The Heretic

by David Pilling

  John, we have a son. He was born at Rouen seven months after Baugé. You know the manner of life I am obliged to lead. I cannot be a mother to him, at least not at present, with the whole of France in a state of flux after King Henry's death. Therefore I have placed him in the care of a certain French monastery.

  The monks are good men, used to taking orphans. Many of the boys choose to join the brethren and devote their lives to the worship of Christ. It is my fondest hope that our son will do the same.

  I named him Julian, after the sainted Roman Emperor. In all likelihood you will never meet him. Nor will you see me again on this earth. Despite all you have done, I shall pray for you.

  Farewell.

  Constanza de Santaella.”

  I rolled up the letter and stood quietly for a while, trying to absorb the waves of anger and shock, tinged with unexpected joy, battering against my senses.

  I had a son. I had a son. The words revolved over and over in my mind, sweeping aside all other thoughts.

  “Did Lady Constanza hand you the letter in person?” I asked the Gascon. He looked up from his wine and gave a curt nod.

  “She did,” he said, “in the camp of the English at Meaux.”

  I had little doubt the letter was genuine. Constanza's hand was unmistakable. Who would seek to dupe me with a forgery?

  Was she telling the truth? I never suspected her of having any deeper feelings for me. Constanza always gave the impression I was just an amusement. One of many. Then again, I was never any good at plumbing the depths of a woman's heart.

  The letter made it plain she hated me for making no attempt to contact her after Baugé. Had she invented our son, a son I could never realistically hope to clap eyes on, out of pure spite? Or perhaps he did exist, and his mother really had consigned him to some dungeon of a French monastery. The poor lad would be flogged and sodomised and God knows what else, until his spirit was broken and he agreed to join his tormentors.

  It was unbearable to think of any child of mine, my own flesh and blood, becoming a slave of the church. My pulse quickened as I imagined him, a frightened, white-faced novice, braying Latin psalms and liturgies under the lustful eye of some disgusting old abbé.

  It was true. In my heart I knew. I had fathered a bastard son on Constanza. The sadistic bitch, displaying all the inventive cruelty of a wronged Portugese noblewoman, had sacrificed him merely to cause me pain. As a final touch she deliberately omitted the name of the monastery he was locked up in, so I had no hope of finding him.

  “You did well,” I said to the Gascon, “such a long journey, alone, through dangerous country. I hope she paid you well.”

  “Pretty well,” he answered, “is there any message you would like me to take back to her? My fee is reasonable.”

  “No. No message. You can go.”

  With a shrug, he drained his wine and stalked out of the tent, smacking his lips. After he was gone I re-read the letter a few times and then dropped it into the brazier. The vellum gave off an unpleasant smell, as vellum does when it burns. I ignored the stench and gazed at the red glow of the coals, thinking on my future.

  It was a changed man who emerged from his tent the next morning. A heavy mist had fallen during the night. The Karlstein was a rugged silhouette against the grey. Somewhere among the invisible hills our cannons boomed, heralding another day of futile bombardment.

  “The Rychlice has started early this morning,” remarked a voice I knew, “I wager she will spit thirty times before nightfall.”

  “Wagers are forbidden,” another voice said primly, to scornful laughter from his companions.

  The Rychlice or Rapid was one of our big field guns. She was so-called due to her swift rate of fire. By contrast, the others could only fire seven times a day. In truth, all of our guns were so poorly handled they might have fired ten times an hour and made little impression.

  The speakers were my young cavalrymen. Six of them sat on their cloaks around a breakfast fire, drinking ale and grilling bacon on an iron plate set over the flames.

  They nudged each other when I emerged. All six gave me a cursory salute and turned back to their breakfast.

  In my grief for King Harry, and indifference over the fate of the Karlstein, I had allowed these striplings to grow far too insolent. It was time to instil a little respect. To begin forging a new reputation.

  “You,” I barked, crooking my finger at one of the lads, “get up. Fetch your sword.”

  “Up,” I repeated when he stared at me dumbly, “obey, unless you want a bloody back.”

