The Heretic
Page 14
“I hid there, in the dark of a wine-cellar, for two days. Meanwhile our comrades were tried, condemned and burned at the stake. The man who sheltered me witnessed the executions. He said Schiller took the longest to die. The faggots under him wouldn't light properly. He was half-suffocated and terribly burned. Still he wouldn't die. He called on the soul of Jan Hus for courage, even as the crowd jeered and spat and threw dung. At last a crossbowman took pity and shot him in the throat.”
Ralf's voice trembled with passion. “They searched for me,” he said, “but God cast sand in their eyes. Early in the morning, I was smuggled out of Nuremberg on a cart. Hidden inside an empty wine cask.”
He laughed softly. “Even now, I can smell that accursed wine on my body. The mere thought of it disgusts me.”
“So you were taken east,” I said, “into Bohemia.”
“Yes. At the frontier I was delivered into the hands of a group of Táborites, who blessed me and took me to their stronghold. It lies on the hill formerly known as Hradiste, near the Luznice river. Little more than a day's ride from Prague.”
I shrugged, ignoring his hopeful look. If Ralf thought he could recruit me, he was doomed to disappointment.
“What of you?” he asked. Reluctant to spend too long in his company, I kept my tale brief. Ralf was outraged at my refusal to kill the Adamites.
“The Devil senses weakness in you, John. Your lack of faith. Of resolution. He sees you as a chink in the Hussite armour.”
He stabbed a grimy finger at me. “I know why you joined the Hussites. You despise the corruption and material wealth of the Catholic church. That isn't enough. God wants more from you. Put aside your foolish doubts. Open your heart and embrace the Hussite faith in its entirety. Come with me to Tábor. The priests there are good men, full of fire. They can teach you the truth of God, better than I ever could.”
“I thought it was the Devil who wanted me,” I replied lightly, “now it seems God is on my trail as well. I am much in demand.”
“Save your words,” I said as he drew in breath for another sermon, “God knows my soul is tarnished enough. I do know this. Come what may, I have no intention of going to Tábor, or of capering about in a filthy smock with you and your band of deluded savages.”
Ralf sighed. “I am trying to help you, John,” he murmured. His gentle voice was full of reproach.
“Sir John, if you don't mind,” I said evenly. He stared at me for a moment, then sighed again and threw up his hands. A saint giving up on the hopeless sinner.
“You are infected with the sin of pride,” he said, “in time, God will break that stiff neck of yours. Depend upon it.”
He turned to go. “One more thing,” I called after him, “when you were at Tábor, who told you I was in Prague?”
“A priest,” Ralf answered, “his name was Tomislav. He died soon afterwards, shot by a Catholic archer in a skirmish. He was a good man, if too soft-hearted. God rest him.”
I was genuinely sorry to hear of Tomislav's death. He was the first man to show me any kindness in Bohemia.
“He wasn't the only one to mention you,” Ralf added with a sly smile, “he brought an entire village with him to Tábor, wagons and all. They were starving, and came to us after finding little solace in Prague. There was a young widow among them.”
“Jana,” I murmured. Ralf nodded his shaggy head. “Yes. A stubborn woman, with no proper fear of God in her. She spoke of you as a lost soul in need of guidance. I can only agree.”
“Is she still at Tábor?” I asked urgently.
“God knows,” he replied with a shrug. He strode away and left me alone beside the river.
The sound of deep voices raised in prayer rolled over the fields from the direction of Nemecky Brod. While the smoke of charred houses rose over the town, I gazed west and thought of a widow's eyes.
20.
Sigismund came no more to Bohemia. He had lost yet another army, upwards of twelve thousand men, as well as all his captives and treasure and baggage. The Dragon was defeated, if not slain, and Bohemia left to bask in a hard-won peace.
