“I wouldn’t like the very start of our acquaintance to be soured by misunderstandings and insincerity,” he said, poking a stick around in the fire. “So, I’ll tell you frankly and bluntly, Reinmar, that your plan is only fit to be stuck up a dog’s arse.”
“What?”
“A dog’s arse,” repeated Scharley, modulating his voice like a preacher. “That’s what the plan you presented me with earlier is fit for. Being a judicious and educated young man, you can’t fail to see that, or expect me to take part in it.”
“Canon Otto Beess and I got you out of prison,” said Reynevan, without raising his voice even though he was seething with fury. “Not from love, by any means, but so—and only so—you could assist me. As a judicious penitent, you can’t have failed to see that. And now you choose to inform me that you won’t participate. So I shall also speak frankly and bluntly: go back to prison in the Carmelite priory.”
“I am still in prison in the Carmelite priory. Officially, at least. But you probably don’t understand that.”
“I do.” All of a sudden, Reynevan recalled his conversation with the Carmelite hosteller. “I also understand perfectly that what matters to you is to atone for your sins, because after your nullum crimen penance, you’ll be back in grace and privilege. But I understand, too, that Canon Otto has you by the balls, for all he has to do is announce that you’ve fled from the Carmelite priory and you’ll be an outlaw to the end of your days. There’ll be no return to your order and your warm little monastery. Incidentally, which order and which warm little monastery would that be, may one ask?”
“No, one may not. Indeed, Reinmar dear, you understand things perfectly. I was released from the priory unofficially and I’m still performing my penance. And it’s true that owing to Canon Beess I’m performing it at liberty, for which I praise the canon, since I love liberty. Why, though, would the pious canon take away from me what he gave me? After all, I’m doing what he obliged me to do.”
Reynevan opened his mouth, but Scharley immediately interrupted him, and quite bluntly, too.
“Your tale of love and crime, although enthralling and truly worthy of Chrétien of Troyes, didn’t enthral me. You won’t convince me, laddie, that Canon Otto Beess commended you to my care to assist in saving oppressed womenfolk and to be an accomplice in a family feud. I know the canon. He’s a wise fellow. He sent you to me in order for me to rescue you, not for us both to put our heads on the block. Thus, I shall do what the canon expects of me: I’ll save you from your pursuers and deliver you safely to Hungary.”
“I won’t leave Silesia without Adèle, or without avenging my brother. I don’t deny that I could use some help and that I’m counting on it—counting on you. But if you won’t help me, too bad. I’ll cope by myself, and you can act according to your will. Go to Hungary, to Ruthenia, to Palestine, wherever you want. Enjoy the freedom you so love.”
“Thanks for the suggestion,” Scharley replied coldly, “but I shan’t avail myself of it.”
“Oh? And why not?”
“You clearly won’t cope. You’ll lose your head. And then the canon will demand mine.”
“Aha. If your head matters to you, you don’t have a choice.”
Scharley said nothing for a long time. Now that Reynevan knew him a little, he didn’t expect it to end there.
“Regarding your brother,” Scharley said after a time, “I’m going to be firm, if only because you can’t be certain who killed him. Don’t interrupt! A family feud is a grave matter. And you, as you divulged, have neither witnesses nor proof, just speculation and conjecture. I said, don’t interrupt me! Hear me out. Let’s get away, wait, gather information, acquire proof and raise some funds, then put a force together. I’ll help you. If you obey me, I promise you’ll taste revenge as it is best served. Cold.”
“But—”
“I haven’t finished yet. Regarding your sweetheart Adèle, the plan is still a load of cobblers, but I suppose stopping in Ziębice won’t prolong our journey much. And a great deal will be explained in Ziębice.”
“Are you implying something? Adèle loves me!”
“Is anyone denying that?”
“Scharley?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you and the canon insist on Hungary?”
“Because it’s far away.”