  The boy I picked out was a muscular, red-haired Achilles, fairly dripping with the insolence of youth. He was one of those who mocked me when they thought my back was turned. Determined not to lose face before his cronies, he gave them a wink and a smile before loping off for his sword.

  I drew my sabre and made a few passes, once again admiring the almost translucent quality of the steel. The German baron who left it behind at Graz must have cursed his luck.

  My Achilles soon returned. I privately rejoiced at the flicker of doubt in his eyes when I marched straight at him, sword in hand.

  “Sir...” he stuttered, backing away. Perhaps he thought I had run mad, and meant to kill him on the spot. Instead I rammed the hilt into his gut.

  “Come,” I said as he fell to his knees, bent double and retching for breath, “grandfather is in the mood for a little sparring.”

  While he recovered I grinned at his mates. Their pale young faces were a shade paler. They stared at me in silence, ignoring the strips of fat bacon burning to a crisp over the fire.

  “You old swine,” gasped my opponent, clutching his belly, “that was a coward's blow. I'll make you pay for it.”

  “Insolence to a superior officer,” I remarked, “Lord Zizka would have you flogged for that. Maybe hanged.”

  He came at me, roaring. I turned aside his wild swing and fell on guard, beckoning at him with my free hand to try again.

  To be fair, the youth had the makings of a swordsman – he was my pupil, after all – but no defence against my arsenal of dirty tricks. Three times I floored him and sent the sword spinning from his hand. The third time I considered giving him a good scar, but he was a pretty boy, and it seemed a shame to ruin his marriage prospects. Instead I contented myself with loosening a couple of his teeth.

  While he crouched on all fours, spitting blood, I kicked him in the chest and flipped him onto his back. Then I rested my foot on his throat and spat on him.

  “Call me Grandfather again, you little turd,” I said amiably, “and I'll tear your bowels out through your belly and wind them round a tree.”

  “The same goes for the rest of you,” I added, glancing at his companions, “you will show me the respect due to my rank. If not, I'll show you the colour of your guts.”

  The noise of the fight had drawn the others from their tents. They stood around me in a ragged circle, like a herd of frightened bullocks.

  For an instant I was tempted to kill the youth lying under my foot. As a Hussite officer, I was perfectly within my rights. He had insulted me to my face, in flagrant breach of the Regulations of War. Lord Cenek would not have hesitated to execute him on the spot.

  The boy's eyes were fixed on my blade, hovering just a couple of inches above his face. How old was he? Fifteen, perhaps, with a measly scrub of reddish beard on his chin. I suddenly remembered the French boy I had killed in the savage melee under the mines at Rouen. He was even younger.

  I took my foot off the lad's throat. “Go and clean yourself up,” I ordered, “we'll do some sword-drill later. You're clearly in need of it.”

  He eyed me warily as he got up, wiping away the thin trickle of blood from his mouth. I sheathed my sword and stood with arms folded, waiting.

  His fingers curled around the grip of his fallen sword. Our eyes locked.

  The lesson in manners had worked. He rammed the sword into its sheath and stalked away, still clutching his bruised s
tomach. His comrades parted ranks to let him pass. None said a word, or dared to meet my eye.

  “Right,” I said, “dismissed.”

  22.

  Prince Korybut never got his hands on the treasure in the Karlstein. While we sat outside, burning powder and hurling pots full of decaying body parts at the garrison, fresh armies of German crusaders swept into Bohemia. At the same time another host of Silesians threatened the northern frontier.

  Once again the fate of Bohemia shivered in the balance. Thankfully the German and Silesian generals were a talentless set of brigands, whose only strategy was to raid and plunder and cause as much material damage as possible.

  Sigismund was the driving force behind this latest crusade, though he wisely declined to lead it himself. Instead the main German army, meant to follow on the heels of the first wave, was led by the Elector Count of Brandenburg. He loathed Sigismund more than the Hussites, and showed little enthusiasm for this latest crusade.

  “We have little to fear,” Lord Cenek told me, “the count will make all the right noises, burn a few villages and march his men up and down for a week or two. He wants to avoid angering the Pope, you understand. As soon as he thinks it is safe, he'll disband the entire army and go home again to bicker with Sigismund.”

