The Tower of Fools

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “M’lady,” said the esquire, clearing his throat and scratching his head beneath his hat. “It is not allowed… It will get me into trouble…”

  “I only want to exchange a few words with him,” she said, biting her lip comically and stamping her foot a little childishly. “A few words, nothing more. Don’t tell anyone about it and you’ll have no trouble. Now turn around. And don’t eavesdrop.”

  When the esquire had complied, she narrowed her blue eyes and asked, “Why are you in fetters and under guard this time, Aucassin? Beware! If you answer that it’s because of love, I shall be very cross.”

  “And yet,” he sighed, “that’s the truth. Generally speaking.”

  “And more precisely?”

  “Because of love and stupidity.”

  “Oh! You’re becoming more believable. But explain, please.”

  “Were it not for my stupidity, I’d be in Hungary now.”

  “I’ll find out everything, anyhow,” she said and looked him straight in the eyes. “Everything. Every detail. But I wouldn’t like to see you on the scaffold.”

  “I’m glad they didn’t catch you, then.”

  “They didn’t have a chance.”

  “M’lady.” The esquire turned around and coughed into his fist. “Have mercy…”

  “Farewell, Aucassin.”

  “Farewell to you, Nicolette.”

  Chapter Twenty

  In which the old truth is confirmed once again that when all’s said and done, you can always rely on old university friends.

  “You know, Reynevan,” said Heinrich Hackeborn, “it is generally believed that the source of all the misfortune that befalls you is that Frenchwoman, Adèle of Stercza.”

  Reynevan didn’t react to this very original statement. His lower back was itching and there was no way he could scratch it with both his hands tied at the wrists and his elbows held against his sides by a leather strap. Hooves clattered as the party’s horses rode along the bumpy road. The bowmen were swaying drowsily in the saddle.

  He had been locked up for three days in the tower of Ziębice Castle, but he was a long way from losing heart. For although he had been imprisoned, he wasn’t being beaten and was fed every day, even if the rations were meagre and dull. He had got out of the habit of eating recently and was pleased to be back into it.

  Sleep had been more difficult to come by, and not just because of the huge fleas infesting the straw. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw Peterlin’s white, pockmarked face. Or Adèle and Jan of Ziębice, in various configurations. He didn’t know which was worse.

  The barred window in the thick wall offered a tiny patch of sky, but Reynevan hovered around the alcove, clutching the grating, full of hope that any moment he would hear Scharley climbing like a spider with a file in his teeth. Or watched the door, dreaming that any moment it would fly from its hinges under a blow of Samson’s mighty shoulder. Justified faith in his friends’ omnipotence was keeping his spirits up.

  No rescue was forthcoming, however. Early in the morning of the fourth day, he was dragged from his cell, bound and put on a horse. He left Ziębice through the Paczków Gate, escorted by four mounted crossbowmen, an esquire and a knight in full armour with a shield bearing the eight-pointed star of the Hackeborns.

  “Everybody says that humping that Frenchwoman was your downfall,” Heinrich Hackeborn went on.

  Reynevan didn’t reply that time, either, but he couldn’t help nodding his head pensively.

  Barely had they lost sight of the town’s tower than the apparently gloomy and sickeningly officious Hackeborn cheered up and became animated and forthcoming, without any encouragement. Like every second German, he bore the given name Heinrich and was, it turned out, a relative of the powerful Hackeborns of Przewóz. He had arrived all of two years before from Thuringia, where his family’s position in the service of the landgraves was deteriorating, and as a consequence they were becoming ever poorer. In Silesia, where the surname Hackeborn still meant something, Sir Heinrich was hoping for adventures and a career in the service of Jan of Ziębice. The former was meant to be provided by the great anti-Hussite crusade which was expected any day, and the latter by a favourable marriage. Heinrich Hackeborn confessed to Reynevan that he was in love with the gorgeous and spirited Jutta of Apolda, the daughter of Cup-Bearer Berthold Apolda, Lord of Schönau. Jutta, unfortunately, not only didn’t return his affection, but took the liberty of mocking his advances. But never mind, the main thing was to persevere.