“But why not Bohemia? It’s also far away. And I know Prague, I have chums there—”
“What, don’t you go to church? Don’t you listen to sermons? Prague and the whole of Bohemia is now a cauldron of boiling pitch, and one can get one’s fingers badly scalded. And it might get even livelier soon. The Hussites’ effrontery has gone too far; neither the Pope, nor Sigismund, nor the Elector of Saxony, nor the landgraves of Meissen and Thuringia will put up with such insolent heresy. The Hussite apostasy is a thorn in Europe’s side. Any moment, the whole of Europe will mount a crusade against Bohemia.”
“There have already been anti-Hussite crusades,” Reynevan observed sourly. “The whole of Europe marched on Bohemia and received a sound beating. I recently heard about that beating from an eyewitness.”
“A credible one?”
“Absolutely.”
“But what of it? Europe got a hiding and learned some lessons. Now it’s preparing itself better. I say again: the Catholic world will not tolerate the Hussites. It’s only a matter of time.”
“They’ve tolerated them for seven years now. Because they have to.”
“The Albigensians lasted a hundred years, but where are they now? It’s only a matter of time, Reinmar. Bohemia will be bathed in blood, just like the Languedoc of the Cathars. And using the methods tried and tested in Languedoc, they will wipe out everyone in Bohemia, leaving it to God to identify the innocent and the faithful. That’s why we’re not going to Bohemia, but to Hungary. In Hungary, we only need fear the Turks, whom I prefer to the crusaders. When it comes to slaughter, Turks are no match for crusaders.”
The forest was quiet, nothing rustled or squeaked; the creatures had either taken fright at the spells, or—more likely—were simply bored of them. Just to be sure, Reynevan tossed the last of the herbs onto the fire.
“We ride to Świdnica tomorrow, I hope?” he asked.
“Absolutely.”
Avoiding main roads had its pitfalls. Namely, when they left the wilderness to rejoin the road, it was very difficult to work out where the roads led.
Scharley stood bent over some tracks in the sand and examined them, cursing softly. Reynevan let his horse graze in the roadside grass and looked up at the sun.
“The east is over there,” he ventured, “so we ought to go that way—”
“Don’t be clever,” Scharley interrupted. “I’m examining the tracks and discerning which way the main traffic goes. And I declare that we should go… that way.”
Reynevan sighed, since Scharley was pointing exactly where he had. He tugged his horse and set off after the penitent, who was marching briskly in the chosen direction. After a short time, they came to a crossroads. Four absolutely identical-looking roads led off in four different directions. Scharley muttered angrily and once again stooped over the hoofprints. Reynevan sighed and began to search around for herbs, for it was looking as though a magical talisman would be necessary.
The bushes rustled, his horse snorted and Reynevan jumped.
An old beggar emerged from the thicket, hauling up his breeches. A wandering beggar, one of hundreds roaming the highways, scrounging at doorways and porches, seeking alms outside convents and sustenance from taverns and peasant cottages.
“Jesus Christ be praised!”
“For ever and ever, amen.”
The beggar was typical of his kind. His peasant’s homespun coat was mottled with many-hued patches, while his bast slippers and crooked stick had witnessed numberless roads. A red nose and unkempt beard peeped out from under his ragged cap, made mainly from rabbit and cat hide. The beggar had a long sack slung over one shoulder and a tin p
ot hanging from his neck.
“May Saint Wacław and Saint Vincent come to your aid. May Saint Petronilla and Saint Jadwiga, patron of—”
“Whence do these roads lead?” Scharley asked, interrupting the litany. “Which way’s Świdnica, Grandfather?”
“Whaaat?” The beggar put a hand to his ear. “Come again?”
“Which way do the roads lead?”
“Ooh… The roads… Aha… I know! That ’un goes to Olszany, and that ’un to Świebodzice, and that ’un… Bugger… I forget where—”
“Never mind.” Scharley waved him away. “I know everything now. If Świebodzice’s that way, then Stanowice’s the opposite way, on the Strzegom road. So that road goes to Świdnica, via Jaworowa Góra. Farewell, Grandfather.”
“May Saint Wacław—”
“If anyone asks about us,” Reynevan interrupted him this time, “you never saw us. Got it?”
“What have I got? May Saint—”
“To help you remember what was asked of you,” Scharley rummaged in his pouch, “here’s a penny, Grandfather.”
