“The girl’s probably at home by now,” he added.
That’s what he was hoping, at least. Stolz Castle was almost a mile from Frankenstein, the road to Ziębice and Opole was busy, and Katarzyna of Biberstein only had to say who she was for any merchant, knight or monk to help her get home. Thus Reynevan was almost certain that the girl had made it there safely. But it worried him that he hadn’t taken her himself. That wasn’t all he was worried about.
“Had it not been for you,” Samson appeared to read his mind, “the lass wouldn’t have got out of Castle Bodak alive. You rescued her.”
“And perhaps us, too,” said Scharley, licking the spoon. “Old Biberstein must have sent out a search party, and we are quite close to the site of the robbery, much nearer than yesterday evening. If we are caught… Perhaps the maid, remembering the rescue, will intercede on our behalf and beg her dear father for our members to remain intact.”
“If she so wishes,” Samson observed soberly. “And gets here in time.”
Reynevan didn’t comment. He finished his soup.
“You also impressed me. At Bodak, you handled five armed Raubritter swashbucklers—”
“They were drunk.” Scharley grimaced. “Had they been sober… But it’s true that I watched the martial prowess of our very own Samson Honey-Eater with unalloyed admiration. If you’d only seen how he battered down the gate, Reinmar! Ha, in sooth, if Queen Jadwiga had somebody like that at the Wawel Gate, there’d be Habsburgs on the Polish throne now… In short: we owe our lives to him.”
“But, Scharley—”
“We’re owe our lives to you, modest fellow. He also reunited us, Reinmar. When we had to choose at a crossroads, I was more in favour of Bardo, but Samson insisted on Frankenstein, claiming he had a presentiment. I usually ridicule such things, but in this case, when dealing with a supernatural creature, a visitor from the beyond—”
“You did what I suggested,” Samson cut him off, now quite unconcerned by the mockery. “Which turned out to be a wise decision.”
“There’s no denying it. Oh, Reinmar, how the sight of you in the Frankenstein town square gladdened me, framed against a slipper stall in the shadow of the town-hall tower. Have I told you how my—”
“You have.”
“—joy at seeing you,” the penitent wouldn’t be interrupted, “also inspired some minor corrections to my plans, about which I’d like to inform you. After your most recent exploits, particularly the adventure with Hayn of Czirne, the displays at the Ziębice joust and spilling the beans to Buko about the tax collector, I vowed that when we get to Hungary, I’d take you to the bridge over the Danube and kick your arse so hard you’d end up in the river. Today, overjoyed and moved, I am changing my plans. At least for the moment. I say, innkeeper! Ale! Look lively!”
They had to wait, as the innkeeper was in no particular hurry. Initially he was misled by Scharley’s air and firm voice, but couldn’t help noticing that earlier, when ordering soup, the guests had frantically totted up their resources, digging out coins from the bottoms of their pouches and deep in their pockets. The tavern in the arcades opposite the town hall was by no means busy, but the innkeeper had a high enough opinion of himself not to react with undue haste to the shouts of any old layabouts.
Reynevan sipped his beer, staring at the ragged children messing around in the yellow puddle between the pillory and the well.
“Children are the future of the nation,” said Scharley, catching his eye. “Our future. And it doesn’t look too promising. Firstly, it’s thin. Secondly, it stinks repulsively.”
“Indeed,” Samson admitted. “But something can be done. Instead of carping, it can be taken care of. Washed. Fed. Educated. And the future is assured.”
“But who do you think should take care of it?”
“Not me.” The giant shrugged. “It’s nothing to do with me. I have no future in this world anyway.”
“Indeed. I’d forgotten.” Scharley tossed the hunk of bread he had dipped in the last of the soup to a dog hanging around nearby. The dog was so emaciated, it was bent in a bow. And it didn’t chew the bread, but gulped it down like Jonah’s whale.
“I wonder,” Reynevan pondered, “if that cur has ever seen a bone?”
