“Fascinating information, indeed,” he finally said. “Verily, young Lord Bielawa, it would be worth taking you to Hradec.”
While the Hussite Army was busily engaged in pillaging the town of Radkov, Brázda of Klinštejn, Velek Chrastický and Oldřich Halada explained to Reynevan and Scharley what it was all about.
“Jan Hvězda of Vicemilice, Hetman of the Tábor,” said Brázda, “departed this life on the last day of October, and his successor, Sir Bohuslav of Švamberk, expired less than a week ago.”
“Just don’t say,” said Scharley, frowning, “that they were both victims of assassins.”
“They both died of wounds sustained in battle. Hvězda took an arrow to the face at Mladá Vožice, on Saint Luke’s Eve, and died soon afterwards. Sir Bohuslav was wounded during the battle for the Austrian town of Retz.”
“So they weren’t assassinated,” said Scharley mockingly, “but died natural deaths for a Hussite!”
“Not entirely. I’m telling you that both men died some time after sustaining wounds. Perhaps they would have pulled through had not somebody, let’s say, given them poison? You must admit, it’s a strange coincidence: two great Taborite leaders, both heirs of Žižka, dying one after the other, in the space of barely a month—”
“A sore loss for the Tábor,” Velek Chrastický interrupted, “and for our foes so great an advantage that there have been suspicions of foul play… And now, after young Lord Bielawa’s revelations, this must be thoroughly explained.”
“Indeed.” Scharley nodded, apparently serious. “So much so that if the necessity arises, young Lord Bielawa will be tortured, since it is well known that nothing elicits explanations of suspicious matters better than red-hot iron.”
“Come, come.” Brázda smiled, but not very convincingly. “No one is even thinking of anything of the sort!”
“Why, Sir Reinmar is Sir Piotr’s brother!” Oldřich Halada added, also not very convincingly. “And Sir Piotr of Bielawa was one of us. And you are also ours, after all—”
“And as such free to go?” Urban Horn interrupted mockingly. “They can, if they so wish, go wherever they want? Right now, for example?”
“Well…” stammered the hetman of the Hradec cavalry. “How can I… No. They can’t. I have other orders. For as you see…”
“Danger is all around.” Halada cleared his throat. “We must… guard you closely…”
“Absolutely. You must.”
The matter was clear. Ambrož was no longer interested in them, but they were under the permanent observation and control of the Hussite forces. No one imposed anything on them; quite the opposite, they were treated like comrades. They were even armed and almost conscripted into Brázda’s light cavalry, now numbering over a hundred horse after being combined with the main forces. But they were undeniably under guard. At first, Scharley gnashed his teeth and swore under his breath, but finally let it slide.
But neither Scharley nor Reynevan intended to forget about the unresolved matter of the attack on the tax collector. Or drop it.
Although Tybald Raabe carefully avoided talking, he was finally pinned down. Or, to be precise, shoved up against a wagon.
“What was I supposed to do?” he said angrily when they finally let him speak. “Master Samson pressed me—I had to come up with something! Do you think that without the rumour about the money, Ambrož would have sent men to break you out? Like hell! We’d have got damn all! So you ought to thank me, not shout at me! Had it not been for my idea, you’d still be locked up in the Narrenturm, waiting for the Inquisitor!”
“Your rumour could have cost us our lives,” Scharley said, “if Ambrož had been more avaricious.”
“If, if! Blow that!” The goliard straightened the hood that Scharley had ruffled. “Firstly, knowing in what esteem he held Master Piotr, I was certain he wouldn’t harm young Master Reinmar. Firstly. Secondly—”
“Yes?”
“I really did think…” Tybald Raabe cleared his throat several times. “Let’s face it… I was almost certain it was you who cleaned out the tax collector in Ścibor’s Clearing.”
“So who did?” Scharley persisted.
“It wasn’t you?”
“You, Brother, are asking for a kick in the arse. Very well, tell us how you managed to escape the attack.”
“How?” The goliard’s countenance grew dark. “At the double! And I didn’t look back, though they were calling ‘Help!’ behind me.”