“Good gracious! Thankin’ you! May you be—”
“And you, too.”
Before they’d ridden far, Scharley looked back. “See, Reinmar, how elated he is, how joyfully he’s feeling and sniffing the coin, delighting in its thickness and weight. Indeed, a sight like that is true reward for a benefactor.”
Reynevan didn’t reply, too busy watching the flocks of birds that had suddenly flown up from the trees.
“Verily,” Scharley went on with a grave expression as he strode beside the horse, “one must never indifferently and callously pass by human poverty. One must never turn one’s back on a pauper. Mainly because a pauper might smack you in the back of the head with his staff. Are you listening to me, Reinmar?”
“No. I’m looking at those birds.”
“What birds? Oh, bugger! Into the trees! Into the trees, quick!”
Scharley gave the horse a hard slap on the rump, then set off after it at such speed that the horse, frightened into a gallop, only caught him up beyond the treeline. Once in the forest, Reynevan dismounted and led his steed into the undergrowth, then joined the penitent watching the highway from the thicket. For a while, nothing happened, the birds stopped shrieking, and it was so quiet and peaceful that Reynevan was about to mock Scharley and his excessive timidity. He wasn’t quick enough.
Four horsemen appeared at the crossroads and surrounded the beggar with a thudding of hooves and wheezing of horses.
“They aren’t the Strzegom troops,” muttered Scharley. “So it must be… Reinmar?”
“Yes,” Reynevan confirmed dully. “It’s them.”
Kyrie-eleison leaned over from the saddle and asked the beggar something in a loud voice, while Stork of Gorgowice pushed his horse against him. The beggar shook his head and put his hands together, undoubtedly entreating Saint Petronilla to help them.
“Kunz Aulock,” said Scharley, pointing him out to an astonished Reynevan, “or Kyrie-eleison. A right thug, although he’s actually a knight from a notable family. Stork of Gorgowice and Sybek of Kobylagłowa, rare scoundrels both. And the one in the marten cap is Walter of Barby. Anathematised by the bishop for his raid on a farm in Ocice, the property of the Racibórz Dominican nuns. You never mentioned that you’re being tracked by such celebrated men, Reinmar.”
The beggar fell to his knees, hands still joined in prayer, cried out and beat his breast. Kyrie-eleison, still in the saddle, lashed him across the back with a knout. Stork and the others also made use of their whips, crowding and impeding each other, while their horses began to shy and thrash around. Stork and the anathematised Walter of Barby dismounted and began to punch the beggar, and when he fell over, took to kicking him. The beggar was screaming and wailing pitifully.
Reynevan swore and punched the ground. Scharley looked askance at him.
“No, Reinmar,” he said coldly. “Nothing of the kind. They aren’t the French dandies from Strzegom. They are four crafty, heavily armed brigands and butchers. Not even I could cope with Kunz Aulock in a duel. So abandon your foolish thoughts and hopes. We’ll sit here as quiet as mice.”
“And look on as they kill a completely innocent man.”
“Indeed,” the penitent replied a moment later, still watching. “Because if I have to choose, my life is dearer to me. And apart from owing my soul to God, I also owe money to several people. It would be unethical, foolish recklessness to deprive them of the chance of repayment. Besides, we’re talking needlessly. It’s all over. They’ve lost interest.”
Indeed, Barby and Stork treated the beggar to several parting kicks, spat on him, mounted their horses, and a moment later all four of them were galloping, whooping and raising dust, towards Jaworowa Góra and Świdnica.
“He didn’t betray us,” sighed Reynevan. “They gave him a sound beating, but he didn’t turn us in. Despite your derision, the alms we gave the pauper saved us. Mercy and munificence—”
“Had Kyrie-eleison given him a skojec rather than a thrashing, the beggar would have betrayed us at once,” commented Scharley coldly. “Let’s be off. Unfortunately, once again through the trees. Someone, if I remember rightly, was recently bragging about throwing off his pursuers and erasing his tracks.”
“Oughtn’t we to…” Reynevan ignored the sarcasm and watched the beggar searching on all fours in the ditch for his cap. “Oughtn’t we repay that? Compensate him? After all, you possess a little money from pillaging the dandies, Scharley. Show more mercy.”
