“Father Otto…”
“Yes?”
“Who is the man in the Carmelite priory?”
Otto Beess said nothing for a time.
“Somebody,” he said finally, “for whom nothing is impossible.”
Chapter Eight
In which things start splendidly, but later go downhill.
Reynevan was cheerful and happy. He was overflowing with joy, and everything around him enraptured him with its beauty. The valley of the Upper Oława, carving its meanders into the green hills, was glorious. His stocky bay colt—a gift from Canon Otto Beess—trotted nimbly along the road beside the river. A zephyr blowing from the hills bore with it heady scents—now of jasmine, now of bird cherry. And now of shit—apparently, there were human settlements in the vicinity.
Reynevan was cheerful and happy. He had every reason to be.
He hadn’t managed, in spite of his efforts, to say goodbye to his erstwhile travelling companions, which he regretted, and Urban Horn’s mysterious disappearance in particular had greatly disappointed him. But it was the memory of Horn that had prompted him to act.
In addition to the bay stallion with the white arrow on its forehead, Canon Otto had also given him a pouch for the road, much heavier than the one he had received a week earlier from Duke Konrad Kantner. Weighing the pouch in his hand and guessing that it contained at least thirty Prague groschen, Reynevan was once again convinced of the superiority of the priestly estate over the knightly one.
That pouch had changed his destiny.
In the Strzelin tavern he visited searching for Horn, he had come across the canon’s factotum, Father Felicjan, greedily eating thick slices of fried sausage from a saucepan and washing down the grease with heavy local beer. Reynevan knew at once what to do, and he didn’t even have to try too hard. The priest licked his lips at the sight of the pouch and Reynevan handed it over without a trace of regret. And without counting how much it actually contained. Naturally, he immediately obtained all the information he needed. In addition, Father Felicjan was prepared to reveal several secrets he’d heard during confession, but Reynevan politely declined since the names of the penitents didn’t ring any bells, and thus their sins and peccadillos held no interest for him.
He set off for Strzelin in the morning. Almost without a farthing to his name. But cheerful and happy.
Although by no means heading in the direction the canon had instructed him to go. Rather than taking the main road westwards, towards Świdnica and Strzegom, quite contrary to the categorical ban, Reynevan rode southwards, up the Oława, along the road to Henryków and Ziębice.
He sat up straight in the saddle, smelling the pleasant fragrances borne on the wind. Little birds tweeted and the sun was shining. Ah, how beautiful was the whole world. Reynevan felt like shouting for joy.
The comely Adèle, Father Felicjan revealed to him, had managed to escape and shake off her pursuers in spite of being surrounded by her brothers-in-law in the Cistercian monastery in Ligota. She fled to Ziębice, to seek refuge in the Poor Clares convent. Indeed, the priest said, licking clean the saucepan, when Duke Jan of Ziębice found out, he unequivocally ordered the nuns to hand over his vassal’s wife. He put her under house arrest until the matter of the alleged adultery was cleared up. “But,” and here Father Felicjan belched heartily and beerily, “although the sin demands a punishment, the woman is safe in Ziębice and is not now under threat of mob violence or harm from the Sterczas. Duke Jan,” and here Father Felicjan blew his nose, “emphatically warned Apecz Stercza, even shook a finger at him during the audience. No, the Sterczas cannot now do any evil to their sister-in-law. Not a chance.”
Reynevan urged the bay through a meadow yellow with mullein and violet with lupins. He felt like laughing and shouting for joy. Adèle—his Adèle—had outwitted the Sterczas. They thought they had her cornered in Ligota, but she had deceived them and fled, at night, on a grey mare, with her plait flowing in the wind…
Just a moment, he reflected. Adèle doesn’t have a plait.
I must control myself, he thought soberly, spurring his stallion on. For Nicolette, the Amazon with a tunic as bright as straw, doesn’t mean a thing to me. Indeed, she saved me, confused my pursuers, and I shall repay her when the occasion arises—why, I’ll fall at her feet. But I love Adèle and only Adèle, the lady of my heart and my thoughts. I am definitely not enthralled by that fair plait, nor those azure eyes under that sable calpac, nor those cherry lips, nor those shapely thighs, gripping the sides of her grey mare…
I love Adèle. Adèle, from whom all of three miles separate me. Were I to ride at a gallop, I’d reach the gates of Ziębice before the clock strikes noon.
