“Bah!” Duke Ludwik waved a hand contemptuously. “Say what you like, Jogaila’s no bloody Christian. He’s a neophyte with the Devil still lurking in him.”
“His heathenism,” Gottfried Rodenberg said, losing his temper, “most clearly manifests itself in his fierce hatred towards the entire German nation, which is a mainstay of the Church, and in particular to us, the Knights Hospitaller of the Blessed Virgin Mary, antemurale christianitatis, who have defended the Catholic faith from pagans with our lives for two hundred years! And it is true that this Jogaila is a neophyte and an idolater, who, in order to oppress our Order, is liable to ally himself not just with the Hussites, but with Hell itself. Oh, verily, we were not meant to be debating today about how to convince Jogaila and Poland to join the crusade, but to return to the issue which we discussed at Epiphany in Pressburg two years ago: how to launch a crusade on Poland itself, and tear to pieces that misbegotten creation, that bastard Union of Horodło!”
“Your speech,” said Bishop Oleśnicki very coldly, “is unworthy of somebody who considers himself the Bulwark of Christendom!”
“The fact is, Bishop,” interrupted Půta of Častolovice, “that your king supports the Hussites both openly and secretly. We understand that by doing so, he holds the Teutonic Knights in check, and that he must do so is no surprise to me, frankly. But the results of such politics may turn out to be fatal for the whole of Christian Europe. You all know that.”
“We do, unfortunately,” confirmed Ludwik of Brzeg, “and we can already see the consequences. Just look where the Poles are, where there are Polish coats of arms and Polish battle cries. Are Jogaila’s edicts, declarations and orders supporting the true faith? He’s pulling the wool over our eyes, simple as that.”
“Meanwhile, lead, horses, arms, food and all kinds of goods pass endlessly into Bohemia from Poland,” added Albrecht of Kolditz gloomily. “What then, Bishop? You send Peter’s Pence, which you praise so much, to Rome down one road and powder and balls for Hussite cannons down another? Quite like your king, who, they say, runs with the hare and hunts with the hounds.”
“I also worry about certain matters,” admitted Bishop Oleśnicki a moment later. “So help me God, I am making every effort to improve things, but it’s a waste of breath to endlessly repeat the same counterarguments. Hear this, my lords: my presence here is the proof of the Kingdom of Poland’s loyalty.”
“Which we value,” said Bishop Konrad, slapping a hand down on the table. “But what is your Kingdom of Poland today? Are you it, honourable Bishop Oleśnicki? Or the Lithuanian Prince Witold? Or one of the aristocratic families? Who reigns in Poland? For it’s certainly not King Władysław, a decrepit old man who is unable even to rule his own wife. Perhaps Sophia and her lovers are in charge.”
“Vero, vero,” Legate Orsini said sadly. “It’s a shame for such a king to be cornuto—”
“This is meant to be a serious gathering,” said the Bishop of Krakow with a frown, “and we’re wasting time gossiping like students in a brothel.”
“You will not deny that Sophia is cuckolding Jogaila and bringing shame on him,” Bishop Konrad said.
“I shall, because it is vana rumoris. Rumours spread and fuelled by Malbork.”
The Teutonic Knight got up from the table, red-faced and ready to make a rejoinder, but Kaspar Schlick restrained him with a rapid gesture.
“Pax!”he said firmly. “Let us drop this subject, for we have graver ones to discuss. As I understand it, for the time being we cannot count on Polish armed support in the crusade, which is regrettable. But, by the shells of Saint James, see to it, Bishop Oleśnicki, that the points of the Treaty of Kežmarok and Jogaila’s edicts from Trembowla and Wieluń are indeed respected. Those edicts are meant to close the borders and threaten to punish anyone who trades with the Hussites, yet goods and arms, as the Lord Starosta of Świdnica rightly observed, continue flowing into Bohemia from Poland—”
“I gave my word,” Oleśnicki interrupted impatiently, “that I would do my utmost. And my promises are not hollow. Fraternising with Czech heretics will be punished in Poland; there are royal edicts, iura sunt clara. I shall, however, remind the Starosta and Hetman of Świdnica and the Right Reverend Bishop of Wrocław of the words of the Bible: ‘And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?’ Half of Silesia trades with the Hussites and no one opposes it!”
