The Tower of Fools

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “I’m going.”

  “Go, then, m’lord,” he said. “But if you happen to change your plans, if you prefer Bardo and the way to Bohemia, you’ll easily catch up with us. We’ll be riding slowly, and we mean to stop for a long break near Ścibor’s Clearing. Will you remember it?”

  “I shall.”

  The farewell was perfunctory, the customary good wishes for happiness and divine auxilia. Reynevan reined his horse around. Seared into his memory was the look Stietencron’s daughter gave him on parting. A childish, cow-eyed look, from watery eyes full of longing under badly plucked eyebrows.

  What a fright, he thought as he galloped through the wind and the rain. What a freak. But at least she can discern and appreciate a good-looking man.

  His horse had gone about a furlong before Reynevan thought it over and realised how stupid he was.

  When he ran into them near a large oak, he wasn’t even especially surprised.

  “Oh! Oh!” yelled Scharley, reining in his prancing horse. “God bless my soul! If it isn’t our Reynevan!”

  They dismounted and a moment later, Reynevan was groaning in the warm-hearted but rib-threatening embrace of Samson Honey-Eater.

  “Well, I never,” said Scharley in a slightly altered voice. “He escaped from the Ziębice assassins, and from Lord Biberstein and Stolz Castle. All credit to you. What a talented young man he is, Samson. He’s barely been with me a fortnight, and see how much he’s learned! He’s become as crafty as a Dominican, the bugger!”

  “He’s travelling to Ziębice,” observed Samson, his cool tone tinged with a hint of emotion, “which testifies conclusively against cunning. And good sense. Well, Reinmar?”

  “I consider the Ziębice affair over,” said Reynevan, clenching his teeth. “Nothing connects me to Ziębice now, or links me to the past. But I feared they had caught you there.”

  “Them? Catch us?” said Scharley. “You must be joking!”

  “I’m glad to see you,” Reynevan said. “I’m really delighted.”

  “We’ll have a good laugh when we share our stories, no doubt.”

  The rain had grown stronger and the wind was tossing the trees around.

  “Scharley,” said Samson. “I don’t think there’s any point continuing to follow the trail. What we planned no longer has either purpose or sense. Reinmar is free, nothing is holding him back, so let’s spur our horses and ride towards Opava and the Hungarian border. I suggest we leave Silesia and everything that’s Silesian behind us. Including our desperate plans.”

  “What plans?” asked Reynevan curiously.

  “No matter. Scharley, what do you say? I advise abandoning our plans. And terminating the contract.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “Later, Reinmar. Scharley?”

  The penitent cleared his throat loudly.

  “Terminate the contract?” he said, parroting Samson.

  “Indeed.”

  Scharley was evidently fighting against himself.

  “Night’s falling,” he finally said, “and the night will bring a solution. La notte, as they say in Italy, porta la consiglia. On condition, I shall add, that we spend the night in a warm, dry, safe place. To horse, lads, and follow me.”

  “Where to?” Reynevan asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  It was almost dark when some fences and buildings loomed up in front of them. Dogs began to bark as they approached.

  “What is it?” asked Samson apprehensively. “Could it be—”

  “It is Dębowiec,” interrupted Scharley. “A grange belonging to the Cistercian monastery in Kamieniec. When I was locked away with the penitents, they sometimes made me work here as part of my punishment, which is why I know that it’s a warm, dry place, perfect for a good night’s sleep. And in the morning, we’ll rustle up some grub.”

  “I understand that the Cistercians know you, so when you ask them to put us up—”

  “It’s not as simple as that,” the penitent interrupted again. “Tether the horses. We’ll leave them here, in the forest. And you two follow me. On tiptoe.”

  The Cistercian dogs had calmed down and were barking more quietly and unconvincingly when Scharley nimbly broke a plank in the wall of the barn. A moment later, they were in the dark, dry, warm interior, which smelled pleasantly of straw and hay. And soon, after climbing a ladder to the hayloft, they were burrowing into the hay.

  “Let’s get to sleep,” muttered Scharley, rustling. “Pity to do it on an empty stomach, but I suggest we don’t think about food until morning, then we can steal some provisions, if only a few. Reinmar—can you control your primitive urges… Reinmar?”

