“I’m impressed,” admitted Scharley. “Greatly impressed, Master Gutenberg. I would be even more impressed were it not for the fact that it should be ‘dicite nomini eius’ and not ‘euis.’”
“Ha-ha!” The scholar beamed as though he’d played a prank on somebody. “I did that deliberately in order to demonstrate how easily one can make corrections. I remove the erroneously placed type like this, and put it in the right place—The screw, Master Unger… And here is the corrected text.”
“Bravo,” said Samson Honey-Eater. “Bravo, bravissimo. It is indeed impressive.”
Not only did Gutenberg’s mouth fall open, but also Schottel’s and Unger’s. It was clear they would have been less astonished if the cat, the statue of Saint Luke or the painting of Sebastian with the massive dick had spoken.
“Appearances can sometimes be deceptive,” Scharley explained after clearing his throat. “You aren’t the first to misjudge him.”
“And probably won’t be the last,” added Reynevan.
“I beg your pardon,” said the giant, spreading his hands. “I couldn’t resist… Being a witness—when all’s said and done—to an epoch-changing invention.”
“Ha!” Gutenberg beamed, like every artist glad to be praised, even if it was announced by a hulk with the face of an idiot whose head touched the ceiling. “That’s precisely it! Exactly! For just imagine, noble gentlemen, dozens of learned books, and one day, however ridiculous it sounds now, maybe even hundreds of them! Without arduous and interminable copying! Human wisdom printed and available! And if you, noble gentlemen, support my invention, I guarantee that your city, the splendid Świdnica, will be famous for ever as the place where the torch of enlightenment was lit. As the place whence light entered the entire world!”
“Indeed,” Samson Honey-Eater said a moment later in his soft, calm voice. “I see it with the eyes of my soul. The mass production of paper, densely covered in letters. Each leaf in hundreds, and one day, however ridiculous it may sound, maybe even thousands of copies. All of it reproduced over and over and widely available. Lies, rubbish, libel, lampoons, denunciations, base propaganda and demagoguery pandering to the masses. Every wickedness ennobled, every villainy official, every lie the truth. Every stupidity crowned because it is all in print. It is on paper, thus it has power and is binding. It will be simple to begin it, Master Gutenberg, and to set it in motion. But to stop it?”
“I doubt it’ll be necessary,” Scharley interrupted, seemingly in earnest. “As a greater realist than you, Samson, I don’t predict such popularity for this invention. And even if events were to follow the course you have prophesied, one can arrest it using a method as easy as pie. An index of forbidden books will simply be created.”
Gutenberg, beaming a moment before, had become subdued. To such a degree that Reynevan felt sorry for him.
“So you don’t predict a future for my invention?” he asked in hushed tones a moment later. “After having exposed its adverse sides with truly Inquisitorial zeal and ignoring its positive ones, just like Inquisitors. For it will be possible to print—and in the process widely popularise—the word of God. How do you respond to that?”
“We respond,” Scharley’s mouth twisted into a mocking sneer, “like Inquisitors. Like the Pope. Like Council Fathers. Why, Master Gutenberg, don’t you know what the Council Fathers pronounced in this regard? Sacra pagina should be the privilege of men of the cloth, for only they are capable of understanding it. Keep away, secular dimwits.”
“You mock.”
Reynevan thought the same. For as Scharley went on, he didn’t even attempt to hide either his sneering smile or his derisive tone.
“The secular, even those displaying vestigial understanding, can make do with sermons, lessons, the Gospels on Sunday and morality plays. And the most spiritually impoverished can make the acquaintance of the Bible at nativity and miracle plays, passion scenes and stations of the cross, by singing canticles and staring at sculptures and paintings in churches. And you want to print and give those simpletons the Bible? And maybe translated from Latin into the common tongue to boot? So that anyone can read it and interpret it in their own way? You want it to come to that?”
“I needn’t want it at all,” Gutenberg replied calmly, “because it’s already happened. Quite near here. In Bohemia. And however history continues to develop, nothing can change that fact or its consequences. Whether we like it or not, we are facing reforms.”
