Rerum tanta novitas
in solemni vere
et veris auctoritas
jubet nos gaudere…
“Were you saying something, Reinmar?”
“No, Samson. I didn’t say a thing.”
“Ah. But you were murmuring strangely.”
Ah, spring, spring… And my Adèle is comelier than the spring. Oh, Adèle, Adèle, where are you, my love? When shall I finally see you again? Kiss your lips? Your breasts…
“Quickly, onwards, quickly! To Ziębice!”
I wonder, too, he suddenly thought, where the Fair Nicolette is and what she’s doing?
Genitori, Genitoque
laus et jubilatio,
salus, honor, virtus quoque
sit et benedictio…
Rymbaba and Wittram, hidden around a bend in the road at the back of the procession, were bellowing, frightening wild animals.
Whoremonger tanners
Tanned some arse leather.
Whoreson shoemakers
Made boots from them!
Chapter Seventeen
In which, in the Raubritter stronghold of Kromolin, Reynevan makes some acquaintances, eats, drinks, sews on ears and participates in an assembly of the Angelic Militia. Until some quite unexpected guests arrive.
From the point of view of strategy and defensiveness, the Raubritter settlement of Kromolin was located advantageously on an island created by a wide, silted-up branch of the River Jadkowa. A bridge hidden among willows and osiers provided the single access point by road, easily blocked by the barriers and chevaux de frise standing ready for that purpose. Even in the semi-darkness of the falling dusk, further elements of the fortifications were visible in the form of abatises and sharpened stakes stuck into the boggy bank. At the entrance to the settlement itself, the bridge was additionally barred by a thick chain which was taken down by servants even before Notker of Weyrach had managed to sound his horn, for their approach had been seen from the watchtower high above the alders.
They rode onto the island between shacks and sheds roofed with turf. The main building, similar to a fortress, was a mill, complete with a functional millrace. The glow of numerous fires beyond the mill illuminated the thatched roofs of the cottages, from which music and a hubbub of voices could be heard.
“Sounds like they’re making merry,” guessed Tassilo of Tresckow.
A giggling wench in a state of undress ran out from among the cottages, her plait fluttering behind her, pursued by a fat Bernardine monk. They ran into a barn from where laughter and squeals could be heard a moment later.
“Well, well,” mumbled Scharley. “I feel quite at home.”
They passed a latrine hidden in a thicket but revealed by its stench, then rode out into a courtyard full of people, bright with fire, noisy with music and voices. Servants and squires were soon beside them, helping the knights dismount and then leading their horses away. At a wink from Scharley, Samson sighed and went off with the servants, pulling his companions’ steeds after him.
Notker of Weyrach gave his helmet to a squire but kept his sword under one arm.
“Plenty of men have come,” he observed.
“Aye,” confirmed the squire dryly. “And they say there’ll be more.”
“Come, come,” Rymbaba urged, rubbing his hands together. “I have a hunger!”
“Indeed!” Kuno of Wittram chimed in. “And I a thirst!”
They passed a forge belching heat, where several farriers as black as Cyclopes were bustling around, then a barn that had been converted into a slaughterhouse. Through the wide-open doors, they could see the dressed carcasses of several hogs and a great ox hanging by their legs. The entrails of the freshly butchered ox were being chucked into a bowl, while suckling pigs and rams sizzled on spits over campfires roaring outside the barn. Steam and tempting fragrances rose from blackened pots and cauldrons. Men sat alongside on benches, at tables or simply on the ground, and dogs swarmed and fought among growing piles of discarded bones. Lights shone from windows and the lamps in the porch of the tavern from which barrels rolled endlessly, to be immediately besieged by thirsty men.
The courtyard, enclosed by buildings, was bathed in the flickering light of burning torches. Peasants and merchants rubbed shoulders with Bernardine and Franciscan friars, Jews and Romani, and there were plenty of knights and esquires in armour with swords invariably at their belts or under their arms.
The knights’ equipage defined their status and wealth. Most were in full plate, and several brazenly flaunted suits of armour made by master armourers in Nuremberg, Augsburg and Innsbruck. Others could only afford incomplete plate armour, or a breastplate, bevor, rerebraces or cuisses worn over a mail shirt.