“Listen and learn, Reinmar—”
“I am, every day,” Reynevan cut him off. “And the others, Tybald? What happened to the others? To the tax collector? To the Franciscans? To Lord Stietencron? To his… To his daughter?”
“I’ve already said, m’lord. I didn’t look back. Don’t ask me anything else.”
Reynevan didn’t.
Dusk fell, but to Reynevan’s astonishment, the army didn’t pitch camp. Marching through the night, the Hussites reached the village of Ratno and illuminated the darkness by setting light to several cottages. The garrison of Ratno Castle ignored Ambrož’s ultimatum, thus the decision to attack was taken in the glow of blazing cottages. The stronghold was defended desperately but fell before dawn. The defenders paid for their resistance—they were massacred.
The march resumed at dawn, and Reynevan had already realised that Ambrož’s foray into the Kłodzko region was a retaliatory expedition, revenge for the plundering raids on Náchod and Trutnov in the autumn, for the massacres that the forces of Bishop Konrad and Půta of Častolovice had perpetrated at Vízmburk and in the villages on the River Metuje. After Radkov and Ratno, Ścinawa paid for Vízmburk and Metuje. Ścinawa belonged to Jan of Haugwitz and he had taken part in the bishop’s “crusade.” For that, Ścinawa was burned to the ground. The Church of Saint Barbara went up in flames two days before its patron’s holiday. The parish priest managed to run away, saving his head from the flail in the process.
With the church burning behind him, Ambrož said Mass—since it was, as it turned out, Sunday. The Mass was a typical Hussite one, conducted under the open sky on an ordinary table. Ambrož didn’t ungird his sword while celebrating it.
The Czechs prayed loudly. Samson, as motionless as an ancient statue, stood and watched the flaming straw roofs of beehives catching fire.
After the Mass, with the smoking ruins behind them, the Hussites set off eastwards, passing through the depression between the snow-capped prominences of Holinec and Kopec, arriving outside Wojbórz in the evening. It was an estate belonging to the Zeschau family. The ferocity with which the Hussites attacked the village indicated that a member of that family must also have been with the bishop at Vízmburk. Not a single cottage, barn or shack survived.
“We are a good four miles from the border,” Urban Horn stated loudly, “and only a mile from Kłodzko. That smoke is visible from afar and news spreads fast. We are putting our heads in the lion’s maw.”
They marched on. When the Hussite army left Wojbórz, a detachment of knights numbering some hundred horse appeared from the east. There were plenty of knights of the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem in the detachment, suggesting the presence of Haugwitzes, Muschens and Zeschaus. The detachment fled in panic at the mere sight of the Hussites.
“Where’s that lion, Brother Horn?” sneered Ambrož. “Where that maw? Onwards, Christians! Onwards, Warriors of God! Forward, maaarch!”
There was no doubt that the Hussites’ goal was Bardo. Even if Reynevan had harboured doubts—after all, Bardo was a large town and perhaps too large a morsel even for someone like Ambrož—they were quickly dispelled. The army stopped for the night in a forest near Nysa and axes thudded until midnight making spiked stakes reminiscent of the coat of arms of the Ronovic family—logs with protruding side branches. Simple, effective devices for climbing defensive walls.
“Are you going to storm it?” Scharley asked bluntly.
They were sitting around a steaming cauldron of pea soup with the hetmans o
f Ambrož’s cavalry, blowing on spoons and eating up the contents of their bowls. They were accompanied by Samson, who had been very quiet since Radkov. Ambrož wasn’t interested in the giant so he enjoyed complete freedom, which he surprisingly made use of by enthusiastically helping in the field kitchen run by women and girls from Hradec Králové, gloomy, taciturn, stand-offish and nondescript.
“You’re going to storm Bardo,” Scharley confirmed to himself when his question was acknowledged by slurping. “Might you have some personal scores to settle there, too?”
“Correct, Brother,” said Velek Chrastický, wiping his moustache. “The Cistercians of Bardo tolled the bells and celebrated Masses for the thugs of Bishop Konrad who marched to Náchod in September, to sack, burn and murder women and children. We have to show him he can’t get away with anything like that. We have to show him what terror means.”