  Although he didn’t care a jot about Hackeborn’s romantic adventures, Reynevan pretended to listen and nodded politely. There was no point being rude to his own escort, after all. When, after some time, the knight had exhausted the range of subjects bothering him and fell silent, Reynevan tried to doze, but with no luck. Either the image of Peterlin lying on the bier or Adèle with her calves on Duke Jan’s shoulders kept appearing in front of his eyes.

  They were in Służejów Forest, which was colourful and fragrant after the morning rain, when Sir Heinrich interrupted the silence. Without being asked, he revealed to Reynevan their destination—Stolz Castle, the seat of the powerful Lord Jan Biberstein. Reynevan’s interest and anxiety grew in equal measure. He intended to question the garrulous knight but wasn’t quick enough, for he smoothly changed the subject and launched into digressions about Adèle of Stercza and the problems the romance with her had caused Reynevan.

  “Although everybody thinks that fucking her was your downfall,” continued Hackeborn, assuming an all-knowing expression, “it’s actually the other way around. Some people worked out that shafting the Frenchwoman actually saved your life.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Duke Jan,” explained the knight, “would have turned you over to the Sterczas without any qualms. Rachenau and Baruth were both exhorting him to. But what would that have meant? That Adèle was lying by denying it. That you did, in fact, bed her. Do you see? The duke didn’t hand you over to be investigated regarding those murders you allegedly committed for the same reason—because he knew you’d sing about Adèle under torture. Understand?”

  “A little.”

  “A little!” Hackeborn laughed. “That ‘little’ will save your arse, chum. Rather than heading to the scaffold or the torture chamber, you’re riding to Stolz Castle, because at the castle you can only talk to the walls about your erotic prowess in Adèle’s bedchamber, and the walls there are thick. You’ll do a bit of time, but you’ll save your head and other members. In Stolz, no one can get their hands on you, not even the bishop or the Inquisition. The Bibersteins are powerful magnates, they aren’t afraid of anyone, and no one will dare to fall foul of them. Yes, yes, Reynevan. It saved you that Duke Jan didn’t want to admit that you had dallied with his new mistress before him. Understand? A lover whose exquisite little furrow has only been ploughed by her husband is almost a virgin, but one who has given herself to other paramours is a harlot. For after all, if Reinmar of Bielawa bedded her—anybody could have.”

  “You’re too kind. Many thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. I told you that Amor saved you. So see it like that.”

  No, no, not entirely, thought Reynevan. Not entirely.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said the knight, surprising him. “That a corpse is even more discreet? That they’re liable to poison you or quietly break your neck at Stolz. Not at all, if that’s what you’re thinking. Want to know why?”

  “I do.”

  “Jan of Biberstein himself suggested to the duke that you be discreetly imprisoned at Stolz, and the duke agreed at once. And now the best part: do you know why Biberstein was so quick to suggest it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But I do. Because a rumour was going around Ziębice that the duke’s sister, Countess Euphemia, asked him, and the duke holds her in high esteem. Has done since they were children, it is said, which is why the countess is so important at the Ziębice court even though she has no posi
tion—I mean, what kind of countess is she? Her title’s meaningless. She bore the Swabian Friedrich eleven children and when he died, they turfed her out of Oettingen, that’s no secret. But in Ziębice she’s a real lady, through and through.”

  Reynevan had no intention of denying it.

  “She wasn’t the only one to approach Sir Jan Biberstein to intervene on your behalf,” continued Hackeborn a moment later. “Want to know who else?”

  “I do.”

  “Biberstein’s daughter, Katarzyna. She must be fond of you.”

  “Is she the tall girl? With fair hair?”

  “Don’t play the fool. You know her. Rumour has it she saved you from your pursuers. Oh, how strangely entangled it has all become. Isn’t this comedy of errors a veritable Tower of Fools?”

  That’s true, thought Reynevan. A veritable Tower of Fools, a Narrenturm. And I… Scharley was right—I am the greatest fool of all. King of the chumps, marshal of the asses, grand prior of the order of pudding-heads.