Easy does it. Keep a cool head. First of all, I must visit my brother, as he is on my way. Once I’ve freed Adèle from her prison we shall flee to Bohemia or Hungary and I might never see Peterlin again. I have to say farewell to him, explain things. Ask for his brotherly blessing.
Canon Otto forbade me. Canon Otto ordered me to slink like a wolf, avoiding well-trodden paths. Canon Otto warned me that my pursuers might be lying in wait for me in the vicinity of Peterlin’s estate…
But Reynevan had a solution to that, too.
Reynevan headed up a stream, hidden among the bulrushes and barely visible beneath the canopy of alders, until it joined the Oława. He knew a way that led not to Balbinów, where Peterlin lived, but to Powojowice, where he worked.
The first sign that he was close to Powojowice came from the very stream Reynevan was riding beside. First, it gave off a faint smell, then a more intense one and finally began to stink. At the same time, the water changed colour to a dirty red. Reynevan left the trees and saw the reason—some way off stood several huge wooden frames with lengths of cloth hanging from them. The colour red predominated—indicating that day’s production—but there was also sky blue, navy blue and green fabric.
Reynevan knew those colours, currently associated with Piotr of Bielawa more than the hues of his family’s coat of arms. He had made a tiny contribution to those colours by helping his brother obtain the dyes. The deep, vivid red came from a secret mixture of cochineal, alkanet and madder. All the shades of blue were created using a mixture of bilberry juice and woad, which he cultivated himself—a rarity in Silesia. Woad mixed with saffron and safflower gave a sumptuous, intense green.
The wind was blowing towards him, carrying with it a stench that made his eyes water and seared the little hairs in his nostrils, which emanated from components of the dye: the white lead, lye, acids, potash, white clay, ash, suet and spoiled whey used in the final stage of the bleaching process were pretty foul-smelling, but none of them rivalled the odour of the vital agent used in Powojowice—stale human urine. The urine matured for around two weeks in large vats and was then used copiously during the fulling process. The result was that the Powojowice fulling mill and its surroundings reeked to high heaven of piss, and with a favourable wind, the stench even reached the Cistercians in Henryków.
Reynevan rode along the bank of the little river, coloured red and smelling like a latrine. He could already hear the fulling mill—the relentless clatter of water-powered drive wheels, the rattle and creaking of ratchets and the grinding of gears. To that was soon added a deep, earth-shaking thudding—the banging of fulling hammers, striking the cloth in the fulling mill. Peterlin’s fulling mill was modern. In addition to several traditional stations, he also possessed water-powered hammers that fulled more quickly, efficiently and evenly. And were louder.
Lower down, beyond further drying racks and a row of pits, he saw buildings, sheds and the canopy of the fulling mill. As usual, a good twenty wagons of various sizes and types were standing there, some belonging to suppliers—Peterlin imported large quantities of potash from Poland—and others belonging to weavers bringing cloth to be felted. Powojowice’s reputation was such that weavers travelled there from all over. He saw master weavers crowding around the fulling mill and supervising the
work, could even hear their shouts above the clatter of the machine. As usual, they were arguing with the fullers about the methods of arranging and turning the cloth on the fulling frames. He noticed among them several monks in white habits with black scapulars, which was also nothing new since the Cistercian monastery in Henryków manufactured substantial quantities of cloth and was one of Peterlin’s regular customers.
But absent from all this activity was Peterlin himself. For his brother, who was very prominent in Powojowice, usually rode around the area looking dignified. Piotr of Bielawa was a knight, after all.
Even stranger was that the tall, thin figure of Nicodemus Verbruggen, a Fleming from Ghent and a great master of fulling and dyeing, was also nowhere to be seen.
Recalling the canon’s warning just in time, Reynevan rode into the estate furtively, hidden behind the wagons of other customers. He lowered his hat over his nose and hunched down in the saddle to avoid drawing attention to himself.
