floor, twitching wildly. Clearly, he was having another fit. Just like last time, saliva ran from his mouth, and his arms and legs were completely rigid one moment and thrashing about wildly the next. He made slurred sounds alternating with groans and piercing screams. Little Satan stood next to his master and barked as if trying to rouse the dead.

  “What’s going on up there?” demanded the leader of the mob. He raised his cudgel once more.

  “You woke my boy,” replied Agrippa frostily. “He often has nightmares—and no wonder, with the spectacle you’ve been putting on. Time to go home now—tomorrow is another trial day, and everything will be resolved. Even the murder of your children. I promise you, if Corbin is a witch, then—”

  Another long, mournful cry rang out behind him, followed by the mad barking of the dog. Greta had meanwhile rushed to Johann’s side and tried to pin him to the ground. But the doctor still squirmed and jerked like a fish on dry land. The crowd downstairs grew angry again.

  “We must do something,” hissed Karl. “Or they’ll storm the house!”

  Greta nodded. She leaned over Johann, held his hand, and murmured soothingly.

  “It’s going to be all right, Uncle,” she whispered. “You have nothing to fear.”

  He thrashed about once more and struck Greta on the head. She was hurled aside, and the people on the street began shouting again.

  “Did you hear that? The devil’s up there!” cried the younger woman. “I bet it’s that other doctor and he’s invoking the devil right now. Just think of his big black dog! The fellow’s in league with Satan.”

  Stones and lumps of ice came flying through the window again; someone rattled the front door, and Greta heard Elsbeth cry out in fear. She was downstairs with the boy and must have been frightened to death. A burning torch was flung onto the roof, but it slid down the wet shingles and dropped into the lane without causing any harm. Still, one of the men was ready to throw the next torch.

  In her desperation, Greta threw herself on Johann and held him down with her whole body. Then she started doing what she’d done in the Wasgau: she prayed. She muttered the verses she’d learned from her uncle Valentin and which now appeared like gleaming seashells at low tide.

  “From the rear and the front you encompassed me, and you placed your pressure upon me,” she murmured, haltingly at first and then more and more steadily. “Even darkness will not obscure anything from you, and the night will light up like day, as darkness so is the light.”

  And the miracle happened once more.

  The doctor calmed down. With each word of the ancient psalm, Johann became quieter, his rapid twitching slowing until he finally passed out with exhaustion.

  “. . . and see whether there is any vexatious way about me, and lead me in the way of the world,” concluded Greta with a trembling voice. “Amen.”

  Suddenly Johann opened his eyes again. He looked at Greta with perfect clarity for a brief moment. Then he reached out his hand and stroked her hair.

  “My daughter,” he whispered so quietly that only Greta could hear. “Apple of my eye, don’t leave me. My only, my beloved daughter . . . stay with me . . .”

  Then his eyes fell shut again. Greta sat beside him as if she had turned to stone. She couldn’t believe what she had just heard. Had the doctor spoken in a fever—had he been confused? And yet so much that had happened in the last few years would suddenly make sense if it were true. But she found the thought incredibly difficult to accept.

  My daughter.

  Greta felt myriad puzzle pieces fall into place in an instant. Soundlessly and with shaking lips, she repeated Johann’s words.

  My daughter. My only, my beloved daughter.

  “As you can hear, my son went back to sleep despite the racket you’ve been making,” said Agrippa to the drunken mob. “Go home now before I am forced to report this incident to the city. If you leave now you have nothing to fear.”

  He slammed the shutters closed and listened. It seemed like the people were indeed leaving. Agrippa gazed at Greta, who was still on her knees, bent over Johann. She was sweating and shaking as if from heavy labor. But neither Karl nor Agrippa had heard Faust’s whispered words.

  My only, my beloved daughter. Apple of my eye.

  “I owe you my gratitude, girl,” said Agrippa.

  Greta barely heard him. When she finally turned to look at him, she noticed that the scholar was also shaking, his earlier composure gone. “You saved my family. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears, I wouldn’t believe it.” He shook his head. “You called upon God, and God helped! The devil had taken hold of Faust’s body, but you banished him and saved your uncle. Divine miracles really exist.”

  Agrippa didn’t know that another miracle had just happened to Greta.

  Or was it a curse?

  Johann dreamed.

  He stood on a wide, barren plain, the wind whistling and howling like a thousand wild ghosts. Suddenly he could make out another sound, very faintly at first, then louder and louder. It was the galloping of horses. Now he could see three black dots on the horizon, rapidly approaching.

  Three horsemen headed straight for Johann. Pouring rain set in, scourging him.

  The first horseman was pale, chalk-faced, and he wore a red cap with a rooster’s feather. The second rider was a knight with blond hair and the beautiful face of an angel.

