“They’re goliards,” stated Scharley. “They’re singing.”
Reynevan shook his head. The sounds coming from a ravine disappearing into the forest in no way resembled any of the popular goliard songs. Nor did the voices he could hear resemble those of the goliards who had recently overtaken them on the road…
He groped for the hilt of his short sword, another of the gifts received in Świdnica, and then bent forward in the saddle and spurred his horse on. Into a trot. And then a gallop.
“Where are you going?” roared Scharley behind him. “Stop! Stop, damn you! You’ll get us into trouble, you fool!”
Reynevan ignored him and rode into the ravine. In a glade beyond the ravine, a battle was raging around a wagon covered with a black, tarred tarpaulin and drawn by two stocky horses. Beside the wagon, at least a dozen foot soldiers in brigantines, mail hoods and kettle hats, armed with pole weapons, were attacking two knights as fiercely as dogs. The knights were defending themselves equally fiercely, like wild boars at bay.
One knight, on horseback, was covered in plate armour from head to toe. Lance and glaive blades were glancing off his breastplate, clattering impotently on the tassets and cuisses. Unable to reach the horseman, the assailants were taking their anger out on the horse. They weren’t trying to cut it—horses were very expensive, after all—but they were poking it with their pikestaffs, hoping the frenzied horse would throw the knight. The horse really was frantic, shaking its head, snorting and biting its mouthpiece. Evidently specially trained for this kind of fighting, it was kicking out, hampering access to itself and its rider. The knight was swaying so precariously in the saddle, it was a wonder he was still in it.
The foot soldiers had managed to pull down the other knight, also in full plate, who was now defending himself resolutely, his back to the black wagon. His helmet had been knocked from his head and his long, fair, blood-spattered hair was flowing freely, his teeth flashing under a similarly fair moustache. He was driving back his attackers with blows of a two-handed sword, which, though long and heavy, was whirling in the knight’s hands as though it were a small ceremonial sword. The weapon didn’t just look dangerous—the attackers’ access was already impeded by three men lying wounded on the ground, howling in pain and trying to crawl away. The remaining assailants were being wary now, trying to stab the knight from a safe distance. But even if their thrusts weren’t deflected by the two-handed sword’s heavy blade, the swords slid off the armour.
Reynevan took in the scene in a heartbeat: two knights in peril, being attacked by a horde of thugs. He yelled, drew his short sword from its scabbard, spurred his horse and charged to their aid, utterly heedless of Scharley’s warning cries and curses.
However reckless it was, the relief came not a moment too soon, for the mounted knight had just tumbled from his horse with a crash like a copper kettle thrown from a church steeple. The fair-haired knight with the two-handed sword, pressed against the wagon by pikestaffs, could only help him with filthy words, which he was hurling lavishly at his assailants.
Reynevan rushed into the heart of the fray. He used his horse to push aside and knock over the men teeming around the fallen knight, delivering a clanging blow to the kettle hat of a man with a grey moustache. When the helmet fell off, the man turned around, scowled malevolently and hit Reynevan hard with a halberd from close quarters, fortunately only with the pole. But it was enough to knock Reynevan off his horse. The grey-moustachioed soldier leaped forward, pinned him down and seized him by the throat. And soared away. Literally. For Samson had slammed a powerful punch into the side of his head. Others jumped onto Samson at once and the giant found himself in a predicament. He seized a halberd from the ground and whacked the first attacker so hard with the flat of the blade across his helmet that the blade flew off and the man fell to the ground. Samson brandished the remaining pole, swinging it around like a reed, making room for himself, Reynevan and the knight who was getting to his feet. The knight had lost his sallet when he fell, so a young, ruddy face, a snub nose and green eyes stuck out of the bevor protecting his neck.
“Just you wait, you swine!” he yelled in a comical descant. “I’ll show you, you shit-eaters! By the skull of Saint Sabina! You won’t forget me!”
Scharley came to the aid of the fair-haired knight defending himself by the wagon, who was in a lamentable situation having lost his two-handed sword in the scrum. The penitent deftly picked up an abandoned sword at full gallop and scattered the foot soldiers, hacking left and right with immense skill. The fair-haired man didn’t waste time searching for his weapon in the sand, but threw himself into the fray with his fists.
