Chapter 29
The Forbidden Chapel

By the following morning, Hans and Angela were fit enough to explore the hermitage grounds. Peter gave them new warm clothes to replace the tattered robe and general’s coat and led them to the cliff edge. Below, the river and mountain streams were squiggles of thread glittering in the sun.

“The proper way up is to follow the goat trails on the sides,” Peter said. “It’s hard going, but at least you’ll get here alive.”

Snow swept down the sloping rock face on the right side of the cliff edge before disappearing as it circled the mountain. “The shadows from the western cliffs keep it from melting. It makes for a quick ride down, but I wouldn’t advise it,” Peter said. “I once skidded two hundred yards on my backside before grabbing a passing berry bush. I nearly died of fright.”

A heavy bell rang out. The hermits ran from their cells brandishing their wooden swords and circled the tree stump at the center of the grounds.

“Pell training!” Peter exclaimed.

“That’s my cue to explore your workshop,” Angela said, as she backed away from the rock face.

“And mine to have fun,” Hans grinned. He and Peter made their way to the pell. “Why are the swords made of wood? And why strike at a wooden stump?”

“The wooden swords are twice as heavy as metal ones. If war ever comes, a real sword will feel light as a feather,” Peter said. “The pell is useful too. You can strike at a post in ways that would kill a friend in practice.”

Hans took to the pell as a duck to water. Years of digging and hauling had given him strength, while tunneling had made him agile. A special thrill was the freedom to roar as he charged.

Even better was the chance to try his hand at the quarterstaff and longstaff. The staves were made of oak and hawthorn. The quarterstaff was eight feet in length; the longstaff, fifteen. Peter taught him how to place one hand at the center of the staff and the other halfway to the end. Soon he was parrying thrusts and upending opponents with a sweep behind their knees.

Hans had used his shovel like this to defend himself against Knobbe. But he was astonished at the extra power that came with the staff’s extra length, and the steadiness it required for control. More than once he found himself on the ground surrounded by laughing hermits.

“I learned the sidestep, duck, dodge and slip, and how to trap and jam a sword and staff,” he enthused to Angela over goat stew. She smiled and nodded the way polite people do when totally bored. Asked about her morning, she shrugged and looked away. It was peculiar, but Hans had no time for questions. After lunch, it was time to train with kite shield and buckler.

The week flew by, Hans practicing battle arts while Angela did who-knew-what in the workshop. On the seventh day, a blizzard deposited a blanket of snow on the hermitage and down the far right slope of the mountain. The hermits marveled at Hans’ ability to keep his footing in the slippery slush.

“Where did you learn such balance?” Peter asked.

“From sloshing about in muddy graves.” Hans blushed.

The afternoon following the storm, Angela was sitting on a rock by the cliff edge peering down at a bank of clouds that had rolled in before dawn. When the hermits left to meditate, Hans came over and sat beside her. She didn’t look up.

“It looks like a giant’s duvet,” Hans said to break the silence.

“Uh-huh,” she said absently.

Hans studied her frown. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me. For days you’ve barely said a word. Why? What’s going on?”

Angela drew into herself. “I’ve seen things I shouldn’t. Don’t make me say what. It’s for your own good.”

“Says who?”

“I have to go.” She went to stand up.

Hans held her by the arm. “Not till you tell me your secret. We’re friends: Friends to the end, remember?”

Angela looked from Hans to the hermit cells and back again. “All right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She took a breath. “I’ve been inside Peter’s chapel.”

Hans gasped. “He said we mustn’t go there!”

“Exactly. Forbidden places are always the most interesting. Anyway, no one was watching. You were all too busy hitting that stupid stump. So I snuck into the pine trees and made my way up to the chapel. It wasn’t locked or anything.”

“Of course not,” Hans said. “This is a place of trust. What would you have done if Peter had caught you?”

“I’d have cried and said I was sorry and how I was just looking for a chisel to make a puppet head.”

“How stupid. He said he’d banish us.”

“He’d never banish me. I’m a girl and a countess and he gave me my name. You he might, though. Life is unfair for girls, but sometimes for boys, too; especially poor boys. That’s why I didn’t tell you. Because what I saw is so strange, I knew if I told, you’d want to see for yourself.”

“See what?”

“All sorts of things. Maps. A foreign crest. A hidden cave—”

“A hidden cave?”

Angela nodded. “The chapel is built over a hole in the rock that leads into a cave in the mountain. The cave is filled with boxes of old tunics, chain mail, and battle gear: two-handed swords, rapiers, falchions, poniards, and daggers. At the back are wooden stairs that lead out of the top of the cave onto the slope above the chapel. There on a ledge, hidden by trees and boulders, is a giant catapult.”

Hans whistled. “A catapult? There’s nothing to fire at but air.”

“I told you, it’s strange.”

“And the maps and the foreign crest?” Hans asked.

“One of the maps is of Market Square in the capital,” Angela said. “It has a dotted line showing the catacombs under the square that connect the palace to the cathedral. Other maps, equally detailed, are of the city and countryside. And one last map is the answer to my prayers. It holds the key to rescuing my parents.”

“What is it?”

“A detailed plan of the inside of the palace,” Angela said. “There are drawings of floor upon floor as well as red markings that could be secret passageways. There’s also the plan of an underground dungeon with a lagoon to the outside. Hans, that map can lead me to Mother and Father.”

“How could a hermit have a map of the palace?” Hans asked gently.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” Hans squeezed her hand. “Palace maps are secret. No one knows the archduke’s private passageways. The map may look real, Angela, but it’s invented by the same mind that built a catapult to nowhere.”

“Not everything in the chapel is pretend,” Angela fought back. “There’s the battle gear. . . .”

“Yes,” Hans said. “Brought here by the hermits from their former lives and put in storage. That’s not the same as a map to your parents’ cell.”

Angela’s eyes misted. “I know it seems impossible. But what if it’s not? What if Peter has secrets beyond our understanding? It’s not just the maps—even the foreign crest looks real.”

“Anyone can make up a crest.”

“Yes, but this one’s so bold I can still see it: Two dancing unicorns. Above them, lightning bolts flying from an eagle’s head—”

Hans went pale. “Angela, don’t play tricks on me.”

“I’m not.”

“The unicorns—are they dancing on a bed of wreaths?”

“Yes,” Angela said. “With zephyrs blowing from the left.”

“And the sun shining from the right?”

“How did you know?”

“That crest. It’s carved in the chest that floated me to shore. Angela, I have to see it. Now.”