by John Burke
We scrambled down, making more noise than was wise.
Dominic was right. The entrance to the cave was there, concealed by a spur of rock and a fallen tree. We stepped over the trunk and into the gloom of the narrow tunnel.
Light from over my shoulder fell on the wide eyes and open mouth of Radek the smith; and on the barrel of the carbine he was holding, jutting towards us.
I explained as quickly as I could. He drew us into the cave as I spoke, and two other men came forward, re-lighting lamps which must have been snuffed when they heard our approach.
No word of Florian’s capture had reached them. They had already begun to worry. It seemed that Florian’s two companions must have been taken with him.
Radek spoke swiftly in Czech to the others, then translated into German for my benefit.
‘We must get closer to the castle. From here we can see nothing. And we cannot penetrate the castle from this side: there is too much open space.’
I remembered that aspect of it from my flight.
‘We will find shelter in Svetlik,’ he said.
‘But I thought you found it no longer safe in Svetlik. If you return there –’
‘They will not be searching now, not now they have our Count. For a while they will be so pleased with themselves, they will not look for others. We have friends in the village. We can lie there until . . .’
‘Until what?’
Radek eyed me up and down. His disapproval was offensively plain. Dominic and I were, in his eyes, a nuisance. Probably he blamed us for Florian’s plight; and in whatever happened next we would be too conspicuous for his liking.
He said: ‘From Svetlik we must watch the road. They will want to take him very soon to Krumau or Vienna for interrogation, or back to Spielberg. Perhaps we attack them on the road. Perhaps there is a way of getting into the castle.’ He leaned on the short carbine as he might once have leaned on his massive hammer. ‘I think you should not have come back.’
‘And what was that about?’ asked Dominic.
‘He’s thanking us,’ I said, ‘for our offer of assistance.’
‘It didn’t sound like that.’
I said to the smith: ‘You will need all the numbers you can get. And if necessary you can use me to lure Schendler out – or to get to him, distract him, throw him off balance somehow.’
Radek forced a reluctant smile. ‘You are much like the Count. There is no arguing.’ From him, I took it as quite a compliment.
We made our way to the village of Svetlik by a roundabout route. There were three horses, and the men insisted that I rode on one of them. At the approach to each track through the woods, or waggon lane above a farm, the other two rode some way ahead and checked that the way was clear.
We were in Svetlik by late afternoon. A charred smell hung over the village, and flecks of what looked like black snow fluttered along the street.
Radek’s smithy had been completely gutted.
A woman came out of her house, gasped, and clapped a hand to her mouth when she saw him. Then there were embraces, and a fine outburst of what sounded like Czech curses, and a babble of explanation.
It appeared that men had come from the castle to ask Radek certain questions. When no trace of him could be found, they investigated the smithy. It was soon ablaze. Stony-faced, they assured the villagers that the fire had still been glowing and that some of the hot charcoal had shot out over the floor and set the place on fire. It was unsafe to enter. The men waited until the smithy was burning furiously before they moved away from the door, shaking their heads over the carelessness which had led to such an accident.
As he listened to the account, Radek’s features contorted and then set into a new harshness, like iron heated and then chilled into a new mould.
A priest came slowly down the hill from the church and joined the fringe of the little group. Heads turned towards him. Everyone began to speak at once, pleading, haranguing him, until Radek talked the rest down. Once or twice the priest, an elderly man with a fine cranium and very little hair, glanced sharply at me. When the hubbub started again he raised a lean hand in what might have been protest or benediction.
The little throng parted to let him approach Dominic and myself.
He began speaking to Dominic, then turned to me when he realized that I was the one who could follow the language.
‘You come at a difficult time. There is too much violence in the land. But part of your story is clear – as clear as poor distracted Radek can make it. While the men wait for what they must do, you must shelter. I know where you will be safest this night.’
He spoke to a woman on his right. Like some of the others about her she wore a dark brown bonnet, a coarse, loose blouse with a thickly woven shawl over it, and a black skirt which swirled like a small crinoline with each slightest movement of her hips. Her weather-beaten face made her look older than she probably was. Also it made her look sullen and disapproving; but with an impulsive dart forward she took my hand and pressed it, and smiled.
The priest said: ‘Tomorrow her daughter is to be wed. In her house there is such commotion that no emissary from the castle would wish to venture in. And were he to do so, he would be trampled by bridesmaids and cooks and find pins stuck into him and weights falling on his toes.’
‘But I could not put someone to such trouble, on such a day.’
‘I think they would like you to see what a wedding is like, in our country. A wedding in the old style,’ he said affectionately. And then he went so rigid, so silent, that conversation died and they all stared at him. He put out a hand to Radek; let it fall; then turned to me again. ‘The old style,’ he repeated, wonderingly. ‘The old tradition. Yes, that is it. I am a man of God, I do not condone the violence of these different factions. But this is the land of Huss and of Zizka. Always the Church is in the forefront of the battle. And if it must be so, then I must lead the way into Kirchschlag – into the castle.’
