On top of that, whenever she met a man, Formosa of Krossig instinctively became coquettish. The results were ghastly.
“You are most welcome.” She smiled at Scharley and Notker of Weyrach, flashing very yellowed teeth. “I welcome you to my castle, gentlemen. You’re finally home, Huon. I’ve missed you very, very much.”
Reynevan had managed to piece together a picture of the situation from snatches of conversations overheard during the journey, but it was far from complete. He did not know that Formosa of Pannewitz had been dowered with Bodak Castle when she married Otto of Krossig, an impoverished but proud descendant of Franconian ministeriales, for love. Or that Buko, her and Otto’s son, was departing markedly from the truth by calling the castle his patrimonium. The word matrimonium would have been more accurate, although premature. Following the death of her husband, Formosa hadn’t lost the property or roof over her head thanks to her family, the wealthy Pannewitzes of Silesia. And, supported by the Pannewitzes, she was the real lady of the castle for life.
Reynevan had also heard enough to guess at the relationship between Formosa and Huon of Sagar, but much too little to know that the sorcerer, pursued by the Inquisition of the Archbishop of Magdeburg, had fled to relatives in Silesia—the Sagars had an estate near Krosno dating all the way back to Bolesław the Bald. Somehow, Huon met Formosa, the sorcerer caught Formosa’s fancy, and from then on had lived at the castle.
“I’ve missed you very much,” repeated Formosa, standing on the tips of her pink slippers and kissing the sorcerer’s cheek. “Get changed, my dear. And do come in, gentlemen, do come in…”
The wild boar on the Krossigs’ coat of arms—next to something unrecognisable on the heraldic shield which was blackened with soot and covered in cobwebs—looked down from above the fireplace onto the large oak table in the middle of the hall. The walls were hung with animal skins and weapons, none of which looked serviceable. One of the walls was covered by a Flemish tapestry woven in Arras, portraying Abraham, Isaac and the ram caught in the bushes.
The comitiva, wearing gambesons marked with the indentions of armour, sat around the table. The mood, though initially rather gloomy, was somewhat improved by the arrival of a keg. And spoiled again by Formosa returning from the kitchen.
“Do my ears deceive me?” she asked menacingly, pointing at Nicolette. “Buko! You’ve kidnapped the daughter of the Lord of Stolz?”
“I told that whoreson wizard not to say anything,” grunted Buko to Weyrach. “Fucking conjurer, can’t keep his trap shut for more than a second… I was just about to tell you, Mother. And explain everything. It happened like this—”
“I know how it happened,” interrupted Formosa, clearly well informed. “You dolts! Wasted a week and somebody snatched the loot out from under your noses… I’m not surprised by the youngsters. But you, Lord Weyrach, a mature, level-headed man…”
She smiled at Notker, who lowered his eyes and swore under his breath. Buko was about to swear aloud, but Formosa wagged a threatening finger at him.
“And this idiot ends up kidnapping Jan of Biberstein’s daughter,” she continued. “Buko! Have you utterly lost your mind?”
“You might let us eat first, Mother,” said the Raubritter angrily. “We’re sitting here hungry and thirsty as if it’s a wake. It’s a shame in front of guests. Serve us with food and we’ll talk about our interests afterwards.”
“The food is being prepared and they’re bringing in the beverages. Don’t teach me manners. Forgive us, gentle knights. And you, m’lord, I don’t know… Nor you, handsome young man…”
“He asks to be called Scharley,” said Buko, remembering his responsibilities. “And this stripling is Reinmar of Hagenau.”
“Ah. A descendant of the famous poet?”
“No.”
Huon of Sagar returned, having changed into a baggy houppelande with a large fur collar. It was obvious who enjoyed the grace and favour of the lady of the castle, for Huon immediately received a roast chicken, a dish of pierogis and a goblet of wine, served by Formosa herself. The sorcerer began to eat uninhibitedly, disdainfully ignoring the starved looks from the rest of the company. Fortunately, the others didn’t have to wait long, either. To everyone’s delight, a great dish of pork stewed with raisins was brought to the table, preceded by a delicious aroma. A second followed, piled with mutton seasoned with saffron, then a third, filled with a fricassee of various game meats, and finally pots of kasha. A few vats containing two-year mead and Hungarian wine were greeted with undiminished joy and immediately sampled.
