“Time we were leaving, Your Grace,” added the Nieczuja.
“I concur,” Bolko Wołoszek agreed. “Listen, Reynevan. You can’t ride with me—I can’t hide you in Głogówek, or in Opole or Niemodlin. Neither my father nor my uncle Bernard will want a feud with Ziębice, and they’ll turn you over to Jan if he asks. And he will.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.” The young Piast squinted. “But I’m not convinced you understand. Thus, I’ll be blunt. Whatever direction you choose, avoid Ziębice. Avoid Ziębice, Comrade, I advise you as an old friend. Give the city and the duchy a wide berth. Believe me, there’s nothing for you there. Perhaps there was, but not now. Is that clear?”
Reynevan nodded. It was clear to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it.
“Each will go his own way,” said the duke, tugging at the reins and turning his horse around. “You’re on your own.”
“Thanks again. I’m indebted to you, Bolko.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Wołoszek perfunctorily. “Anything for an old university pal. Oh, those were the days, in Prague… Farewell, Reinmar. Bene vale.”
“Bene vale, Bolko.”
Soon the sound of the Opole entourage had faded away, and Reynevan vanished into the birch wood on the dark bay castellan, until recently the property of Heinrich Hackeborn, the knight from Thuringia, who met his death in Silesia. It was now quiet at the crossroads; the magpies and jays had fallen silent and the orioles were singing again.
Barely an hour passed before the first fox began nipping at Kunz Aulock’s face.
The events on the Stolz highway became—at least briefly—a sensation, a juicy bit of gossip, a popular subject of conversation and rumour. Duke Jan of Ziębice went around frowning for several days, and prying courtiers put it about that he was cross with his sister, Duchess Euphemia, irrationally blaming her for everything. A rumour was also circulating that Lady Adèle of Stercza’s serving maid had her ears boxed for twittering and giggling when her lady was in no mood for laughter.
The Hackeborns of Przewóz announced that they would find young Heinrich’s killers, no matter what. The gorgeous and spirited Jutta of Apolda, on the other hand, wasn’t at all upset by the death of her suitor.
Young knights organised a hunt for the criminals, riding from castle to castle amid a blowing of horns and a thumping of hooves, but the expedition was more of a picnic than a hunt.
Ziębice was visited by the Inquisition, but not even the nosiest busybodies managed to find out the nature of their business.
At the Church of Saint John the Baptist in Wrocław, Canon Otto Beess prayed zealously before the high altar and thanked God, his hands held together in prayer and his head resting on them.
In Księginice, a village near Lubin, Walter of Barby’s senile, utterly decrepit mother thought about the approaching winter and the hunger that was sure to kill her in the early spring, now that she had been left without care or help.
There was much noisy conversation in the Bell Inn in Niemcza. Wolfher, Morold and Wittich Stercza, along with Dieter Haxt, Stefan Rotkirch and Jentsch of Knobelsdorf, yelled, swore and threatened, drinking tankard after tankard. The servants bringing the drinks cringed in terror hearing descriptions of the torture the revellers intended to inflict on a certain Reinmar of Bielawa in the not too distant future. Just before dawn, their mood was improved by an unexpectedly astute observation from Morold. Every cloud has a silver lining, stated Morold. Since Kunz Aulock has gone to Hell, Tammo Stercza’s thousand Rhenish guilders will remain in his pocket. Meaning in Sterzendorf.
Four days later, the news also reached Sterzendorf.
Little Ofka of Baruth was very, very disgruntled. And very cross with the housekeeper. Ofka had never been fond of the housekeeper, for all too often, her mother made the housekeeper force her to do things she didn’t like, in particular eating kasha and washing. But that day, the housekeeper had really got into Ofka’s bad books—she had dragged her away from playing. The game consisted of dropping flat stones into fresh cowpats; owing to its joyful simplicity, the pastime had become popular among Ofka’s peers, chiefly the offspring of the castle guard and domestic staff.