“Only if it’s ever broken a leg,” said the penitent with a shrug. “But, as Samson rightly says, it’s nothing to do with me. I don’t have a future here, either, and even if I did, it promises to be shittier than the future of those urchins and that mongrel. Right now, the land of the Magyars feels further away than Ultima Thule. This momentary idyll in the form of sleepy little Frankenstein, ale, bean soup and bread won’t delude me. Any moment, Reynevan will meet some maid and it’ll be business as usual. We’ll have to run away again and finally end up hunkered down somewhere in the wilds. Or in some dreadful company.”
“Why, Scharley,” said Samson, also throwing the dog some bread, “we are only a little over twenty miles from Opava, and from Opava to Hungary, it’s about eighty miles all told. It isn’t that much.”
“You studied the geography of the eastern marches of Europe in the beyond, I see.”
“I studied various things, but that’s not the point. The point is to think positively.”
“I always think positively.” Scharley sipped his beer. “Seldom is my optimism shaken. And then only by something serious. Something like, let’s say, the prospect of a long journey with a total lack of cash. With two horses—one of which has founder—between three men. And the fact that one of us is injured. How is your arm, Samson?”
The giant didn’t reply as he was busy with his beer, just moved his bandaged arm to show that it was in working order.
“I’m glad.” Scharley looked up at the sky. “One problem less. But the others won’t go away.”
“They will. At least partially.”
“What do you mean by that, dear Reinmar?”
“This time,” Reynevan raised his head proudly, “not your—but my—connections will help us. I have friends in Frankenstein.”
“Do you mean some married woman or other, may I ask?” said Scharley with a straight face. “A widow? A wealthy marriageable heiress? A nun? Or any other daughter of Eve?”
“Feeble jests. And vain fears. My friend here is the deacon of the Church of the Elevation of the Holy Cross. A Dominican.”
“Ha!” Scharley vigorously put his mug down on the bench. “If so, I think I’d prefer another matron. My dear Reinmar, do you by any chance suffer from persistent headaches? Do you feel nauseous or dizzy? Are you seeing double?”
“I know what you mean,” said Reynevan, brandishing a hand. “Domini canes, dogs, just a pity they’re rabid. At the Inquisition’s beck and call. Predictable, sir, predictable. Furthermore, you ought to know that the deacon I refer to is indebted to me, greatly indebted. Peterlin, my brother, once helped him out of grave financial difficulties.”
“So you think that means something. What is this deacon called?”
“What, do you know them all?”
“I know plenty. What’s his name?”
“Andrzej Kantor.”
“Financial difficulties appear to run in the family,” said the penitent a moment later. “I’ve heard of Paweł Kantor, whom half of Silesia was chasing for debts and swindles. And Mateusz Kantor, a curate from Długołęka, was imprisoned with me in the Carmelite priory. He lost a ciborium and a thurible at dice. I dread to think what your deacon lost.”
“That’s an old case.”
“You misunderstand me. I dread to think what he’s lost lately.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, Reinmar, Reinmar. You’ve already met this Kantor, I presume?”
“I have indeed. But I still don’t—”
“How much does he know? What did you tell him?”
“Practically nothing.”
“That’s the first piece of good news. Thus let us pass both on this acquaintance and help from Dominicans. We’ll find
the necessary funds some other way.”
“I wonder how.”
“By selling this well-crafted jug, for example.”
“It’s silver. Where did you get it?”
“I was walking around the market hall and looking at the stalls and it suddenly found itself in my pocket. It’s a mystery.”
Reynevan gasped. Samson gazed into his mug, looking longingly at the remains of the froth. Scharley, however, was busy observing a knight beneath a nearby arcade who was vehemently dressing down a Jew. The knight was wearing a crimson chaperon and a rich doublet decorated on the front with a coat of arms portraying a millstone.
“I will leave behind me Silesia as such with but one regret,” said the penitent. “Namely that five hundred grzywna the tax collector was carrying. Were it not for the circumstances, the money could have been ours. I confess I’m annoyed by the thought that a blockhead like Buko of Krossig got his hands on it, undeservedly and by accident. Or who knows, perhaps it was that Reichenbach who is presently abusing the Israelite? Or maybe one of those men by the leatherworker’s booth?”
“There’s a hell of a lot of knighthood and soldiery here today,” said Reynevan.
