“Now I feel I have brought a curse on myself in my old age,” he said. “For when my ransom was paid and I returned to Krakow, I told King Władysław everything I had seen at Epiphany at the Battle of Německý Brod, and everything I saw the following day after the town was captured. I told all but gave no advice, imposed not my opinions, was circumspect in expressing my judgements or conclusions. I simply talked, and he—the cunning old Lithuanian—listened. And knew. And never, laddie, you may be certain, will that cunning old Lithuanian ever send Polish or Lithuanian knights to fight the Czechs, no matter that the Pope weeps over the endangered faith, and Sigismund does rage and menace. And that is my fault, because of my account. And the only right conclusion that can be drawn from it is that the Polish and Lithuanian knighthood are needed to fight the Teutonic Knights, and it would be foolish, utter nonsense, to drown them in the Sázava, the Vltava or the Labe. Jogaila, having also heard my account, will never join an anti-Hussite crusade, either. Which is why I’m riding to Hungary against the Turks, before they excommunicate me.”
“You are jesting, sir,” said Reynevan. “Excommunication? A knight of your renown… You must be jesting.”
“Indeed,” said Zawisza with a nod. “Indeed, I jest. But I do fear it.”
For some time, they said nothing. Hans Mein Igel panted softly. The horses snorted restlessly in the darkness.
“Would that mean the end of knighthood?” Reynevan risked asking. “And chivalry? Can the infantry, tight-knit and serried, shoulder to shoulder, not only stand up to armoured cavalry, but even defeat it? Is this the end of… an era? Perhaps the age of knighthood is ending?”
“A war without knights or chivalry,” Zawisza the Black replied a moment later, “will eventually become sheer slaughter, a massacre. I would want no part of something like that. But I probably won’t live to see it. Between us, I wouldn’t want to.”
Silence reigned for a long time. The campfire died down, the logs glowing scarlet, occasionally exploding with a bluish flame or a geyser of sparks. One of the servants snored. Zawisza wiped his forehead with a hand. Hans Mein Igel, as black as a wisp of darkness, moved his ears. When the flames reflected in his eyes once again, Reynevan realised that the creature was looking at him.
“Love has many names,” said Hans Mein Igel suddenly, “and it will determine your fate, young herbalist. Love. It will save your life when you won’t even know that it is love. For the Goddess has many names. And still more faces.”
Reynevan was dumbstruck. Zawisza reacted first.
“Well, well,” he said. “A prophecy. Obscure like every prophecy, suiting everything and nothing at the same time. No offence, Master Hans. Do you have anything for me?”
Hans Mein Igel moved his head and his ears.
“A city stands on a hill by a great river,” he finally said in his indistinct, hoarse voice. “On a hill with a river winding around it. And it is called the Town of Doves. An evil place. Do not go there, Sulima. An evil place for you, the Town of Doves. Ride not there. Turn back.”
Zawisza said nothing for a long time, plunged into a deep reverie. He was silent for so long that Reynevan presumed he would brush off the strange nocturnal creature’s words. He was wrong.
“I am a man of the sword,” Zawisza interrupted the silence. “From the moment I first picked up a sword some two-score years ago, I’ve known what fate awaits me. But I will not look back at the hundsfelds, the graves, the royal betrayals, the wickedness, the baseness, the mean-spiritedness I’ve left behind me. I’ll not turn back from my chosen path, Master Hans Mein Igel.”
Hans Mein Igel didn’t say a word, but his large eyes flared.
“All the same,” Zawisza the Black added, wiping his forehead, “I’d prefer you prophesy me love, as you did Reynevan. Not death.”
“I, too, would prefer that,” said Hans Mein Igel. “Farewell.”
The creature suddenly grew in size and bristled even more. And vanished, dissipating into the same gloom from which it had emerged.
The horses snorted and stamped in the darkness. The servants snored. The sky was growing lighter, the stars fading above the treetops.
“Uncanny,” said Reynevan finally. “That was uncanny.”
The knight jerked up his head, woken from his slumber.
“What? What was uncanny?”
“That… Hans Mein Igel. Do you know, Sir Zawisza, that… Well, I have to confess… I was full of admiration for you.”