Having been torn away from her games, the little girl was whingeing, sulking and doing her best to hinder the housekeeper in her work. She was taking such tiny steps out of spite that the housekeeper almost had to drag her. Ofka reacted with malevolent snorts at everything the housekeeper threatened her with because she didn’t give a hoot about it. She’d had enough of translating Grandpa Tammo’s speech, because his chamber smelled and he did, too. She didn’t care that Uncle Apecz had just arrived at Sterzendorf with some extremely important news for Grandpa, and that when he finished, Grandpa Tammo would have lots to say, as usual, and of course, no one but she could understand what Grandpa Tammo was saying.
The high-born Ofka of Baruth didn’t give a tinker’s cuss about it. She only had one desire—to return to the castle embankment and drop flat stones onto cowpats.
The sounds coming from Grandpa’s chamber could be heard from the staircase. The news Uncle Apecz was sharing must have been horrifying and highly unpleasant indeed, for Ofka had never heard grandpa yelling so loudly. Ever. Not even when he found out that the best stallion in the stud had got food poisoning and died.
“Vuaahha-vuaha-buhhauahhu-uuuaaha!” came the sound from the chamber. “Hrrrrhurrr-hhhuh… Uaarr-raaah! O-o-oooo…”
Then the following sound:
“Bzppprrrr… Ppppprrrruuu…”
And then silence fell.
And soon after, Uncle Apecz left the chamber. He looked at Ofka for a long time, and at the housekeeper even longer.
“Please have some vittles prepared in the kitchen,” he finally said. “Air the chamber. And summon a priest. In that order. I shall issue further orders after I’ve eaten.”
Seeing the housekeeper’s perplexed expression, he added, “A great deal will change here. A great deal.”
Chapter Twenty-One
In which the red-hooded goliard and the black wagon reappear, along with 500 grzywna. And all because Reynevan is chasing skirts again.
Around noon, the road was blocked by a long stretch of windblown trees lying in a row and extending deep into the forest. The barrier of splintered tree trunks, the mess of entangled boughs and the chaos of roots torn from the earth and seemingly contorted in agony truly reflected Reynevan’s state of mind. The allegorical landscape had not only stopped him but made him think.
After parting from Duke Bolko Wołoszek, Reynevan had ridden south apathetically, towards banks of dark clouds. He had no idea why he had chosen that direction. Was it because Wołoszek had pointed towards it on parting? Or had he instinctively chosen a track taking him away from places and matters that aroused fear and aversion in him? Away from the Sterczas, Strzegom and Lord Laasan, Hayn of Czirne, the Świdnica Inquisition, Stolz Castle, Ziębice, Duke Jan…
And Adèle.
The wind was driving the clouds so low, they appeared to be snagging on the treetops beyond the windblown debris. Reynevan sighed.
Oh, how Duke Bolko’s cold words had hurt, how they had stung his heart! There was nothing for him in Ziębice! God’s wounds! Those words, perhaps because they were so brutally frank, so true, had hurt more than Adèle’s cold and indifferent gaze, more than her cruel voice when she set the knights on him, more than the blows that fell on him because of her, more even than prison. There was nothing for him in Ziębice!
I have nothing anywhere, he thought, staring into the tangle of roots and branches. Instead of running away, wouldn’t it be better to return to Ziębice and find a way to meet my faithless lover face-to-face? To toss bitter reproach and cold contempt at her in person, and see the unworthy Adèle grow pale and confused, see her wring her hands, lower her gaze, see her mouth quiver. Yes, yes, let whatever will be, be, if only to see her shamed by the dishonour of her own betrayal…
Like hell, sai
d his good sense. Reproach? Conscience? You ass! She would burst out laughing, order you beaten again and thrown into the tower. And then she would take Duke Jan to her bedchamber and fuck him so hard the very walls would shake. And there would be neither remorse nor regret. There would be laughter, because deriding that naive fool, Reinmar of Bielawa, would only spice up and inflame their erotic sport.
Good sense, Reynevan noted utterly without being surprised, was speaking with Scharley’s voice.
Heinrich Hackeborn’s horse neighed and shook its head. Scharley, thought Reynevan, patting its neck, Scharley and Samson remained in Ziębice. Or perhaps they set off for Hungary right after my arrest, pleased to have got rid of the problem at last? Scharley recently called friendship “a great and beautiful thing.” But his words had sounded more genuine and sincere and less mocking on previous occasions when he declared that the only things that mattered to him were his own comfort, his own good and happiness, and the rest could go to hell. He said that, and, all in all…
All in all, I’m less and less surprised at him.
