“As you wish, Your Grace.”
Hooves thudded on the bridge. The messenger hastening away from Sterzendorf looked back and waved at his woman, who was bidding him farewell from the embankment with a snow-white kerchief. And suddenly caught sight of movement on the moonlit wall of the watchtower, a vague moving shape. What the Devil? he thought. What’s creeping about there? An owl? A swift? A bat? Or perhaps…
The messenger muttered a spell to protect him from magic, spat into the moat and spurred on his horse. The message he was carrying was urgent, and the lord who had sent it cruel.
So he didn’t see a huge wallcreeper spread its wings, fly down from the parapet and noiselessly, like a nightly spectre, glide over the forests eastwards, towards the Widawa Valley.
Sensenberg Castle, as everybody knew, had been built by the Knights Templar, and not without reason had they chosen that exact location. Looming above a jagged cliff face, its summit had been a place of worship to pagan gods since time immemorial, where, so the stories said, the people of the ancient Trzebowianie and Bobrzanie tribes offered the gods human sacrifices. During the twelfth century, when the circles of round, moss-covered stones hidden among the weeds were all that remained of the pagan temple, the cult continued to spread and sabbath fires still burned on its summit in spite of several bishops’ threats of severe punishments for anyone who dared celebrate the festum dyabolicum et maledictum at Sensenberg.
But in the meantime, the Knights Templar arrived. They built their Silesian castles, menacing, crenelated miniatures of the great Syrian Templar fortresses, erected under the supervision of men with heads swathed in scarves and faces as dark as tanned bull’s hide. It was no accident that they always located their strongholds in the holy places of ancient, vanishing cults like Sensenberg.
Then the Knights Templar got what was coming to them. Whether it was fair or not, there is no point arguing over it; they met their end, and everybody knows what happened. Their castles were seized by the Knights Hospitaller and divided up between the rapidly expanding monasteries and the burgeoning Silesian magnates. Some, in spite of the power slumbering at their roots, very quickly became ruins. Ruins which were avoided. Feared.
Not without reason.
In spite of escalating colonisation, in spite of settlers hungry for land arriving from Saxony, Thuringia, the Rhineland and Franconia, the mountain and castle of Sensenberg were still surrounded by a strip of no man’s land, a wilderness only entered by poachers or fugitives. And it was from those poachers and fugitives that people first heard stories about extraordinary birds and spectral riders, about lights flashing in the castle’s windows, about savage and cruel cries and singing, and about ghastly music which appeared to spring up from nowhere.
There were those who did not believe such stories. Others were tempted by the Templar treasure that was said still to lie somewhere in Sensenberg’s vaults. And there were downright nosy and restless individuals who had to see for themselves.
They never returned.
That night, had some poacher, fugitive or adventurer been in the vicinity of Sensenberg, the mountain and castle would have given cause for further legends. A storm was approaching from far beyond the horizon and flashes of lightning flared in the distance, so far away you couldn’t even hear the accompanying rumble of thunder. And suddenly, the bright eyes of the windows blazed in the black monolith of the castle, framed against the flashes in the sky.
For inside the apparent ruin stood a huge, stately hall with a high ceiling. The light from candelabras and torches in iron cressets accentuated the frescos on the bare walls portraying religious and knightly scenes. There was Percival, kneeling before the Holy Grail, and Moses, carrying the stone tablets down from Mount Sinai, and Jesus, falling beneath the cross for the second time. Their Byzantine eyes gazed down upon the great round table and the knights in full armour and hooded cloaks sitting around it.
A huge wallcreeper flew in through the window on a gust of wind.
The bird wheeled around, casting a ghastly shadow on the frescos, and alighted, puffing up its feathers, on one of the chairs. It opened its beak and screeched, and before the sound had died away, not a bird but a knight was sitting on the chair, dressed in a cloak and hood, looking almost identical to the others.
“Adsumus,” the Wallcreeper intoned dully. “We are here, Lord, gathered in Your name. Come to us and be among us.”
“Adsumus,” the knights encircling the table repeated in unison. “Adsumus! Adsumus!”
