The black knight hacked the hamadryad in passing with his sword. It uttered a horrifying cry and spurted sap. The miller’s daughter looked back, to her undoing. The knight knocked her down with his horse, cut her as she tried to stand, and hung from the saddle to hew her so hard that the blade crunched into her skull. The witch fell down, twisting and writhing in the dry grass.
The alp and Reynevan ran as fast as they could but had no chance against a galloping horse. The knight quickly caught up with them. They split up, the alp racing to the right, Reynevan to the left. The knight hurtled after the alp. A moment later, a scream came from the mist, signalling that the alp would not live to see the transformations or the Czech Hussites.
Reynevan ran at breakneck speed, panting and not looking back. The fog muffled the sounds, but he could still hear the thudding of hooves and neighing behind him—or thought he could.
He suddenly heard the stamping of hooves and the wheezing of a horse in front of him. He stopped, numb with terror, but before he could take any action, a dapple-grey mare with foam around its mouth bearing a short, stout woman in a man’s doublet emerged from the fog. On seeing him, the woman brought her horse to a sliding stop and brushed away from her forehead a wind-blown fringe of flaxen hair.
“Lady Dzierżka…” he groaned in amazement. “Dzierżka of Wirsing…”
“My kinsman?” The horse trader looked no less amazed. “You? Here? Don’t just bloody stand there! Give me your hand and hop up behind me!”
He seized her outstretched hand. But it was too late.
“Adsuuumuuuus!”
Dzierżka dismounted with astonishing grace and agility considering her rotund physique. Equally nimbly, she hauled a crossbow from her back and tossed it to Reynevan, then unhitched another from her saddle.
“The horse!” she yelled, throwing him some bolts and a tool called a goat’s foot lever used for nocking the bowstring. “Aim at the horse!”
The black knight thundered at them with upraised sword and cloak flowing behind, so fast he was tossing up divots of turf. Reynevan’s hands were shaking so much, the claw hooks of the lever wouldn’t catch on the bowstring to pull it over the nut on the stock. He swore despairingly. It helped: the hooks held on and the bowstring caught the nut. He loaded a bolt with a trembling hand.
“Shoot!”
He shot. And missed. For against orders, he had aimed at the rider, not the horse. He saw the arrowhead send up sparks as it glanced off his steel spaulder. Dzierżka swore thunderously and obscenely, blew her hair out of her eyes, aimed and released the bowstring. The bolt hit the horse in the chest and penetrated deeply. The horse squealed, wheezed and tumbled forward onto its knees and face. The black knight fell from the saddle and rolled over, losing his helmet and sword. And began to rise.
Dzierżka swore again. Now both their hands were shaking, both kept missing with the lever, the bolts falling out of the grooves. And the black knight got to his feet, unhitched a huge morning star from his saddle and set off towards them with an unsteady gait. At the sight of his face, Reynevan stifled a cry, pressing his mouth to the crossbow’s stock. The knight’s face was white, practically silver, like a leper’s. The eyes, ringed with blue and red, were wild and vacant and his teeth flashed between his drooling, foam-covered lips.
“Adsuumuuuus!”
Bowstrings clanged, quarrels hissed. Both hit, penetrating the armour with a loud crack up to the fletching—one through the bevor and the other through the breastplate. The knight wobbled, staggered heavily, but stayed on his feet, and to Reynevan’s horror kept coming, yelling incomprehensibly, spitting the blood pouring from his mouth and swinging the morning star. Dzierżka swore and jumped aside, vainly trying to reload the crossbow. Knowing that she couldn’t, she dodged the blow, tripped, fell down, and seeing the spiked ball coming for her, shielded her face and head with her arms.
Reynevan screamed and the scream saved her life. The knight turned to face him and Reynevan shot from close range, aiming at his belly. The quarrel went in up to the fletching again, penetrating the faulds with a dry crack. The force of impact was considerable and the arrowhead must have penetrated deep into his guts, but the knight still didn’t fall. Instead, he staggered, regained his balance and moved swiftly towards Reynevan, roaring and raising the morning star to strike. Reynevan stepped back, trying to catch the bowstring with the goat’s foot. He caught it and cocked the crossbow. And only then realised that he didn’t have a quarrel. He caught his heel on a tussock and sat down on the ground, looking in horror at his approaching death—as pale as a ghost, wild-eyed, with foam and blood streaming from his mouth. He shielded himself with the crossbow.