Silence fell. It felt to Reynevan as if a cold draught had blown through the room. From the window, from the Dominican monastery a stone’s throw away, where the Inquisition resided.
“When they burned Huss at the stake in Konstanz,” Unger plucked up the courage to break the long silence, “they say a dove flew up with the smoke and ashes. They say it was an omen, that a new prophet was coming—”
“Because that’s also the times we live in,” Justus Schottel suddenly exploded, “when someone can just write out a few theses and stick the fuckers up on some church door. Shoo, Luther, off the table, you cheeky cat.”
There was another long silence in which only the contented purring of the cat Luther could be heard.
Scharley interrupted the silence.
“Blow dogmas, doctrines and reforms,” he said, “I’d like to say that one thought pleases me greatly. If you print a load of books using your invention, m’lord, then perhaps people will start to learn to read, knowing there are things to read? After all, not only does demand create supply, but also vice versa. For in the beginning was the word, in principio erat verbum. Obviously, under condition that the word—meaning the book—must be cheaper than, if not a pack of cards, then at least a demijohn of vodka, since it’s a matter of choice. Do you know what, Master Johannes Gutenberg? Brushing aside its flaws, after profound analysis, I’m coming to the conclusion that this invention of yours may actually be epochal.”
“You took the words out of my mouth, Scharley,” said Samson Honey-Eater. “My thoughts entirely.”
“In that case,” the scholar’s face lit up again, “if you’d like to sponsor—”
“No.” Scharley cut him off. “I wouldn’t. It’s all well and good being epochal, but I’m running a business here, Master Gutenberg.”
Chapter Sixteen
In which Reynevan, as noble as Perceval and just as stupid, hastens to somebody’s rescue and defends them. As a result, the entire company has to flee. Very smartly.
“Basilicus super omnes,” said Reynevan. “Annus cyclicus. Voluptas? Yes, most certainly voluptas. Voluptas papillae. De sanctimonia et… Expeditione hominis. Samson!”
“Yes,”
“Expeditione hominis. Or positione hominis. On the charred paper. The one from Powojowice. Ring any bells?”
“Voluptas papillae… Oh, Reinmar, Reinmar.”
“I asked if it rings any bells!”
“No, alas. But I keep thinking about it.”
Reynevan did not comment, although in spite of Samson Honey-Eater’s assurances, he appeared to be doing more dozing than thinking as he rode along on the sturdy, mousy gelding, the horse that Justus Schottel, the master wood carver from Świdnica, had provided on the basis of the list Scharley had drawn up.
Reynevan sighed. Assembling the equipment Scharley had ordered took a little longer than planned. Instead of three, they spent four whole days in Świdnica. The penitent and Samson didn’t grumble; they were, in fact, delighted to be able to roam around the famous Świdnica cellars and thoroughly test the quality of that year’s March ale. Reynevan, on the other hand, who was discouraged from wandering around drinking dens for the sake of secrecy, sat bored in the workshop accompanied by the equally boring Simon Unger, feeling cross, impatient, in love and pining. He feverishly counted the days of his separation from Adèle and not for all the world could he come up with anything less than twenty-eight. Twenty-eight days! Almost a month! He wondered if and how Adèle was able to bear it.
His wait ended on the
morning of the fifth day. Having bade farewell to the wood carvers, the three wanderers left Świdnica via the Lower Gate, joining a long column of other wanderers, on horseback, on foot, with heavy loads, driving cattle and sheep, pulling carts, pushing wheelbarrows, and riding on vehicles of all sorts of construction and appearance. A foul smell and a spirit of enterprise hung over the column.
On his own initiative, Justus Schottel had come up with a good deal of varied, though clearly chaotically gathered, items of clothing that weren’t on Scharley’s kit list, so the three wanderers had the opportunity to put on new outfits. Scharley wasted no time and now looked grave, battle-hardened even, dressed in a quilted armoured doublet bearing the rusty imprints of a breastplate. The sober apparel also uncannily transformed Scharley himself—once rid of his clownish costume, he also rid himself of his clownish manner and quips. Now he sat erect on his beautiful chestnut, fist resting on his hip and looking down on the merchants they passed with a grim visage, bearing an appearance if not of Gawain, then at least of Gareth.
