“For you both look most devout.” The goliard stepped in to save Reynevan from getting himself into more trouble.
Sir Hartwig of Stietencron leaned over from the saddle, hawked and spat, not at all devoutly and not at all chivalrously.
“Stay away from my daughter, Lord Hagenau,” he repeated. “Completely and always. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Very well. Good day.”
After about an hour’s drive, the wagon got stuck in the mud, and the joint strength of all the foot travellers was required to pull it out. Naturally, neither the nobility—meaning Reynevan and Sir Hartwig—nor culture and art—represented by Tybald Raabe—stooped to manual labour. The incident made the beaver-furred tax collector extremely anxious and he ran around, cursing and issuing commands, looking around at the forest apprehensively. He had clearly noticed Reynevan watching him, for as soon as the conveyance was freed and the party set off, he considered it necessary to explain a few things.
“You should know that the load I’m transporting isn’t just any old load,” he began, after riding his horse between Reynevan and the goliard.
Reynevan didn’t comment. In any case, he knew only too well why the man was so concerned.
“I wouldn’t reveal it to anyone else,” the tax collector said, lowering his voice and looking around somewhat timidly, “but you’re a nobleman, after all, from an honest family, with an honest look in your eyes. So I’ll tell you, m’lord—we’re carrying taxes.”
He paused again, waiting for a display of curiosity which was not forthcoming.
“A tax, passed by the Frankfurt Reichstag,” he continued. “A special tax, levied in one payment, for the war against Czech heresy. Every man pays according to his wealth. A knight pays five guilders, a baron ten and clergymen five out of every hundred of their annual stipend. Do you see?”
“I do.”
“The coffer’s pretty full, too, for in Ziębice I received funds not just from some minor baron, but from the Fugger family. It ought not to surprise you that I’m cautious—barely a week has passed since I was attacked. Not far from Rychbach, near the village of Lutom.”
Reynevan simply nodded.
“Robber knights. A truly impudent gang! Paszko Rymbaba himself was spotted. Verily, they would have murdered us, but fortunately Lord Seidlitz appeared with help and drove the scoundrels away. He received a wound in the skirmish, which sorely infuriated him. He swore he’d pay the Raubritters back and he will surely keep his word, for the Seidlitzes are unforgiving.”
Reynevan licked his lips, still nodding mechanically.
“Lord Seidlitz vowed in his fury that he would catch and torture them all more cruelly than even the Cieszyn Duke Noszak tortured the brigand Chrzan for killing his son, young Duke Přemysl. Noszak ordered him put on a red-hot copper horse and nipped his body with white-hot pliers and hooks… Remember? Ah, I see from your expression that you do.”
“Mhm.”
“So, it was fortunate that I could tell Lord Seidlitz who those robbers were. Wherever Rymbaba is, Kuno of Wittram and Notker of Weyrach won’t be far behind. But others were there, too, and I also described them to Lord Seidlitz. A great big bruiser with a stupid face, demented, no doubt. A smaller individual, with a hooked nose—one look and you know: a blackguard. And also a whippersnapper, a youngster your age, the same physique as you, even a little similar to you, m’lord, in fact… But no, what am I saying, you’re a comely young man with a noble face, the spitting image of Saint Sebastian, while that one looked like a brute.
“Anyway, I was talking about them and Lord Seidlitz suddenly yells! Why, he knows those rascals, too, for his kinsman, Lord Guncelin of Laasan, is also after the hook-nose and the pipsqueak for a robbery they committed in Strzegom. Oh, these twists of fate… And it gets better—you haven’t heard anything yet. I’m just about to set off from Ziębice when my servant informs me that some characters are hanging around the wagon. So I lie in wait and what do I see? That hook-nose and that great simpleton! Can you believe it? What impudent scoundrels.”
The tax collector choked in indignation. Reynevan nodded and swallowed.