  Cenek speared a chicken leg on his knife and winked slyly at me. “Fortunate Bohemia. May God continue to send us halfwits for enemies.”

  He was still trying to lure me to his side. I continued to eat his grand suppers (Hussite army rations were not the best) and let him think I might be tempted. In truth I had no intention of deserting Zizka. The general might be old and blind, but he was still the greatest soldier bar none in Bohemia, perhaps in the whole of Christendom now King Harry was dead. Some of the deeds he committed in the name of God revolted me, yet my allegiance never wavered. I had already broken too many oaths for my conscience to bear.

  As usual, Lord Cenek was well-informed. The Elector took his small army up to Tirschenreuth in the Upper Palatinate, close to the Bohemian frontier. There he dawdled, waiting impatiently for reinforcements. None came. His troops, reluctant to face the dreaded Hussite armies in battle, started to drift away. At last the Elector himself gave the whole thing up as a bad job, disbanded the remainder and went home.

  The German armies already in Bohemia marched on regardless. They stormed the town of Chomutov and advanced on our camp at the Karlstein, hoping to relieve the hard-pressed defenders. Prince Korybut, who much preferred the glamour of war to the reality, offered the Germans a truce instead of battle. Thus the crusade – the third sent against Bohemia in just two years - and the siege of the Karlstein petered out into nothing.

  I continued to play the iron captain with my lancers. Every morning I inspected their gear, enforced the Regulations with a furious intensity I didn't feel (my skill as a play-actor came to the fore here) screamed at them until their heads rang, drilled them with sword and lance until they could barely lift their arms.

  “You handless clowns!” I bawled as they sparred in pairs, “the meanest German serf would make chopped liver of you with his eyes shut. Stamp-parry-thrust! Again! You slovens. You serfs. You rascals. You ride like sacks of meal and fence like a pack of nuns!”

  My company was not large, but word soon spread of the Englishman's zeal for discipline, married to a piety I had not shown before. I insisted that my company pray three times a day, and led the prayers myself, grovelling on my knees before a priest and barking at the top of my lungs:

  “May the Almighty Lord deign to grant us His aid, that we may carry on His holy fight to His glory, for the increase of all that is good, for the salvation and aid of the faithful!”

  And so on. It was all to a purpose. Previously I was content to serve the Hussites as a mere captain of horse. Now I wanted to become a man of high rank. A general, second only to Zizka himself.

  Hussite officers were supposed to fight selflessly for God. Even Zizka only accepted a small castle from the people of Bohemia as a reward for his great services: he called it Chalice, after the Hussite symbol. I, on the other hand, was a soldier of fortune. My own interests came first. Once the wars had ended, and I had enough money and a loyal following of my own, I planned to quit Bohemia and go in search of my son.

  A rare peace descended over Bohemia. Prince Korybut was recalled to Lithuania by his scheming uncle, Duke Vitold, who promptly declared that his friendship with the Hussites was over, and that he had entered into alliance with King Sigismund.

  I was in Prague when the news of Vitold's treachery broke. A wave of despair rolled over the city. The churches were crammed with citizens, beseeching God to know why Vitold chose to abandon them in their hour of need. They had expected to welcome him into Prague as their new King. Instead he made common cause with the Dragon.

  The general air of panic didn't affect me. Prague forever teetered on the verge of some fresh crisis. There was a prophet of doom on every street corner, half-naked flagellants and crazed seers, their backs red with self-inflicted wounds, stretching their hands to Heaven as they predicted the arrival of judgement Day. I drilled my soldiers, ensured they looked spotless on parade, and paid occasional visits to my old friend, the black-haired whore in the poor quarter.

  I didn't regret Vitold's defection. He was a sly politician, hardened from a lifetime of intrigue. There were rumours that Sigismund, having failed to conquer Bohemia, had plans to carve up Poland and Lithuania. Vitold's sudden affection for Sigismund was a means of keeping the ambitious Hungarian king at arm's length, nothing more. The King of Poland, Vitold's kinsman, also hurried to make his peace with the Dragon. The negotiations were long, complicated, and fraught with tension on all sides.