Samson Honey-Eater’s appearance had also changed, although the giant had found it difficult to find anything that fitted in the parcels Schottel supplied. Finally, they managed to replace his ample smock with a loose, short journade and a cowl with fashionable serrations cut into it. It was a garment common enough for Samson to no longer stand out from the crowd—as far as that was possible. Now, all the other wayfarers in the column saw was a knight accompanied by a student and a servant. Or at least Reynevan hoped so. He also hoped that Kyrie-eleison and his band—even if they knew that Scharley was with him—would be asking about two travellers, not three.
Reynevan himself, having discarded his tattered and rather stale things, selected from Schottel’s offerings a pair of tight trousers and a doublet with a fashionably padded front, giving him a slightly bird-like look. He completed his outfit with a beret of the kind worn by scholars.
The road outside the Lower Gate leading to Rychbach along the valley of the River Piława was part of the important Nysa-Dresden trade route and as such very congested. So congested, it began to irritate Scharley’s sensitive nose, which led to a discussion of Gutenberg, although surprisingly not regarding his invention of printing.
“Inventors like Master Gutenberg et consortes,” the penitent griped, shooing flies off himself, “might finally invent something practical. Another means of transport, let’s say. Some sort of perpetuum mobile, something that propels itself without the need to rely on horses or oxen. Oh, I tell you in sooth, I dream of something that travels by itself, without polluting the environment at the same time. What do you say to that, Reinmar? Or you, Samson, O philosopher from the beyond?”
“Something that propels itself and doesn’t stink,” wondered Samson. “Moves by itself, but doesn’t foul the road or poison the surroundings. A tricky dilemma, indeed. Experience suggests that the inventors will solve it, but only partially.”
Scharley might have intended to ply the giant with questions about the meaning of his comments, but he was disrupted by a rider, a scruffy man on a skinny nag, hurrying bareback towards the head of the column. Scharley brought his frightened chestnut under control, shook his fist at the scruff and sent a stream of invective after him. Samson stood up in his stirrups and looked back from where the scruff had galloped. Reynevan—who was quickly gaining experience—knew what Samson was looking for.
“A guilty person always behaves suspiciously,” Reynevan said. “Somebody frightened that fugitive. Somebody coming from the city—”
“—scrutinising every traveller,” Samson completed his sentence. “Five… No, six armed men. Several with emblems on their tunics showing a black bird with outstretched wings…”
“I know those arms—”
“So do I!” said Scharley harshly, tugging on his reins. “To horse! After that skinny mare! Ride! Like the wind!”
Close to the head of the column, the road entered a gloomy beechwood. They rode into the trees and hid themselves in the bushes, from where they watched six horsemen ride by, on both sides of the road, examining everybody, scrupulously looking into wagons and under tarpaulins. Reynevan knew them all: Stefan Rotkirch. Dieter Haxt. Jentsch of Knobelsdorf. And Wittich, Morold and Wolfher Stercza.
“Aaaye,” Scharley drawled slowly. “Yes, Reinmar. You thought you were wise and the whole world stupid. I regret to inform you that you were in error, for the rest of the world has already seen through both you and your naive plans. It knows you’re heading to Ziębice and your sweetheart. As I said, there’s no sense in going to Ziębice. None. None at all. Your plan is… what’s the word…”
“Scharley—”
“Got it! Absurd.”
The argument was brief, sharp and quite pointless. Reynevan remained deaf to Scharley’s logic, and Scharley unmoved by Reynevan’s amorous yearnings. Samson abstained.
Reynevan, whose thoughts were mainly preoccupied by counting the days he’d been apart from his love, insisted on continuing their journey to Ziębice, either following the Sterczas or attempting to overtake them when they took a break, probably somewhere near Rychbach or in Ziębice itself. Scharley was adamantly opposed. The Sterczas’ ostentatious display, he claimed, could signify only one thing.
“They’ve been ordered to flush you out and drive you towards Rychbach and Frankenstein,” he said. “And Kyrie-eleison and Walter of Barby are probably lying in wait for you somewhere near there. Believe me, laddie, it’s the standard means of capturing fugitives.”
