Book of the Night Page 8

“Oh, I see a great future awaits you as a princess,” Jerome was whispering in his inimitable French accent. “A prince is coming to carry you off on his mighty steed.”

  “And . . . when will this prince be coming?” the maid asked breathlessly.

  “Voilà, he’s standing right in front of you.” Jerome grinned from ear to ear, showing two rows of bright white teeth. “May His Excellency have the honor of the next dance with you?”

  The maid giggled and left with Jerome, who winked brazenly at his friends.

  Giovanni rolled his eyes. “He may not be the brightest one in our group, but he certainly has a way with girls,” he said with a shrug. “A few silly words, and he’s already got her wrapped around his finger.”

  They joined Paulus, who was sitting alone now. Evidently, no other farmhands wanted to challenge him in arm wrestling.

  “How did you all get to know each other?” Lukas asked after a while.

  “Scherendingen hired us one by one to be his foot soldiers,” Paulus replied. “Jerome comes from a French Huguenot family, and his parents were traveling actors. They were murdered by mercenaries. Probably the only thing that kept him alive was his shameless charm and his skill with a rapier.” Paulus then pointed to himself. “I myself come from Cologne, where my father was a well-known armorer. One day the mercenaries simply took our weapons without paying. My father resisted, so they strung him up on the nearest church steeple,” he continued gloomily while rattling the saber at his side. “This is one of the last weapons my father forged, sharpened on both sides and so heavy I can slice an ox in two with one blow. I’ve sworn to cherish it for my father’s sake.”

  “And you?” Lukas asked Giovanni. “Where do you come from?”

  The skinny lad smiled. “I’m the third son of a lesser nobleman in the Verona area,” Giovanni announced. “My parents sent me to a monastery, where I learned to read and write. They wanted me to become an abbot or even a bishop someday, but life as a vagabond was much more to my liking, so I ran away.”

  “In the monastery, Giovanni read tons of books,” said Jerome, who had returned and taken a seat next to them. A few of the girls looked over at him, disappointed. “He simply knows everything. Scherendingen says he’s a walking lie berry.”

  “Library,” Giovanni corrected him with a sigh, then turned to Lukas. “And what brings you to us? Despite all the weeks we’ve spent together, we know precious little about you. And don’t start in with that story about the lonesome drummer boy! The first time I heard it, I knew it was a lie.”

  Lukas had always kept quiet about his past, partly because he wanted to forget it and partly because he was afraid the inquisitor Waldemar von Schönborn might still be looking for him. But he felt so lonely and needed a few friends with whom to share his secrets. Ever since he’d joined Scherendingen’s troupe of actors, his life appeared to have meaning again.

  And so Lukas began telling his story, omitting only the part about his mother’s unexplainable voice and the strange blue cloud when she was burned at the stake, fearing the three boys might think he was insane.

  The others listened silently.

  Finally Paulus shook his head. “That’s horrible,” he said. “I mean, Jerome and I have also lost our families. But this? Your father murdered, your mother burned as a witch, and your sister missing? I’m sure we all feel sorry for you.”

  “You said the inquisitor and those Spanish mercenaries were looking for something at your castle,” Giovanni interjected. “Have you figured out what it was?”

  Lukas shook his head. “Unfortunately not, but it must have been something very valuable, as they turned the whole castle inside out looking for it. And something else was strange. The mercenaries were told to kill me, but the inquisitor wanted Elsa alive.”

  “So you think she’s still alive?” Jerome asked.

  Lukas sighed. “If I only knew! In any case, I promised her I would not forsake her, and I must look for her.”

  “And you really learned all your fighting skills from your father?” said Paulus, changing the subject. “Then he must have been quite a good warrior.”

  “Indeed he was. He fought for a long time under General Wallenstein as a soldier in an elite unit called the Black Musketeers.” Lukas looked around at the others with a questioning gaze. “I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of them.”

  Paulus broke out in laughter. “You’re asking if we ever heard of the Black Musketeers? Well, of course! These troops are legendary and considered the best warriors in the Reich. It is said that only with their help was Wallenstein able to defeat the Danes back then.” He grinned. “We also personally know one of their most outstanding men.”