  “You won’t be imprisoned at Stolz for long,” Hackeborn continued cheerfully, “if you display good sense. I happen to know that a great crusade against the Czech heretics is in prospect. If you take the vows and accept the cross, they’ll release you to go and fight. And if you acquit yourself well in the battle against the Schism, they’ll pardon your crimes.”

  “There’s one snag.”

  “Namely?”

  “I don’t want to fight.”

  The knight turned around in the saddle and took a long look at him.

  “And why would that be?” he asked with a sneer.

  Reynevan didn’t manage to answer. There was a shrill whistle and hiss and then a loud crack. Hackeborn choked and raised a hand to his throat to grasp the crossbow bolt that was sticking into his gorget. The knight spat blood copiously, tipped backwards and toppled from his horse. Reynevan saw his eyes, wide open and expressing blank astonishment.

  Then things moved fast.

  “It’s a raaaaid!” yelled an esquire, jerking his sword from its scabbard. “To aaaarms!”

  There was a flash of fire, a terrible boom and a billow of smoke in the bushes. One of the servants’ horses fell beneath him like a stone, pinning its rider to the ground. The other horses reared up, frightened by the explosion, including Reynevan’s. With his arms tied together, Reynevan couldn’t keep his balance and fell, striking the ground painfully with his hip.

  Riders streamed out of the undergrowth. Even though he was curled up on the sand, Reynevan recognised them right way.

  “Kill them!” roared Kunz Aulock, brandishing his sword.

  The Ziębice bowmen unleashed a salvo of crossbow bolts, but all three of them missed unforgivably. They tried to flee but were cut down by swords before they could. The esquire valiantly crossed swords with Kyrie-eleison, their horses snorting and dancing, blades clanging. Stork of Gorgowice put an end to the duel, thrusting a baselard into the esquire’s back. The esquire stiffened and Kyrie-eleison finished him off with a thrust to the throat.

  Deep in the dense forest, a frightened magpie screeched in alarm. The air was thick with the smell of black powder.

  “Well, well,” said Kyrie-eleison, nudging the prone Reynevan with the point of his boot. “Lord Bielawa. It’s been a long time. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  Reynevan was not.

  “We’ve waited a long time for you,” Aulock complained, “in the cold, the rain and great discomfort. But finis coronat opus. You’re ours, Bielawa. And ready for use, so to speak, bound like a Christmas goose. Why, it just isn’t your day.”

  “Kunz, let me kick him in the teeth,” suggested one of the band. “He almost poked my eye out in that inn near Brzeg, so I’ll kick his teeth out now.”

  “Drop it, Sybek,” snarled Kyrie-eleison. “Control yourself. I’d rather you went and checked what that knight had in his saddlebags and purse. And you, Bielawa, what are you gawping at?”

  “You killed my brother, Aulock.”

  “Eh?”

  “You killed my brother. In Balbinów. You’ll swing for it.”

  “Nonsense,” said Kyrie-eleison coldly. “You must have landed on your head when you fell from that horse.”

  “You killed my brother!”

  “It’s still nonsense, no matter how many times you repeat it.”

  “You lie!”

  Aulock stood over him and his visage expressed a dilemma: to kick or not to kick. He chose not to and turned away contemptuously. He took a few steps and stood over the horse killed by the gunshot.

  “The Devil take me,” he said, nodding. “Truly a nasty, deadly weapon, that handgonne of yours, Stork. Look at the hole it made in the mare. Large enough for a fist. It’s verily a weapon of the future. It’s progress!”

  “Fuck progress,” Stork of Gorgowice replied sourly. “I was aiming at the rider with that sodding pipe, not the horse. And not this rider—that one.”

  “Never mind where you aimed, at least you hit a target. Hey, Walter, what are you doing there?”

  “I’m finishing off the ones that are still breathing!” Walter of Barby shouted back. “We’ve no need for witnesses, have we?”

  “Make haste! Stork, Sybek, be quick, get Bielawa on a horse—the knight’s castellan. And tie him up securely because he’s a handful. Remember?”