“Why?”
“When it emerged from the darkness, you didn’t even flinch. Why, your voice didn’t even tremble. And when you talked to it afterwards, my admiration… For it was… A night creature. Something… alien.”
Zawisza the Black of Garbów looked long at him.
“I know many people,” he finally replied, very gravely, “who feel much more alien to me.”
The dawn was foggy and damp; drops of dew hung in great garlands on cobwebs. The forest was silent, but as menacing as a sleeping beast. The horses started at the haze creeping towards them, snorting and shaking their manes.
A stone cross stood at the crossroads, beyond the forest. One of Silesia’s numerous reminders of crimes past and very belated remorse.
“Here we part,” said Reynevan.
The knight looked at him, but refrained from commenting.
“Here we part,” the boy repeated. “Like you, it’s not to my liking to look back at hundsfelds. Like you, I find the thought of baseness and mean-spiritedness revolting. I’m returning to Adèle—never mind what that Hans said, my place is beside her. I won’t flee like a coward, like a petty thief. I shall face what I have to face, like you did at the Battle of Německý Brod. Farewell, noble Sir Zawisza.”
“Farewell, Reinmar of Bielawa. Watch your back. Adieu.”
“You, too. Who knows, perhaps we shall meet again.”
Zawisza the Black of Garbów looked long at him.
“I doubt that,” he finally said.
Chapter Five
In which Reynevan experiences what a wolf feels like being hunted in a forest. Then meets Fair Nicolette. And then sails off downstream.
A stone penitentiary cross stood at the crossroads, beyond the forest. One of Silesia’s numerous reminders of crimes past and very belated remorse.
The arms of the cross were clover-shaped and on the base was carved a battleaxe. That was the weapon the penitent had used to send his neighbours to the next world.
Reynevan examined the cross carefully and uttered a foul oath.
It was the very same cross beside which he had said farewell to Zawisza a good three hours earlier.
To blame was the fog, creeping since dawn like smoke over the fields and forests; to blame was the drizzle slanting small drops into his eyes. And when it stopped, the fog became thicker. To blame was also Reynevan himself, his fatigue and his lack of sleep, his distraction caused by obsessive thoughts about Adèle of Stercza and his plans to free her. And besides, who knew? Perhaps to blame were the sprites, imps, will-o’-the-wisps and other spirits that lived in great numbers in the Silesian forests, the decidedly less benevolent friends and relatives of Hans Mein Igel who were fond of leading people astray.
Searching for the culprit made no sense and Reynevan knew it. One had to assess the situation judiciously and act accordingly. He dismounted, leaned against the penitential cross and began to think hard.
Instead of being about halfway to Bierutów, he had returned to his starting place, not more than a mile from the town of Brzeg.
Or perhaps, he thought, perhaps destiny guided me? Gave me a sign? I could ride to Brzeg and ask for help from my brethren at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit. Or maybe I should stick with the original plan and ride straight towards Bierutów, to Ligota, and to Adèle.
I ought to avoid the town, he concluded after some thought. His good relationship with the Brzeg monks was known to everybody, including the Sterczas. Additionally, Brzeg was on the road to the Knights Hospitaller Co
mmandery, where Duke Konrad wanted to imprison Reynevan until the trouble blew over. In spite of the duke’s good intentions, Reynevan had absolutely no desire to spend years doing penance with the Knights Hospitaller, plus somebody from Kantner’s entourage might have let slip or been bribed to reveal the duke’s plan to the Sterczas, who would be lurking outside Brzeg by now.
And so, he thought, I’ll ride to Adèle, to rescue her. Like Tristan to Isolde, like Lancelot to Guinevere. A fool’s errand straight into the lion’s den, perhaps, but my pursuers might not be expecting such a risky gambit. Most importantly, Adèle is in need and must be missing me, so I cannot keep her waiting.
As his mood brightened, so did the sky, as though touched by Merlin’s wand, and the overwhelming greyness began to take on colour. The birds, gloomily silent until then, began to timidly call, finally to chirp loudly. Dewdrops shone silver on the cobwebs and the mist-shrouded roads looked like a scene from a fairy tale.