The company began eating in dignified silence, interrupted only by the crunching of teeth and toasts being raised from time to time. Reynevan ate cautiously and in moderation—the previous month’s escapades had already taught him the frightful effects of gluttony following a long period without food. He hoped that servants weren’t usually neglected at Bodak and that Samson wouldn’t be doomed to go without.
The meal lasted for some time. Finally, Buko of Krossig loosened his belt and belched.
“Now,” said Formosa, correctly guessing that this signalled the end of the first course, “perhaps it’s time to discuss our affairs. Although it seems to me there’s nothing to talk about, for Biberstein’s daughter is poor business.”
“Business, Mother,” said Buko, who had clearly gained some composure from the Hungarian wine, “is my affair, with all due respect. It is I who work, I who bring goods to the castle. My efforts give food, drink and clothing to everybody here. I risk my life. If, one day, by the will of God, my day of reckoning arrives, you will see how frugal your lives will become. So do not gripe!”
“Just look.” Formosa turned to the Raubritters with arms akimbo. “Just look how he struts, my youngest boy. Feeds and clothes me? Upon my word, I shall split my sides laughing. I’d look fine if I only relied on him. Fortunately, here in Bodak, there is a deep cellar, and in it chests. And in the chests, pipsqueak, is what your father and brothers put there, may the Lord keep them. They knew how to bring loot home. They didn’t make asses of themselves. They didn’t foolishly kidnap magnates’ daughters. They knew what they were doing—”
“I also know what I’m doing! The Lord of Stolz will pay a ransom—”
“Not a chance!” Formosa cut him off. “Biberstein? Pay? You fool! He’ll give up on her, then seize you and exact revenge. Something similar happened in Lusatia. If you bothered to listen, you’d recall what befell Wolf Schlitter when he tried a similar antic with Fryderyk of Biberstein, Lord of Żary. And in what coin the master of Żary paid him back.”
“I heard about that,” Huon of Sagar confirmed indifferently, “because the matter was trumpeted far and wide. Biberstein’s men caught Wolf, stuck him with spears like an animal, then castrated and disembowelled him. There was a popular saying in Lusatia afterwards: the Wolf got away a few times and then found out how sharp the Deer’s Antlers were—”
“As usual, m’Lord Sagar,” Buko cut in impatiently, “you have heard everything and know everything. In the meantime, Sir Woldan is moaning in pain, Paszko Rymbaba is spitting blood and all our bones are aching, so perhaps, rather than reminiscing, you could prepare some kind of remedy? Why do you have a workshop in the tower, eh? Only to call forth the Devil?”
“Heed to whom you speak!” said Formosa, losing her temper, but the wizard gestured for her to be quiet.
“It is meet, indeed, to relieve suffering,” he said, rising from the table. “Would Lord Reinmar of Hagenau like to help me?”
“Why, of course.” Reynevan also stood up. “Naturally, m’Lord Sagar.”
They went out.
“Two wizards,” Buko grunted behind them. “An old and a young. Devil’s spawn…”
The wizard’s laboratory was located on the tower’s highest—and definitely coldest—storey, and a large part of Kłodzko Valley would probably have been visible from the windows had dusk not fallen. Reynevan’s expert eye noticed the workshop’s modern equipment.
Unlike old-fashioned mages and alchemists with predilections for workshops like junk rooms, full of all sorts of rubbish, modern wizards preferred workshops furnished and equipped spartanly, with only what was necessary. Apart from benefits in the form of tidiness and aesthetics, there was also the advantage that it made fleeing easier. Modern alchemists, threatened by the Inquisition, made their escape according to the principle omnia mea mecum porto, not looking back at the chattels they abandoned without remorse. Old-school mages defended to the end their stuffed crocodiles, dried sawfishes’ snouts, homunculi, vipers in alcohol, bezoars and mandrakes—and ended up burned at the stake.
Huon of Sagar took a straw-covered demijohn from a chest and filled two goblets with a ruby-coloured liquid. It smelled of honey and sour cherries and so had to be kirschwasser.
“Sit down, Reinmar of Bielawa,” he said, pointing at a chair. “Let’s drink. I already have a large store of camphor unguent for bruises—it is, as you can guess, in great demand at Bodak. Probably only the potion for curing hangovers is used more often. I invited you here because I want to talk.”