  Reynevan was asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In which it turns out that our heroes made a poor choice of where to sleep. It also confirms—although the details of the matter won’t be revealed until much later—the famous truth that in historical times, even the tiniest incident may have historically significant consequences.

  Reynevan, in spite of his fatigue, slept badly and restlessly. Before falling asleep, he thrashed around in the prickly, thistly hay and wriggled between Scharley and Samson, earning himself a few curses and shoves. Then he moaned in his sleep, seeing Peterlin pierced by many swords with blood flowing from his mouth. He sighed on seeing a naked Adèle of Stercza sitting astride Duke Jan of Ziębice, and moaned on seeing the duke stroking and squeezing her rhythmically bouncing breasts. Then, to his horror and despair, Adèle’s place on the duke was taken by Fair Nicolette—Katarzyna of Biberstein—who rode the tireless Piast with no less energy and enthusiasm than Adèle. And with no less satisfaction at the climax.

  Afterwards, there were half-naked lasses with hair flowing behind them, flying on brooms across a sky lit by the glow of fires, among flocks of cawing crows. A wallcreeper scurried over a building’s façade, silently opening its beak, and a force of hooded knights galloped in the fields, yelling incomprehensibly. There was a turris fulgurata, a tower hit by lightning and falling apart, with a person falling from it. Another person was running over the snow, on fire, engulfed in flames. Then a battle, the roar of cannons, the firing of handgonnes, the thudding of hooves, the neighing of horses, the clanking of weapons, the cries…

  He was awoken by the thudding of hooves, the neighing of horses, the clank of weapons and cries. Just in time, Samson covered Reynevan’s mouth with a hand.

  The courtyard of the grange was swarming with foot soldiers and riders.

  “We’ve landed ourselves in it,” muttered Scharley, observing the parade ground through a slit between the planks. “Like a hedgehog falling into shit.”

  “Is it the search party from Ziębice? After me?” whispered Reynevan.

  “It’s worse,” Scharley replied. “It’s a bloody council, dammit. I can see a great crowd of people, some of them magnates and knights.”

  “Let’s do a runner while we can.”

  “Regrettably,” Samson gestured with his head towards the sheepfold, “it’s too late. The whole area’s staked out to stop the uninvited from entering. And I doubt they’ll want to let anybody out, either. We woke up too late. It’s a wonder we weren’t roused by the smell, they’ve been roasting meat since dawn…”

  Indeed, the smell of roast meat drifting from the courtyard was getting stronger and stronger.

  “Those soldiers bear the bishop’s livery,” said Reynevan, now looking through his own knothole. “It might be the Inquisition.”

  “Marvellous,” muttered Scharley. “Fucking marvellous. Our only hope is if no one looks in here.”

  “Regrettably,” repeated Samson, “that’s a vain hope, because they’re heading here right now. Let’s bury ourselves in the hay. If they find us, we’ll pretend to be idiots.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  Reynevan dug down through the hay to the planks that formed the ceiling of the space below the hayloft, found a crack and put his eye to it.
He saw pikemen flooding into the barn and—to his growing alarm—searching it thoroughly, even plunging their glaives into sheaves of corn and the straw in hay-racks. One climbed the ladder, but contented himself with a cursory glance around rather than a full search.

  “Praise and thanks,” whispered Scharley, “to eternal soldierly ‘couldn’t-give-a-fuckery.’”

  That wasn’t the end of their troubles, unfortunately. Servants and monks poured in after the pikemen moved on to clear and sweep the dirt floor. Branches of fragrant fir were strewn around and benches hauled in. Tables were constructed from pine trestles and planks, then covered in canvas. Even before kegs and mugs had been brought in, Reynevan knew what was about to happen.

  Some time passed before the magnates entered the barn. Their colourful clothes, gleaming armour, jewels, gold chains and buckles were incongruous in the squalid interior.

  “A pox on it…” whispered Scharley, his eye also pressed against a crack. “They’ve decided to hold a secret council in this very barn. It isn’t just anyone, either—that’s Konrad, Bishop of Wrocław, in person. And beside him is Ludwik, Duke of Brzeg and Legnica—”

  “Quiet!” hissed Samson.