The echo spread through the castle like a rumbling thunderclap, like the sound of distant battle, like the booming of a battering ram on a castle gate. And slowly faded among the tenebrous corridors.
“May the Lord be praised,” said the Wallcreeper, after the echo fell silent. “The day is at hand when all His foes will be reduced to dust. Woe betide them! That is why we are here!”
“Adsumus!”
“My brothers, providence is sending us another chance to smite the Lord’s foes and to beset the enemies of the faith,” the Wallcreeper intoned, lifting his head, his eyes gleaming with the reflected light of a flame. “The time has come to deliver the next blow! Remember this name, O brothers: Reinmar of Bielawa. Reinmar of Bielawa, called Reynevan. Listen…”
The hooded knights leaned in, listening. Jesus, falling beneath the cross, looked down on them from the fresco, and there was endless human suffering in his Byzantine eyes.
Chapter Three
In which there will be talk of things having apparently little in common with each other, such as hunting with falcons, the Piast dynasty, cabbage and peas, and Czech heresy. And also of a dispute about whether one should keep one’s word. And if so, when and regarding whom.
The ducal retinue made a long stop on a hillock above the River Oleśniczka, which wound its way among black alder wetlands, a copse of white birches and bright green meadows, looking down on the thatched roofs and smoke of the village of Borów. Not in order to rest, however, but rather to tire themselves out by indulging in lordly pursuits.
As they approached, flocks of birds of many breeds flew up from the marsh. On seeing this, Duke Konrad Kantner of Oleśnica instantly ordered the procession to stop and asked for his favourite falcons. The duke passionately adored falconry, and the whole world could wait while he watched his favourite Motley rend the plumage from mallards and witness Silver intrepidly battling a heron in the air.
So the duke galloped through the rushes and wetlands like a man possessed, accompanied fearlessly by his eldest daughter Agnieszka, Seneschal Rudiger Haugwitz and several careerist pages.
The rest of his retinue waited at the edge of the forest but did not dismount, since no one knew when the duke would weary of his play. The duke’s foreign guest was yawning discreetly. The chaplain was muttering—probably a prayer; the bailiff was counting—probably money; the minnesinger was composing—probably rhymes;
Agnieszka’s ladies-in-waiting were gossiping—probably about other ladies-in-waiting; and all the while, the young knights were killing time by riding around and exploring the nearby undergrowth.
“Ciołek!”
Henryk Krompusz reined in his horse abruptly and turned, trying to determine which bush had just quietly called him by his nickname.
“Ciołek!”
“Who’s there? Show yourself!”
The bushes rustled.
“By Saint Jadwiga…” Krompusz’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “Reynevan? Is it you?”
“No, it’s Saint Jadwiga,” replied Reynevan in a voice as sour as a gooseberry in May. “Ciołek, I need help… Whose retinue is it? Kantner’s?”
Before Krompusz worked out what was happening, two other Oleśnica knights had joined him.
“Reynevan!” groaned Jaksa of Wiszna. “Christ Almighty, what do you look like!”
I wonder how you’d look, thought Reynevan, if your horse had given up the ghost just outside Bystre. If you’d had to wander all night through the bog
s and wildernesses by the River Świerzna, and just before dawn exchange your wet, muddy rags for a smock swiped from the fence of a peasant’s cottage. I wonder how you’d look after something like that, you foppish dandy.
Benno Ebersbach, the third Oleśnica knight to ride up, was probably thinking the same thing.
“Instead of gawping,” he said dryly, “give him some raiment. Off with those rags, Bielawa. Come on, gentlemen, take whatever you have from your saddlebags.”
“Reynevan,” said Krompusz, still unable to believe what he was seeing. “Is it truly you?”
Reynevan didn’t reply. He put on a shirt and jerkin one of them threw him. He was so angry, he was close to tears.
“I’m in need of help,” he repeated. “In great need.”
“We see that,” Ebersbach confirmed with a nod, “and also concur that your need is great. Great indeed. Come on. We must present you to Haugwitz. And the duke.”
“Does he know?”
“Everybody knows. Everybody’s talking about it.”