“So do you have any suggestions?”
“My suggestions are limited by geography.” Scharley swept an arm in a broad gesture. “That large thing to the east covered in clouds is Ślęża. Those things rising up over there are the Owl Mountains and that big thing is the mountain called Great Owl. Great Owl has two passes, Walim and Jugów. Taking that route, we could get to Bohemia in no time.”
“You said Bohemia was risky.”
“Right now, the greatest risk is you,” replied Scharley coldly, “and the men who are hot on your heels. Ideally, I’d set off for Bohemia immediately, but you won’t give up on Ziębice, I fear.”
“You fear correctly.”
“Then we’ll have to forgo the safety the passes would have given us.”
“It would have been very dubious safety,” Samson unexpectedly interjected.
“True,” the penitent agreed calmly. “It isn’t the safest region. In that case, let’s head for Frankenstein. Not by the main road, though, but skirting around the mountains, keeping to the edges of the forests of the Silesian Clearing. It’s the long way around, we’ll be riding a little cross-country, but what else can we do?”
“Take the highway,” Reynevan exploded. “Follow the Sterczas! And catch up with them—”
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” Scharley cut him off brutally. “You really don’t want to fall into their clutches, believe me.”
So they set off, at first through beech and oak forests, then along forest tracks and finally along a road winding among the hills. Scharley and Samson chatted softly. Reynevan kept quiet and brooded over the penitent’s last words.
Scharley once again demonstrated that if he couldn’t actually read minds, he could unerringly hypothesise on the basis of evidence. The sight of the Sterczas had awoken in Reynevan such a savage lust for revenge that he was ready to pursue them immediately, wait for nightfall, then sneak up and cut their throats as they slept. But he was restrained not only by good sense, but also by paralysing fear. He awoke several times, covered in cold sweat, from a dream in which he was captured and taken to a torture chamber in the dungeons of Sterzendorf. The dream was horrifyingly realistic regarding the instruments assembled there, and Reynevan went hot and cold by turns whenever he recalled them. Shivers also ran down his back and his heart skipped a beat whenever dark shapes loomed up at the side of the road, until careful examination revealed them to be juniper bushes rather than the Sterczas.
Things got even worse when Scharley and Samson changed the subject and began a discussion from the fields of history and literature.
“When the troubadour Guillem of Cabestany,” said Scharley, glancing meaningfully at Reynevan, “seduced the wife of the Lord of Château-Roussillon, he had the poet killed and disembowelled, then ordered the cook to fry his heart and give it to his unfaithful spouse to eat. Then she threw herself from a tower.”
“So runs the legend, at least,” replied Samson, displaying an erudition that was stupefying when juxtaposed with his gormless expression. “You can’t always give credence to master troubadours; their verses about the amorous conquests of married ladies more often express desires and dreams than describe actual events.”
“Indeed,” Scharley agreed. “What about Lord Saint-Gilles? He had the troubadour Peire Vidal’s tongue cut out for writing a suggestive canzone about his wife.”
“According to legend.”
“And then there’s Daniel Carret. As punishment for sleeping with his wife, the Baron of Faux hired thugs to kill him and then had a goblet made from his skull, from which he still drinks.”
“That’s all true,” said Samson, nodding. “Aside from the fact that he wasn’t a baron but a count. And he didn’t kill the poet, he imprisoned him. And he didn’t have a goblet made, but a decorated pouch. For a signet ring and loose change.”
“A po—” Reynevan said, choking. “A pouch?”
“A pouch.”
“Why have you suddenly turned blue, Reinmar?” Scharley asked, pretending to sound concerned. “Are you perhaps unwell? After all, you’ve always claimed that great love demands sacrifices. And a pouch? A pouch is a trifle.”
They had just heard the sound of a bell from a nearby church—in the village of Lutom, Scharley claimed—when Reynevan stopped and raised a hand.
“Hear that?”
They were at a crossroads, beside a crooked cross and a carved figure eroded by the rain into an amorphous lump.
The Tower of Fools Page 26