“Furthermore,” Oldřich Halada added, licking his spoon, “Silesia has imposed a trade blockade on us. We have to show we can break the embargo. We also have to give some heart to the merchants, intimidated by acts of terror, who trade with us. We must encourage the kin of the dead, showing them we will answer terror with terror and that the killers will not go unpunished. Right, younger Lord Bielawa?”
“The killers will not go unpunished,” Reynevan repeated dully. “In this regard, I am with you, m’Lord Oldřich.”
“If you want to be one of us,” Halada corrected him without emphasis, “you should say ‘brother,’ not ‘m’lord.’ And tomorrow you can show us who you are with, for every sword will come in handy. A fierce battle is promised.”
“Indeed.” Brázda of Klinštejn, silent up until then, nodded towards the town. “They know what we have come here for, and they will defend it.”
“There are two Cistercian churches in Bardo, both very wealthy.” Urban Horn’s voice was dripping with mockery. “Having grown wealthy on pilgrims.”
“You reduce everything to mundanities, Horn,” snapped Velek Chrastický.
“That is how I am.”
The axes had stopped thudding in the camp, their sound replaced by the sharp, regular grinding of whetstones which sent shivers down Reynevan’s spine. Ambrož’s men were sharpening their blades.
“Stand facing me,” ordered Scharley, when they were alone. “Show yourself. Ha. Haven’t you sewn the chalice on your chest yet? ‘I’m with you, I’m on your side’—what nonsense is that, Reinmar? Perhaps you’ve taken your role too much to heart?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. I won’t reproach you for blurting out details about the altercation at the grange in Dębowiec in front of Ambrož. Who knows, perhaps it’ll do us good if we remain under Hussite protection for a little while. But please remember that Hradec Králové is by no means our destination, just a stop on our way to Hungary, and that their Hussite cause is small beer and not worth a straw to us.”
“Their cause does mean something to me,” Reynevan protested coldly. “Peterlin believed in what they believe in. That is sufficient for me, because I knew my brother and what kind of man he was. If Peterlin was devoted to their cause, it cannot be a bad cause. Quiet, quiet, I know what you want to say. I also saw what was done to the Radkov priests. But that changes nothing. Peterlin wouldn’t have supported an evil cause. Peterlin knew what I know today: in every religion, among the people who believe in it and fight for it, there is one Francis of Assisi to a legion of Brother Arnulphs.”
“I can only guess who Brother Arnulph is,” the penitent said, shrugging, “but I understand the metaphor, all the more so since it’s not very original. There’s something I don’t understand, though—have you already given yourself to the Hussite faith? And now, like every neophyte, are you setting to work converting people? If so, then please restrain your proselytizing zeal because I’m absolutely the wrong person to try it on.”
“Undoubtedly.” Reynevan grimaced. “You don’t need converting, for you already have been.”
Scharley’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you mean by that?”
“The eighteenth of July, 1418,” said Reynevan after a moment’s silence. “Wrocław, the New Town. Bloody Monday. Canon Beess betrayed you with the watchword I gave you at the Carmelite priory, and Buko of Krossig recognised and unmasked you that night at Bodak. You took part—and willingly—in the Wrocław Uprising of July Anno Domini 1418. And what moved and provoked you then if not the deaths of Huss and Hieronim? Who did you stand up for if not for persecuted Beghards and Wycliffites? What were you defending if not the free right to communion under both kinds? Declaring yourselves as iustitia popularis, against what did you act, if not against the wealth and depravity of the clergy? What were you calling for in the streets if not for the reform of in capite et in membris? Scharley? What happened?”
“It was as it was,” the penitent replied a moment later. “And it was seven years ago. It will certainly astonish you to hear this, but some people can learn from their mistakes.”
“At the beginning of our acquaintance,” said Reynevan, “so long ago it feels as though centuries have passed, you regaled me, I recall, with the following adage: We were created in His image and likeness, but the Creator made sure there were individual features. I, Scharley, don’t erase the past or forget about it. I shall return to Silesia to settle my scores and pay off all debts, with appropriate interest. Silesia is closer to Hradec Králové than Buda is—”
“And does the way Ambrož settle his scores appeal to you?” Scharley cut him off. “Wasn’t I right that he’s a neophyte,
Samson?”