If Konrad Kantner, with his oval face made longer by a deeply receding hairline, his black beard and the piercing eyes of a monk, did not overly resemble a typical member of the dynasty, his daughter Agnieszka was a veritable chip off the Silesian–Mazovian block. The princess had the flaxen hair, bright eyes and small, blithe retroussé nose of a Piast, immortalised by the now famous sculpture in Naumburg Cathedral. Agnieszka, Reynevan quickly calculated, was around fifteen, so must already be promised in marriage. Reynevan couldn’t recall the rumours as to whom.
“Stand up.”
He stood up.
“Know,” said the duke, fixing him with forbidding eyes, “that I do not approve of your deed. In fact, I consider it ignoble, reprehensible and opprobrious, and frankly advise remorse and penance, Reinmar of Bielawa. My chaplain assures me that there is a special enclave for adulterers in Hell. The devils sorely vex the miscreants’ instruments of sin. I shall forego the details owing to the presence of the maid.”
Seneschal Rudiger Haugwitz snorted angrily. Reynevan said nothing.
“How you will make amends to Gelfrad of Stercza is a matter for you and him,” continued Kantner. “It is not for me to interfere in this issue, particularly since you are both vassals of Duke Jan of Ziębice. I ought to simply wash my hands of the matter and send you to him.”
Reynevan swallowed.
“But,” continued the duke after a moment of dramatic silence, “out of respect for your father, who laid down his life at Tannenberg at my brother’s side, I shall not allow you to be murdered as part of a foolish family feud. It is high time we put an end to such feuds and live as befits Europeans. You may journey with my entourage all the way to Wrocław. But stay out of my gaze, for the sight of you does not please me.”
“Your Ducal—”
“I said begone.”
The hunt was definitely over. The falcons were hooded, the mallards and herons they had caught already hanging from the bars of the wagon. The duke was content, his entourage, too, because the potentially interminable hunt had been brief. Reynevan noticed several clearly grateful glances—the rumour had already spread through the retinue that the duke had curtailed the hunt and resumed the journey because of him. That probably wasn’t the only rumour doing the rounds, and his ears burned as though all eyes were on him.
“Everyone,” grunted Benno Ebersbach, who was riding alongside him, “knows everything…”
“Everyone, yes,” confirmed Henryk Krompusz, quite sadly. “But, fortunately for you, not everything.”
“Eh?”
“Are you playing the fool, Bielawa?” asked Ebersbach, without raising his voice. “Kantner would certainly drive you away, and perhaps also send you in chains to the castellan, if he knew somebody had dropped dead in Oleśnica. Yes, yes, don’t goggle at me. Young Nicolaus of Stercza is dead. Cuckolding Gelfrad is one thing, but the Sterczas won’t ever forgive you for killing their brother.”
“I never…” Reynevan said after a series of deep breaths, “I never laid a finger on Nicolaus, I swear.”
Ebersbach was clearly unimpressed by Reynevan’s oath. “And to complete the set, the lovely Adèle has accused you of witchcraft, saying you bewitched and took advantage of her.”
“Even if she did,” replied Reynevan after a short pause, “she was compelled to. On pain of death. She is in their grasp, after all—”
“No, she isn’t,” countered Ebersbach. “The lovely Adèle fled from the Augustinian priory, where she publicly accused you of devilish practices, to Ligota and the safety of the Cistercian nuns’ convent.”
Reynevan sighed with relief. “I don’t believe those accusations,” he repeated. “She loves me. And I love her.”
“Beautiful.”
“If you only knew how beautiful.”
“That’s as may be,” said Ebersbach, looking him in the eyes, “but it got quite ugly when they searched your workshop.”
“Ah. I was afraid of that.”
“You ought to be. In my humble opinion, the only reason the Inquisition isn’t on your back already is because they still haven’t finished cataloguing the devilry they found there. Kantner may be able to protect you from the Sterczas, but not, I fear, from the Inquisition. When news of that sorcery gets out, he’ll hand you over to them himself. Don’t come to Wrocław with us, Reynevan. Take my advice—split off before we get there and flee, hide somewhere.”
Reynevan didn’t reply.
“And by the by,” Ebersbach threw in casually, “are you indeed versed in magic? Because, you see, I recently met a maiden…
And… How can I put it…? An elixir would come in handy…”
Reynevan didn’t reply.
