“Where do you see justice?”
“Over there,” Scharley replied, indicating the display of corpses.
“Ah, yes.”
“Which also gives rise to the affluence you rightly remarked upon, Samson,” Scharley went on. “Indeed, such towns are worth visiting for more sensible reasons than the one we are driven by, for example, in order to fleece one of the affluent citizens of this demesne, which shouldn’t be difficult since prosperity breeds masses of halfwits. But we are here to… Never mind… Waste of breath.”
Reynevan didn’t utter a single word. He didn’t feel like it. He had been listening to similar comments for a long time already.
“Christ,” gasped Reynevan as they rode out from behind the hill. “What a lot of people! What’s going on?”
Scharley reined in his horse and stood up in the stirrups.
“A joust,” he said after a moment. “This is a joust, gentlemen. A torneamentum. What’s the date today? Does anyone remember?”
“It’s the eighth,” said Samson, counting on his fingers. “Mensis Septembris, of course.”
“Well I never!” Scharley said and looked at him askance. “So you have the same calendar in the beyond, do you?”
“Generally speaking, we do.” Samson didn’t react to the taunt. “You asked for the date, so I told you. Would you like more detailed information? It’s the feast of the Birth of the Virgin Mary, Nativitas Mariae.”
“Which is why the joust is taking place,” concluded Scharley. “On we go, gentlemen.”
The common outside the town was full of people. Makeshift stands, covered with colourful cloth and decorated with garlands, ribbons, Piast eagles and the knighthood’s escutcheons, had been erected for higher-class spectators. Beside the stands were craftsmen’s booths and stalls selling food, relics and souvenirs, and above it all fluttered an extravaganza of multicoloured flags, standards, pennants and gonfalons. From time to time, the brass voices of trumpets and horns sounded over the clamour of the crowd.
They could see the lists from the hill—250 paces long, a hundred paces wide and enclosed by a double-pole fence, especially robust on the outside and capable of holding back the weight of the commonalty. At that very moment, two knights were charging at each other, lances lowered. The crowd roared, whistled and applauded.
“This tournament, this hastiludium we are admiring, will make our task easier,” said Scharley. “The whole town is gathered here. Look over there, they’ve even climbed up trees. Reinmar, I bet no one’s guarding your beloved. Let’s dismount, so as not to be conspicuous, then stroll around this vulgar pageant, mingle among the farmers and enter the town. Veni, vidi, vici!”
“Before we follow in Caesar’s footsteps,” said Samson, shaking his head, “we ought to check if Reinmar’s beloved isn’t by any chance among the spectators. If the entire town is gathered here, perhaps she’s here, too?”
“But what would Adèle be doing in this company?” asked Reynevan, dismounting. “They’re holding her captive here, let me remind you. Prisoners aren’t invited to jousts.”
“Probably not. But what harm does it do to check?”
Reynevan shrugged.
“Onwards, then.”
They had to walk carefully, paying attention not to step in shit since the surrounding woods had become, as they did during every tournament, a public latrine. It looked as though every inhabitant of and visitor to Ziębice had been in the bushes at least twice to defecate and urinate. It stank like hell. It was clearly not the first day of the tournament.
Trumpets sounded and the crowd yelled again in one great voice. This time, they were close enough to hear the cracks of lances breaking and the thuds of contestants colliding with one another.
“A lavish tournament,” commented Samson. “Lavish and opulent.”
“As is customary with Duke Jan,” observed Scharley.
They were passed by a brawny farm worker leading a buxom, ruddy-faced and fiery-eyed beauty into the bushes. Reynevan watched the couple with affection, hoping in his heart of hearts that they would find a discreet place that was also free of shit. His mind was preoccupied with the lingering thought of what the couple would soon be enjoying in the bushes and he felt a pleasant tingling sensation in his loins. Never mind, he thought, never mind, only moments separate me from similar delights with Adèle.
“This way.” Scharley led them between the booths of a blacksmith and an armourer with characteristic intuition. “Tie your mounts up here, to the fence. And come this way, it’s not so crowded.”
“Let’s try to get nearer to the stand,” said Reynevan. “If Adèle is here, she’ll—”
His words were drowned out by fanfares.