The unexpected relief appeared to have tipped the scales in favour of the men being attacked, when suddenly the thud of iron-shod hooves resounded and four heavily armed men hurtled into the clearing at full gallop. Even if Reynevan had any momentary doubts regarding their identity, they were dispelled by the triumphant yells of the foot soldiers, who entered the fray with redoubled resolve at the sight of reinforcements.
“Alive!” yelled the leader of the heavily armed men from behind the visor of a helmet with three silver fish on a shield. “Take the scoundrels alive!”
Scharley was the first casualty of the new arrivals. The penitent nimbly avoided a blow from a battleaxe by dismounting, but was overcome by the foot soldiers’ superior strength. Samson rushed to his aid, wielding the halberd pole. The giant wasn’t daunted by the knight coming at him with a battleaxe; he thumped the man’s steed in the iron chanfron protecting its face with such force that the halberd pole shattered with a snap. But the horse squealed and fell to its knees, and the fair-haired knight dragged the rider from the saddle. They began to wrestle with each other, locked together like two bears.
Reynevan and the youngster who had been knocked from the saddle defended themselves desperately against the other armoured men, emboldening themselves with wild shouts, curses and appeals to the saints. The hopelessness of the situation couldn’t, however, be denied. There was nothing to suggest that the furious attackers would remember the order to take them alive—and even if they did, Reynevan could already see himself dangling from a noose.
But fortune smiled on them that day.
“Fight, in God’s name! Kill, whoever believes in God!”
Amid the tramping of hooves and pious battle cries entered more men—another three heavy horsemen in full armour and bascinets with hounskull visors. There was no doubt whose side they were on. Blows from long swords scattered the foot soldiers in kettle hats one after another across the bloodstained sand. The knight with the fish in his coat of arms swayed in the saddle after receiving a powerful blow. Another one protected him with his shield and held him up, grabbed the horse by the reins and both fled at a gallop. A third also tried to flee, but was struck in the head with a sword and trampled by hooves. The most courageous of the foot soldiers were still trying to shield themselves with their pikestaffs, but one after another they dropped their weapons and fled into the forest.
Meanwhile, the fair-haired knight knocked over his opponent with a powerful blow of his iron-gloved hand. When the man tried to stand, he shoved his foot into the man’s shoulder. He sat down heavily, and the fair-haired man looked around for something to whack him with.
“Catch!” shouted one of the heavily armed men. “Catch, Rymbaba!”
The fair-haired man addressed as Rymbaba caught the war hammer—a vicious-looking martel de fer—thrown to him and smashed the helmet of the man trying to get up, once, twice and then a third time so hard it rang. The man’s head lolled onto one shoulder and blood gushed over the aventail, bevor and breastplate from the dented sheet metal. The fair-haired man stood astride the wounded man and struck him once again.
“Jesus Christ,” he panted. “How I like this work…”
The youngster with the snub nose wheezed and spat blood. Then he sat up straight, a smile appeared on his blood-spattered face and he held his hand out to Reyne
van.
“Thank you for the help, young sir knight. By the shinbone of Saint Aphrodisius, I won’t forget this! I’m Kuno of Wittram.”
“And may devils flay me in Hell if ever I forget your help, m’lord,” said the fair-haired man, holding his right hand out to Scharley. “I am Paszko Pakosławic Rymbaba.”
“Assemble,” commanded one of the men in armour, displaying a swarthy face and blue, close-shaven cheeks beneath an open visor. “Rymbaba, Wittram, grab the horses! Quickly, dammit!”
“Blow that.” Rymbaba leaned over and cleared his nose into his fingers. “They’ve fled!”
“They’ll soon return,” announced another of the reinforcements, pointing at an abandoned shield with three fish, one above the other. “Have you both lost your minds, attacking travellers right here?”
Scharley, who was stroking the chestnut’s nostril, gave Reynevan a very telling look.
“Right here,” repeated the knight, “in the Seidlitzes’ lands? They won’t forgive this…”
“They will not,” confirmed a third. “To horse, everybody!”
The road and forest echoed with shouting, neighing and the thudding of hooves. Halberdiers were streaming among the bracken and tree stumps, and over a dozen horsemen, heavily armed soldiers and crossbowmen were rushing along the road.