On the steps of a granary, a group of wandering goliards hopped in time with the clamour of fiddles, flutes and horns, jangling the bells and rattles sewn onto their costumes. Close by on a wooden platform, several knights were dancing, apparently in honour of Saint Vitus given their somewhat uncoordinated jumping and hopping. Their thudding footfalls almost drowned out the music, and the clouds of dust they were kicking up made people sneeze. Wenches and Romani women laughed and squealed more shrilly than the goliards’ pipes.
More masculine pursuits were being enjoyed on a large area of compacted earth in the centre of the courtyard, marked out at the corners by torches. Knights in armour were testing both each other’s skills with weapons and the robustness of their armour. Blades rang, battleaxes and morning stars thudded against shields, accompanied by crude curses and the encouraging cries of spectators. Two knights, one of whom bore the golden carp of the Glaubitzes on his shield, were risking a bout without helmets. The Glaubitz was aiming blows with a sword, and his opponent, fending them off with a buckler, was trying to catch the weapon in the teeth of a swordbreaker.
Reynevan stood up to observe the fight, but Scharley tugged him by the elbow, instructing him to follow the lead of the Raubritters, who were clearly more interested in vittles and beverages than the sparring. They soon found themselves in the very centre of the feasting and merrymaking. Shouting over the hubbub, Rymbaba, Wittram and Tassilo greeted friends, exchanging handshakes and backslaps. Soon, everyone, including Scharley and Reynevan, was sitting shoulder to shoulder at the table, chewing pork and mutton chops and ribs and drinking toasts to good health, happiness and prosperity. Disdaining something as despicably small as a beaker, the sorely thirsty Rymbaba drank mead from a gallon pail, the golden fluid pouring down his moustaches and onto his breastplate.
Aside from the Glaubitz fighting in the combat circle, some others among the Raubritters wore their family crests unabashedly, clearly not believing that banditry brought shame on their houses. Near Reynevan, a beanpole in a tunic with the coat of arms of the Kottwitzes—a red bar on a silver field—was chewing on some gristle. Nearby, a curly haired knight bore the rose, the coat of arms of the Porajs. Another man, as broad-shouldered as an ox, was dressed in a lendner decorated with a golden lynx. Reynevan couldn’t recall that coat of arms, but he was soon reminded.
“Sir Bożywoj of Lossow.” Notker of Weyrach did the introductions. “Lords Scharley and Hagenau.”
“Upon my word,” said Bożywoj of Lossow, removing from his mouth a pork rib, fat dripping onto the golden lynx. “Upon my word, welcome. Hagenau, hmm… Kin of the celebrated poet?”
“No.”
“Aha. Then let’s drink. Your health!”
“Your health.”
“Sir Wencel of Hartha.” Weyrach continued to introduce knights as they approached. “Sir Buko of Krossig.”
Reynevan watched with interest. Buko of Krossig, who was wearing a suit of armour edged with brass, was renowned in Silesia. Now, frowning and squinting, the celebrated Raubritter was staring at Scharley.
“Do we know each other?”
“We may have met,” replied the penitent freely. “In church, perhaps?”
“Good health!”
“Good luck!”
“… council,” Buko of Krossig was saying to Weyrach. “There will be a council. Once they all arrive. Traugott of Barnhelm. And Ekkehard of Sulz.”
“Ekkehard of Sulz.” Notker of Weyrach grimaced. “Indeed. Sticks his nose in everywhere. What will the council be about?”
“Apparently there’s an expedition in the offing,” said a knight sitting close by, regally lifting to his mouth morsels of meat he was carving with a dagger from the haunch he was holding. He had long, very grizzled hair, well-groomed hands and face, and a nobility that even some old scars couldn’t mar.
“Against whom, Sir Markwart?”
Before the grey-haired knight could answer, a commotion erupted on the exercise ground. Someone swore, someone yelled, a dog was kicked and gave a short whimper. A voice called loudly for a barber-surgeon or a Jew. Or both.
“Do you hear?” The grey-haired man gestured with his head, his smile a sneer. “Just in time. What happened? Eh? Master Jasiek?”
“Otto Glaubitz has nicked John of Schoenfeld,” panted a knight with thin moustaches drooping like a Tatar’s. “Needs a physician, but that one’s scarpered. Vanished, the roguish Jew.”
