Kyrie-eleison, who was pursuing him, naturally didn’t know about the magical straw and measured his length on the doorstep, sliding headlong through pig muck. Right afterwards, Stork of Gorgowice tripped over the talisman and the third thug fell onto Stork, who was cursing vehemently. Reynevan was already in the saddle of the waiting horse, already spurring it to gallop, straight ahead, across the gardens, through cabbage beds and gooseberry hedges. The wind whistled in his ears and he heard curses and the squealing of pigs behind him.
He was among the willows by a drained fishpond when he heard the tramping of hooves and the yelling of his pursuers. Instead of avoiding the fishpond, he skirted around it along the very narrow causeway. His heart missed a few beats each time the causeway subsided beneath the horse’s hooves. But he got away.
His pursuers also hurtled onto the causeway but were less fortunate. The first horse didn’t even make it halfway but slid off neighing and sank up to its girth in sludge. The second horse recoiled, churned up the embankment with its hooves and slid up to its rump in the sticky mud. As the riders yelled and cursed furiously, Reynevan took advantage of the circumstances and the time he had gained. He jabbed his heels into the grey and galloped across the moors towards the tree-covered hills, beyond which he hoped were forests and safety.
Aware that he was taking a risk, he forced the heavily wheezing horse to gallop hard uphill. He didn’t allow the grey to rest at the top, immediately urging it down the sparsely forested hillside. And then, quite unexpectedly, his way was blocked by a rider.
The frightened grey reared up, neighing piercingly. Reynevan somehow managed to stay in the saddle.
“Not bad,” said the horseman. Or rather the Amazon. For it was a young woman, tall, dressed in male attire with a tight velvet jerkin with the ruffled collar of a white shirt spilling out at the neck. A thick, fair plait fell down to her shoulder from beneath a sable calpac decorated with a plume of heron’s feathers and a golden brooch with a sapphire worth probably as much as a fine horse.
“Who’s after you?” she shouted, skilfully controlling her skittish horse. “The law? Speak!”
“I’m not a criminal—”
“For what reason?”
“For love.”
“Ah! I thought so at once. See that row of dark trees? The Stobrawa runs that way. Ride there as quickly as you can and hide among the swamps on the left bank while I draw them away from you. Give me your mantle.”
“What do you mean, m’lady…? How can—?”
“Give me your mantle, I said! You ride well, but I ride better. Oh, what an adventure! Oh, there’ll be a story to tell! Elżbieta and Anka will faint with envy!”
“M’lady…” mumbled Reynevan. “I cannot… What will happen if they catch up with you?”
“Them? Catch up with me?” She snorted, narrowing eyes as blue as turquoises. “You must be jesting!”
Her mare, coincidentally also grey, tossed its shapely head and danced again. Reynevan was compelled to admit the strange maiden was right. That noble, unmistakably fleet steed was worth considerably more than the sapphire brooch in her calpac.
“It’s madness,” he said, tossing her his mantle. “But thank you. I’ll return the favour—”
The cries of his pursuers echoed up from the bottom of the hill.
“Don’t waste time!” called the maid, covering her head with the hood. “Ride on! Across the Stobrawa!”
“M’lady… Your name… Tell me…”
“Nicolette. My Aucassin, pursued for love. Faaareweeell!”
She urged her mare into a gallop, but it was more flying than galloping. She rode down the hillside like a hurricane, in a cloud of dust, showed herself to the pursuers and crossed the moor at such a crazy gallop that Reynevan immediately lost his pangs of remorse. He understood that the fair-haired Amazon wasn’t risking anything. The heavy horses of Kyrie-eleison, Stork and the rest, carrying two-hundred-pound fellows, couldn’t compete with the grey full-blooded mare laden only with a girl and a light saddle to boot. And indeed, the eye couldn’t even track the maid as she dashed out of sight behind the hill. But the pursuers followed her, resolute and relentless.
They might wear her down with a steady pace, thought Reynevan fearfully. Her and that mare of hers. But, he salved his conscience, she surely has her attendants somewhere close at hand. On such a horse, thus attired, she’s clearly a maid of noble birth, and such as her don’t ride alone, he thought, galloping on in the direction she had indicated.