“Aux honneurs, seigneurs chevaliers et escuiers!” boomed the marshal of the heralds after the fanfares had faded away. “Aux honneurs! Aux honneurs!”
Duke Jan’s credo was to be modern. And European. Differing in this regard among Silesian Piasts, the Duke of Ziębice suffered from a provincial complex and bemoaned the fact that his duchy lay on the periphery of civilisation and culture beyond which there was nothing but Poland and Lithuania. Hence his insistence, irksome to those around him, on the use of French as the official language of la jouste.
The knights set their lances in the rests and rode at each other along the tilt accompanied by the thudding of hooves. One of them, as evidenced by the emblems on the caparison, depicting a mountain peak on a silver and red chequered pattern, was a member of the Hoberg family. The other knight was a Pole, judging by the Jelita coat of arms on his shield and the goat in the coat of arms on his modish helmet with a barred visor.
Duke Jan’s European joust attracted great numbers of guests from Silesia and abroad. The space between the tiltyard and a specially fenced-off area was occupied by fabulously coloured knights and pages, including members of the most important Silesian families.
Aided by the mighty arms of Samson, Reynevan and Scharley climbed up onto a coal heap and then onto the roof of the blacksmith’s shed. From there, Reynevan carefully inspected the now-close stand.
“By God,” he gasped very loudly. “Adèle is there! Yes, as I live and breathe!”
“Which one is she?” asked Samson.
“The one in the green dress… Under the canopy… Beside—”
“Next to Duke Jan himself,” Scharley remarked. “Beauteous, indeed. Why, Reinmar, I congratulate you on your taste. But I cannot congratulate you on your knowledge of the female soul. Sadly, this confirms my view that our Ziębice Odyssey was a misguided idea.”
“It can’t be,” Reynevan assured himself. “It can’t be… She… She’s a prisoner…”
“Whose, I wonder?” Scharley shielded his eyes with his hand. “Sitting next to the duke is Jan of Biberstein, Lord of Stolz Castle. On the far side of Biberstein is an elderly woman I don’t know…”
“Euphemia, the duke’s older sister,” said Reynevan. “Next to her… Could it be Bolko Wołoszek?”
“The Lord of Głogówek, son of the Duke of Opole.” As usual, Scharley impressed them with his knowledge, rattling off a detailed list of the great and the good in attendance. “The one person I can’t see, Reinmar, is anyone who could be considered your Adèle’s guard.”
“Right over there,” mumbled Reynevan, “is Tristram of Rachenau. He’s a relative of the Sterczas. As is Baruth, the one with the aurochs in his coat of arms. And there… Oh! Dammit! It can’t be!”
Scharley grabbed him firmly by the arm or Reynevan would have fallen from the roof.
“The sight of whom has shaken you so?” he asked coldly. “I see that your goggling eyes are fixed on a wench with fair plaits. The one whom the young Lord Dohna and some Polish Rawicz are courting. Do you know her? Who might she be?”
“Nicolette,” Reynevan said softly. “Fair Nicolette.”
The plan, which Reynevan had believed ingenious in its elegance and audacity, had failed utterly. Scharley had predicted it, but Reynevan co
uldn’t be restrained.
Adjoining the tournament stand were makeshift constructions built from wooden frames with canvas stretched over them. The wealthier spectators spent the breaks in the joust there, entertaining one another with conversation, flirting and showing off their costumes. It was also a place for enjoying food and drink, and a constant stream of servants moved between the kitchen and the marquees, rolling barrels and carrying kegs and baskets. The idea of stealing up to the kitchen, mingling with the servants, grabbing a basket of rolls and heading towards one of the marquees seemed excellent to Reynevan. He was mistaken.
He only managed to reach the vestibule, where the products were stored to be distributed by the pages. Reynevan, single-mindedly carrying out his plan, put down a basket, slipped unnoticed out of the ranks of servants returning to the kitchen and sneaked behind the marquees. He drew a dagger to cut a viewing hole in the canvas. And it was then he was caught.
The grip of several pairs of strong hands immobilised him; one iron hand clenched him by the throat and another, just as powerful, prised the dagger from his fingers. He ended up inside the marquee full of knights much quicker than he had expected, although not quite in the way he had hoped.