Reynevan looked around. He admired Huon’s alchemic equipment, which was pleasingly clean and well organised. He also liked the alembic and athanor, and the evenly arranged and neatly labelled flacons of philtres and elixirs. But he was most delighted by the library.
Abdul Alhazred’s Necronomicon was open on a bookrest and clearly being read. Other sorcerer’s grimoires Reynevan recognised were piled up on the table alongside medical and philosophical treatises. There were also, naturally, the opera magna of alchemic knowledge and some gems including the notorious Red Dragon.
“I feel honoured that the famous Huon of Sagar wishes to talk to me,” he said, sipping a little kirschwasser. “Someone I could have expected to meet anywhere, but not—”
“But not at a Raubritter’s castle,” finished Huon. “Oh well, the fates have thus conspired. But I don’t complain, actually. I have what I like here, namely peace and quiet and solitude. The Inquisition has probably forgotten about me, including the Reverend Gunter of Schwarzburg, Archbishop of Magdeburg, who was determined to reward me with execution for saving the country from locusts. I have a laboratory here, as you see. I experiment a little, write a little… Occasionally, for fresh air and recreation, I join Buko on a plundering raid. All in all…” The wizard heaved a deep sigh. “All in all, it’s not a bad life. Except…”
Reynevan politely restrained his curiosity, but Huon of Sagar was evidently in the mood to confide.
“You’ve seen what Formosa is like.” He grimaced. “Exsiccatum est faenum, cecidit flos. The woman’s turned five and fifty, and rather than weakening, grumbling and being at death’s door, the old mare endlessly demands that I service her, over and over, morning, noon and night, in more and more elaborate ways. I’m destroying my stomach and kidneys with sodding aphrodisiacs. But I have to keep the old cow satisfied. If I don’t acquit myself in the bedchamber, I’ll fall from grace and then Buko will turf me out.”
Reynevan made no comment again. The wizard scrutinised him keenly.
“For the time being, Buko of Krossig tolerates me,” he continued, “but it would be unwise to underestimate him. He’s a buffoon, indeed, but often so enterprising and ingenious in his evil inclinations it makes my flesh creep. He’s sure to surprise us in the affair with Biberstein’s daughter, I’m convinced of it, which is why I’ve decided to help you.”
“You, help me? Why?”
“Why? Because it doesn’t suit me for Jan of Biberstein to lay siege here, nor for the Inquisition to renew its interest in me. Because I’ve heard nothing but good about your brother, Piotr of Bielawa. Because I was displeased by the bats that someone set on you and your companions in the Cistercian Forest. Tandem because Toledo alma mater nostra est, I don’t want you to come to a sticky end, O confrater in the dark arts. And you may. There’s something between you and Biberstein’s daughter, you don’t hide it. I don’t know if it’s an old affection or love at first sight, but I know that amantes amentes. On the way here, you were a hair’s breadth from seizing her from the saddle and galloping off, which would have resulted in the two of you perishing in the Black Forest. Now, too, when matters are becoming complicated, you are ready to grab her around the waist and leap from the walls. Am I very wide of the mark?”
“Not really.”
“As I said,” the wizard smiled with the corners of his mouth, “amantes amentes. Yes, yes, life is a veritable Narrenturm. Do you know, incidentally, what day it is today? Or rather what night?”
“Not really. I’ve somewhat lost track of dates…”
“Never mind dates, calendars can be wrong. More importantly, today is the autumnal equinox. The Aequinoctium autumnalis.”
He stood up and slid out a carved oak bench more or less two ells wide and a little over one ell high from under the table and placed it by the door. He then took from a chest of drawers a labelled clay pot tied up with vellum.
“I keep quite a special ointment in this vessel,” he pointed. “A mescolanza made according to classical ingredients. I wrote the recipe on the label, as you can see. Solanum dulcamara, solanum niger, aconitine, cinquefoil, poplar leaves, bat’s blood, cowbane, red poppy seeds, purslane, wild celery… The only thing I changed is the fat. I replaced the fat melted from an unbaptised child as recommended by The Grimorium Verum with sunflower oil. It’s cheaper and longer-lasting.”
“Is it…” Reynevan swallowed. “What I think it is?”
“I never lock the laboratory door,” the wizard continued as though he hadn’t heard the question, “and there are no bars on the window. I’m putting the ointment here, on the table. You probably know how it’s applied. I advise you to use it sparingly—it causes side effects.”