“Flee! yelled Rymbaba. “Flee if you value your lives!”
They set off at a gallop, pursued by yells and the whistles of the first crossbow bolts.
They weren’t pursued for long. When the infantry fell back, the horsemen had slowed, clearly not trusting their numerical advantage. The bowmen sent one more salvo after the fleeing men, and that was the end of the pursuit.
Just to be certain, they galloped on a few more furlongs and took a roundabout route through hills and maple forests, glancing back every now and then. But no one was chasing them. They stopped near the outermost cottage of a village to rest the horses. Rather than waiting for his cottage and farmyard to be plundered, the peasant brought out a bowl of pierogi and a pail of buttermilk. The Raubritters sat, leaning against the fence. They ate in silence. The oldest, who had introduced himself as Notker of Weyrach, looked long and hard at Scharley.
“Yeees,” he said finally, licking his buttermilk-covered moustaches. “You’re decent and bold men, Master Scharley and you, m’Lord Hagenau. Incidentally, are you a descendant of the famous poet?”
“No.”
“Aha. Where was I? Ah yes, that you’re bold and brave fellows. And your servant, though he looks like a halfwit, is exceptionally courageous and valiant. You came to the rescue of my boys and thus find yourselves in deep water. Trouble will come of it—you’ve crossed the Seidlitzes, and they are vengeful.”
“True,” agreed another knight, with long hair and a handlebar moustache, who introduced himself as Woldan of Osiny. “The Seidlitzes are queer whoresons. The entire family. The Laasans are the same, and the Kurzbaches. All extremely nasty bastards and vengeful cunts… Hey, Wittram, Rymbaba, you fucked things up, a pox on you!”
“You need to think before you act,” Weyrach instructed. “Think, both of you!”
“But we did,” mumbled Kuno of Wittram. “We looked: a wagon’s rolling by. And we thought: shall we rob it? One thing led to another… By the bonds of Saint Dismas! You know yourselves how it is!”
“Aye, that we do. But you still have to think it through,” said Weyrach.
“And be heedful of the escort!” added Woldan of Osiny.
“There was no escort,” said Wittram. “Only a waggoner, some servants and a mounted man in a beaver coat, a merchant, no doubt. They fled. So we think: our luck’s in. And then: fifteen grim fuckers with halberds spring out of nowhere—”
“Precisely. Hence the need for thinking it through before acting.”
“What times we live in!” said Rymbaba, annoyed. “It’s come to this! A stupid sodding wagon, the goods under the canvas probably only worth a few farthings, and they defended it as thought it was, beg pardon, the Holy Grail.”
“It didn’t use to be like that,” said the third knight, a swarthy youth not much older than Rymbaba and Wittram, called Tassilo of Tresckow, with hair cut fashionably in a style popular with the knighthood. “You used to just call: ‘Stand and deliver!’ and they delivered. And now they put up a fight, scrap like hell, like Venetian condottieres. Woe on us! How can we make a living in conditions like these?”
“We cannot,” Weyrach concluded. “Our Raubritter life is becoming harder and harder. Aye…”
“Aye…” echoed the robber knights in a pathetic chorus. “Aaaye…”
“Hey, there’s a pig snuffling around the muck heap,” Kuno Wittram observed, pointing. “Do we slaughter it and take it?”
“No,” Weyrach decided after a moment’s thought. “Waste of time.”
He stood up.
“Master Scharley,” he said, “it wouldn’t do to leave you three here. The Seidlitzes hold grudges and they’ll have men out already, hunting you on the roads. So, please ride with us to Kromolin, our stronghold. Our squires are there and enough comrades, too. No one will endanger or offend you there.”
“Just let them try.” Rymbaba twisted his blond moustache. “Ride with us, Master Scharley. For let me tell you, I’ve taken a great liking to you.”
“Likewise to young Sir Reinmar.” Kuno Wittram slapped Reynevan’s back. “I swear on the trowel of Saint Rupert of Salzburg! So ride with us to Kromolin. Master Scharley? Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“In that case,” Notker of Weyrach said, stretching, “on our way, comitiva.”