“And who was threatening yesterday to teach the Jew to eat in the Christian manner? Who was forcing him to eat pig meat? Whom did I ask to leave the wretch alone? Whom did I admonish?”
“You were right, as usual, honourable Lord Stolberg,” the moustachioed knight admitted reluctantly. “But what are we to do now? Schoenfeld is bleeding like a stuck pig, and all that remains of the barber-surgeon are his Jewish instruments…”
“Bring me the instruments,” Reynevan said loudly and without thinking, “and bring the wounded man here. And light, I need light!”
The wounded man, who a moment later landed with a thud of armour on the table, turned out to be one of the two from the parade ground who had been fighting without helmets. The result of his imprudence was a cheek cloven to the bone and a notched ear hanging off his head. As the wounded man cursed and struggled, blood gushed onto the lindenwood table, spattering the meat and soaking into the bread.
The physician’s satchel was brought, and Reynevan got down to work by the light of several sizzling torches. He found a flacon of Hungary water and poured the contents over the wound, causing the patient to wriggle around like a landed fish and almost fall off the table, after which Reynevan called for help holding him down. Reynevan quickly threaded a curved needle with stout twine and began to suture the wounds, doing his best to keep the stitches even. When the patient began to swear, the grey-haired Markwart of Stolberg stopped up his mouth with a lump of pork. Reynevan nodded his thanks and continued his work under the fascinated gaze of the audience crowding the table. Shooing away with his head the moths that were swarming around the torches, he concentrated on reattaching the severed ear as close as possible to its original location.
“Clean linen,” he asked after some time. Immediately, someone seized a wench and ripped off her blouse, silencing her protests with a few slaps.
Reynevan thoroughly bandaged the wounded man’s head with plenty of linen torn into strips. The patient, astonishingly, didn’t faint, but sat up, mumbled something about Saint Lucia, groaned, moaned and shook Reynevan’s hand. Immediately after, all the others began hugging the physician and congratulating him on his excellent work. Reynevan accepted the congratulations, smiling and proud. Although he was aware that he could have done better with the ear, he saw the marks of much more poorly stitched wounds on plenty of the faces around him. The casualty mumbled under his bandages, but no one was listening.
“Well? Quite something, isn’t he?” Scharley received congratulations beside Reynevan. “A remarkable physician!”
“He is,” agreed the culprit, the Glaubitz with the golden carp in his coat of arms. He showed absolutely no remorse as he handed Reynevan a mug of mead. “And sober, which is a rarity among quacks. Schoenfeld was lucky!”
“He was lucky,” Buko of Krossig commented coldly, “because it was you who smote him. Had it been me, there’d have been nothing to stitch up.”
Interest in the occurrence suddenly dwindled, interrupted by fresh visitors riding into the Kromolin stronghold. The Raubritters murmured and an air of excitement indicated the arrival of an important individual. Reynevan watched, wiping his hands.
A cavalcade of over a dozen armed men was headed by three horsemen. In the centre rode a fat, balding man in black enamelled plate armour. To his right was a knight with a gloomy face and an oblique scar on his forehead, and to his left was a priest or monk, but with a short sword at his side and an iron bevor on a mail shirt over his habit.
“Barnhelm and Sulz are here,” announced Markwart of Stolberg. “To the tavern, gentlemen! To the council! Summon those who are humping wenches in the hay! Awake the sleeping! To the council!”
There followed some confusion as almost every knight heading for the council got himself something to eat and drink on the way. Thunderous shouts demanded that servants roll out fresh kegs and casks. Samson was among the servants running up to answer the call. Reynevan furtively beckoned him and kept him by his side. He wanted to spare his comrade the fate of the other servants, whom the Raubritters were prodding and kicking.
“You two go to the council,” said Scharley. “Mingle with the crowd. It will be good to know what the company is planning.”
“What about you?”
“I have other plans for now,” said the penitent, catching the flaming eyes of a comely, plump Romani woman milling around nearby, with gold rings plaited into her raven-black locks. The Romani woman winked at him.
Reynevan felt like commenting. But he overcame the urge.