“But is it… safe?”
“Nothing is safe.” Huon of Sagar shrugged. “Nothing. Everything is a theory. And as one of my friends says: Grau, teurer Freund, ist alle Theorie—all theory is grey.”
“But I—”
“Reinmar,” the magician interrupted coldly. “Have some consideration. I’ve told and shown you enough already to be suspected of complicity. Don’t expect any more. Very well, it’s time we went. Let’s take the camphor unguentum to rub on the maladies of our bruised robbers. Let us also take extract of somniferum. It alleviates the pain and puts one to sleep, for sleep heals and soothes, and as they say: qui dormit non peccat, he who sleeps doesn’t sin. And doesn’t interfere… Help me, Reinmar.”
Reynevan stood up and carelessly toppled over a small pile of books, quickly grabbing them to save them from falling. He straightened the book lying on the top, whose lengthy title inscription began Bernardi Silvestri libri duo; quibus tituli Megacosmos et Microcosmos… Reynevan lost interest when his eye was caught by another incunable lying underneath, and by the wording of its title. He suddenly realised he had seen it before. Or rather, fragments of it.
He hurriedly shoved Bernardus Silvestris aside. And gasped.
DOCTOR EVANGELICUS
SUPER OMNES EVANGELISTAS
JOANNES WICLEPH ANGLICUS
DE BLASPHEMIA DE APOSTASIA
DE SYMONIA
DE POTESTATE PAPAE
DE COMPOSITIONE HOMINIS
Anglicus, not basilicus, he thought. Symonia, not sanctimonia. Papae, not papillae. The scorched sheet of paper from Powojowice. The manuscript Peterlin had ordered burned. It was John Wycliffe.
“Wycliffe,” he involuntarily repeated aloud. “Wycliffe, who will tell a lie and tell the truth. Burned and disinterred—”
“I beg your pardon?” Huon of Sagar turned around holding two jars. “Whom did they disinter?”
“They haven’t yet,” Reynevan said, still somewhere else in his thoughts. “It is to come. That’s what the prophecy said. John Wycliffe, doctor evangelicus. A liar, because he was a heretic, but according to the goliard song, he’s also the one who will tell the truth. Buried in Lutterworth, England. His remains will be
dug up and burned, his ashes thrown into the River Swift and will flow to the seas. It will happen in three years.”
“Fascinating,” said Huon seriously. “And other prophecies? The fate of Europe? Of the world? Of Christianity?”
“I’m sorry. Just Wycliffe.”
“Woeful. But it’s better than nothing. They’ll heave Wycliffe out of his grave, you say? In three years? Let’s see if we can exploit that knowledge somehow. And since we’re on the subject, why does Wycliffe…? Oh… I beg your pardon. It’s not my… Nowadays, one doesn’t ask questions like that. Wycliffe, Waldhausen, Huss, Hieronim, Joachim… Dangerous reading matter, dangerous views, plenty of people have lost their lives because of them…”
Plenty of people, thought Reynevan. Plenty, indeed. Oh, Peterlin, Peterlin.
“Here—carry the flasks for me, and let’s go.”
The company seated at table were now well in their cups and only Buko of Krossig and Scharley looked sober. The feasting had continued, for further dishes had been brought from the kitchen: wild boar sausage in beer, cervelat, Westphalian black pudding and plenty of bread.
Huon of Sagar rubbed ointment into the bruises and sprains and Reynevan changed Woldan of Osiny’s dressing. Woldan’s swollen face caused uproarious mirth when the bandages were removed. Woldan himself was less interested in his wounds than in the hounskull helmet, which had reputedly cost a whole four grzywna and which he had left in the forest. To the observation that the helmet was buckled, he replied that it could have been beaten out.
Woldan was also the only one to drink the elixir of poppy. Buko, after tasting it, poured the decoct onto the straw-covered floor and chided Huon for giving him the “bitter shit.” The others did likewise. Thus, the hopes of sedating the Raubritters were dashed.
Formosa of Krossig hadn’t stinted on the Hungarian wine and two-year mead, either, evinced by her flushed cheeks and slightly incoherent speech. When Reynevan and Huon returned, Formosa stopped sending seductive looks towards Weyrach and Scharley and directed her attention instead towards Katarzyna, who, after eating a little, was sitting with head lowered.
The Tower of Fools Page 42