“Adsumus! Adsum—”
Still half-lying, half-sitting, Dzierżka of Wirsing pressed the trigger of her crossbow and sent a bolt straight into the back of his head. The knight dropped the morning star, brandished his arms chaotically and fell like a log, making the ground shake. He fell half a step from Reynevan. Yet even with an iron quarrel and several inches of ash wood in his brain, he wasn’t, astonishingly, quite dead. He went on rasping, shuddering and scraping the turf. He finally stopped moving.
Dzierżka continued to kneel for some time, supporting herself on straight arms. Then she vomited. And stood up. She cocked the crossbow and loaded the bolt. She walked over to the knight’s snorting horse and aimed from close up. The bowstring clanged, the horse’s head thudded limply against the ground and the rear legs kicked spasmodically.
“I love horses,” she said, looking Reynevan in the eyes, “but in order to survive in this world, you sometimes have to sacrifice what you love. Remember that, kinsman. And next time, aim where I tell you.”
He nodded and stood up.
“You saved my life. And avenged your brother. To some degree.”
“Was it them… those riders… that killed Peterlin?”
“It was. Didn’t you know? But this isn’t the time for chit-chat, kinsman. We must flee before his comrades arrive.”
“They tracked me all the way here—”
“Not you,” countered Dzierżka unemotionally. “Me. They were waiting for me in an ambuscade just outside Bardo, near Potworów. They broke up my herd and massacred the escort. Fourteen bodies are lying on the highway there. I’d have been among them, were it not for… That’s enough talk!”
She put her fingers into her mouth and whistled. A moment later, hooves thudded on the ground and a dapple-grey mare trotted out of the mist. Dzierżka leaped into the saddle, once again astonishing Reynevan with her agility and the feline grace of her movements.
“Don’t just stand there!”
He seized her hand and jumped onto the mare’s rump behind her. The mare snorted and took small steps. Turning its head away, it recoiled from the corpse.
“Who… what was that?”
“A demon,” she replied, brushing some unruly hair from her forehead. “One of those that walk in darkness. I just wonder who the fuck informed on me…”
“Hashshashin.”
“What?”
“Hashshashin,” he repeated. “This one was under the influence of an intoxicating Arabian herbal substance called hash’eesh. You haven’t heard of the Old Man of the Mountain? Of the assassins from the citadels of Alamut in Khurasan, Persia?”
“To hell with your Khurasan.” She turned around in the saddle. “And your Persia. We are, if you still haven’t got it, in Silesia, at the foot of Grochowa Mountain, a mile from Frankenstein. But, methinks, a lot doesn’t get through to you. You’re descending the slopes of Grochowa Mountain at dawn after the autumn equinox under the influence of the Devil knows what Arabian substance. But you ought to understand that our lives are in danger. So shut up and hold on, for I’ll be riding hard!”
Dzierżka of Wirsing had exaggerated—fear had clouded her judgement. On the road and by the weed-covered verges lay only eight corpses, five of which belonged to the armed escort, defending themselves to the last. Almost half of the fourteen-man esc
ort had survived, saving themselves by fleeing into the nearby trees. Of those, only one returned—a stableman who, being elderly, hadn’t got far. And who was now, when the sun had risen higher in the sky, found in the undergrowth by knights riding along the highway from Frankenstein.
The knights—their train including pages and servants numbered twenty-one—were riding as if to war, in full white armour with pennants unfurled. Most of them had combat experience and had seen a thing or two in their lives. In spite of that, most of them still swallowed at the sight of the cruelly massacred bodies contorted on the sand, black with dried blood. And no one mocked the morbid paleness that crept into the faces of the more callow among them at the sight.
As the sun rose higher and the mist dispersed, its blaze glistened on the clotted, ruby drops suspended like berries on the thistle and sagebrush verge. The sight didn’t arouse any aesthetic or poetic association in any of the knights.