Peace, however, was a stranger to that unhappy land. Almost as soon as the threat of invasion was dealt with, the Hussites turned on each other. Prague dissolved into utter chaos. Jan Zelivisky, the rabble-rouser who had caused so much trouble in the past, led the mob in a series of vicious attacks against his Utraquist enemies. For a brief time he controlled Prague, only to be lured into a trap and beheaded. His enraged followers declared him a martyr and honoured his memory in more riots, destroying religious houses and assaulting citizens they suspected of Utraquist sympathies.
In Caslav, where I was still employed training cavalry, I listened in despair to the lurid stories of violence, treachery and bloodstained politics that arrived daily from the capital. Civil war threatened. If fighting broke out, Bohemia was doomed. All hope of a purified church, free of the shadow of Rome, lost forever.
Mutual destruction was averted, at least for a time, by the arrival of a foreign prince in Bohemia. This man, Prince Korybut, was the nephew of Vitold, the aged Grand Duke of Lithuania. After much argument, the Hussite leaders had decided they could not do without a king after all, and so offered the vacant crown of Bohemia to Vitold. The cunning old fox accepted, but preferred not to set foot in his new kingdom until the land was settled. To that end, he sent his energetic nephew to act as regent and knock some sense into the warring factions.
I was present at the first meeting between Zizka and Korybut outside Prague. The blind old soldier and handsome young Lithuanian princeling embraced each other heartily, called each other 'father' and 'son' and swore eternal friendship, while our troops cheered and sang hymns and threw their hats into the air.
The two men privately loathed each other. Korybut was arrogant, and made the mistake of treating Zizka as a subordinate. Zizka, for his part, ignored the prince's orders and insulted him in private.
“Lord Zizka called our youthful saviour a swaggering, perfumed maggot,” Lord Cenek told me over supper, “among other choice insults. I was quite impressed. I've never heard our sainted commander blaspheme before. He seemed almost human.”
Cenek's attitude towards me had changed. His old indifference, verging on contempt, had been replaced by a keen desire to win my friendship. He regularly invited me to share supper in his pavilion, where we ate off silver plate and drank costly wine from Gascony and Bordeaux.
I was happy to devour Cenek's rations, but always kept in mind his real motives. Such men think of little save their own advantage. Now I was a knight and captain of horse, much favoured by Zizka, he saw me as a useful ally.
“If Korybut wants to win Zizka's respect,” I said through a mouthful of powdered chicken, “he will have to prove himself in the field. Zizka has little time for cowards and bad soldiers.”
Cenek snorted with laughter. Word had just arrived at Caslav of Korybut's failure to take Olmutz, a strongly fortified town still loyal to Sigismund. By all accounts the siege was horribly botched, and the prince’s army suffered terrible casualties before retreating.
“He may be an upstart,” said Cenek, “but at least he is a prince of the blood, and acts like one. I am sick of listening to sermons on the essential brotherhood of man. How God made us all equal under His sight. Such nonsense. God never intended us to be equal. Some men are born to lead, some to pray, some to fight, some to work. The world is laid out according to a strict pattern. Otherwise it would descend into chaos.”
I looked with interest at his flushed face. Cenek rarely gave any hint of his innermost thoughts, preferring to hide them behind a mask of insincerity. Too much wine had caused the mask to slip.
“You don't agree with Zizka, then?” I asked carefully, “he was born a lord, but treats the lowest serf as his comrade.”
“A lord!” Cenek spluttered, “the man is barely even a knight. His family holds one small manor at Trocnov. One manor! And yet he lords it over the best blood in Bohemia. Di
recting our battles, deciding our policy. The man is nothing more than a glorified farmer. I've heard rumours he worked the land with his own hands before the war, like a peasant. And yet this man places himself above the best blood in the kingdom! How the souls of our noble ancestors must weep.”
“Zizka may choose to break bread with wheelwrights and cobblers and butcher's boys,” he added, wagging a finger at me, “but he is sowing dragon's teeth. Men should know their place.”
And you would keep them there, I thought. Cenek was an ambitious man, greedy for more power and wealth. He resented serving under Zizka, a minor country squire by birth, and saw himself as the rightful commander of the Hussite army. His ambitions might have gone even further. The imperial crown of Bohemia still lay vacant. Perhaps he dreamed of it sparkling on his brow.