“So I ran as fast as I could to the town hall and submitted a report,” continued the tax collector. “They’ve probably already been caught; the torturer is stretching them on the wheel in a dungeon as we speak. And do you see the scheme here? Those two scoundrels and that third one, the whippersnapper, were surely spying for the Raubritters and telling the gang who to waylay. I feared they were already lying in wait for me somewhere on the road. And my escort, as you see, is barely adequate! The bloody Ziębice knighthood prefers tournaments, banquets, and dances, blow them! So I’m afeared, for I want to live, and it would be a shame for this coffer containing more than five hundred grzywna to fall into those bandits’ hands when it’s meant for a holy cause.”
“Of course it would be a shame,” threw in the goliard. “And the cause is both holy and good. Which is why I advised you, sir, to avoid the main roads and steal through the forest unseen, to reach Bardo in no time.”
“And may God bless us and keep us,” said the tax collector, raising his eyes to the heavens. “And the patron saints of tax collectors, Adauctus and Matthew. And Our Lady of Bardo, who’s famous for her miracles.”
“Amen, amen,” chimed in the pilgrims walking beside the wagon. “Praise be the Blessed Virgin Mary, guardian and intercessor!”
“Amen!” called the Friars Minor in unison, walking on the other side.
“Amen,” added Sir Hartwig, and the plain Jane crossed herself.
“Amen,” said the tax collector, closing the subject. “Bardo’s a holy place, m’Lord Hagenau, clearly favoured by Our Lady. Did you know that she’s said to have appeared again on Bardo Mount? And weeping again, as she was in the year 1400. Some say it is a harbinger of misfortune that will soon visit Bardo and the whole of Silesia. Others say the Blessed Virgin is weeping because faith is weakening and the Schism is spreading. The Hussites—”
“You never stop,” interrupted the goliard. “You’re always sniffing out Hussites and heresy. Could the Blessed Virgin Mary be weeping for other reasons altogether? Perhaps her tears fall because she sees priests engaged in simony, lecherous debauchery and thievery rather than praying and living in poverty, and the Church of Rome wielding power and spoiling to enter war and politics instead of serving the faithful? Not to mention apostasy and heresy, for what is acting contrary to the Gospels if not heresy? Perhaps Our Lady weeps at the sight of the holy sacraments turned into a conjuring trick at the hands of sinful priests. Perhaps she shares the outrage and sadness felt by many when they see the Pope, who is wealthier than the magnates, building the Church of Saint Peter not with his own money, but with the money of the impoverished faithful?”
“In sooth,” the tax collector said with a wry smile, “harsh, harsh words, Master Raabe. But I would say that they could be applied to yourself, since you are not without sin, either. You talk like a politician, not to say a priest, rather than doing what befits you—busying yourself with lutes and pipes, rhymes and songs.”
“Rhymes and songs, you say?” Tybald Raabe untied his lute from the pommel. “As you wish!”
The Holy Roman Popes
are Antichrists;
their power comes not from Christ,
but from the Antichrist
by Imperial order!
“A pox on that,” muttered the tax collector, glancing around. “It was better when you were talking.”
Christ, through your wounds,
give us priests
to speak the truth,
to bury the Antichrist,
to lead us to You!
Poles, Germans,
Whatever your tongue,
if you doubt your speech
and your writings,
Wycliffe will tell the truth!
Will tell the truth… Reynevan, engrossed, repeated the words mechanically in his mind. Wh
ere have I heard those words before?
“You’ll get into trouble one day for those rhymes, Master Raabe,” said the tax collector sourly. “And it surprises me that you listen to it so calmly, Brothers.”
“The truth is often hidden in songs,” said one of the Franciscans with a smile. “For the truth is the truth. It must not be distorted, it must be borne, though it hurts. And Wycliffe? Why, he went astray, but libri sunt legendi, non comburendi.”
“Wycliffe, may the Lord forgive him, was not the first,” added another. “Our great brother and patron, the Pauper of Assisi, was pained by what is discussed here. One cannot close one’s eyes and turn one’s head: evil is among us. Priests are drifting away from God, busying themselves with secular matters. Rather than living modestly, they are wealthier than dukes and barons—”
“Indeed, as the Gospel testifies,” added a third, his voice soft, “Jesus said: nolite possidere aurum neque argentum neque pecuniam in zonis vestris—”
“And the words of Jesus cannot be changed or improved by anyone, not even the Pope,” interrupted the fat sergeant, clearing his throat. “And if he does, then he’s not the Pope, but the true Antichrist.”