“Honourable Father Oleśnicki, you are mistaken,” said Bishop Konrad, leaning across the table. “I assure you; harsh measures have already been taken, not in the form of edicts and declarations, but some defensores haereticorum will experience first-hand what it means to consort with heretics. And the others will be quaking in their boots, I can assure you. Then the world will learn the difference between genuine and feigned action. Between a real fight for faith and pulling the wool over people’s eyes.”
The bishop spoke so scathingly, with such bitter hatred in his voice, that Reynevan felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. His heart began to beat so hard, he was afraid the men below would hear. But they had other things on their minds. Once again, Kaspar Schlick dampened down the disputes and called for a calm, thorough discussion regarding the situation in Bohemia. The truculent bishops and nobles kept quiet and the previously silent Bohemians and Moravians spoke up. Neither Reynevan, Scharley or Samson knew any of them, but it was fairly obvious that they were lords from the circle of the Plzeň Landfriede and the Moravian nobility loyal to Sigismund, and loyal to Jan of Kravaře, the Lord of Jičín. It soon turned out that one of them was the famous Jan of Kravaře himself.
It was Jan of Kravaře, well built, black-haired and black-moustached, with a complexion that spoke of more time spent in the saddle than at table, who had most to say about the current situation in Bohemia. No one interrupted him. When he spoke, in a calm, impassive voice, everybody leaned forward and stared silently at the map of the Kingdom of Bohemia spread out over the table after the ox’s skeleton had been removed. From above, the details of the map couldn’t be seen, hence Reynevan had to rely on his imagination when the Lord of Jičín spoke of attacks on Polish strongholds, some more successful than others, and about campaigns in the west and the south.
“Oh, I really need a piss,” whispered Scharley. “I can’t hold it in…”
“Perhaps,” Samson whispered back, “the thought that if they discover you the next time you piss you’ll be hanging from a noose, will help you to hold on.”
Down below, they had begun to talk about the Duchy of Opava. Which sparked another quarrel.
“I consider Přemysl of Opava an unreliable ally,” declared Bishop Konrad.
“Why?” Kaspar Schlick raised his head. “Because he has just married the sister of Sigismund Korybut, that thorn in our flesh? I assure you, gentlemen, that nothing will come of those family connections. The Jagiellonians are a rapacious family; they bicker more often than they cooperate. Přemysl of Opava will not ally with Sigismund Korybut simply because they are now brothers-in-law.”
“Přemysl is already allied,” countered the bishop. “It happened in March, in Hlubočky. And in Olomouc, on Saint Urban’s day. Indeed, Opava and the Moravian lords are quick to enter agreements with heretics. What do you say to that, Sir Jan of Kravaře?”
“Don’t speak ill of either my father-in-law or the Moravian nobility,” snapped the Lord of Jičín. “And know that thanks to the agreements between Hlubočky and Olomouc, we now have peace in Moravia.”
“But the Hussites have free trade routes from Poland.” Kaspar Schlick smiled superciliously. “You understand very little of politics, Sir Jan.”
Jan of Kravaře’s weather-beaten face flushed in anger. “If Sigismund had supported us when Puchała marched on us, there would have been no need to negotiate.”
“Vain speculation.” Schlick shrugged. “The main thing is that as a result of your negotiations, the Hussites now have free trade routes thr
ough Opava and Moravia, and are sacking and terrorising the entire region. It’s they who have peace there, not you. You struck a lousy deal, Sir Jan—”
“Plundering raids are not just a Hussite speciality,” the Bishop of Wrocław interjected with an evil smile. “I gave the heretics what for at Broumov and Trutnov in 1421. Czech corpses were piled six feet high and the sky was black from burnings. And whoever we didn’t kill or burn we marked in the Silesian way—if you see a Czech without a nose, hand or foot, you can be certain they were taken during our glorious raid. Well, gentlemen, shall we repeat that enterprise? The year of 1425 is a holy year—perhaps we should honour it by wiping out the Hussites? I don’t like needless talk, negotiating with rats or making peace with them! Well, Sir Albrecht? Sir Půta? If each of you add two hundred lances and infantry with firearms to my forces, we’ll teach the heretics some manners. The sky will blaze red from Trutnov to Hradec Králové. I promise—”
“Don’t make promises,” interrupted Kaspar Schlick. “And retain your enthusiasm for the appropriate moment. For the crusade. This is not about plundering raids. Or severing hands and feet, for King Sigismund has no need of handless and footless subjects. And His Holiness doesn’t wish Czechs to be massacred, but to be returned to the bosom of the true Church. And the issue is not about murdering civilians, but destroying the Taborite–Orebite army thoroughly enough for them to agree to negotiate. Thus, let us get down to the matter at hand. What kind of force will Silesia field when the crusade is announced? Be exact.”