  The third horseman had no face.

  Where the face should have been were curling wafts of black smoke, and in the place of hair writhed worms and snakes. In his right hand the third horseman held a long sword that he now raised up and swung above his head. Then it swooshed down.

  The devil is on earth and he walks among the mortals.

  With a hoarse cry, Johann woke up.

  Agrippa leaned over him and wiped the sweat off his brow with a cloth. When he saw that Johann had opened his eyes, he smiled.

  “Welcome back to the realm of the living, my friend. I thought you’d never wake u
p.”

  “I . . . I had another fit?” asked Johann.

  Agrippa nodded. “The very moment the mob approached my house. But all went well.”

  “How . . . how long was I asleep?” Johann’s head ached as if the sword really had struck him.

  Agrippa cocked his head to one side and studied him with the professional gaze of a physician. “Two whole days. How are you feeling?”

  Johann shot up. “But the trial—”

  “Didn’t take place.” Agrippa gently pushed his friend back into bed. “You didn’t miss anything. Well, at least not the trial.”

  They were in one of the many bedrooms of the Agrippas’ grand house. There was a brazier in the room and furs and rugs on the floor. Johann was lying in a four-poster bed with beautifully carved pillars. The carvings showed scenes from Judgment Day. Flying at the top were the angelic hosts, while down on the bed’s feet, hairy devils tore the flesh off sinners.

  No wonder I had nightmares, thought Johann.

  “What about the trial?” he asked. “Why—?”

  But then Elsbeth came in, carrying a tray with steaming-hot spiced wine and a bowl of soup. She set it down on a small table beside the bed and gave Johann an encouraging smile.

  “Ah, you come at just the right time, Elsbeth,” said Agrippa. “Our patient has just awoken and must be hungry. Tell me, has our son returned from his friend’s house?”

  Johann thought he could hear concern in Agrippa’s voice.

  Elsbeth nodded. “Over an hour ago. It is past noon already.”

  “That’s good. Now leave us again for now—I’ll be down soon.”

  Elsbeth closed the door softly, and the men sat in silence for a while.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Agrippa again.

  “I feel like I was caught in a landslide,” said Johann, stretching. “And I’m exhausted, as if I’ve been battling a fever. But aside from that, I feel fine.” His face darkened. “The things you told me before I passed out . . . about Gilles de Rais and Tonio.”

  “I hoped you’d forget,” Agrippa said with a sigh. “Listen, it was pure speculation. Silly theories of a scholar who spends too much time in his study. I got carried away by a flood of thoughts. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  Agrippa winked at him, and yet Johann couldn’t shake the feeling that his friend was keeping something from him.

  “Of course,” he murmured. After a while he asked, “Why didn’t the trial take place? It would hardly have been because the lawyer’s assistant fell ill.”

  “No, indeed.” Agrippa hesitated. “It was because, well . . . strange things happened.”

  “What sort of strange things?”

  “Well . . . where do I start?” Heinrich Agrippa rose and began to pace the room. “I was about to leave for the Palais des Treize the next morning when a delegation of guards arrived and asked me to follow them to the house of Judge Leonard. The judge lay dead in his bed—apoplexy, it would appear. Much more surprising, however, was the letter on his nightstand, which he evidently wrote just before he died. In his letter Leonard admits to accepting bribes and says there is no truth to the accusations against Corbin. The neighbors lied and he supported them.”

  Johann sat up abruptly. “He admitted to his lies and died shortly thereafter?”

  “Yes—strange, isn’t it?” Agrippa shrugged. “The city scrapped the trial and released Josette Corbin. She withstood severe injuries during torture, but she’ll probably recover. They now suspect a bunch of gypsies to be responsible for the murder of the girl and the missing children, but they’ve already left town.” He sighed. “We won, old friend. Even though it wasn’t the way I would have liked to win.”

  “And the judge really died of natural causes?”

  “As the physician who examined him, I couldn’t detect anything to the contrary. Apoplexy is not unusual for a prolific drunk.”

  Agrippa held Johann’s gaze, but for a brief moment the scholar’s eyes flickered.

  “There is something else I need to tell you,” Agrippa said quickly. “I came across it yesterday and thought it might be of use to you.”

  “Go on,” said Johann without taking his eyes off Agrippa.

  “There is a man who complains of symptoms similar to yours,” continued Agrippa, sitting back down on the stool beside the bed. “I saw it while browsing through some old letters yesterday. I should have remembered sooner, but there was the trial and—”

  “Who is this man?” asked Johann impatiently, his head still hurting as if someone had struck him with a hammer.

  “Leonardo da Vinci.”

  “Leonardo . . .” Johann’s jaw dropped. He straightened up. “You . . . you and Leonardo da Vinci write to one another? And you never told me?”