“Not entirely.” Samson had approached so quietly that Reynevan hadn’t noticed or heard him. “Not entirely, Scharley. This is about something else, namely Katarzyna of Biberstein. I think our Reinmar has fallen in love again.”
Before the frosty dawn had risen, farewells had been said.
“Farewell, Reinmar.” Urban Horn shook Reynevan’s hand. “I’m off. Too many have seen my face here, and that is dangerous in my trade, which I intend to continue plying.”
“The Bishop of Wrocław knows about you now,” warned Reynevan. “And the black-cloaked horsemen screaming ‘Adsumus’ probably do, too.”
“It’s time to hide and wait things out among kind-hearted people. So I shall first go to Głogówek, and then to Poland.”
“It isn’t safe in Poland,” Reynevan said, “given what we overheard in Dębowiec. Bishop Zbigniew Oleśnicki—”
“Poland,” interrupted Horn, “isn’t just Oleśnicki. Mark my words—Europe is about to change, and that’s because of Poland. Farewell, laddie.”
“We shall no doubt meet again. Knowing you, you’ll return to Silesia, as shall I. I still have a few things to sort out there.”
“Who knows, perhaps we’ll sort them out together. But in order for that to happen, please accept my kind advice, Reinmar of Bielawa: don’t summon any more demons.”
“I shan’t.”
“My second piece of advice: if you’re seriously thinking about collaborating in the future, learn to use a sword. And a dagger. And a crossbow.”
“I shall. Farewell, Horn.”
“Farewell, m’lord,” said Tybald Raabe, coming closer. “It’s time I went, too. I must work for the cause.”
“Look out for yourself.”
“That I shall.”
Although Reynevan was in fact ready to stand alongside the Hussites with weapon in hand, it was not to be. Ambrož had ordered he and Scharley to ride with his escort when the Hussite army crossed the Nysa through falling snow and mustered outside the town. Smoke was already drifting towards them from the north, where Brázda and Chrastický’s horsemen had already burned down the mill and cottages outside the town as part of a sabotage operation.
Bardo was ready to defend itself, the walls teeming with soldiers, standards fluttering, men yelling. The bells of both Czech and German churches were tolling sonorously.
And outside the
walls, nine blackened stakes stood in circles of charred remains and piles of ash. The wind carried the sour stench of burning flesh.
“Hussites,” explained one of the peasant informers, a dozen of whom were obsequiously accompanying Ambrož’s army. “Hussites, Czechs, Beghards and one Jew. As a warning. When they learned that you were coming, my noble lord, they took everyone out of the dungeon and burned them alive as a warning and show of contempt against heretics… I mean, forgive me… Against you…”
Ambrož nodded. He didn’t say a word. His face was set.
The Hussites quickly and efficiently occupied their positions. The infantry set up and braced pavises and barricades while the artillery was prepared. There was yelling and cursing from the walls, accompanied by the occasional roar of a cannon and some crossbow bolts. Frightened crows cawed and duelled in the sky and disorientated jackdaws flitted past.
Ambrož climbed up on a wagon.
“Virtuous Christians!” he shouted. “Faithful Czechs!”
The army quietened down. Ambrož waited for complete silence.
“I saw before the altar,” he roared, pointing at the charred stakes and smouldering remains of fires, “souls killed for the Word of God and for the witness they bore. And in a loud voice they called thus: How long, O holy and sacred Lord, will You refrain from judging or meting out punishment for our spilled blood to those who dwell in this land? I saw an angel standing in the sun! And he cried with a loud voice, saying to all the fowls that fly in the midst of Heaven: Come and gather yourselves together unto the supper of the great God; that ye may eat the flesh of kings, and the flesh of captains, and the flesh of mighty men, and the flesh of horses, and of them that sit on them! And I saw the Beast!”
From the walls rose an uproar; curses and insults flew. Ambrož raised a hand.
“Behold the divine birds above, showing us the way!” he cried. “And behold, there, before us: the Beast! Behold, Babylon drunk with the blood of martyrs! Behold, the nest of sin and evil defamed by superstition, the lair of the Antichrist’s servants!”
The Tower of Fools Page 57