“They hacked them to pieces,” said Kunad of Neudeck, spitting. “There was a bloodbath here, all right.”
“Headsman’s blows,” agreed Wilhelm of Kauffung. “Carnage.”
More of the surviving servants and stable boys emerged from the woods. Although pale and half-dazed with fear, they hadn’t neglected their duties and were each leading several of the horses that had scattered during the attack.
Ramfold of Oppeln, the oldest of the knights, looked down from his saddle at a stableman, trembling with fear among the horsemen around him.
“Who attacked you? Speak, lad! Calm yourself. You survived. You’re in no danger now.”
“God preserved us…” Panic was still swimming in the stableman’s eyes. “And Our Lady of Bardo—”
“You can pay for a Mass later. But speak now and tell us who attacked you?”
“How should I know? They attacked… They were in armour… In iron… Like you…”
“Knights!” a beanpole with the face of a monk bearing two crossed silver posts on a red shield said angrily. “Knights attacking merchants on highways! Zounds, it’s high time to put an end to these Raubritter practices and take some severe measures! Perhaps when a few heads roll, the lordlings from their little castles will come to their senses!”
“Amen to that,” said Wencel of Hartha, nodding inscrutably. “Amen to that, m’Lord Runge.”
“But why were you attacked?” Oppeln reopened the enquiry. “Were you carrying any valuables?”
“Why, no… Well, unless you count the horses…”
“Horses,” Hartha repeated pensively. “A desirable thing, horses from Skałka. From Lady Dzierżka of Wirsing’s stud… Lord, have mercy on her—”
He broke off, swallowed, unable to tear his eyes from the mutilated face of a woman lying on the sand in a horrifyingly unnatural position.
“That’s not her.” The stableman blinked his vacant eyes. “That’s not Lady Dzierżka. That’s the head groom’s woman… Him what’s lying over there… She rode with us from Kłodzko…”
“They erred,” Kauffung stated coolly. “They took the head groom’s woman for Dzierżka.”
“They had to,” confirmed the stableman unemotionally. “Because…”
“Because what?”
“She looked more aristocratic.”
“Do you suggest, Sir Wilhelm,” said Oppeln, straightening up in the saddle, “that it wasn’t a robbery? That Lady Wirsing was—”
“Was the target? Yes. I’m certain of it.” Seeing the enquiring looks of the other knights, he added, “Like Mikołaj Neumarkt and Fabian Pfefferkorn… Like the others, who—contrary to prohibitions—were trading with… with foreigners.”
“The robber knights are guilty,” Runge said emphatically. “One cannot lend credence to foolish tales, rumours about plots and nocturnal demons. They’ve all been ordinary robberies.”
“The crimes may also have been committed by Jews,” said young Heinrich, called “Starling” to distinguish him from the other Heinrichs in his family. “To obtain Christian blood, you know, for matzah. Look at this one here, the poor wretch. I don’t think there’s a drop of blood left in him—”
“How could there be,” Wencel of Hartha glanced pityingly at the youngster, “when his head is gone—”
“This atrocity might have been committed by those witches on broomsticks who fell on us last night by the campfire!” Gunter of Bischofsheim interrupted gloomily. “By the skullcap of Saint Anthony! Indeed, the mystery is beginning to be solved! For I told you that Reinmar of Bielawa was among the she-devils—I recognised him! I am certain that Bielawa is a magician, and that he was making black magic in Oleśnica and casting spells on ladies. The gentlemen there can confirm it!”
“I know nothing,” muttered Ciołek Krompusz, looking at Benno Ebersbach. Both had also recognised Reynevan among the witches flying through the sky, but preferred not to reveal it.
“Aye, that is so.” Ebersbach cleared his throat. “We seldom reside in Oleśnica. We pay no heed to gossip—”
“It’s not gossip, but facts,” said Runge, looking at him. “Bielawa was making magic. The wretch reportedly killed his own brother, like Cain, when the latter uncovered his devilish practices.”