“Aye,” called the oldest pilgrim, rubbing his nose. “It is so!”
“Oh, by God!” said the tax collector crossly. “Be quiet, all of you! What a company I’ve ended up in! Why, this is sinful talk indeed!”
“You’ll be forgiven,” snorted the goliard, tuning his lute. “After all, you’re gathering taxes for a holy cause. Saints Adauctus and Matthew will intercede for you.”
“Did you mark how disdainfully he said that, Sir Reinmar?” asked the tax collector with evident irritation. “In sooth, we all know that taxes are collected for worthy reasons, that they contribute to the common weal. That we must pay, because that is the order of things! Everybody knows it. And yet everyone hates tax collectors. They see me riding up and flee into the trees. They set dogs on me. They abuse me with profanities. And even those who pay look at me as though I were plague-ridden.”
“It’s a hard life,” said the goliard, winking at Reynevan. “Have you never desired to change it? Having so many opportunities?”
Tybald Raabe turned out to be a perspicacious and quick-witted fellow.
“Don’t fidget in the saddle,” he said quietly to Reynevan, riding up very close. “Put Ziębice out of your mind. Avoid Ziębice.”
“My friends—”
“You heard what the tax collector said,” interrupted the goliard. “It’s a noble thing to help one’s friends, but your friends look like people who can cope by themselves. Nothing will happen to your friends in Ziębice, but that town will be your undoing. Ride with us to Bardo, m’Lord Reinmar, and I’ll take you from there to Bohemia in person. Why are you staring so? Your brother was a close comrade of mine.”
“Close?”
“Very close. You’d be astonished how much we shared.”
“Nothing astonishes me now.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“If you and Peterlin really were comrades,” Reynevan said a moment later, “you’ll be happy to hear that his murderers have been punished. Kunz Aulock and his entire company are dead.”
“When you live by the sword, you die by the sword,” Tybald Raabe repeated the adage. “Did they die by your hand, m’Lord Reinmar?”
“Never mind whose.” Reynevan blushed slightly, detecting a note of mockery in the goliard’s voice. “The main thing is they’re dead, and Peterlin is avenged.”
Tybald Raabe said nothing for a long time and watched a raven flying over the treetops.
“I’m far from mourning Kyrie-eleison or bewailing Stork,” he said at length. “May they burn in Hell, they deserve it. But they didn’t murder Sir Piotr.”
“Who—” Reynevan spluttered. “Who then?”
“Plenty would like to know.”
“The Sterczas? Or somebody they incited? Who? Speak!”
“Quiet, m’lord, quiet. Be discreet. Better for it not to reach the wrong ears. I can’t tell you more than I heard myself—”
“And what did you hear?”
“That… dark forces are mixed up in it.”
Reynevan was silent for a while.
“Dark forces,” he repeated with a sneer. “Yes, I’ve also heard that. Peterlin’s rivals said it, that he prospered because the Devil helped him in return for selling his soul. And that the Devil would one day carry him off to Hell. Dark and devilish powers, indeed. And to think I considered you, Master Tybald Raabe, a serious and rational fellow.”
“Then I shall remain silent,” said the goliard, shrugging and turning his head away. “I shan’t say another word, m’lord, for fear of disappointing you even more.”
The party stopped for a break beneath a huge, ancient oak full of scampering squirrels. After unhitching the horses from the wagon, the company rested in the shelter of its branches. Soon, as Reynevan had expected, political discussions began again regarding the threat of Hussite heresy arriving from Bohemia and the great crusade that was meant to put an end to that heresy any day now. Typical though the subject was, however, the discussion didn’t follow the usual course.
“War,” announced one of the Franciscans unexpectedly, rubbing his pate onto which a squirrel had just dropped an acorn. “War is evil. For it is said: thou shalt not kill.”
“But in one’s own defence?” asked the tax collector. “Or in defence of one’s property?”
“Or in defence of one’s faith?”