  “Who is that?” Lukas asked with surprise.

  “Why, Dietmar von Scherendingen,” Giovanni declared. “He was a very famous teacher at the sword master school in Greifenfels. But then he met an opponent stronger than he was: accursed alcohol. He was expelled, and sometime after that, he joined the Black Musketeers.” Giovanni shrugged. “He doesn’t say much about the group—just a word now and then when he’s drunk. It was a pretty sad chapter in his already very sad life. Just don’t talk with him about it if you don’t want to risk setting off one of his famous fits of rage.”

  Lukas froze for a moment. His father and Dietmar von Scherendingen had fought in the same regiment! It felt as if his father had risen from his grave. He couldn’t help thinking about what the sword master had said to him just recently.

  You remind me of someone else, another left-handed fighter . . .

  His father had also been left-handed. Was it possible that Scherendingen was talking about his father? Did the master perhaps also know his mother? Perhaps he knew something about the secret that the inquisitor was looking for.

  Lukas would have to ask him about it sometime soon.

  “I think we’ve been brooding long enough about this,” said Jerome, wrenching him away from his thoughts. “Let’s see if we can find a few girls to dance with.” He’d already stood up and was waving to some young girls to come over. “Life is too short to only dwell on the past.”

  IX

  The practice duels with the master continued in the following days and weeks. There were evenings when every muscle and every bone in Lukas’s body ached, including some he’d never known about. But he also felt he was getting stronger, more skillful, and ready for battle.

  “You eat like a hungry wolf,” Red Sara said to him one day as he gulped down the steaming stew even more ravenously than usual. “If you keep on like that, the stew will soon be coming out of your ears.”

  “Let him be,” replied Tabea, who, like the other actors and sword fighters, was sitting around the fire, relaxing. “As you can see, the boy is growing,” she said with a smile. “In one more year, an imposing sword fighter will be standing before us. The master says Lukas is the best swordsman he ever trained. He apparently sees promise in the lad.”

  Lukas was especially fond of Tabea, and she of him, evidently. She was sixteen, not much older than Paulus and Jerome, and sometimes she cast odd glances at Lukas, which embarrassed him. Once or twice, she had run her fingers through his hair playfully or touched him as if by chance. Each time, he was afraid he was going to blush, and Jerome in particular liked to tease him about it. This time, again, he could feel his face flush.

  “The . . . other lads are a lot stronger and better,” he mumbled, looking down into his pot of stew. “I’ll never be as good as they are.”

  “Don’t hide your light under a bushel,” Paulus muttered between two spoonfuls. Every evening he had three bowls, and his biceps bulged so much under his thin linen shirt it looked like it could rip at any moment. “You’ll never be the strongest one in your group, no, but you’re clever and nimble enough for three. And you have the gift of moving quickly and smoothly with your sword. Not many people can do that—you’re a real sword dancer.”

  “That won’t be of any use to him if the Swedes wipe us out,” rep
lied one of the Jannsen Brothers gloomily. “Haven’t you heard? Nördlingen has already fallen, as have Frankfurt and Würzburg. The entire North of the Reich is in the hands of these wild men, and anyone who doesn’t surrender and join them will be mercilessly slaughtered.”

  Ivan stared into the fire. “They fight like wild men, and with their cannons and muskets, they are far superior to any swordsman, no matter how fine his dance.”

  The two musicians, Bjarne and Thadäus, nodded sadly, picked up their instruments, and started playing a melancholy tune. For a long time, no one said anything. Lukas thought of the dreadful stories he’d heard about the war. Last year in Magdeburg, twenty thousand citizens had been slaughtered by mercenaries, who then completely destroyed the city. Similar things had happened in other parts of the Reich. Whenever the troops passed by, no matter which side they were on, they left behind death, destruction, hunger, and disease. When he was young, Lukas had always imagined war as something heroic. In his dreams, he saw his father with a sword and gleaming armor riding out on exciting adventures in pursuit of the infidels, but for some time now, he had understood that war was not an adventure, but left horror and misery in its wake.