He was shoved hard, fell over, and saw right in front of him some fashionable poulaines with incredibly long toes. He was jerked upright by Tristram of Rachenau, a relative of the Sterczas. He was accompanied by several Baruths—also related to the Sterczas—with black aurochs on their doublets. It couldn’t have been worse for Reynevan.
“An assassin,” Rachenau introduced him. “A killer, Your Grace. Reinmar of Bielawa.”
The knights surrounding the duke murmured menacingly.
Duke Jan Ziębice, a handsome and well-built man in his forties, was dressed in a tight black justaucorps, over which he wore a fashionably loose claret houppelande trimmed with sable. A heavy gold chain hung around his neck and on his head he sported a fashionable chaperon turban with a liripipe of Flemish muslin draped over one shoulder. The duke’s dark hair was also cut according to the newest European styles and fashions—in a pudding bowl, two fingers above his ears, with a fringe at the front and shaved high at the back. The duke was shod, however, in red Polish poulaines with fashionable long toes, the same ones Reynevan had just admired from floor level.
The duke, Reynevan noted with a painful tightness of the throat and diaphragm, was arm-in-arm with Adèle of Stercza, who was wearing a gown of the most fashionable vert d’emeraude, with a train and slashed sleeves that reached the ground. A gold hairnet graced her tresses and a string of pearls encircled her neck above a cleavage boldly peeking out from a tight corset. The Burgundian was scrutinising Reynevan and her eyes were as cold as a serpent’s.
Duke Jan took Reynevan’s dagger from Tristram of Rachenau, examined it and then raised his eyes.
“And to think,” he said, “that I didn’t quite believe it when you were accused of those crimes, of the murders of those merchants. I didn’t want to lend credence to it, yet here you are, caught red-handed as you tried to sneak up on me from behind with a knife in your hand. Do you hate me so much? Or perhaps somebody paid you. Or you are simply insane. Eh?”
“Your Grace… I… I’m no assassin. It’s true that I sneaked up, but I… I wished to—”
“Oh!” Duke Jan made a very ducal and very European gesture with his slender hand. “I understand. You crept in here with a dagger to present me with a petition?”
“Yes! I mean no… Your Grace! I am not guilty of anything! On the contrary, injustice has befallen me! I’m a victim, the victim of a conspiracy—”
“Oh, naturally,” pouted Jan of Ziębice. “A conspiracy. I knew it.”
“Yes!” yelled Reynevan. “Exactly! The Sterczas killed my brother! They murdered him!”
“You lie, varlet,” snapped Tristram of Rachenau. “Don’t accuse my kinsmen, I warn you.”
“The Sterczas killed Peterlin!” said Reynevan, struggling. “If not with their own hands, then using hired thugs—Kunz Aulock, Stork of Gorgowice and Walter of Barby—scoundrels who are also after me! Your Grace, Duke Jan, Peterlin was your vassal—I demand justice!”
“It is I who demands!” yelled Rachenau. “I—by the right of blood! That son of a dog killed Nicolaus of Stercza in Oleśnica!”
“Justice!” called one of the Baruths, probably Henryk, because the Baruths seldom christened their children otherwise. “Duke Jan! A penalty for that murder!”
“That is a lie and a calumny!” yelled Reynevan. “The Sterczas are guilty of murder! They accuse me to justify their actions. And from vengeance, for the love that binds me to Adèle!”
Duke Jan’s face changed and Reynevan realised what a terrible blunder he had made. He looked at his lover’s impassive face and slowly, very slowly began to understand.
“Adèle,” Jan of Ziębice spoke in total silence. “What is he talking about?”
“He’s lying, Jasiek,” the Burgundian said, smiling. “There’s nothing between us and there never has been. It’s true that he tried to force his affections on me, but he left chastened, having gained nothing. Not even helped by the black magic he tried to beguile me with.”
“That’s not true.” Reynevan had difficulty speaking with a lump in his throat. “None of that is true. Adèle! Tell him… Tell him that you and I—”
Adèle tossed her head in a gesture he knew. She tossed it like that when she made love with him in her favourite position, sitting astride him. Her eyes flashed. He also knew that flash.