  Reynevan had also recognised both Piasts. Konrad—for eight years Bishop of Wrocław—had a surprisingly knightly build, which was remarkable considering his love of drinking, gluttony and lechery. The credit was due no doubt to his robust constitution and healthy Piast blood, since other dignitaries who reached Konrad’s age, even those who boozed less and whored more seldom, by then had bellies down to their knees, bags under their eyes and purple noses—if they still had noses. The forty-year-old Ludwik of Brzeg, however, resembled the King Arthur of miniatures—his long, wavy hair framed, like a halo, a face as sensitive as a poet’s, yet still manly.

  “Please sit down, noble lords,” said the bishop, his voice surprisingly resonant, like a young man’s. “Although it’s a barn not a palace, please enjoy our hospitality, and we shall compensate for the simple vittles with Hungarian wine, easily as good as what you would drink at the court of King Sigismund in Buda. Which the royal chancellor, the honourable Master Schlick will confirm—if, naturally, he shares that opinion.”

  A very serious and wealthy-looking young man gave a bow. The coat of arms on his doublet showed a silver pile on a red field and three rings of reverse tincture.

  “Kaspar Schlick,” whispered Scharley. “Sigismund’s personal secretary, confidant and advisor. A spectacular career for one so young…”

  Reynevan pulled a straw from his nose, stifling a sneeze with a superhuman effort. Samson hissed in warning.

  “I extend a particularly hearty welcome,” continued Bishop Konrad, “to His Eminence Giordano Orsini, member of the Sacred College of Cardinals, now legate to His Holiness Pope Martin. I also welcome the representative of the State of the Teutonic Order, the noble Gottfried Rodenberg, the Vogt of Lipa. And I welcome our esteemed guests from Poland, Moravia and Bohemia. Welcome and please be seated.”

  “They’ve even brought a fucking Teutonic Knight here,” muttered Scharley, trying to enlarge the hole in the floor with a knife. “The Vogt of Lipa. Where is that? Must be Prussia. And who are those others? I see Sir Půta of Častolovice… That broad-shouldered man with a black lion on a golden field is Albrecht of Kolditz, the Starosta of Świdnica… And the man with the Odrzywąs in his coat of arms must be one of the lords of Kravaře—”

  “Be quiet,” hissed Samson. “And stop whittling, or they’ll discover us from splinters falling into their cups…”

  Down below, cups were indeed being raised and toasts drunk. Chancellor Schlick praised the wine, but it wasn’t clear if it was only out of diplomatic courtesy. The men sitting at the tables appeared to know one another, with a few exceptions.

  “Who is your young companion, Monsignore Orsini?” Bishop Konrad asked, taking an interest.

  “He’s my secretary,” replied the papal legate, a small, grey-haired old man with a kindly smile. “His name is Nicholas of Cusa. I predict a great career for him in the service of our Church. Vero, he has rendered me a great service in my mission, for no one can invalidate heretical theories—especially Lollard and Hussite ones—like him. His Eminence the Bishop of Krakow can confirm.”

  “The Bishop of Krakow…” hissed Scharley. “Bugger… That’s…”

  “Zbigniew Oleśnicki,” confirmed Samson in a whisper. “In collusion with Konrad in Silesia. Dammit, we’re in the shit. Be as quiet as mice, because if they discover us, we’re done for.”

  “If so,” continued Bishop Konrad below them, “perhaps the Reverend Nicholaus of Cusa will begin? For that is precisely the purpose of our gathering: to put an end to the Hussite plague. While we eat and drink, let the young priest debunk the teachings of Huss. If you please, Reverend Cusa.”

  The servants carried in a roast ox on a wooden board and placed it on the table. Daggers and knives flashed and began carving. Meanwhile, the young Nicholaus of Cusa stood up and addressed the gathering. And although his eyes shone at the sight of the roast, the young priest’s voice didn’t tremble.

  “A spark is a small thing,” he gushed, “but when it touches something dry, it can destroy walls, cities and great forests. Thus, bad teachings begin with one man and barely two or three listeners at first; but slowly the cancer spreads through the body, and as they say, one bad apple spoils the whole barrel. We should extinguish the spark as soon as it appears, and cut out the rotten flesh, and drive the lousy sheep from the flock, so that we will not perish…”

  “Cut out the rotten flesh,” repeated Bishop Konrad, tearing off with his teeth a hunk of beef, dripping grease and bloody juices. “You speak well, very well, young Father Nicholaus. It’s a matter of surgery! Iron, sharp iron, is the best medicine for the Hussite cancer. Cut it out! Slaughter the heretics, I say, slaughter them mercilessly!”