“You’re more precise than a Jew,” said the bishop, smiling wryly. “But if that is your wish, by all means: I myself shall field seventy lances with suitable infantry and firearms. Konrad Kantner, my brother, your future father-in-law, will field sixty mounted men. I know that Ludwik of Brzeg, present here, will do likewise. Ruprecht of Lubin and his brother Ludwik will muster forty. Bernard of Niemodlin…”
Reynevan didn’t even know when he’d nodded off. He was woken by a shove. It was dark.
“We’re getting out of here,” muttered Samson.
“Have we been sleeping?”
“Soundly.”
“Is the council over?”
“For the present it is, but speak in a whisper—there are guards outside the barn.”
“Where’s Scharley?”
“He’s sneaked out to the horses. Now I’m going. And then you. Count to a hundred and walk through the courtyard. Take a sheaf of straw and walk slowly, with your head down, like a stable lad. Turn right after the last cottage and head into the trees. Got it?”
“Of course.”
And everything would have gone smoothly but for the fact that as he passed the last cottage, Reynevan heard his name.
A few soldiers were hanging around the field, but Reynevan slipped behind a shadowy awning, climbed on a bench and stood on tiptoes to peer into the room through the dirty oiled paper in the windows. In the poor lighting, he could make out three men talking. One was Konrad, Bishop of Wrocław.
“I am most grateful for the information, m’lord. It would have been difficult for us to obtain it ourselves. The merchants’ greed is their undoing, and in commerce it’s difficult to keep secrets, for there are too many go-betweens. Sooner or later, it comes out that somebody is trading with the Hussites. But it’s much more difficult with nobility and burghers, they have to be wary of the Inquisition and know what befalls heretics and Hussite sympathisers. Without the help of Prague, we would never have picked up the trail of men like Albrecht of Bart or Piotr of Bielawa.”
The man sitting with his back to the window spoke with an accent Reynevan knew at once. He was a Czech.
“Piotr of Bielawa could keep a secret,” the Czech said. “Even in Prague, few of us were aware of him. But you know what it’s like: a fellow is cautious among foes, but tongues loosen among friends. Perhaps at this gathering of friends, some incautious word has slipped out about me, Bishop?”
“You offend me with such conjecture,” said Konrad proudly. “I’m not a child. It is not without reason that this council is being held here in Dębowiec, out of the way. Furthermore, all those taking part here are true friends and allies. Even so, none of them saw you.”
“And such caution is creditable. For believe me, there are Hussite ears at Świdnica Castle, at Lord Kolditz’s and at Lord Půta’s in Kłodzko. I would also advise the utmost caution with regard to the Moravian lords here. No offence, but they are wont to change their loyalties. Sir Jan of Kravaře has plenty of kinsmen and relatives among the Hussites…”
The third man present spoke. He was sitting closest to the cresset and with his long, black hair and bird-like face, Reynevan thought he resembled a huge wallcreeper.
“We are cautious,” said the Wallcreeper. “And vigilant. And we are capable of punishing treachery, believe me.”
“I do, I do,” snorted the Czech. “Why wouldn’t I, after what befell Piotr of Bielawa and Lord Bart and those other merchants Pfefferkorn, Neumarkt and Throst? A demon, an angel of vengeance, is abroad in Silesia, striking from a clear sky at high noon. People are frightened—”
“And so they should be,” the bishop interrupted calmly.
“And the results can be seen with the naked eye.” The Czech nodded. “The Karkonosze passes are deserted, very few merchants travel to Bohemia. Our spies don’t go on missions to Silesia as willingly as they once did, and the formerly clamorous emissaries from Hradec and Tábor have also quietened down somewhat. People talk, the matter becomes a rumour and grows like a snowball. Apparently, Piotr of Bielawa was cruelly stabbed to death. They say not even a sacred space could save Pfefferkorn, for he met his death in a church. Hanusz Throst made off at night, but the angel of vengeance kills not only at noon, but also in the darkness. And the fact that I’ve given you their names, Bishop, shows they are on my conscience.”