Angry at himself for being too cocksure to think of it earlier, Reynevan called to mind another means of countering misleading spells. Clearing away the weeds covering the base of the cross, he quickly found what he was looking for: feathery caraway, red bartsia covered in pink flowers and spurge. After he’d stripped the leaves from the stems and placed them together, it took him a moment to recall how to wind them and on which fingers, how to plait them and how to make the node, the knot. And how the spell went.
One, two, three
Wolfsmilch, Kümmel, Zahntrost
Binde zu samene
Semitae eorum incurvatae sunt
Thus, my road is straight.
A moment later, one of the branches of the crossroads became brighter, friendlier, inviting. Without the talisman, Reynevan would never have guessed it was the right path. But Reynevan knew that talismans didn’t lie.
After riding for a few minutes, he heard the barking of a dog and the loud, excited gaggling of geese. Soon after, his nostrils were pleasantly tickled by the smell of smoke from a smokehouse where something delicious was being cured. Reynevan succumbed to the aroma so utterly that he was oblivious to everything around him, and found himself riding through a wattle gate into the courtyard of a roadside inn. A dog barked at him, more from a sense of duty than in warning. The smell of baking bread mingled with the aroma of the smoked meats, masking even the stench of a great cesspool besieged by geese and ducks.
Reynevan dismounted and tied his grey to a stake. A stableman grooming some horses nearby was so busy, he didn’t even acknowledge his arrival. But something else had caught Reynevan’s attention. On one of the posts of the porch hung a hex: three twigs tied into a triangle and entwined by a garland of wilted clover and marsh marigold on a messy tangle of colourful threads. Reynevan pondered on it, but was not especially surprised. Magic was everywhere, and people used magical symbols not even knowing what they meant or what purpose they really served. Most crucially in this instance, although inexpertly tied, the hex might have confused his talisman.
That’s why I ended up here, he thought. Bugger. Ah well, since I’m here…
He entered, stooping to pass beneath the low lintel.
The fish skins covering the small windows barely let in any light, casting the room in semi-darkness lit only by flashes of fire from the hearth. From time to time, a cauldron suspended above the fire overflowed, generating more smoke and further reducing visibility. Only one table in the corner was occupied: four men, probably peasants. It was difficult to tell in the gloom.
Reynevan had only just sat down on a bench when an aproned serving wench placed a bowl in front of him. He had intended to buy some bread and ride on, but the dumplings in the bowl smelled so enticingly of melted pork fat that he put one of the few coins Kantner had given him down on the table.
The serving wench leaned over slightly, handing him a lindenwood spoon. A faint odour of herbs emanated from her.
“You’re in hot water,” she murmured softly. “Sit tight. They’ve seen you. Move from the table and they’ll have you. So, sit still and don’t budge.”
She went towards the hearth and stirred the contents of the steaming, bubbling cauldron. Reynevan, worried, sat still and stared at the bits of fried meat in the dumplings. His eyes were now sufficiently accustomed to the gloom to see that the four men at the corner table had too many weapons and too much armour to be peasants. And that all four had their eyes fixed on him.
He cursed his stupidity under his breath.
The serving wench returned.
“There are too few of us left in this world,” she murmured, pretending to be wiping the table, “for me to let you be caught.”
When she stilled her hand, Reynevan saw a marsh marigold on her little finger similar to the ones on the hex on the post. The stem had been tied so that the yellow flower formed the gem of a ring. Reynevan gasped, involuntarily touching his own talisman of knotted spurge, red bartsia and caraway fastened to the button of his jerkin. The wench’s eyes flashed in the semi-darkness. She nodded.
“I saw as soon as you entered,” she whispered, “and knew that they were after you. But I won’t let them catch you. Too few of us remain, and if we don’t help each other, we shall vanish for good. Eat, take no notice.”
He ate very slowly, feeling shivers running down his back under the gaze of the men in the corner. The serving wench clanged a frying pan, shouted something to somebody in the other room, threw a log on the fire and returned. With a broom.
“I’ve had your horse taken to the threshing floor behind the pigsty,” she murmured as she swept. “When it all starts, flee through that door at the back beyond the straw mat. Once past the threshold, be heedful of this.”