When the procession had formed up, Scharley remained at the back and discreetly called Reynevan and Samson to him.
“That Kromolin,” he said quietly, patting his chestnut’s neck, “is somewhere in the vicinity of Silver Mountain and Stoszowice, by the so-called Czech road, a route that goes to Bohemia via the Silver Pass to Frankenstein, to the Wrocław road, so it suits our plans to ride with them. Plus it’s much safer. Let’s stay with them and turn a blind eye to the practice by which they earn their living. Beggars can’t be choosers. Nonetheless, I advise you to be cautious and not speak too much. Samson?”
“I’ll stay quiet and play the dullard. Pro bono commune.”
“Splendid. Reinmar, come closer. I have to tell you something.”
Reynevan, now in the saddle, rode closer, guessing what he was about to hear. He wasn’t wrong.
“Listen carefully, you incorrigible ass. You constitute a lethal threat to me by the mere fact of your existence. I won’t let you increase that threat by your idiotic behaviour and exploits. I won’t comment on the fact that in your desire to be noble, you acted stupidly, going to the aid of brigands and helping them in their fight with the forces of order. I will not mock; God willing, you’ve learned something from it. But I’m warning you: do anything like that again and I’ll leave you to your fate. Remember and take note, cretin: no one will come to your aid and only a fool goes to other people’s. If someone calls for help, you should turn your back and move swiftly away. Play at being Percival at your own expense and risk.”
“Scharley—”
“Be quiet. And consider yourself warned. I’m serious.”
They rode through a meadow in the forest, among stirrup-high grass and herbs. The sky to the west, strewn with ragged, feathery clouds, glowed in streaks of fiery crimson. The wall of mountains and the black forests of the Silesian Clearing grew dark.
Notker of Weyrach and Woldan of Osiny, riding in the vanguard, grave and attentive, were singing a hymn, from time to time looking heavenwards from their upraised hounskull visors. Their singing, though muted, sounded dignified and severe.
Pange lingua gloriosi
Corporis mysterium,
Sanguinisque pretiosi,
Quem in mundi pretium
Fructus ventris generosi
Rex effudit Gentium.
A little further back, far enough awa
y for their own singing not to be discordant, Tassilo of Tresckow and Scharley were singing a romantic ballad with considerably less gravity.
Sô die bluomen üz dem grase dringent,
same si lachen gegen der spilden sunnen,
in einem meien an dem morgen fruo,
und diu kleinen vogelin wol singent
in ir besten wîse, die si kunnen,
waz wünne mac sich dâ gelîchen zuo?
Samson and Reynevan followed on at a walk. Samson was listening, swaying in the saddle and humming. It was evident he knew the words of the minnesang and that—had he not been required to remain incognito—he would gladly have joined in. Reynevan was daydreaming about Adèle. He was having difficulty gathering his thoughts, for Rymbaba and Kuno of Wittram, who were bringing up the rear, were belting out lewd drinking songs one after the next. Their repertoire seemed inexhaustible.
Verbum caro, panem verum
verbo carnem efficit:
fitque sanguis Christi merum,
et si sensus deficit,
ad firmandum cor sincerum
sola fides sufficit.
The solemn tune and pious verses of Thomas Aquinas weren’t fooling anyone; the knights’ reputation evidently went before them. At the sight of the procession, old women gathering firewood fled in panic and adolescent girls darted away like hinds. Woodcutters ran off through clearings and horror-stricken shepherds crawled under their sheep. A tar burner fled, abandoning his cart. Three wandering Friars Minor made off, hitching their habits up above their haunches. Nor did the poetic stanzas of Walther von der Vogelweide appear to have any calming influence on them whatsoever.
Nü wol dan, welt ir die wârheit schouwen,
gen wir zuo des meien hôhgezîte!
der ist mit aller sîner krefte komen.
seht an in und seht an werde frouwen,
wederz dâ daz ander überstrîte:
daz bezzer spil, ob ich daz hân genomen.
Samson sang along under his breath. My Adèle, thought Reynevan, my Adèle. Verily, when we are finally together, when our separation is over, it will be like that song of Walther von der Vogelweide’s—“The spring will come.” Or some other of that poet’s stanzas…
The Tower of Fools Page 27