  Stork and Sybek remembered only too well, because before putting Reynevan in the saddle, they treated him to a series of shoves and vulgar insults. They tied his bound hands to the pommel and his calves to the stirrup leathers. As soon as Walter of Barby had finished off the wounded, the bodies of the Ziębice men were dragged into the bushes and the horses chased away. On Kyrie-eleison’s command, they all galloped off. They rode hard, clearly wishing to put as much distance as they could between them and the scene of the raid and any potential pursuers. Reynevan bounced around in the saddle. Every breath he took pained him; his ribs hurt like hell. It can’t go on like this, he thought preposterously, I can’t keep getting beaten like this.

  Kyrie-eleison urged his comrades with shouts and they galloped on. Never leaving the highway, they clearly preferred speed over stealth; they couldn’t even trot through the dense woodland, much less gallop.

  They arrived at a crossroads. And rode straight into a trap.

  Riders, previously concealed, charged out at them from the thicket from all directions. There were some twenty men, half of whom were wearing full suits of white armour. Kyrie-eleison and company had no chance whatsoever, but they put up fierce resistance, notwithstanding. Aulock was the first to fall from his horse, head cleaved open by a battleaxe. Walter of Barby tumbled beneath the horses’ hooves, run through by a huge knight with the Polish Ogończyk on his shield. Stork was hit over the head with a mace. Sybek of Kobylagłowa was hacked to pieces. Blood splashed over Reynevan, who was cowering in the saddle.

  “You’re free, Comrade.”

  Reynevan blinked. His head was swimming. Everything had happened much too quickly for his liking.

  “Thanks, Bolko… I apologise… I mean Your Grace—”

  “Never mind, never mind,” interrupted Bolko Wołoszek, heir to the Duke of Opole and Prudnik, Lord of Głogówek, cutting Reynevan’s bonds with a cutlass. “Don’t stand on ceremony. In Prague, you were Reynevan to me and I was Bolko to you, whether drinking or brawling. Or when we shared a whore at a brothel in the Old Town to save money. Have you forgotten?”

  “I have not.”

  “Neither have I. As you see. One doesn’t leave a college pal in the lurch. And Jan of Ziębice can kiss my arse. In any case, I’m happy to say we weren’t slaughtering Ziębice men. Fortunately, we’ve avoided a diplomatic incident, because I must confess that as we lay in wait on the Stolz road, we were rather expecting an escort from Ziębice. And then this surprise. Reynevan, please meet my vice-starosta, Sir Krzych of Kościelec. Well then, Sir Krzych? Identified any of them? Any still alive?”

  “It’s Kunz Aulock and his company,” said the
giant with the Ogończyk on his shield. “But only one of them is still breathing—Stork of Gorgowice.”

  “Well, well!” The Lord of Głogówek frowned and pursed his lips. “Stork. And alive? Lead me to him.”

  Wołoszek walked his horse where Sir Krzych led, looking down at the dead as he went.

  “Sybek of Kobylagłowa,” he said. “He cheated the noose more than once, but, as they say, it was only a matter of time. And this is Kunz Aulock. Dammit, he came from such a decent family. Walter of Barby. But if you live by the sword… And who do we have here? Sir Stork?”

  “Mercy,” mumbled Stork of Gorgowice, his bloodied face grimacing. “Pardon… For the love of God, sire—”

  “No, Sir Stork,” Bolko Wołoszek replied coldly. “Opole will soon be my new demesne, my duchy. The rape of an Opole townswoman is thus a very serious crime in my eyes. Too serious for a swift death. Pity we have such little time.”

  The young duke stood up in the stirrups and looked around.

  “Tie the scoundrel up,” he ordered. “And drown him.”

  “Where?” asked the Ogończyk in surprise. “There’s no water around here.”

  “Over there in the ditch,” Wołoszek pointed, “there’s a puddle. A small one, admittedly, but big enough for his head.”

  The Głogów and Opole knights dragged Stork, yelling and struggling in his bonds, to the ditch, turned him upside down and shoved his head into the puddle, holding him by the feet. The yelling became a furious gurgling. Reynevan turned his face away.

  It lasted a very long time.

  Krzych of Kościelec returned, accompanied by another knight, also a Pole, with the Nieczuja coat of arms.

  “He swallowed all the water in the puddle, the knave,” said the Ogończyk cheerfully. “It was the mud that choked him.”