And there’s no doubt, he thought, gulping wind as he rode, she is surely not called Nicolette. She was mocking me, poor Aucassin.
Hidden among the alder marshes on the Stobrawa, Reynevan took a breather, even allowing himself to feel a little proud and scornful, a veritable Roland deceiving the hordes of Moors on his trail. But his pride and good mood abandoned him when something completely unknightly occurred that never—if you believe the ballads—happened to Roland.
His horse went lame.
Reynevan dismounted at once on sensing the horse’s jarring, broken rhythm. He examined the grey’s leg and horseshoe but was unable to diagnose anything, much less palliate it. He could only walk, leading the limping animal by the reins. Marvellous, he thought. One horse worn out, another lame in a matter of days.
To make matters worse, whistles, neighing and curses shouted by the now-familiar voice of Kunz Aulock suddenly resounded from the right-hand bank of the Stobrawa. Reynevan dragged his horse into some denser bushes and covered its nostrils to stop it neighing. The cries and curses faded away in the distance.
They’ve chased down the lass, he thought, and his heart sank, both out of fear and remorse. They’ve caught up with her.
They haven’t, his good sense reassured him. At most, they’ve found her entourage and realised their error. And “Nicolette” has ridiculed and mocked them, safe among her knights and servants.
So they’ve returned and are circling, tracking. Like hunters.
He spent the night in the undergrowth, shooing away mosquitoes, his teeth chattering. He must have fallen asleep at some point and dreamed, because how else could he have seen that wench from the inn, that plain girl, the one with the marsh marigold ring on her finger, unnoticed by anyone? How else, if not as an apparition in a dream, could she have come to him?
So few of us are left, so few, said the lass. Don’t let them catch you, don’t let them track you down. What doesn’t leave tracks? A bird in the air, a fish in the water.
A bird in the air, a fish in the water.
He wanted to ask her who she was, how she knew talismans and how she’d caused the fireplace to explode—because it wasn’t gunpowder. He wanted to ask her many things.
He didn’t manage to. He awoke.
He set off before dawn, following the river downstream. He had been walking for about an hour, sticking to the high beech forest, when all of a sudden, a broad river spread out below him. Only one river in the whole of Silesia was that broad.
The Odra.
A small launch was sailing against the current, bobbing gracefully like a grebe and nimbly gliding along the edge of a bright shoal. Reynevan watched keenly.
You’re so crafty, he thought, observing the wind filling the launch’s sail, the water foaming before the bow. Such great hunters, are you, Master Kyrie-eleison et consortes? You tracked me down after combing the forest, but just wait, I’ll outwit you. I’ll slip from your snare so skilfully, with such panache, that pigs will fly before you pick up my trail again. Because you’ll have to ride as far as Wrocław to search for it.
A bird in the air, a fish in the water…
He pulled the grey towards a rutted road leading to the Odra. To be safe, he stayed among the osiers until he confirmed that he had guessed right: the road ran towards a river jetty.
From some way off along the jetty, he heard men’s irate, raised voices. He couldn’t tell if it was a quarrel or passionate haggling. However, he easily recognised the
language they were speaking. For it was Polish.
Before he left the osier grove and saw the jetty from the hillside, Reynevan knew to whom the voices and the small vessels moored to stakes belonged. They were Water Poles, Odra rafters and fishermen, who were more of a clan than a guild. The Water Poles controlled a large slice of fishing in Silesia, a considerable stake in floating timber and an even more significant one in ferrying, in which line of work they rivalled the Hanseatic League. The Hanseatic League hadn’t got further up the Odra than Wrocław, while the Water Poles shipped goods as far as Racibórz and beyond the mouth of the Warta.
The smell of fish, mud and pitch drifted over from the jetty.
Reynevan struggled to lead the limping horse down the slippery clay of the hillside. They passed between shacks, huts and drying nets, heading towards the sound of feet thudding and slapping on the jetty as goods were loaded and unloaded under the watchful eye of a bearded merchant. A bull lowed and stamped on its way to one of the punts, making the entire jetty shake. The rafters swore in Polish.