The building, usually noisy and heaving with people, appeared quite empty. No one reacted to his shout or was alerted by the slamming of the door. There wasn’t a living soul in the long entrance hall, or the servants’ quarters. He entered the main chamber.
On the floor in front of the hearth sat master Nicodemus Verbruggen, grey hair cut short like a peasant’s but dressed like a lord. A fire was roaring in the grate, and the Fleming was tearing up sheets of paper and throwing them into the flames. He was almost finished—a scant few sheets remained on his knees, while a whole pile was blackening and curling up in the flames.
“Master Verbruggen!”
“Jesus Christus…” The Fleming raised his head and threw another sheet in the fire. “Jesus Christus, young Master Reinmar… O, misfortune, Young Master… O, dreadful misfortune…”
“What misfortune, good sir? Where’s my brother? What are you burning?”
“Mynheer Piotr ordered me to. He showed me a trunk and spake thus: ‘Nicodemus, if anything should happen, God forbid, remove the documents from this trunk and burn them, fast. But the fulling mill is to work on.’ Thus spake Mynheer Piotr. En het woord is vlees geworden…”
“Master Verbruggen…” Reynevan felt a terrible presentiment lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. “Master Verbruggen, tell me! What are these documents? And what word has become flesh?”
Fleming pulled his head into his shoulders and threw the last sheet of paper into the fire. Reynevan leaped forward, scorching his hand as he pulled it from the flames and waved the fire out. Partially.
“What is it?”
“Killed,” Nicodemus Verbruggen said softly. Reynevan saw a tear rolling down the grey bristles on his cheek. “Good Mynheer Piotr dead. They killed him. Murdered him. Young Master Reinmar… O, misfortune, Jesus Christus, O, woe…”
The door slammed shut. The Fleming looked around and realised that no one had been listening to his last words.
Peterlin’s face was white. And full of pores. Like cheese. In spite of being washed, there were traces of congealed blood in the corners of his mouth.
The older knight of Bielawa lay on a bier in the middle of the village hall, among twelve burning candles. Two gold Hungarian ducats had been placed on his eyes; under his head had been laid spruce branches, whose smell, mixed with the scent of melting wax, filled the village hall with the sickly, morbid stench of death.
The bier was draped with a red cloth. Dyed with cochineal from his own dyeing works, thought Reynevan nonsensically, feeling tears pricking his eyes.
“How…” He stuttered with a lump in his throat. “How… could it… have happened?”
Gryzelda née Der, Peterlin’s wife, looked at him. Her face was flushed and swollen from weeping. Her two children, Tomasz and Sybilla, were clinging to her skirts, snivelling. But her gaze was unfriendly—downright malicious, in fact. Peterlin’s father-in-law and brother-in-law, old Walpot of Der and his ungainly son Krystian, were also looking at him in a none-too-friendly way.
No one deigned to answer his question. But Reynevan had no intention of giving up.
“What happened? Will somebody just tell me?”
“Some characters killed him,” mumbled Peterlin’s neighbour, Gunter of Bischofsheim.
“God will punish them for it,” added the parish priest from Wąwolnica, whose name Reynevan couldn’t recall.
“He was stabbed with a sword,” said Matjas Wirt, a local landowner. “His horse came home riderless. At high noon.”
“At high noon,” repeated the parish priest, putting his hands together in prayer. “Ab incursu et daemone meridiano libera nos, domine…”
“His horse came home,” repeated Wirt, slightly disorientated by the priestly interjection, “with a bloodied saddle and shabrack. We began to search and found Master Piotr in the forest, at the roadside just outside Balbinów… He must have been riding from Powojowice. The ground was churned up by hooves, evidently a band fell on him—”
“Who?”
“No one knows,” said Matjas Wirt, shrugging. “Brigands, no doubt—”
“Would brigands have left his horse?” said Reynevan. “That’s impossible.”
“Who knows what’s possible and what’s not?” said Gunter of Bischofsheim. “Master Der and my men are scouring the forest, perhaps they’ll catch somebody. We also sent word to the starosta. His men will come and investigate, find out who had reason to murder him and who would benefit from it.”