  “There is only one man who can stop the Swedes,” Giovanni said after a while. “Wallenstein. He’s the best general in the entire Reich. The Kaiser had dismissed him because he was getting too powerful to suit the German princes, but I’ve heard the Kaiser has once again appointed him to lead the troops.”

  Lukas turned to Dietmar von Scherendingen, who had been sitting there silently, sipping occasionally on his mug of brandy. Lukas cleared his throat.

  “You yourself fought under Wallenstein, Master,” he said in a soft voice. “What do you think? Will he be able to turn the tide?”

  Scherendingen let out a loud belch and laughed bitterly. “Tilly, Wallenstein . . . Why should we care which of the great men invites the devil to dance with us? The Swedes will be here soon, in any case. We need to make sure we get out of here.” Suddenly he grinned. “But first we’ll put on one last great performance for the people who live here. Augsburg is only thirty miles away. It’s a great city, and above all, a very rich one where we can pick up a lot of money,” he said, looking Lukas in the eye. “And this time you’ll be one of the group.”

  Giovanni had already indicated that Scherendingen wanted Lukas to take part in the show battles, but now that things seemed to be getting serious, he was stunned.

  “What . . . will my task be, Master?” he stammered.

  “Well, this time I’m going to change the performance a bit. The four of us”—Scherendingen pointed at the three other boys and himself—“will all fight against you.”

  “All four against me?” Lukas shook his head. “How are we going to do that?”

  “Isn’t he still a bit too small for that?” Ivan asked. “Perhaps—”

  “Nonsense! No excuses now!” Scherendingen interrupted. “A little guy against four bigger and stronger opponents will get us a laugh, and the people desperately need something to laugh about. Besides, it’s something different, and the spectators will come in droves.” The master rose to his feet and emptied his cup in one long gulp. “We’ll begin practice tomorrow. I expect full concentration from every one of you.” He looked at the boys sternly. “Go to bed early if you want to feel your fingers tomorrow.”

  Scherendingen walked away, and soon all the others went to bed as well. Lukas, however, had a hard time falling asleep. What would happen if he bungled his first show? Would the master throw him out? For the first time since the death of his parents, Lukas felt as if he’d found something like a family to which he belonged. Giovanni, Jerome, and Paulus had become very good friends, and he didn’t want to lose anyone again. On the other hand, he also knew that someday he’d have to leave the group in order to take out his vengeance on Schönborn.

  And continue his search for Elsa.

  Finally he drifted off, but he did not sleep well. He felt himself tumbling through a world of dreams shrouded in clouds of fog. On the other side of the fog, something seemed to be lying in wait for him, a black shadow with red eyes that looked like burning coals. Sometimes the fog lifted a bit, and then Lukas saw the outlines of a huge, black wolf. Saliva dripped from its jaws; it sniffed the air and seemed to be searching for something. In the dream, Lukas’s heart froze when he realized whose trail the beast was following.

  He’s looking for me!

  The great wolf ran back and forth within the cloud and seemed to be looking for a way out, but couldn’t find it. Suddenly it raised its head and looked directly at Lukas, and at the same moment, Lukas heard the voice of his mother.

  Run! He mustn’t find you. He must never find you.

  The wolf prepared to jump . . .

  Screaming, Lukas woke up.

  Giovanni jumped up from where he was sleeping near the fire and looked at him sleepily. “Have you had a bad dream?” he asked sympathetically.

  Lukas nodded. “It . . . was a large wolf, it was looking for me, and then I heard the voice of my mother . . .”

  Giovanni yawned. “You miss her, and it’s understandable that you dream of her.”

  “This dream was different. Everything looked so real, as if that wolf was really looking for me, and the voice—” Lukas stopped short, remembering that his mother had said almost the same thing to him long ago. For a moment, he considered telling Giovanni about the ghostly voices and the blue cloud hovering over the execution site. But then he decided to remain silent. He needed to concentrate on the exercises for the following day. His friends should not think of him as too dreamy or weak for this battle.