Things soon calmed down as the wagons carrying hides and barrels trundled off, but not for long as the bull tried to destroy the cramped enclosure it had been driven into. The Water Poles began their customary quarrelling. Reynevan knew enough Polish to understand it was an argument about nothing.
“Is anyone sailing downstream, may I ask? To Wrocław?”
The Water Poles stopped bickering and examined Reynevan with a none too friendly gaze. One of them spat in the water.
“And if so, what then?” he grunted. “Honourable master?”
“My horse is lame, and I have to get to Wrocław.”
The Pole bridled, hawked and spat again.
“Well,” said Reynevan, not giving up. “What’s it to be?”
“I don’t take Germans.”
“I’m not German. I’m Silesian.”
“Aha?”
“Aha.”
“Then say: She sells seashells on the seashore.”
“She sells seashells on the seashore. And you say: red leather, yellow leather.”
“Red leather, le… lello… yellow leather… Jump aboard.”
Reynevan didn’t need to be told twice, but the boatman bluntly curbed his enthusiasm.
“Hey! Not so fast! Firstly, I’m only going as far as Oława. Secondly, it costs five skojeces. And another five for the horse.”
“If you don’t have it,” another Water Pole interjected with a cunning grin, seeing Reynevan looking abashed and rummaging in his pouch, “I’ll buy the horse off you. For five… Very well, let it be six skojeces. Twelve groschen. Leaves you with just enough for the trip. And as the horse is no longer yours, you won’t have to pay to transport it. Clear profit.”
“This horse,” observed Reynevan, “is worth at least five grzywna.”
“That horse isn’t worth shit,” observed the Pole acutely, “because you can’t ride it to where you’re headed. So, what’ll it be? Selling?”
“If you throw in another three skojeces for the saddle and harness.”
“One skojec.”
“Two.”
“Done.”
Horse and money changed owners. Reynevan bade farewell to the grey by patting its neck and stroking its mane, sniffing a little as he said goodbye to a friend and companion in misfortune. He grabbed a rope and jumped on board. The sailor unhitched the painter from a stake. The punt shuddered and slowly joined the current. On the jetty, the Water Poles examined the grey’s leg and argued about nothing.
The punt sailed downstream. Towards Oława. The Odra’s grey water lapped and foamed against the sides.
“M’lord.”
“What?” Reynevan started and rubbed his eyes. “What is it, skipper?”
“Oława’s ahead of us!”
A punt sailing with the current and making no stops can cover the five miles from the mouth of the Stobrawa to Oława in less than ten hours. The punt’s skipper had much business to conduct at many stops along the way, and Reynevan spent a day and a half and two nights on the punt instead of ten hours. He had few complaints, however, as he was reasonably safe, travelling comfortably, resting, sleeping well and eating his fill. He even managed to converse a little with the skipper.
Although the Water Pole didn’t give his name or ask for Reynevan’s, he was essentially a friendly, easy-going person, simple but by no means stupid, somewhat taciturn but never brusque or rude. The punt weaved between river islands and shoals, calling at jetties now on the left bank, now on the right. The four-man crew were rushed off their feet and the skipper swore and drove them on. The Water Pole’s wife, a woman considerably younger than her husband, steered with a steady hand. In order not to abuse their kindness, Reynevan did his best not to stare at her sturdy thighs, visible beneath her rolled-up skirt, and to look away when her shirt clung to breasts worthy of Venus during manoeuvres with the steering oar.
Travelling on the punt, Reynevan had many new experiences and gained a little knowledge of life on the river. He learned the difference between hand nets and cast nets, and between weirs and dams. He ate things he’d never eaten before, like grilled fillets from a catfish measuring five cubits and weighing in at a hundred and twenty pounds. He also learned how to ward off a vodnik, a nix and a virnik. And he heard a lot of very bad words about German lordlings who oppressed the Water Poles with swingeing tariffs, tolls and taxes.
The following day turned out to be Sunday, when the Water Poles and the local fishermen didn’t work. They prayed long at roughly carved figures of the Virgin Mary and Saint Peter, then feasted, then had something like a moot, then drank and fought.