He would say no more, but took Radek by the arm and led him some distance way. Their heads together, they muttered more and more excitedly. Then Radek let out a vast, splendid laugh, and slapped the priest so hard on the back that I feared the poor old man would be sent spinning across the street.
The mother of the bride-to-be indicated shyly that I should follow her; and we went down a side lane and into the cramped, crowded, loving confusion of her home.
In the late evening Father Stefan brought Dominic to see us, gladly accepted a glass of wine, and explained.
*
Father Stefan, I came to understand, was not merely a devout parish priest but a devoted one – devoted to his flock and to the traditions of their forebears. Like many of his fellows he had been a secular as well as a spiritual teacher throughout his life, preserving the Czech language, loyal to his Church but not to the complacent tyrants who wished to use it for their own ends. In all things he was leader of the village; and, though he spoke wistfully of peace, and preached charity to all mankind, he admitted to a great frailty – his hatred of Schendler and all that the man stood for.
He remembered Count Anton Florian as a child. And remembered his father with love.
‘He will not live as master of Kirchschlag, this young Florian,’ he declared sadly. ‘The time for that is not yet. And when the time comes, it may be that the whole world has changed and taken yet another direction. But if he cannot live there, he shall not be allowed to die there. Or anywhere else at the hands of those usurpers.’
Radek and his comrades were taking it in turns with a number of villagers to watch the two major roads from the castle. At the first sign of Florian being escorted away, a decision would have to be made on the spot: an ambush, an attack. Father Stefan folded his hands and looked sorrowful. He did not care to contemplate bloodshed and death. But the fingers he interlaced were not soft, flabby fingers: they clenched tightly, and his whole bearing was that of one of those warrior priests who had made so much significant history in Bohemia of the fift
eenth and sixteenth centuries.
And if Florian were kept in the castle . . . then we must go in and release him.
Dominic and I nodded, though a bit nonplussed by this extraordinary ally. It was hard to grasp the reasons for his bland confidence. Twice I had found my way out of Kirchschlag. I could not see that the way back in would be so easy.
We were even more puzzled when Father Stefan began to recount the significance of the wedding traditions we would witness tomorrow. It all sounded very picturesque; but were there not more urgent tasks for us tomorrow? It was not until the end, with me translating as concisely as I could, that Dominic’s eyes brightened. All at once he was en rapport with the priest. With a slight headache brought on by juggling with two languages at once, I was confused. Before I could demand what they looked so smug about, Dominic began to look doubtful again.
‘It means a whole day’s delay. We can’t wait that long. Tell him we can’t wait. Who knows what’s being done to Florian?’
I passed this on.
Father Stefan said: ‘A frontal assault is not possible. So we must choose the best time to get in. And the best time is the day after the wedding.’
Belatedly I was catching up. He had described an old tradition which in recent years had been allowed to lapse. After the wedding ceremony and celebrations, and after the wedding night, it had been customary for the young couple to go in procession with their friends to the castle for the blessing of the lord of the manor – and, just as important, his traditional gift of a purse of silver.
‘The day after the wedding night,’ the priest stressed with a sly twinkle. ‘Although the barbarous old droit de seigneur was abandoned long ago, one could not always trust the local lord not to weaken in the presence of an especially charming young maid. It was deemed best not to put temptation in his way: he was visited after the nuptial night, not before.’
‘You said the custom has lapsed.’
‘In recent years. By choice of the people, not of their present master. But he is a man much addicted to correct ceremonial. A reversion to the old practices would flatter his vanity. He would assume the local folk are learning to accept him.’
‘So we go in under cover of the wedding party,’ said Dominic. ‘Splendid. But I still say that for Florian’s sake the delay is too long.’
I translated, and added of my own accord: ‘Another thing. It would be unfair to ask the real husband and his bride to take such a risk, the day after their wedding.’
‘I agree.’
Dominic said: ‘Nora, we can’t expect the bride and bridegroom to –’
‘I’ve already told him that.’
The two men were consulting each other again in an unspoken understanding.
‘Of course,’ said Dominic. ‘We become the married couple. They provide us with local costumes. But we mustn’t put any of their near-relations or friends in jeopardy, either. No doubt the smith and his colleagues can swell the ranks in their own finery.’
‘And when Jan . . . when Schendler sees my face?’
Father Stefan broke in: ‘I shall be there waiting for you to arrive. I will do all I can.’
I thought I had misheard. ‘You mean you will accompany us?’
‘I mean that I shall already be there. I have been summoned to conduct the funeral service of the Countess Lomnica’s son.’ His air of jovial complicity became stern. ‘You will not arrive until noon. I will not have that ceremony profaned.’
Dominic heard out my translation of this, and said: ‘I’d like to pay my own respects at that funeral. But even more, I’d like to get my hands on Schendler before he can damage any more lives.’
Father Stefan finished his wine and rose to leave. ‘It is my belief,’ he said, ‘that Schendler will not turn his attention to his captive until the funeral rites are concluded. He is a man with his own rigid code, and he will adhere to it. So do not be impatient tomorrow. I believe we have time and that we should, in the circumstances, not spoil our chances by a rash onslaught.’ He crossed himself. ‘I pray to God that I am right about this.’