“As for Korybut,” Cenek went on, “he's not so big a fool as you might think. I hear his next target is the Karlstein.”
I had little doubt that Cenek's information was good: he had spies all over the kingdom. The Karlstein was a strong castle mounted on a crag, some twenty miles south-west of Prague. It was still held by partisans of Sigismund, even though their defeated master had fled the country. Despite its closeness to Prague, Zizka had judged the castle a nuisance rather than a threat, and left the garrison alone.
“Besieging the Karlstein is a waste of time,” I said, “Korybut should take his army west to keep the Germans quiet.”
Cenek gave me a conspiratorial wink. “You know little of our history, Englis,” he said, breathing wine fumes, “let me enlighten you. The Karlstein was built by one of our kings as a hidey-hole for himself and his family, in case they ever had to flee Prague. All his jewels were stored there, including the imperial crown and regalia of Bohemia. Legend has it he placed them inside the Chapel of the Holy Cross, more a fortress than a chapel, behind four iron-bound doors with nineteen locks to each key. The keys themselves were guarded separately. Prince Korybut thinks the treasure is still inside the castle. He wants it for himself.”
“Is it still there?” I asked, nonplussed.
“A portion, maybe. The crown itself was sent to Hungary by Sigismund. Most of the jewels are said to have gone with it. Difficult to know for certain. I fancy Korybut may be acting on his uncle's orders. Duke Vitold means to squeeze every ounce of profit from Bohemia.”
“So Korybut is only here on a treasure-hunt,” I said angrily, “and yet he took the communion of two kinds at Prague, and swore a sacred oath to uphold the Four Articles.”
Cenek shrugged. “He and his uncle seek a return on their investment. They've already spent a great deal of gold on our behalf. Risked the anger of the Pope. Excommunication. We ask much of them.”
“I believe every man should be rewarded,” he added with a knowing look, “according to his deserts.”
I said nothing. If he wanted to buy me, Cenek would have to offer a lot more than shrewd glances. For all his selfish vanity, it was easy to like Cenek, yet only a fool would trust him, or rate his chances in battle against Zizka. If it came to war, I knew which side to take.
After a leisurely stay in Prague, where his easy charm made him popular with the mob, Prince Korybut marched to besiege the Karlstein. Zizka and the Táborites held aloof, but Hussite soldiers were summoned from Caslav to take part in the siege.
My cavalry were included in the muster. By then I was too distracted to care about the Karlstein, or Prince Korybut, or the fate of Bohemia itself. In September, fourteen hundred and twenty-two years after the birth of Christ, news reached me of the death of a King.
Harry of England was dead. Dead, at thirty-five, in the prime of his strength. Not in battle, but from dysentery, the soldier's disease that wiped out so many of our troops in France. He was laying siege to Meaux when the illness struck him down.
I didn't sleep for two days after hearing of his death. It seemed impossible. The victor of Agincourt, scourge of France, England's greatest warrior-king for generations, was gone. Swept away like a leaf in the wind.
Guilt and grief warred inside me. I had feared Harry, even disliked him at times. He was one of those men who are easy to admire at a distance. Seen at close quarters, his ruthless ferocity made him difficult to love. Yet he was still my king. As an Englishman, I naturally owed loyalty to him. Instead I broke my oath and deserted his cause. Worse, I betrayed the personal faith he placed in me.
I have always been a dreamer. In my dreams I saw myself returning to France at the head of a great army of mercenaries, the Company of Wolves restored to glory, and pledging myself again to Harry's service. I would earn his forgiveness in a series of great battles, ending with the utter defeat of the Dauphin and Harry being crowned King of England and France in Rheims.
Now my dreams were dust. Harry's soul had departed, leaving his subjects to mourn the passing of their own Alexander. He left his infant son to succeed him. Another Harry, sixth of his name to rule England. A weak creature with a grim future, infected with the madness of the Valois.
The wheel turns, and our lives turn with it. I dried my tears, said a final prayer for my King, and led my company to the Karlstein.