“Nothing of this kind would ever occur in Europe,” she said loudly, looking around. “For a virtuous lady’s honour to be insulted, and at a joust where that lady was only yesterday hailed La Royne de la Beaulté et des Amours in the presence of the knights of the tournament. And were something like that to occur in Europe, such a mesdisant, such a mal-faiteur would not remain unpunished for an instant.”
Tristram of Rachenau immediately understood the allusion and gave Reynevan a powerful punch to the back of the neck as Henryk of Baruth weighed in from the other side. Seeing that Duke Jan wasn’t reacting, that he was looking elsewhere stony-faced, others leaped forward, including a Seidlitz or Kurzbach with fishes on a red field. Reynevan was punched in the eye socket and the world vanished in a great flash. He cowered beneath a hail of blows. Someone else joined in and Reynevan fell to his knees, struck on the arm with a club. He shielded his head and the club whacked him painfully over the fingers. He was hit hard in the kidneys and fell to the ground. As the kicks began to rain down, he curled up in a ball, protecting his head and stomach.
“Stop! Enough! Stop that at once!”
The kicks and blows ceased. Reynevan opened one eye.
Salvation came from the least expected quarter. His tormentors had been restrained by the menacing, dry, harsh voice and orders of a bony, elderly woman in a black dress and white wimple under a stiffly starched pillbox hat. Reynevan knew who it was. Euphemia, Duke Jan’s older sister, the widow of Friedrich, Count of Oettingen, who had returned to her native Ziębice after her husband’s death.
“In the Europe I know,” said Countess Euphemia, “a man is not kicked when he is down. None of the European dukes I know would permit that, my noble brother.”
“He is culpable,” began Duke Jan. “Wherefore—”
“I know of what he is culpable,” the countess interrupted him dryly. “I hereby take him under my protection. Mercy des dames. For, I flatter myself, my knowledge of European tournament customs is no worse than that of the spouse of Lord Stercza present here.”
The last words were spoken with such emphasis and so scathingly that Duke Jan lowered his eyes and blushed all the way up his shaved nape. Adèle didn’t lower her gaze, revealing not a trace of embarrassment, while the hatred emanating from her eyes was terrifying. But not to Countess Euphemia. Euphemia, rumour had it, had coped quickly and adroitly with Count Friedrich’s lovers in Swabia. She didn’t fear others; others feared her.
“Yes, Madam.”
“Don’t be hasty, noble sister,” said Jan of Ziębice. “I know what mercy des dames means, but this is too important an accusation. The charges against this young man are too grave. Murder, black magic—”
“He will be held under arrest,” Euphemia cut him off. “In the tower. Under the guard of Master Borschnitz. He will appear in court if anybody accuses him. I mean of anything serious.”
“Fie!” The duke waved a hand and vigorously tossed his liripipe over his shoulder. “To hell with him. I have more important affairs here. Come on, sirs, the mêlée is about to begin. I won’t spoil the tournament; I won’t miss the mêlée. Come with me, Adèle. Before the fight begins, the knights must see the Queen of Beauty and Love on the grandstand.”
The Burgundian took hold of his proffered arm and picked up her train. Reynevan, who was being bound, fixed his gaze on her, hoping she would look back, give him a sign or signal with eye or hand. To say it was only a trick, a game, a ruse; that actually everything was still as it had been, that nothing had changed between them. He kept waiting until the last moment.
But to no avail.
Fanfares sounded, the crowd raised a thunderous ovation, the herald shouted his laissez les aller and aux honneurs. The mêlée began.
“Let’s go,” instructed the esquire to whom the Marshal of the Court Borschnitz had given command of the escort. “Don’t try to resist, lad.”
“I’m not going to. What’s the tower like here?”
“Is it your first time? Ha, I see it is. Pretty decent. For a tower.”
“Let’s go, then.”
Reynevan tried not to look around, so as not betray Scharley and Samson, who he was certain were hidden in the crowd observing him. In any case, Scharley was too wily an old fox to let himself be noticed.
But someone else had noticed Reynevan.
She had changed her hairstyle. Previously, near Brzeg, she had worn her hair in a thick plait. Now her straw-coloured locks were divided down the centre of her head into two plaits, coiled over her ears, topped with a gold headband. She was wearing a blue sleeveless dress and under it a white batiste chemise.
The Tower of Fools Page 32