So, although the journey was lengthy, time didn’t drag at all. And now it was dawn or rather morning, and the city of Oława was around the next bend. The Water Pole’s wife pressed herself against the steering oar and her breasts pressed against her blouse.
“In Oława, I’ll need one—at most two—days to deal with various things,” said the skipper. “If you can wait that long, I’ll take you to Wrocław, young Master Silesian. Without further dues.”
“Thank you.” Reynevan shook the skipper’s proffered hand, aware he had been honoured with friendship. “Thank you, but during the journey I’ve had time to think over a few matters, and now Oława suits me better than Wrocław.”
“As you wish. I’ll set you down wherever you want—on the left bank or the right?”
“I need the Strzelin road.”
“So the left. Am I correct in thinking you’d rather steer clear of the town?”
“I would,” Reynevan admitted, astonished by the Water Pole’s perspicuity. “If it doesn’t put you out.”
“How could it? Turn to port, Maryśka. Make for Drozd’s Weir.”
A vast oxbow lake spread out beyond Drozd’s Weir, entirely covered with a carpet of yellow-blooming water lilies. Through the fog shrouding the lake came the distant sounds of Oława’s suburbs: crowing cockerels, barking dogs and the clanging of a church bell.
At the skipper’s signal, Reynevan jumped out onto a rickety jetty. The punt brushed against a stake, parted some weed with its prow and languidly swung around into the current.
“Don’t leave the causeway!” called the skipper. “And keep the sun on your back until the bridge over the Oława, then turn towards the trees. There’ll be a stream and beyond it the Strzelin road. Can’t go wrong!”
“Thank you! Godspeed!”
The punt began to vanish in the fog rising from the river. Reynevan threw his meagre bundle of possessions over his shoulder.
“Young Master Silesian!” came a voice from the river.
“Aye?”
“Red leather, yellow leather!”
Chapter Six
In which Reynevan is first given a thrashing and later sets off for Strzelin in the company of four people and a dog. The tedium of the journey is enlivened by a dispute about heresies, which we are told are spreading like weeds.
Reyne
van was following a merrily burbling stream along the edge of a forest as it meandered among green knotgrass and through an avenue of willows. In a clearing up ahead, a road crossed the stream over a footbridge of sturdy timbers so black and moss-covered that it might have been built during the reign of Henry the Pious. On the bridge was a wagon, pulled by a bony bay nag. The wagon was tilting sharply. It was clear why.
“Looks like you have a problem with that wheel,” stated Reynevan, walking closer.
“It’s worse than you think,” replied a young woman, ginger-haired and pretty though somewhat plump, smudging tar on her sweaty forehead. “The axle has broken.”
“Ah. Nothing to be done without a blacksmith, then.”
“Oy vey,” cried the other traveller, a bearded Jew in modest but neat and by no means shabby raiment, clutching a fox-fur hat. “O, God of Isaac! Disaster! Woe betide us! What to do?”
“Were you making for Strzelin?” Reynevan asked, guessing from the way the shaft was pointing.
“Correct, young sir.”
“I shall help you in exchange for a ride, for I am heading that way, too. And I also have troubles—”
“ ’Tis not difficult to discern.” The Jew’s beard moved as he spoke, and his eyes flashed cunningly. “You’re a nobleman, young sir, that is apparent. So where, then, is your horse? But let it be. You have a kind look in your eyes. I be Hiram ben Eliezer, rabbi of the Brzeg Qahal. Travelling to Strzelin—”
“And I be Dorota Faber,” the ginger-haired woman cheerfully interrupted in mid-sentence. “Travelling the wide world. And you, young sir?”
“My name is…” Reynevan decided after a moment’s thought, “Reinmar of Bielawa. Listen. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll pull the wagon off the bridge somehow and unhitch the mare, then I’ll ride her bareback to the suburbs of Oława and take that axle bearing to a blacksmith. If necessary, I’ll bring him back here with me to finish the job. Let’s get to work.”
The Tower of Fools Page 9