21.
That damned castle. We sat outside it from September to November, while the world turned white around us and hostile German princes made threatening noises on the western border. The castle itself, perched on an isolated ridge surrounded by larger hills, was defended by five hundred brave men who refused all demands to surrender.
We dug in for a long siege. Our artillery, including four massive field guns, was set up on the heights. Korybut's army had also dragged along a few old-fashioned springalds and mangonels, which proved more effective than the cannon. The big guns took an age to load, and were poorly handled, more often than not hurling their shot wide or short of the target.
Meanwhile my young cavalrymen languished inside one of the chain of block-houses set up around the castle, gobbled their rations and waited impatiently for the order to attack.
“Don't worry, boys,” I assured them, “you'll get a chance to die soon enough. A rock to the head, an arrow in the eye, or maybe a drop of boiling oil in the face. I once saw a man's flesh melted clean from his bones under a gush of oil. At Caen, that was. He was still alive, mind. I had to cut his throat.”
None of my war stories, no matter how lurid, made the slightest dent on their eagerness. I thought of them as puppies, chafing to be unleashed. Their youthful faces and excited chatter made me feel like a tired old dog. At twenty-nine, I was over a decade their senior. Sometimes they called me Grandfather, when they thought I was out of earshot, and laughed at the silver streaks in my beard. I didn't mind. Grandfather was still alive, and meant to keep on living, long after their tender young bodies were cold in the ground.
Prince Korybut had some novel ideas on how to take a castle. On his orders, the mangonels switched from lobbing rocks to stink-pots crammed full of human excrement and the corpses of plague rats. Thanks to this bombardment of filth, sickness quickly spread among the garrison. However, instead of killing them, it merely caused all their teeth to fall out: the envoy they sent, begging for a truce, mumbled at us through toothless, blackened gums. Korybut refused the truce and hurriedly sent the diseased wretch back to the castle before his infection could spread among our troops.
Even now, afflicted by their strange illness, the defenders refused to surrender. An angry rumour passed through our camp that an enemy agent had slipped through our lines and reached the castle with medicines bought from certain doctors in Prague. The sick men were soon cured and ready to fight again, if incapable of eating solids. The agent probably never existed, but certainly the garrison found enough strength to hold out against everything we threw at them.
Another harsh winter closed on Bohemia. November brought with it fresh snowstorms, freezing gales, hails of sleet and an unexpected messenger. The latter was a tough Gascon mercenary who had ridden all the way from Normandy, alone, with a letter for me.
“Fetch some spiced wine for my guest,” I ordered the sentry. At my invitation the Gascon warmed himself next to the brazier while I cracked open the seal.
The vellum was expensive, and unrolled easily. One side was covered in neat, precise writing in fluid French. My heart jumped when I recognised the hand.
“To Sir John Page (I read), Baron of Le Chárite-sur-Loire,
Greetings to you, traitor. A man I once loved, and now think of as a false, craven, Godless heretic who has twice broken my heart. First, when you vanished after the English defeat at Baúge and sent me no word that you had survived the battle. Second, when scandalous tales reached Normandy of an English knight with your name serving among the Devil-worshippers in Bohemia.
At first I refused to believe it. The man I knew would never have traded his soul and taken up arms with the scum of Christendom, crazed peasants and malcontent hedge-priests, lured away from the true church by the insidious lies of the false prophet, Jan Hus.
Six months ago I broke my pledge to King Henry, God rest him, and went into Germany in search of the truth. My darkest fears were only confirmed by the soldiers I spoke with. Survivors of King Sigismund's failed crusades. They told me an Englishman named Sir John Page, or Jan Englis by the heretics he marches with, had indeed taken up arms under the arch-heretic, Zizka of Trocnov.
The Devil is strong in Bohemia. He has broken the armies of the righteous and twisted the minds of good Christian folk. Those infected with the plague of heresy shall burn, on earth and in Hell. You will also burn. For the sake of the love I once bore you, I have made one effort to rescue your soul from everlasting perdition.