  “So much the better,” remarked Lord Cenek, “Bohemia is safe, as long as these princely fools waste their energy in a pretence of friendship.”

  During this lull between wars, my life was given another unexpected twist. Since Nemecky Brod I had almost forgotten the widow Jana, thinking her lost to the Táborites. Early in the spring, almost a year after my flight to Bohemia, she found me.

  After Prince Korybut's recall, my company was sent to reinforce the Prague garrison. My men were quartered in the barracks, but I chose to take lodgings above a wine-shop, a street away from the castle. From there it was easier to keep a finger on the city's pulse. Zizka, who preferred to stay away from the volatile capital, needed friends inside Prague to keep watch on events. I was gratified by his trust, and sent him regular reports on the latest plots and riots and feuds, of which there were plenty: the burghers and the merchants were forever at each other's throats, or forming temporary alliances against the mob.

  Everyone hated the Utraquist nobles, branding them traitors who secretly adored the Pope and wanted the Catholic priesthood back again. They had to go about everywhere under armed guard to avoid being seized and ripped to pieces, or even burned. As for the small community of luckless Jews, they were robbed and bullied and persecuted by all factions.

  An interesting place, Prague, if not the happiest. After several weeks dwelling inside this powder-keg, ripe to explode, I started to feel desperately alone. Thanks to my wandering rascal life, I was long past the age a man should marry. At the same time I couldn't set down roots in Bohemia, not while my son still languished in a French monastery. Still, I craved a companion.

  God (or in hindsight, perhaps the Devil) sent Jana to comfort me. I kept a servant, a solid, dependable fellow named Nicholas who cooked well and knew how to keep his mouth shut.

  One evening he knocked politely on the door of my bedchamber. Inside I was hunched over my desk, labouring by rushlight over the latest report to Zizka.

  “Come!” I barked, grateful for the interruption. Writing doesn't come easily to me. More than ever I regretted the loss of Ralf, who had been a clerk in one of his former lives.

  The door swung open. “Sir,” said Nicholas in his deep, ponderous tones, “there is a woman downstairs who wishes to see you. A beggar
, judging from the look of her. She gives her name as Jana of Graz.”

  My heart skipped. “Is she alone?” I asked, massaging my aching wrist.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Send her up.”

  Radiating disapproval, he bowed and stumped downstairs. I waited, gripped by a strange anxiety, rolling my ink-spattered quill between nervous fingers. I heard a brief murmur of voices at the foot of the stairwell. Then Nicholas laboured back up the creaking steps, followed by a lighter tread.

  Seconds later Jana stood in the doorway. She was much as I remembered, slender as a willow, her face partially hidden under a close-fitting linen bonnet. Her eyes, her most striking feature, shone like green gemstones in the musty darkness of my bedchamber.

  She rested one small white hand against the frame. “Jan Englis,” she said in a tired voice. “I have found you at last.”

  23.

  Jana's eyelids fluttered, and she would have fallen if Nicholas hadn't caught her. I crossed the room, caught her arm and pressed my ear against her wrist to check the pulse.

  “Strong enough,” I said, “she's exhausted, that's all. Help me get her into bed.”

  We lifted her disturbingly light body into my narrow bed, covered her in woollen blankets and a wolfskin, and left her in peace. That night I slept beside Nicholas in the spare chamber, my mind churning with possible explanations. The last I heard of Jana was from Ralf, who told me she was in Tábor. Why was she looking for me in Prague? Had she offended the Táborites somehow, and expected me to shelter her from their vengeance?

  My blood ran cold at the thought. The Táborites, for all they claimed to hark back to a purer form of Christianity, were strangers to Christian mercy. I had seen their handiwork at Nemecky Brod, where they slaughtered every Catholic soldier inside the town. The dead men were piled high in the marketplace, and the gates left open for wolves to steal in and gnaw the corpses.

  All night I wrestled against my baser instincts. If Jana was a fugitive, it would be far simpler and less dangerous to give her up. If I did so, I might as well have chopped off my spurs and thrown them into the river. No true knight could do such a thing.