“Plenty. And look, more are arriving—”
The penitent broke off abruptly and sucked in air loudly. That very moment, the Raubritter Hayn of Czirne rode into the town square from Silver Mountain Street, which led from the dungeon gate.
Scharley, Samson and Reynevan didn’t wait. They leaped up from the bench, meaning to steal away without being noticed. Too late. Hayn himself saw them, as did Fryczko of Nostitz, who was riding beside him, and the Italian Vitelozzo Gaetani. At the sight of Scharley, the latter’s face, still swollen and disfigured by a fresh scar, paled in fury. The next second, the town square of Frankenstein resounded with yells and the thud of hooves. A moment later, Hayn vented his anger on the bench in the tavern, chopping it into matchwood with his battleaxe.
“After them!” he roared to his men. “Give chase!”
“Over there!” yelled Gaetani. “They went that way!”
Reynevan was running as fast as he could, barely keeping up with Samson. Scharley was leading, choosing the way, cunningly turning into a narrow lane and then weaving through gardens. The tactic appeared to be working—suddenly the rattle of hooves and shouts of the pursuers faded away. They rushed out into Lower Bath Street, its gutters full of soap suds, and turned towards the Ziębice Gate.
The Sterczas, chatting and lazily rocking in their saddles, with Knobelsdorf, Haxt and Rotkirch behind them, were riding up from the Ziębice Gate.
Reynevan stood transfixed.
“Bielawa!” bellowed Wolfher of Stercza. “We have you son of a dog!”
Before the roar had died away, Reynevan, Scharley and Samson were now loping, panting heavily, through lanes, jumping over fences, dashing through gardens, getting tangled up in sheets drying on lines. Hearing the cries of Hayn’s men from the left and the roars of the Sterczas behind them, they ran north towards the sound of the bell from the Dominican Church of the Elevation of the Holy Cross.
“M’Lord Reinmar! Here! This way!”
A little door opened in the wall and there stood Andrzej Kantor, the deacon of the Dominican church. The priest indebted to the Bielawas.
“This way, this way! Make haste! There’s no time to lose!”
Indeed, there wasn’t. They ran into a narrow hallway, which, when Kantor closed the door, was plunged into gloom and gave off the smell of rotting rags. Reynevan knocked over some metal pots with an almighty crash and Samson tripped and fell over with a bang. Scharley had also run into something, for he swore violently.
“This way!” called Andrzej Kantor from somewhere ahead illuminated by a dim light. “This way! Here! Here!”
Reynevan stumbled more than walked down the narrow staircase. He finally emerged into daylight, entering a tiny courtyard surrounded by walls covered in wild vines. Scharley ran out behind him and trod on a cat, which yowled shrilly. Before the cry had died out, a dozen men in black jerkins and round felt caps rushed out from both cloisters and flew at them.
One of them threw a sack over Reynevan’s head and another tripped him up. He tumbled to the ground. He was pinned down and his arms twisted behind him. He felt a struggle beside him, heard furious panting, the sounds of blows and cries of pain, indicating that Scharley and Samson were putting up resistance.
“Has the Holy Office…” The shaking voice of Andrzej Kantor reached him. “Has the Holy Office anticipated… a reward… even a tiny one… for the seizure of this heretic? The bishop’s significavit doesn’t mention it, but I… I have difficulties… I’m in great financial need… For which reason—”
“The significavit is an order, not a commercial contract,” an evil, grating voice admonished the deacon, “and the chance to aid the Holy Inquisition is sufficient reward for every good Catholic. Which you are, are you not, Frater?”
“Kantor…” wheezed Reynevan, his mouth full of dust and hair from the sack. “Kantooor! You whoreson! You papist dog! You sodomitic—”
He wasn’t allowed to finish. He was struck on the head with something hard and saw stars. A second blow caused intense pain and his fingers suddenly went numb. More blows followed. The pain made Reynevan cry out, the blood pounded in his ears and he lost consciousness.
He came to in almost complete darkness, his throat parched and his tongue dry. His head throbbed with a pain that spread through his temples, eyes and even teeth. He took a deep breath and almost choked, there was such a stench around him. As he moved, the compacted straw he was lying on rustled.