*
In the morning I heard Viera, the expectant bride, bustling about the house well before dawn. She had a fit of crying, then her mother scolded her, and then both of them laughed until they were soon in tears again.
Two other girls arrived early, dressed in peasant costume with long streamers from their floral bonnets, high polished boots, and blouses radiant with patterns of diamonds and tiny roses. They took me in to watch Viera dress.
She was a vivacious little girl with raven black hair and a pouting, restless, eager little mouth. She kept wiping her eyes and chuckling and then patting at her braided hair until her mother snapped at her and they had a brief quarrel – almost a final, ritual family quarrel, one felt – and laughed again and hugged each other.
One petticoat after another was put on Viera until I wondered how she would ever sit down. Then came a skirt with brown and green floral patterns, hemmed with a gossamer of lace. She had wide puffed sleeves, and around her neck was a rich ruff of lace. Finally her mother, silent now and biting her lower lip to stop it trembling, brought out a high head-dress studded with pink and white beads and interwoven with silken blossoms of every hue.
Viera stood in the centre of her bedroom, swaying gently before an old, speckled pier-glass.
Her mother turned away and made a great show of burrowing deep into a wooden chest. When she stood up, after wiping the back of her hand quickly across her eyes, she drew out a dress similar to her daughter’s but with its brightness faded, its white bodice shading away to the colour of cream. Nevertheless it was, if anything, richer and softer than the one Viera was wearing.
It was being held out to me.
‘For me? Oh, no, I couldn’t.’
The woman did not understand a word but saw I was about to argue, and waved the arguments aside. Gently she touched her own throat, and I pointed and said ‘Yours?’ and she understood, and nostalgically unfolded her wedding dress.
The bridesmaids, delighted, helped me into the dress and adjusted the lace at the collar.
Viera stepped aside and waved me before the mirror.
I saw a stranger: an exquisitely arrayed stranger, with a face I had seen before but which did not belong in this luxury of old, mellow fabric and another woman’s memories. The balance of it demanded a different balance from that which I had been used to. In such gracefully falling, heavily spreading clothes, one must stand differently and walk differently.
A thunderous knock fell upon the outer door.
I froze. Jan’s men, upsetting all our smug predictions, must have descended on the village.
But Viera and her mother were twittering happily, the bridesmaids preened themselves, and when there was another knock, and then a volley of it, one of the girls went to the window and peered along the side of the house.
The ceremony had begun.
I remembered now what the priest had told me. These bangings at the door heralded the arrival of the bridegroom’s cronies, fortified with hot wine. When they were not at once granted admittance they began to sing loudly. The girls nodded in time to the music. Viera’s mother seemed to be counting to herself. Perhaps there was a specified time which must elapse before the summons was answered.
At last she nodded and set off towards the door, taking me along and stationing me beside the door of the little parlour so that I could see what went on.
The men clustered in. One seemed taller and more mature than the others. When he stepped into the light through the parlour window and open doorway, I saw that it was Dominic. He sported tight black trousers with a scarlet waistband, and a white blouse with a black half-length jacket, stiffened by strands of red and gold braid. The hat he had taken off on entering was black with an embroidered band, and sprouted a high white feather.
He looked full at me as he passed. I had never seen him so fine; and his eyes answered mine with a blaze of desire which struck deep, q
uivering, into my innermost self.
The men arranged themselves on a settle and three or four straight-backed chairs.
One of them called a name.
Viera’s mother, who had stood back against the wall of the narrow passage to let them through, walked into the parlour and stamped her right heel with a mettlesome thud. The young men slapped their knees and waved her away. The chief bridesmaid hurried in past me, but was howled down: one or two of the men shrugged, implied that she was quite pretty – but not pretty enough. Suddenly I was beckoned in. They appraised me and nodded courteously.
Without warning, Dominic sprang to his feet and kissed me.
There was a mutter of disapproval. This was not part of the normal procedure. Then someone laughed, another man patted Dominic’s shoulder, and the others booed good-humouredly and waved me into a corner. I was not the one they had come to seek.
A rustle of starched petticoats and puffed sleeves brought their heads round. The bride stood in the doorway.
The men all stood up. Solemnly they inspected the bride, and one by one they nodded and began to clap, and to sing a jubilant little song. This was the right one.
The song finished, they remained standing. The bride turned to her mother and dropped a low curtsy. She began to plead in a gentle, crooning tone; and tears ran down both their faces. Remembering fragments of Father Stefan’s description, I knew that Viera was asking her mother’s pardon for leaving her, and for her blessing.
We proceeded to the church.
Father Stefan was waiting outside, on the top step to the churchyard. This seemed, like Dominic’s embrace, to be a break with tradition, for I saw the bride’s mother look questioningly at him. And the bridegroom, as he and his parents advanced from the opposite side of the street, slowed as if uncertain of the procedure now.
Father Stefan moved to one side, beckoning first me and then Dominic to join him.
As the others filed past, all glancing curiously at us, he said: ‘What happens tomorrow is in the hands of God. It may be that you are not destined to come through it as you would wish.’