“It is a certain thing,” said Eustachy of Rochow, nodding. “Lord Reideburg, the Strzelin starosta, was talking about it. He received word of it from Wrocław, from the bishop himself. The young Reinmar of Bielawa had lost his mind from practicing witchcraft. The Devil guides his hand, directs him towards misdeeds. He killed his own brother and those other merchants—why, he even tried to stab the Duke of Ziębice—”
“Verily he did,” confirmed Starling, “and went to the tower for it. But he escaped. Doubtless with the Devil’s aid.”
“If it’s a devilish matter,” Kunad of Neudeck looked around with concern, “let’s ride from here with all haste before evil get its claws into us—”
“Into us?” Ramfold of Oppeln patted the shield suspended from his saddle, above the coat of arms showing a silver pike pole and band with a red cross. “Into us? Into this banner? Why, we have the cross, we are crusaders on our way to Bohemia with Bishop Konrad, to fight the heretics and defend God and religion! The Devil cannot draw near to us, for we are milites Dei, the Angelic Militia!”
“As the Angelic Militia,” observed Rochow, “we have not only privileges, but also responsibilities.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Lord Bischofsheim recognised Reinmar of Bielawa among the witches flying to their sabbath. We must inform the Holy Office about it when we arrive at the rallying point for the crusade in Kłodzko.”
“Inform? Sir Eustachy! But we are knights!”
“Regarding witchcraft and heresy, denunciation does not stain knightly virtue.”
“It always does!”
“It does not!”
“It does,” stated Ramfold of Oppeln, “but one must inform. And one will. But now, let us move on, gentlemen, to Kłodzko. The Angelic Militia must not be late at the rallying point.”
“It would be shameful,” confirmed Starling in his high voice, “for the bishop’s crusade to set off for Bohemia without us.”
“So we ride.” Kauffung reined his horse around. “We’re not needed here now, anyway—someone else will take care of the matter.”
Indeed, mounted soldiers of the Burgrave of Frankenstein were riding up the highway.
“Here we are.” Dzierżka of Wirsing reined in her horse and sighed deeply. Reynevan, pressed against her back, felt the sigh. “This is the bridge over the River Budzówka, on the other side of which lies Frankenstein. On the left of the road is the Hospice of the Order of the Holy Sepulchre, Saint George’s Church and the Narrenturm. On the right there are mills and dyers’ huts. Further, across the bridge, is the Kłodzko Gate. Over there is the ducal castle, the town-hall tower and the Church of Saint Anne. Dismount.”
“Here?”
“Here. I have no intention of showing myself anywhere near the town. And you ought to think
twice about it, kinsman.”
“Indeed I must.”
“As I suspected. Off you get.”
“What about you?”
“I don’t have to.”
“I was asking which way you’re heading.”
She blew a strand of hair away from her eyes and looked at him. He understood her look and didn’t ask any more questions.
“Farewell, kinsman. We’ll meet again.”
“Hopefully in better times.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
In which many old—though not necessarily good—friends meet in the town of Frankenstein.
Almost in the centre of the town square, between the pillory and the well, was a large puddle stinking of dung and foaming with horses’ urine. A large flock of sparrows were splashing in it, while around it sat a group of filthy children busy messing around in the mud, splashing each other, making a racket and constructing sailing boats from bark.
“Aye, Reinmar,” said Scharley, finishing his soup, scraping the bottom of the bowl with a spoon. “I must admit that your nocturnal flight impressed me. You flew like a veritable eagle. A king of flyers. Remember I prophesied that you would become an eagle, after the levitation with the witches in the forest? And you have. Though I don’t think it was without Huon of Sagar’s assistance, but still. I swear on my prick, laddie, you’re making enormous progress in my care. Apply yourself a bit more and you’ll be the next Merlin and build a Stonehenge for us here in Silesia, fit to put the English one to shame.”
Samson snorted.
“What about Lady Biberstein?” the penitent continued a moment later. “Did you lead her safely to the gate of her father’s castle?”
“Almost.” Reynevan clenched his jaw. He had looked for Nicolette—unsuccessfully—the entire morning, all over Frankenstein, peering into taverns, searching for her after the Mass outside Saint Anne’s, at the Ziębice Gate and on the road leading to Stolz, asking people as he wandered through the Cloth Hall in the town square. And in the market hall, he had met—to his enormous joy and relief—Scharley and Samson.
The Tower of Fools Page 47