  Giovanni seemed to notice his hesitation. He looked intently at Lukas with his discerning eyes. “If you have something to tell me or the others,” Giovanni said softly, in order not to waken the other sleeping boys, “please don’t hesitate. We’re always here for you, do you understand?” He smiled. “One for all and all for one. I heard those words somewhere before, and they apply to us as well.”

  Lukas nodded gratefully. “Thanks. Perhaps . . . I’ll tell you more some other time.” Then he rolled over and closed his eyes.

  This time, he fell into a deep sleep.

  The wolf had disappeared.

  X

  Just a week after that, Lukas experienced his first swordfight.

  Every day, he had practiced with the others from early morning until after sundown, with only short breaks during which he wolfed down Sara’s stews. Dietmar von Scherendingen had decided to add a few features to the show, among them, that the use of the arm not holding the sword was permitted in battle as well. All four boys fought using daggers with wide cross guards that parried and diverted the opponent’s blow. Occasionally they also used small buckle shields, ropes, or capes that they threw out like nets to trap their opponent.

  In contrast with the exercises of the last few weeks, Lukas could now use his Pappenheim sword again, making it very important that every thrust, every step, every blow was calculated precisely so that no one was badly injured. It all had to look like a mortal battle, though basically it was just a dance with five partners, an artistic drama in which each performer had to play his prescribed role.

  They arrived in Augsburg just as the Swedes had begun pillaging and setting fire to cities and towns throughout Swabia and Bavaria. This powerful imperial city was one of the few places where Catholics and Protestants still lived together peaceably. However, while the Protestants welcomed the Swedes, who were also Protestants, the Catholics felt petrified with fear, and the last remaining soldiers loyal to the Kaiser were preparing their retreat.

  The day before the show battle, Bjarne and Thadäus marched through the streets with their barrel organ, fife, and bells, announcing the upcoming performance. In the main square next to the newly built city hall, the other members of the troupe constructed an improvised circus ring consisting of four wooden beams in a square, denoting the area of battle. There were no chairs, and
the spectators stood along the side of the battle area. Before the performance, Sara and Tabea passed a hat through the rows of people, and anyone who didn’t drop in a few coins was greeted with loud jeers and the mockery of the crowd.

  After more than a hundred people had gathered and a number of coins were collected, the spectacle could finally commence. As always, first came the dancers, followed by the artists, and Ivan with his bear. Finally, Dietmar von Scherendingen stepped up to a small, wobbly lectern in his battered leather cuirass, holding the bastard sword in his hand. There was a dramatic pause, and the spectators waited expectantly for the sword master to introduce himself.

  “Honored guests!” he thundered. “I direct your attention to a fighter unlike any the world has ever seen. Strong, agile, as clever as five foot soldiers, and a fearsome mercenary who knows every trick in the art of swordsmanship. He was present at the Battle of Magdeburg, where he killed more than three dozen Swedes with his sword. Both Bohemians and Danes screamed and ran when they saw him coming, his reputation is legendary, and now he is here with us . . . the fearrrrsome Luuuukas!”

  As he spoke the last words, he pulled Lukas out from behind a small curtain between the two actors’ wagons. People roared and laughed when they saw that Fearsome Lukas was just a skinny kid.

  “Hey, what happened to him?” jeered an elderly farmer. “Did a battle-ax cut him down to size?”

  “It probably made him a head shorter,” another person cried.

  “Take pity on us!” someone else laughed. “He probably can’t even hold a sword yet.”

  Lukas blushed and had to restrain himself from hitting one of them in the face with his sword handle. Scherendingen had told him the people would make fun of him; that was part of the plan. Nevertheless, Lukas felt hurt. Hadn’t he grown in recent months? Hadn’t Tabea said he had what it takes to be a great sword fighter? He was trembling with excitement. It was one thing to practice the sword dance in an out-of-the-way field, but something quite different to do it in front of a large, ugly crowd just looking for the smallest error.