The Devil's Pawn by Oliver Pötzsch

Author:Oliver Pötzsch [Pötzsch, Oliver]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fantasy, MAM
Publisher: Amazon Crossing
Published: 2019-10-24T23:00:00+00:00

From Seuilly, they followed the trading route that led toward Fontevrault Abbey. Fontevrault was one of the largest monasteries in France, led by nuns and answerable only to the king. Several famous personalities lay buried there, including King Richard the Lionheart. The abbey was situated south of the river Vienne in a dip in the land, and its white towers could be seen from far away.

As they passed the abbey with its busy outbuildings, hostels, and stables, Johann thought about what it would be like to leave everything behind and live here as a monk in quiet seclusion, far away from all desires and passions. He had always been a driven man, even in his youth. Johann remembered the kind Father Antonius who lent him books at Maulbronn Monastery. Back then Johann had wanted to become a librarian, but life had other plans for him. And now he would once more tempt fate—maybe for the last time.

From Fontevrault they followed the road west. The forests became sparser, and fresh clearings and charcoal piles showed that here, too, people were wresting the land from the wilderness. Ears of grain swayed in the gentle breeze of early summer, and they traveled past several inns and small villages. Almost hourly now they passed someone on the road, a group of pilgrims or a merchant who would doff their hat to Johann and his companions. Only sometimes, when they looked closer, would people notice that something was wrong with the older man on the big horse. They would eye Johann furtively and make the sign of the cross. Johann knew that paralyzed people and those stricken by the falling sickness were sometimes considered to be specially chosen by God—or specially cursed. Judging by the looks passing travelers were giving him, they considered him to be the latter. At least no soldiers seemed to be following them, and Lahnstein and that huge Swiss mercenary also appeared to have lost their prey.

After three more days they came to a large crossroads where a weathered old border stone indicated that they were entering Brittany. Slowly, scarcely noticeable at first, the landscape changed. The trees seemed to be older here, gnarled oaks with moss hanging down like beards of giant trolls. Several times they passed huge rocks with etchings, ancient symbols that no one knew how to decipher. Sometimes those boulders were arranged in a circle, and others seemed to form tables for giants.

“There are even more of those rocks farther north, on the Breton Peninsula,” explained John, who was completely recovered and often whistled a merry tune despite the eerie goal of their journey. His good mood increasingly irritated Johann. “They’re called menhirs. No one knows what they were used for. Apparently they were made by an ancient tribe that used to live here. Later on, migrants from the British coasts settled here, having fled from hostilities in their homeland. They brought with them their throaty language and some strange customs.”

A howling rang out, and the four of them exchanged dubious looks.

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