“I can hear your confession right now, if you want.”
“Thank you,” replied the Czech, who must have heard the mockery but ignored it. “But I am, as you know, a Calixtine and Utraquist, so I do not acknowledge auricular confession.”
“That’s your business and your loss,” Bishop Konrad commented coolly and a little disdainfully. “I wasn’t offering you a ritual but peace of mind, which doesn’t depend on doctrine. It is your right to decline it, but then you’ll have to cope with your conscience by yourself. But I will say that the deceased were at fault. They had sinned. And as Paul wrote to the Romans: ‘For the wages of sin is death.’”
“Regarding sinners,” said the Wallcreeper, “it is also written there as follows: ‘Let their table be made a snare, and a trap, and a stumbling block, and a recompense unto them.’”
“Amen,” the Czech added. “I regret that the angel or demon only watches over Silesia, for there’s no shortage of sinners back home in Bohemia. Some of us there, in Golden Prague, pray morning and evening for certain sinners to be struck down by holy lightning or caught by a demon. If you want, I’ll give you a list.”
“Why would you give us a list?” asked the Wallcreeper calmly. “The people of whom we speak were guilty and deserved their punishment, and God punished them. Pfefferkorn was killed by a lessee, jealous of his wife, who then hanged himself from remorse. Piotr of Bielawa was killed in a rage by his brother, who is an insane magician and adulterer. Albrecht of Bart was killed by Jews out of envy, because he was wealthier than them. Several have been arrested and will confess under torture. The merchant Throst was killed by highwaymen; he liked to roam around at night and brought it on himself. The merchant Neumarkt—”
“Enough, enough,” the bishop said, waving a hand. “Stop, don’t bore our guest. We have a more important subject to discuss, so let’s return to it—namely which of the Prague noblemen are ready to collaborate and negotiate.”
“Forgive my frankness,” said the Czech, after a moment’s silence, “but it would be better if Silesia were represented by one of the dukes. I know we need balance, but in Prague we’ve h
ad so much trouble and strife thanks to radicals and zealots that the clergy provoke negative connotations in Bohemia—”
“Something is out of kilter, m’lord,” said Bishop Konrad, “if you conflate Catholic clergymen with heretics.”
“Many consider,” continued the Czech, unperturbed, “that zealotry is zealotry, the Roman kind being no better than the Taborite. Hence—”
Bishop Konrad cut him off harshly. “I am King Sigismund’s viceroy in Silesia and a Piast of royal blood. All the Silesian dukes and Silesian nobility accepted my leadership, electing me Landeshauptmann. I have borne that exacting duty from Saint Mark’s Day, Anno Domini 1422, long enough for it to be known even in Bohemia.”
“All the same—”
“There is no ‘all the same.’” The bishop cut him off again.
“I govern in Silesia. If you wish to negotiate, do so with me. Take it or leave it.”
The Czech was silent for a long time.
“Oh, Reverend,” he finally said, “how you adore governing, meddling in politics, sticking your fingers into everything. Verily, it will be a dreadful blow for you when somebody finally snatches that power from your greedy paws. How will you survive? Can you imagine it? No politics! Nothing from Matins to Compline but prayers, penance, teaching and charity. How does that appeal to you, Bishop?”
“It clearly appeals to you,” the Piast declared haughtily, “but as a wise cardinal once said, the barking of curs won’t stop the caravan. This world is and will be ruled by Rome. I’d say that’s how God wants it, but I won’t take His name in vain. So I’ll say that it is meet for power to be given to the most competent. And who, m’lord, is more competent than Rome? You, perhaps?”
“Some powerful king or emperor will come along,” said the Czech, not giving up, “and then it will end—”
“It’ll end in humble pie,” the bishop cut him off again, “as it did at Canossa for King Heinrich IV when he demanded that the clergy, including Pope Gregory VII, stop meddling in politics and busy themselves only with prayer from Matins to Compline. That self-righteous prig stood in the snow for two days while Pope Gregory enjoyed the delights of the table and the renowned charms of Margravine Matilda. That should be a lesson to all, not to raise one’s voice against the Church. We shall always rule, until the end of the world—”
The Tower of Fools Page 37