A cry sounded from the head of the entourage.
“What is it?” asked Ebersbach.
“Byków,” guessed Ciołek Krompusz, urging on his horse. “The Goose Inn.”
“And thanks be to God,” Jaksa of Wiszna added in hushed tones, “because I have a dreadful hunger after that sodding hunting.”
Reynevan still said nothing. The rumbling coming from his guts was all too eloquent.
The Goose was roomy and probably famous, for there were plenty of guests, both locals and visitors, judging by the horses, servants and soldiers bustling about. When Duke Kantner’s retinue rode into the courtyard with great flourish and noise, the innkeeper, who had been forewarned of their imminent arrival, dashed out through the doorway like a ball from a bombard, scattering poultry and splashing muck around. He hopped from foot to foot, bowing and scraping.
“Welcome, welcome, you’re most welcome,” he panted. “What an honour, what an honour it is that your enlightened graciousness—”
“It’s thronged here today.” Kantner dismounted from his bay, helped by his servants. “Who are you putting up? Who is emptying your pots? Will there be sufficient for us, too?”
“Most definitely, most definitely,” assured the innkeeper, struggling to catch his breath. “And it isn’t at all thronged now… I drove the lesser knights, bards and free peasants outside… I only just saw m’lords on the highway. There’s room in the chamber now, in the snug, too, only—”
“Only what?” Rudiger Haugwitz raised an eyebrow.
“There are guests in the chamber. Important and clerical personages… Emissaries. I dared not—”
“And well you didn’t,” interrupted Kantner. “You would have slighted me and the whole of Oleśnica had you dared. Guests are guests! And as I am a Piast, not a Saracen sultan, it is no offence to me to eat alongside other guests. Lead on, gentlemen.”
The partially smoke-filled chamber perfused with the smell of cabbage was indeed not crowded. In truth, only one table was occupied. Two of the three tonsured men seated there wore clothing typical for journeying clergy, but so opulent that they couldn’t have been ordinary priests. The third was wearing the habit of a Dominican.
At the sight of Kantner entering, the clergymen stood up from
the bench. The one with the most sumptuous costume bowed, but without undue humility.
“Your Grace Duke Konrad,” he said, showing that he was well informed. “This is indeed a great honour for us. I am, with your permission, Maciej Korzbok of the Poznań Diocese, on a mission to Your Grace’s brother in Wrocław, and my travelling companions are Master Melchior Barfuss, curate to the Bishop of Lubusz, and Reverend Jan Nejedlý from Vysoké, prior Ordo Praedicatorum.”
The Brandenburgian and the Dominican lowered their tonsured heads, and Konrad Kantner responded with a faint tilt of his.
“Your Eminence, Your Excellencies,” he said nasally, “it will be delightful to sup in such company. And to converse, both here and on the road, if it doesn’t tire you, Reverends, since I also ride to Wrocław. With my daughter… Over here, Aneżka… Curtsy before Christ’s servants.”
Aneżka curtsied and bowed her head, intending to kiss Maciej Korzbok’s hand, but he stopped her, blessing her with a swift sign of the cross over her flaxen fringe. The Czech Dominican put his hands together, leaned over and muttered a short prayer, adding something about clarissima puella.
“And this,” continued Kantner, “is Seneschal Rudiger Haugwitz. And these are my knights and my guest…”
Reynevan felt a tug on his sleeve. He obeyed Krompusz’s gestures and hisses and followed him out into the courtyard where the commotion caused by the duke’s arrival continued. Ebersbach was waiting there.
“I asked around,” he said. “They were here yesterday—Wolfher of Stercza and five other men. Those Greater Poles over there, they said the Sterczas had stopped them but didn’t dare try anything with these clergymen. They are clearly searching for you on the Wrocław highway. In your shoes, I’d flee.”
“Kantner,” Reynevan mumbled, “will defend me…”
Ebersbach shrugged. “It is your decision. And your neck. Wolfher is proclaiming loudly and in detail what he’ll do to you when he catches you. If I were you—”
The Tower of Fools Page 5