  “I correspond with many great men of Europe,” Agrippa said evasively. “With kings, scholars, bishops.” He laughed. “With you, too. And occasionally with Leonardo da Vinci. He truly is a genius, an expert in many fields, a bright light, even if he’s no longer the youngest. Sadly, painting is a talent I wasn’t endowed with. Perhaps I should—”

  “What did da Vinci write about the disease?”

  “Not much,” replied Agrippa with a shrug. “He writes of a trembling in his hand that he can’t get under control. And from time to time he is plagued by fits very similar to yours. Paralysis, grimacing. Leonardo, too, was at a loss, but in his last letter he hinted that he might know what lies at the bottom of his ailment.”

  “Last I heard, he worked in Rome for the pope,” Johann said thoughtfully, his heart beating faster. “But that was quite a while ago. I don’t know where he is now.”

  “You’re right.” Agrippa cleared his throat. “He hasn’t been in Rome for two years. Apparently, the French king made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Francis I gave Leonardo a castle where he might enjoy the autumn of his life. He is rather old and—”

  “Where is that castle?” asked Johann.

  “Ha! I knew you would want to know.” Agrippa chuckled. “It’s in the Loire Valley, west of Orléans. The town is called Amboise. An exceptionally picturesque area the king likes to visit often. There are magnificent castles and good wine and—”

  “Do you have horses?” asked Johann, cutting him off again.

  He felt his strength returning. Strength, and also hope. He should have thought of Leonardo much sooner. He was the best observer of the human body, of that wonderful apparatus called man. And now he was plagued by a condition similar to Johann’s. Could it be possible that the famous inventor was also possessed by a curse? Whatever the case, Leonardo would have made observations—observations that might help Johann.

  All is not lost yet.

  Agrippa eyed Johann with curiosity. “You intend to travel to the Loire Valley?”

  “Why not? I must use any chance I get—any! Even if I have to climb down into the depths of hell.” Johann was about to get up when Agrippa held him back.

  “Perhaps you should speak with your two companions first—especially with the young lady.” He passed the bowl of soup to Johann. “She has been waiting outside the door for quite some time. I think she has something important to discuss with you. I told her you would awake soon.” He smiled. “That young woman is an extraordinary person, by the way. Not at all a simple juggler. Did you know that her prayers alone brought you back from hell?”

  Johann winced. A vague memory surfaced in his mind. During his fit he had stroked Greta’s hair and said . . .

  Had he told her that she was his daughter? Or had he only dreamed it?

  Apple of my eye.

  Suddenly Johann felt certain that he had told Greta the truth. How had she reacted? At least she was still here, despite the lifelong lie. She was waiting outside his door. His mouth felt very dry.

  “She . . . she wants to talk to me?”

  Agrippa laughed. “Why else would she be waiting outside the door? May I call her in now?”

  “No. I mean . . . wait, please.
” Johann started to sweat.

  All those times he put it off, all those lies were finally catching up with him. No test at Heidelberg University had ever been as difficult as the one he was facing now.

  “Are you feeling worse?” asked Agrippa with concern.

  “I . . . I’m all right,” Johann said and ran his hand through his hair. “You can ask her in now. I believe I need to speak with her.”

  Agrippa nodded. “I think so, too. I was going to make her wait until tomorrow, but when I saw her look of determination, I knew: that girl is very strong-minded—almost like you.”

  When Greta entered the room a few moments later, Johann could tell right away that he wasn’t mistaken: she knew—it was written all over her face. Her eyes studied him as if she was seeing him for the first time. Agrippa had left them alone, and Greta now stood in front of his bed with a straight, rigid back, like a traveler about to depart. No one spoke for a while.

  “I told you, didn’t I?” said Johann eventually. “During my fit. You know that I . . . that I . . .”

  “That you are my father,” said Greta, completing the sentence for him. “I still struggle to say it out loud.” Her voice sounded bitter. “And I struggle to believe it.”

  “It’s the truth, Greta,” he said softly. “You are my daughter.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything in all these years? Why did you—you and Karl—lie to me the whole time? All those years! It is just . . . disgusting!” She looked down on him with contempt, no warmth in her eyes at all. “I only came to hear it from your mouth one more time. Do you know how I feel? As if my whole life up until now wasn’t real. You robbed me of my real life!”

  “I . . . I had reasons,” said Johann weakly.

  “What sort of reasons could someone have to deny their daughter?” Greta waved dismissively. “I don’t even want to hear them. Maybe it would be better if I continued to believe that you’re just some distant relative who happened to save me. Or maybe it’s not even true, who knows? You’re just as great a liar as you are a magician.”

  “I am your father.”

  “Prove it. How can I be certain that you’re telling the truth for once?”