  The men gathered at the table expressed their approval, mumbling with full mouths and waving the bones they were chewing on. The ox slowly transformed into a skeleton, and Nicholaus of Cusa debunked in turn all the Hussite errors, revealing all the absurdities of Wycliffe’s teachings: denying Transubstantiation, repudiating the existence of purgatory, rejecting the cult of the saints and their images, renouncing auricular confession. He finally reached communion sub utraque specie and debunked that, too.

  “Communion for the faithful should only be in the form of bread. For Matthew says: Give us this day our daily bread, and Luke says: He took bread, gave a blessing, broke it and gave it to them. Where is there a mention of wine? Verily, one and only one custom has been passed and confirmed by the Church: that the common man should receive communion under one kind. And that is sufficient for all believers!”

  “Amen,” concluded Ludwik of Brzeg, licking his fingers.

  “For all I care,” Bishop Konrad roared like a lion, tossing down a bone, “the Hussites can receive it up the arse! Those whoresons want to rob me! They clamour for the absolute secularisation of Church property and for the evangelical poverty of the clergy, which means taking it from us and dividing it up among themselves. Oh, by the Passion of Christ, that cannot be! Over my dead body! But better over their heretical carcasses! May they perish!”

  “For now, they live,” said Půta of Častolovice, the Starosta of Kłodzko, whom Reynevan and Scharley had seen scarcely five days before at the joust in Ziębice. “For now, they are alive and well, not turning on each other as was predicted after Žižka’s death.”

  “The danger is growing, not diminishing,” thundered Albrecht of Kolditz, Starosta and Hetman of the Duchy of Wrocław-Świdnica. “My spies report closer and closer collaboration between Prague and Korybut with Žižka’s heirs. Lord Půta is right—there is much talk of joint crusades. Whoever expected a miracle after Žižka’s death was mistaken.”

  “Look,” said Kaspar Schlick, “Prester John won’t be arriving any time soon from India with thousands of horses and elephants to solve the matter of the Bohem
ian Schism on our behalf. We—and we alone—must put an end to it. King Sigismund sent me here for that very reason. We must know what we can realistically hope for in Silesia, Moravia, the Duchy of Opava and Poland. The latter, I hope, will soon be explained to us by His Eminence the Bishop of Krakow. After all, his intransigent stance regarding the Polish supporters of Wycliffism is known far and wide, and his presence here proves his support for the politics of the Holy Roman Emperor—”

  “We know in Roma with what enthusiasm and devotion Bishop Zbigniew fights,” interrupted Giordano Orsini, “and we shall not fail to reward it.”

  “Thus,” asked Kaspar Schlick, “may I assume that the Kingdom of Poland actively supports the policies and initiatives of King Sigismund?”

  “I would be most glad to hear the answer to that question,” said the Teutonic Knight, Gottfried of Rodenberg, who was lounging at the table, “and to learn when we can expect the active participation of the Polish army in the anti-Hussite crusade. I’d like to hear that from someone objective. So, please go on, Monsignore Orsini. We are all ears!”

  “Indeed,” added Schlick, smiling, keeping his eyes on Bishop Oleśnicki. “We are all ears. How went your mission at the court of Jogaila?”

  “I spoke at length to King Władysław,” Orsini said in a somewhat sorrowful voice, “but with little effect. On behalf of and with the authorisation of His Holiness, I gave the King of Poland a relic of no little importance—one of the nails that held our Saviour to the cross. Vero, if such a relic is incapable of inspiring a Christian monarch to join an anti-heretical crusade, then—”

  “He is not a Christian monarch.” Bishop Konrad finished the sentence for the legate.

  “You’ve noticed?” The Teutonic Knight grimaced scornfully. “Better late than never!”

  “So the true faith cannot count on Polish support?” asked Ludwik of Brzeg.

  “The Kingdom of Poland and King Władysław,” said Bishop Oleśnicki, speaking for the first time, “support the true faith and the Church of Peter using the best of all possible means—namely Peter’s Pence. None of the kings represented here can say that about himself.”