Still sweeping, she picked up a long stalk of straw and furtively but quickly tied three knots in it.
“Don’t worry about me.” Her whisper dispelled his qualms. “No one will pay me any attention.”
“Gerda!” yelled the innkeeper. “The bread needs taking out! Move, slattern!”
The girl went away. Stooping, plain, inconspicuous, no one paid any attention to her. No one except Reynevan, to whom she tossed a parting glance as fiery as a flaming brand.
The four men at the table in the corner moved and stood up. They approached, spurs jingling, leather creaking, chainmail clanking, their fists resting on the hilts of swords and daggers. Reynevan once again cursed his lack of good sense under his breath, this time more crudely.
“Sir Reinmar of Bielawa. Look, boys, see for yourself how experienced hunters work. The quarry well tracked, the forest well surveyed, just a little fortune needed to bag something. And fortune has verily smiled on us today.”
Two of the characters were flanking him, one to the right, the other to the left. The third took up a position behind Reynevan. The fourth, the one who had spoken, moustachioed, dressed in a densely studded brigantine, stood opposite. Then, without waiting for an invitation, sat down.
“You won’t put up a fight,” he didn’t ask, but rather stated, “make any trouble or brouhaha. Eh? Bielawa?”
Reynevan didn’t reply. He held the spoon between his mouth and the edge of the bowl, as though not knowing what to do with it.
“You won’t,” the moustachioed character assured himself. “Because you know, don’t you, that would be most foolish. We have nothing against you, it’s just another job, but we prefer our work easy. If you begin to kick and yell, we’ll make you docile in a trice. We’ll break your wrist on the edge of this table, and after that we won’t even have to tie you up. Did you say something, or am I hearing things?”
“I didn’t say anything.” Reynevan overcame the resistance of his numb lips.
“Very good. Eat up. It’s quite some way to Sterzendorf, why should you ride hungry?”
“Particularly since they definitely won’t feed you right away at Sterzendorf,” drawled the character on the right, who was wearing a mail shirt and iron vambraces on his forearms.
“And even if they do,” snorte
d the one behind him that he couldn’t see, “it surely won’t be anything to your liking.”
“If you release me… I’ll pay you…” Reynevan stammered out. “I’ll pay you more than the Sterczas.”
“You’re insulting professionals,” said the moustachioed man. “I am Kunz Aulock, called Kyrie-eleison. You can hire me, but you can’t bribe me. Get those dumplings down you, double-quick!”
Reynevan ate, but the dumplings had lost their flavour. Kunz Aulock stuck the mace he had been holding into his belt and pulled on his gloves.
“You ought not to have lain with other men’s women,” he said. “Not long ago,” he added, not expecting a response, “I heard a priest drunkenly reading a letter. To the Hebrews, I believe. It went like this: every transgression will receive a just reward. Put simply, it means that if you do something, you must be aware of the consequences of your deeds and be ready to suffer them. You have to be able to accept them with dignity. Why, for example, look to the right. This is Lord Stork of Gorgowice. Having penchants similar to yours, quite recently, he and some comrades committed a misdeed on an Opole townswoman, for which, if they catch him, they’ll rend his flesh with pliers and break him on the wheel. And so? Look and admire how Lord Stork bears his fate with dignity, how clear are his countenance and gaze. Let him be an example.”
“Let me be an example,” croaked Lord Stork, distinguished by a pockmarked face and a rheumy gaze. “And stand up. Time we went.”
Right then, the hearth exploded with a roar and spat fire, sparks and clouds of smoke and soot into the chamber. The cauldron shot up and clattered onto the floor, spilling its boiling contents. Kyrie-eleison leaped forward, but Reynevan propelled the table at him with a powerful shove. The unfinished bowl of dumplings smacked Lord Stork straight in his pimply face as Reynevan kicked the bench backwards and dived towards the door leading to the threshing floor. One of the thugs managed to seize him by the collar, but Reynevan had studied in Prague and had his collar felt in most of the inns of the Old Town and the Lesser Quarter. He twisted, elbowed him hard in the face, wriggled away and made a break for the door. He recalled the warning and nimbly dodged the tied-up straw lying just beyond the threshold.
The Tower of Fools Page 8