Hackeborn’s castellan neighed again. And something neighed back.
Reynevan jerked his head up just in time to see a rider at the edge of the forest.
An Amazon.
Nicolette, he thought in amazement, Fair Nicolette! A grey mare, a fair plait, a grey mantle. It’s her, without a doubt!
Nicolette saw him at almost the same moment as he saw her. But in spite of his expectations, she didn’t wave to him or cry out cheerfully and gaily. No, she reined her horse around and bolted. Reynevan didn’t pause to think. He spurred the castellan and set off in pursuit at a gallop, around the edge of the downed trees. On the uneven ground, he risked the horse breaking a leg or breaking his own neck, but as usual, Reynevan didn’t think. And neither did the horse.
As soon as he entered the forest, he knew he was mistaken about the Amazon. Firstly, the grey horse was not the fleet-hoofed thoroughbred mare he knew, but a bony, ungainly nag, galloping heavily and clumsily through the bracken. And the girl riding it could in no way be Fair Nicolette. Firstly, the bold and determined Nicolette—or Katarzyna of Biberstein, he corrected himself—wouldn’t be riding in a lady’s saddle. Secondly, she wouldn’t be glancing back in panic or squealing so horrifyingly.
When it finally dawned on him that he was chasing a completely random girl through the forests like a moron or a pervert, it was already too late. The Amazon rode squealing into a clearing with Reynevan right behind her. He reined in his horse, but the skittish knightly steed couldn’t be stopped.
A small entourage was milling about the clearing. Reynevan saw several pilgrims, a few Franciscan monks in brown habits, several crossbowmen, a fat sergeant and a wagon-and-two covered with a black, tarred canvas. An elderly gentleman on a black horse, in a beaver calpac and a cloak with a beaver collar, noticed Reynevan’s arrival and pointed him out to the sergeant and the soldiers.
An Inquisitor, thought Reynevan fearfully, but realised his mistake when he remembered he’d already seen that wagon and that individual in the beaver calpac and collar. Dzierżka of Wirsing had identified him at the farmstead where she kept her herd. He was a tax collector.
Staring at the wagon covered in black canvas, he realised he’d also seen that conveyance on another occasion. When he recalled the circumstances, he wanted to turn tail immediately but wasn’t quick enough. Before he managed to rein around the horse, which was stamping and tossing its head, the soldiers had galloped over and surrounded him, cutting off his escape into the trees. In the face of several drawn crossbows, Reynevan dropped the reins and raised his hands.
“I’m here by accident!” he called. “By mistake! I have no ill intent.”
“Anyone could say that,” said the beaver-furred tax collector. He examined Reynevan with an unusually grim expression, so intently and suspiciously that Reynevan froze, expecting the worst and the inevitable. That the tax collector would recognise him.
“I say, I say! Lay off him. I know that young blade!”
Reynevan swallowed. It was definitely a day for renewing old friendships. For the man who called was the goliard he had met in the Raubritter’s Kromolin hideout, the same one who had read the Hussite manifesto and later hidden in the cheese store with Reynevan; middle-aged, wearing a jerkin with a serrated edge and a red long-tailed cowl with curly locks of grizzled hair peeping out from under it.
“I know this youngster very well,” he said, riding over. “He’s from a noble family. His name is… Reinmar of Hagenau.”
“Perhaps a descendant of the famous poet?” asked the tax collector, his features softening somewhat.
“No.”
“But why is he pursuing us? Is he tracking us? Eh?”
“Tracking us?” The goliard snorted. “Are you blind? Why, he rode out of the forest! Were he pursuing us, he would have been riding along the track, following our trail.”
“That makes sense. And you know each other, you say?”
“As sure as eggs is eggs,” the goliard confirmed cheerfully. “After all, I know his name, and he mine. He knows I’m called Tybald Raabe. Go on, m’Lord Reinmar, what’s my name?”
“Tybald Raabe.”
“See?”
In the face of such irrefutable proof, the tax collector cleared his throat, adjusted his beaver calpac and ordered the soldiers to stand down.
“Forgive me, sir, I was overly cautious—but I must be vigilant!