The tavern was thronged. Smoke and the stink of men who hadn’t taken off their armour for a long time mingled beneath the low ceiling. Knights and esquires grouped the benches in order to create something like King Arthur’s Round Table, but there was far too little room for everybody. Many had to stand. Among them were Reynevan and Samson, trying to remain inconspicuous.
Markwart of Stolberg opened the council, welcoming the more illustrious by name. Immediately afterwards, Traugott of Barnhelm—the fat, balding newcomer with the plate armour covered in black enamel—spoke up.
“The matter before us,” he opened, clanging his scabbarded sword down in front of him, “is that Konrad, Bishop of Wrocław, is calling soldiers to his standard. He’s gathering an army to strike at the heretic Czechs. There will be a crusade. M’lord Starosta of Kolditz informed me of it through a confidant that whoever wants to, may enlist in the crusading army. The crusaders will have their sins forgiven and whatever they bag is theirs. The clergy said all sorts of things to Konrad, I don’t remember what, but Pater Hiacynt whom I picked up along the way, will explain it better.”
Pater Hiacynt, the armoured priest, stood up and cast down on the table his own weapon, a heavy, broad short sword.
“Blessed be the Lord,” he thundered as though from the pulpit, raising his hands in a preacher’s gesture. “My rock! He is preparing my hands for the fight, my fingers for the war! Brothers! Faith has vanished! In Bohemia, the heretical plague has gained new strength, and the vile dragon of Hussite heresy is raising its loathsome head! Will you, noble knights, look on indifferently as the banners of the crusade draw throngs of people from the lower orders? When, seeing that the Hussites still live, Our Lady weeps every morning? Noble gentlemen! I remind you of the words of Saint Bernard: to kill an enemy for Christ is to win him for Christ!”
“Get to the point,” Buko of Krossig interrupted gloomily. “Be brief, Pater.”
“The Hussites are despicable to God!” Pater Hiacynt slammed both his fists down on the table. “So, it will please God when we smite them with our swords, preventing them from luring more souls into their error and filth! The wages of sin are death! So death, death to the Czech apostates, fire and destruction on the heretical plague! Thus, I tell you and ask you, brother knights, on behalf of His Eminence
Bishop Konrad—don the sign of the cross over your armour and join the Angelic Militia! Your sins and faults will be forgiven, both in this world and at the Final Judgement, and what anyone plunders is his.”
There was silence for some time. Someone belched; someone else’s stomach gave a long rumble. Markwart of Stolberg cleared his throat and scratched behind his ear as his eyes swept all around.
“Well?” he began. “What do you say, noble knights? Gentlemen of the Angelic Militia?”
“We ought to have expected it.” Bożywoj of Lossow was the first to speak. “Cardinal Branda was residing in Wrocław with a wealthy entourage. I wondered about robbing him on the Krakow road, but the escort was too strong. It’s no secret that Cardinal Branda is appealing for men to join the crusade. The Hussites have irked the Roman Pope!”
“It is also true that things are hard in Bohemia,” added Jaśko Chromy of Łubnia, the Raubritter with the moustache like a Tatar. “The fortresses of Karlštejn and Žebrák are besieged and may fall any day. If we don’t do something about the Czechs in time, they’ll do something about us. We ought to consider it.”
Ekkehard of Sulz, the knight with the slanting scar on his forehead, swore and slapped his sword hilt. “Indeed we ought!” he snorted. “Pater Hiacynt is right: death to the heretics, fire and destruction! Whoever is virtuous must strike at the Czech! And if a chance arises, get rich, for it is right for sin to be punished and virtue rewarded.”
“It is true,” spoke up Woldan of Osiny, “that a crusade is a large war. And it’s easier to make a fortune in a large war.”
“And easier to get hit in the head,” observed the wavy-haired Poraj. “And hit hard.”
“You grow timid, Sir Błażej Poraj Jakubowski,” called Otto of Glaubitz, the ear hacker. “What is there to fear? You only live once! And don’t we risk our necks here, making a living from pillaging? What can you grow rich on here? A merchant’s purse? But in Bohemia, in a full-scale war, if you’re lucky enough to take a knight alive, you can demand a ransom of six hundred score groschen. If you kill a man, take his horse and armour, that’s at least twenty grzywna. And if we take a city…”
The Tower of Fools Page 28