“I cannot.” Mockery lit up the penitent’s bottle-green eyes. “Out of mercy. I gave him a counterfeit coin. If he tries spending one, they’ll just give him a beating. If they catch him with a few more, they’ll hang him. So I’m mercifully sparing him such a fate. Into the forest, Reinmar, into the forest. Let’s not waste time.”
After a brief shower of warm rain, the wet forest began to vanish in the mist. The birds weren’t singing. It was quiet as a tomb.
“Your deathly silence appears to indicate something,” said Scharley at last as he walked beside the horse. “Disapproval, perhaps. Permit me to guess… It’s about that beggar?”
“Indeed it is. You behaved shabbily. Unethically, to put it mildly.”
“Aha. A person who’s accustomed to bedding other men’s wives is teaching me morals.”
“Would you mind not comparing incomparable things.”
“You only think they’re incomparable. Furthermore, what you call a reprehensible misdeed was motivated by concern for you.”
“That’s difficult to comprehend, I confess.”
“I’ll explain at a suitable occasion,” Scharley said, stopping. “In the meantime, though, I suggest we address a slightly more pertinent matter. Namely, that I haven’t got a clue where we are. I’ve lost my way in this lousy fog.”
Reynevan looked around and then up at the sky. Indeed, the pale disc of the sun peeping through the fog, which a moment before had been visible and acting as a signpost, had vanished completely. The thick fog hung so low that even the tops of the tallest trees were disappearing in it. At ground level, the blanket of fog was so thick that the ferns and bushes seemed to be protruding from an ocean of milk.
“Instead of being distressed regarding the fate of poor beggars and having moral dilemmas,” the penitent said, “why don’t you use your talents to find the road?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Stop playing the innocent. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Reynevan also thought that talismans would be indispensable, but he didn’t dismount, prevaricating. He was cross at the penitent and wanted him to know it. The horse snorted, tossed its head, and stamped its forehooves, and the sound of the stamping spread through the fog-shrouded forest.
“I can smell smoke,” Scharley suddenly announced. “A fire’s burning somewhere around here. It’s either woodcutters or charcoal burners. We can ask them for directions and sav
e your magical talismans for another day. And your moods.”
He set off so swiftly, Reynevan could barely keep up with him. His horse shuffled about constantly, resisting, snorting nervously, crushing toadstools under its hooves. The ground, lined with a thick carpet of rotten leaves, suddenly began to incline downwards, and before they knew it, they were in a deep ravine. The walls of the ravine were covered with sloping, misshapen trees shrouded in lichen, their roots—exposed by the subsiding earth—like monstrous tentacles. Reynevan felt shivers running down his back and huddled in the saddle. His horse snorted.
He heard Scharley cursing in the mist in front of him. The penitent was standing at a point where the ravine divided into two branches.
“That way,” he finally said with conviction, resuming his march.
The ravine kept dividing; they were in a veritable labyrinth of ravines, while the smell of smoke, Reynevan thought, was coming from every direction at the same time. Scharley walked straight ahead and confidently, then speeded up and even began to whistle. And stopped as soon as he had begun.
Reynevan understood why. As bones began to crunch under his horse’s hooves.
The horse neighed nervously as Reynevan dismounted and took the bridle firmly in both hands. Just in time, as the bay, snorting in panic and anxiously glaring at him, stepped back, stamping heavily, crushing skulls, pelvises and shinbones. Reynevan’s foot was caught between the broken shards of a human ribcage. He shook it off with panicky swings of his leg. He was trembling in disgust. And fear.
“The Black Death,” said Scharley, now standing beside him. “The plague of 1380. Entire villages were wiped out, people fled into the forests, but the plague caught them there, too. The corpses were buried in ravines, like these. Then wild animals tore them up and scattered the bones around…”
“Let’s go back,” said Reynevan, clearing his throat. “Let’s turn back right away. I don’t like this place. I don’t like this fog. Or the smell of that smoke.”
“You’re as timid as a wench,” sneered Scharley. “The corpses—”
The Tower of Fools Page 17