“Or in defence of one’s honour?” said Hartwig of Stietencron, jerking his head up. “Foolish talk! Honour must be defended and insults are washed clean by blood!”
“Jesus didn’t defend himself in Gethsemane,” the Franciscan replied quietly. “And he made Peter sheathe his sword. Was that shameful?”
“And what does Augustin, a doctor Ecclesiae, write in De civitate Dei?” shouted one of the pilgrims, demonstrating unexpected scholarship given that the colour of his nose testified rather to other predilections. “Why, we are discussing a just war. And what is more just than a war against heathenism and heresy? Isn’t a war like that pleasing to God? Doesn’t it please Him when someone kills His enemies?”
“And what do John Chrysostom and Isidore write?” called another polymath with a similarly blue-and-red nose. “And Saint Bernard of Clairvaux? He orders heretics, Moors and heathens killed! He calls them filthy swine. To kill such as them, he says, is not a sin—it glorifies God!”
“Who am I, may God be merciful,” said the Franciscan, putting his hands together in prayer, “to contradict the saints and Doctors of the Church? Why, I’m not here to enter a dispute. I’m simply repeating the words of Christ on the Mount. He commanded us to love our neighbours and forgive those who trespass against us. To love our enemies and pray for them.”
“And Paul ordered the Ephesians,” added another of the monks, “to arm themselves against Satan with love and faith, not with spears.”
“And God will also make love and faith vanquish, amen,” said the third Franciscan, crossing himself, “and bring about reconciliation and pax Dei among Christians. For who benefits from the differences between us? The Infidel! Today, we are wrangling with the Czechs over the Word of God and the form of Communion. But what might happen tomorrow? Muhammad and crescent moons on churches!”
The oldest pilgrim snorted. “Perhaps the scales will also fall from the Czechs’ eyes, and they will disavow heresy. Perhaps hunger will help them with that! For the whole of Europe has joined the embargo and prohibited all trade and commerce with the Hussites. And they need arms and powder, salt and food! If it doesn’t arrive, they will be weaponless and starving. When their bellies start rumbling, they’ll surrender, you’ll see.”
“War,” repeated the first Franciscan with emphasis, “is evil. We’ve established that. And do you think that blockade accords with Christ’s teachings? On the Mount, did Jesus entreat people to starve their neighbours?
Passing over our religious differences, the Czechs are Christians, too. This embargo isn’t right.”
“True, Brother,” interrupted Tybald Raabe, who was sprawled beneath the oak tree. “It is not. Also true is that at times, such blockades can cut both ways. Let’s hope this one doesn’t cost Silesia as much as it does the Czechs.”
“It will be as God decrees,” said the first Franciscan.
For a long while, no one said anything.
The weather began to turn. Clouds, blown by the wind, darkened dangerously and the first drops of rain soon began to fall on hoods, mantles, horses’ rumps and the black canvas covering the wagon. Reynevan moved closer to Tybald Raabe and they rode on, stirrup to stirrup.
“That was an interesting conversation,” he said quietly. “I’m surprised you didn’t summarise it all by reading the Four Articles of Prague, like you did in Kromolin. Is the tax collector aware of your opinions, I wonder?”
“He will be,” the goliard replied quietly, “when the time comes. For as Ecclesiastes says, there is a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to receive, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. There is a time for everything.”
“This time, I agree with you completely.”
At the crossroads, among a bright birch wood, stood a stone penitential cross, one of Silesia’s numerous reminders of crimes past and belated contrition. Directly opposite was a sandy highway, and dark forest tracks led in the other directions. The wind jerked the treetops and tossed dry leaves around. A fine rain was driving into their faces.
“There is a time for everything,” said Reynevan to Tybald Raabe, “as Ecclesiastes reminds us. Now the time has come for me to say goodbye. I’m going back to Ziębice. Say nothing.”
The tax collector was watching them. As were the Friars Minor, the pilgrims, the soldiers, Hartwig of Stietencron and his daughter.
“I cannot abandon friends who may be in trouble,” continued Reynevan. “It isn’t right. Friendship is a great and wonderful thing.”
“Did I say anything?” asked the goliard.
The Tower of Fools Page 35