Nearby, someone was moaning horribly, someone else was coughing and grunting. He heard water trickling beside him. Reynevan licked his lips, which were covered in a sticky fur. He lifted his head and groaned from the thudding pain. He raised himself up more slowly and cautiously. A quick glance told him he was in a large cellar. In a dungeon. At the bottom of a deep stone well. And that he wasn’t alone.
“You’ve come round,” Scharley stated. He was standing a few steps away and peeing into a bucket with a loud splashing sound.
Reynevan opened his mouth but was unable to utter a word.
“I’m glad you’ve come round,” said Scharley, fastening his trousers, “because I have to inform you that regarding the bridge on the Danube, we’re returning to my original plan.”
“Where…” Reynevan finally croaked, swallowing with difficulty. “Scharley… Where… are we?”
“In the temple of Saint Dymphna.”
“Where?”
“In a hospital for the deranged.”
“Where?”
“I’m telling you. In a madhouse. In the Narrenturm, the Tower of Fools.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In which, for quite some time, Reynevan and Scharley have peace, medical care, spiritual solace, regular meals and the company of unconventional men, with whom they can freely converse on fascinating subjects. In a word, they have what is usually on offer in a lunatic asylum.
“Jesus Christ be praised! Blessed be the name of Saint Dymphna.”
The inmates of the Tower of Fools reacted with a rustling of straw and incoherent, indistinct growls. The canon of the Holy Sepulchre played with a club, tapping it against his open left hand.
“You two are new to our divine flock,” he said to Reynevan and Scharley, “and we give new people new names. And since today we are revering the holy martyrs Cornelius and Cyprian, then one will be Cornelius and the other Cyprian.”
Neither Cornelius nor Cyprian answered.
“I am the master of the hospital and guardian of the Tower,” continued the monk unemotionally. “My name is Brother Tranquillus. Nomen est omen. At least until somebody annoys me. And it annoys me, please know, when somebody makes a racket, rants and raves, provokes disturbances and rows, dirties himself and the surroundings, uses vulgar words, blasphemes against God and the saints, doesn’t pray and stops other peop
le praying. And commit sins, generally speaking. We have various methods for dealing with sinners here. The oaken club. The pail of cold water. The iron cage. And the chain in the wall. Clear?”
“Clear,” answered Cornelius and Cyprian in unison.
“Thus, you will begin the treatment.” Brother Tranquillus yawned and examined his club, a well-worn and polished piece of oak wood. “And if you successfully pray for the favour and intercession of Saint Dymphna, your lunacy and madness will leave you and, God willing, you will return, cured, to the healthy bosom of society. Dymphna is famed among the saints for her kindness, so your chances are good. But don’t stop praying. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Then God be with you.”
The canon of the Holy Sepulchre left, climbing up the creaking staircase that wound around the wall and ended somewhere high up at a door, a solid one judging by the sound of it opening and closing. Scarcely had the echo booming through the stone well died out than Scharley stood up.
“Well, brothers in torment,” he said cheerfully, “greetings, whoever you are. It looks like we’ll be spending some time together. Admittedly in prison, but still. So perhaps we could get to know each other?”
Just like an hour before, he was answered with clanking and the rustling of straw, snorting, a quiet curse and a few other words and sounds, mostly vulgar. But Scharley wasn’t discouraged this time. He strode over to one of the straw pallets, of which a dozen or more were located by the tower’s walls and around the ruined pillars and arcades dividing up the space. The darkness was slightly eased by light shining from above through some tiny windows at the very top of the tower. But Scharley’s sight had become accommodated by now and some things could be seen.
“Good morrow! I am Scharley!”
“Oh, get thee gone,” snapped a fellow from his pallet. “Pick on your own kind, madman. I’m of sound mind. Normal!”
Reynevan opened his mouth, quickly closed it and opened it again. For he saw what the man wanting to be regarded as sane was doing, which was the energetic manipulation of his genitalia. Scharley cleared his throat, shrugged and continued on his way, towards the next pallet. The person lying on it wasn’t moving, if you didn’t count a slight twitching and strange contractions of his face.
The Tower of Fools Page 48