“Perhaps it was a usurer, disgruntled about an unpaid loan?” said Walpot of Der. “Perhaps a rival dyer, wishing to rid himself of a competitor? Perhaps a client, cheated out of three broken groschen? That’s how things turn out when you betray your birthright and mingle with the hoi polloi. Play at being a merchant. Judge a man by the company he keeps. Urgh! I gave you in marriage to a knight, daughter, and now you’re the widow of a—”
He suddenly fell silent and Reynevan realised Der had seen his expression. Despair and fury were wrestling fiercely inside him. Reynevan fought to control himself, but his hands were trembling, as was his voice when he spoke.
“Were four horsemen seen, perchance?” he said with difficulty. “Four armed men? One tall, moustachioed, in a studded jacket… One short, with a pimply face—”
“Aye, there were,” said the priest unexpectedly. “Yesterday, in Wąwolnica, near the church. Just as the angelus was tolling… They looked like stern swordsmen. Four of them. The horsemen of the Apocalypse, in sooth.”
“I knew it!” screamed Gryzelda in a voice hoarse and strained from crying, shooting a look worthy of a basilisk at Reynevan. “I knew as soon as I saw you, you scoundrel! It’s because of you! Because of your trespasses and misdeeds!”
“Another Bielawa.” Walpot Der emphasised the title with a sneer. “Also a nobleman. But this one dabbles in leeches and enemas.”
“Scoundrel, ne’er-do-well!” Gryzelda’s screams grew louder and louder. “Whoever orphaned these children was on your trail! Nothing but woe do you cause! All you ever brought your brother was shame and distress! What do you want here? Sniffing around for an inheritance, you vulture? Begone! Begone from my house!”
Reynevan barely succeeded in controlling his trembling hands, but he couldn’t find his voice. He was seething inside with rage and fury, fighting a great urge to tell the Ders what he thought about their entire family, who were only able to play at being lords and ladies thanks to the money Peterlin earned from the fulling mill. But he restrained himself. Peterlin was dead. He lay, murdered, with Hungarian ducats on his eyes, in his own village hall, among smoking candles, resting on a red cloth, on a bier. Peterlin was dead. It was revolting to quarrel and bicker in the presence of his corpse. The very thought sickened him. Furthermore, Reynevan feared that he would collapse into tears if he opened his mouth.
He left without a word.
Mourning and dejection hung over the village of Balbinów. It was empty and silent, the servants having made themselves scarce, prudently staying out of the way
of the grief-stricken mourners. Not even the dogs were barking. There were no dogs to be seen. Apart from…
He rubbed his tear-filled eyes. The black mastiff sitting between the stable and the washhouse was no apparition. Nor did it have any intention of vanishing.
Reynevan glanced quickly around the courtyard and entered the building via the coach house. He walked beside a trough—the building was simultaneously a cowshed and a pigsty—and reached the horses’ stalls. Kneeling in the corner of the stall usually occupied by Peterlin’s horse, on straw he had swept aside, jabbing a knife into the clay floor, was Urban Horn.
“What you’re searching for isn’t here,” said Reynevan, amazed at his own calmness. Horn, surprisingly, didn’t look at all nonplussed. He met Reynevan’s eyes, staying where he was.
“What you’re searching for was concealed somewhere else. But it doesn’t exist any longer. It was destroyed by fire.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed.” Reynevan pulled from his pocket a charred piece of paper and threw it carelessly down onto the clay floor. Horn still didn’t stand up.
“Who killed Peterlin?” Reynevan took a step forward. “Did the Sterczas hire Kunz Aulock and his gang? Did they also kill Lord Bart of Karczyn? What have you to do with this, Horn? Why are you here in Balbinów, barely half a day after my brother’s death? How do you know his hiding place? Why are you looking for the documents that went up in smoke in Powojowice? And what were those documents?”
“Flee from here, Reinmar,” drawled Urban Horn. “Flee from here, if you value your life. Don’t even wait for your brother’s funeral.”
“Answer my questions first, beginning with the most important: what links you to the murder? What links you to Kunz Aulock? Don’t even try lying!”
The Tower of Fools Page 13