I can’t say more than that. Well, Lord Hagenau, you may—”
“Ride with us,” the goliard finished cheerfully after sending Reynevan a slight wink. “We’re going to Bardo. Together. The more the merrier… and the safer.”
The procession moved slowly, the bumpy forest track limiting the wagon’s speed to one that the pedestrians—four pilgrims with staves and four Franciscans pulling a handcart—could easily match. All the pilgrims, to a man, had purple noses, empirically testifying to a love of strong drink and other sins of youth. The Franciscans were young.
“The pilgrims and Friars Minor are also headed for Bardo,” explained the goliard. “To the holy Figure on the Mount, you know, Our Lady of Bardo—”
“I know,” interrupted Reynevan, checking if anyone was listening, especially the tax collector, who was riding beside the black wagon. “I know, Master… Tybald Raabe. If, however, there’s something I don’t know—”
“Then that’s how it must be,” the goliard interjected. “Don’t ask unnecessary questions, m’Lord Reinmar. And be Hagenau, not Bielawa. That’ll be safer.”
“You were in Ziębice,” guessed Reynevan.
“I was. And I heard this and that… Enough to be amazed to see you here, in the Goleniowskie Forests, m’lord, because rumour had it you were imprisoned in the tower. Oh, what peccadilloes they attributed to you… How they gossiped… If I didn’t know you, m’lord—”
“But you do.”
“Aye. And I’m kindly disposed to you. Which is why I say: ride with us. To Bardo… For God’s sake—don’t stare at her like that, m’lord! Isn’t it enough that you chased her around the forest?”
When the maid riding at the head of the party looked back for the first time, Reynevan gasped. In amazement. And astonishment. At mistaking such plainness for Nicolette. For Katarzyna of Biberstein.
Her hair was, true enough, almost identical in colour, as fair as straw, the frequent result in Silesia of mixing the blood of a fair-haired father from Germany and a fair-haired mother from Poland. But there the similarities ended. Nicolette had skin like alabaster, while the girl’s forehead and chin were dotted with pimples. Nicolette had eyes of cornflower blue, while the pimply girl’s were dull, watery and still goggling like a frog’s in terror. Her nose was too small and her lips too thin and pale. She had heard something about fashion and plucked her eyebrows, but with poor results; rather than looking fashionable, she looked idiotic. The impression was augmented by her costume—she was wearing a crude rabbit-fur c
ap and beneath her mantle a worn, grey gown of simple design made of poor, worn-out wool. Katarzyna of Biberstein probably dressed her serving girls better.
A plain Jane, thought Reynevan, a poor plain Jane. All she lacks is pockmarks. But she has that to look forward to.
The knight riding alongside the girl had already had the pox, the scars from which his short, grizzled beard couldn’t hide. The trappings of the bay he was riding were very frayed and his mail shirt dated back to the Battle of Legnica. A poor knight, thought Reynevan, like so many others. An impoverished vassus vassallorum. Delivering his daughter to a convent. Where else? Who would want a girl like her? Only the Poor Clares or Cistercians.
“Stop gaping at her, m’lord,” hissed the goliard. “It’s indecorous.”
It was indeed. Reynevan sighed and looked away, devoting all his attention to the oaks and hornbeams growing at the side of the road. But it was already too late.
The goliard swore softly as the knight in the Legnica mail shirt reined in his horse and waited for them to catch up. His expression was very serious and very grim. His head was raised proudly and he was resting his fist on his hip, right beside his sword hilt. Which was just as old-fashioned as his mail shirt.
“Sir Hartwig of Stietencron,” said Tybald Raabe after clearing his throat. “Sir Reinmar of Hagenau.”
Sir Hartwig of Stietencron scrutinised Reynevan for a moment, but contrary to expectations didn’t ask about his kinship with the famous poet.
“You frightened my daughter, my lord,” he announced haughtily, “by chasing after her.”
“I beg forgiveness,” said Reynevan, bowing, feeling his cheeks burning. “I was following her, for I… By mistake. I ask for your forgiveness. I shall also, if you permit, ask for hers on my knees—”
“Don’t kneel,” the knight interrupted. “Stay away from her. She is anxious. Shy. But a good child. I’m taking her to Bardo—”
“To the convent?”
“Why do you think that?” The knight frowned.
The Tower of Fools Page 34