“Aye.” The canon of the Holy Sepulchre nodded. “I understand. Farewell, Brother.”
The man on the ground sat up. Reynevan barely recognised him. The grey cloak and liripipe were gone, the silver clasp and chaperon lost. The tight doublet was covered in dust and plaster, split on both padded shoulders.
“Greetings.”
Urban Horn raised his head. His hair was dishevelled, he had a black eye and his lip was cut and swollen.
“Greetings, Reinmar,” he replied. “You know, I’m not at all surprised to see you in the Narrenturm.”
“Are you in one piece? How do you feel?”
“Splendid. Simply excellent. No doubt there’s sunlight streaming from my arse. Take a look and check, because it’s hard for me to do it myself.”
He stood up and felt his sides. Massaged his lower back.
“They killed my dog,” he said coldly. “Clubbed him to death. My Beelzebub. Do you remember Beelzebub?”
“I’m sorry.” Reynevan well remembered the mastiff’s teeth an inch from his face. But he was genuinely sorry.
“I won’t forgive them for it,” Horn said, gnashing his teeth. “I’ll get even with them. When I get out of here.”
“There may be a problem with that.”
“I know.”
During the introductions, Horn and Scharley scrutinised each other for a long time, squinting and biting their lips. It was clear that the two wily old foxes had met their match. It was so obvious that neither of them asked the other anything.
“Well then.” Horn looked around. “Here we are. In Frankenstein, the hospital of the canons regular, the guardians of the tomb in Jerusalem. The Narrenturm. Tower of Fools.”
“Not only that.” Scharley squinted. “Which you undoubtedly know, m’lord.”
“M’lord does undoubtedly know,” admitted Horn, “for the Inquisition and the bishop’s significavit put him here. Whatever you may think about the Holy Office, their prisons are usually tidy, spacious and clean. Even here, judging by the smell, they empty the piss pot now and again, and the inmates are quite presentable… It’s clear that the canons of the Holy Sepulchre take good care of them. What’s the food like?”
“Rotten. But regular.”
“Not bad. The last madhouse I encountered was the Pazzeria in Florence near Santa Maria Nuova’s. You ought to have seen the patients there! Starving, louse-infested, unshaven, dirty… But here? I can see them paying a visit to court… Not, perhaps, the imperial court, or the Wawel… But somewhere like Wilno, let’s say. I assure you, you could go as you are and wouldn’t stand out unduly. Yeees… I could have done much worse. If it wasn’t for these nutcases here… There aren’t any maniacs among them, I trust. Nor, God save us, sodomites?”
“There are not,” Scharley reassured him. “We’re protected by Saint Dymphna. Just them, over there. They pass their days lying, jabbering and playing with their privates. Nothing special.”
“Splendid. Why, we’ll be spending some time together. Maybe quite some time.”
“Perhaps less than you think.” The penitent smiled crookedly. “We’ve been here since Saint Cornelius’s Day, and we expect the Inquisitor anytime now. Who knows, perhaps it’ll be today?”
“Not today,” Urban Horn calmly assured them. “Nor tomorrow. The Inquisition has other matters to attend to.”
Although pressed, Horn only began explaining after lunch. Which, incidentally, he ate with relish. And didn’t spurn the leftovers that Reynevan—who had lately been feeling bad and was losing his appetite—didn’t eat.
“His Excellency, Konrad, Bishop of Wrocław,” explained Horn, scooping out the last groats from the bottom of the bowl with a finger, “has attacked Hussite Bohemia. He and Sir Půta of Častolovice have attacked the Náchod and Trutnov regions.”
“A crusade?”
“No. A plundering raid.”
“But they’re the same thing,” said Scharley.
“Ho ho,” snorted Horn. “I was meaning to ask what you’re in for, but I don’t need to now.”
“Glad to hear it. What about that raid?”
“The pretext, if a pretext was at all necessary, was the alleged robbery by Hussites of a tax collector, apparently carried out on the thirteenth of September. More than one and a half thousand grzywna were reportedly stolen…”
“How much?”
“I said allegedly, apparently, reportedly. No one believes it. But the pretext suited the bishop, and he chose the moment well. He struck during the absence of the Hussite field army from Hradec Králové. The bishop, it appears, has decent spies.”
“Aye, he probably does,” Scharley said without batting an eyelid. “Go on. Master Horn? Speak, forget the nutters for now. You’ve plenty of time to have a good look at them later.”
Urban Horn tore his gaze away from Normal, who was indulging enthusiastically in self-abuse. And from one of the madmen who was attentively making a small ziggurat from his own excrement.
“Yeees… Where was I?… Oh, yes. Bishop Konrad and Sir Půta entered Bohemia via Levín and Homole. They ravaged and pillaged around Náchod, Trutnov and Vízmburk, burning down villages. They looted and murdered whoever fell into their clutches. They did spare children who fit under a horse’s girth. Well, some of them.”
“And then?”
“Later…”
The fire had died down to barely flickering flames over the pile of wood. The wood hadn’t completely burned up because, firstly, it was a rainy day, and secondly, damp wood had been used so the heretic wouldn’t burn too quickly but rather sizzled, giving him a suitable foretaste of the torment awaiting him in Hell. But they had gone too far and the excess of wet firewood meant that the rogue hadn’t burned to death, but very quickly suffocated on the smoke before he even managed to scream much. Additionally, the corpse chained to the stake had more or less retained its human form. Bloody, partially charred flesh was still clinging to the skeleton in many places, the skin hanging in twisted strips, and the bones exposed here and there were more red than black. The head had been quite evenly roasted and the charred skin had sloughed off the skull; the teeth showing white in a mouth opened in a dying scream lent the whole scene a macabre appearance.
That appearance, paradoxically, compensated for the disappointment resulting from the short and not very painful torture in that it exerted a better psychological effect. The crowd that had been rounded up in the nearby village of Čechov and driven to the site of the auto-da-fé wouldn’t have been shaken by the sight of some shapeless fried skin on a bonfire. However, seeing their recently alive preacher in the partly roasted, grinning corpse, the Czechs were totally distraught. The men were trembling, covering their eyes, the women were wailing and moaning, and the children were bawling wildly.
Konrad of Oleśnica, Bishop of Wrocław, straightened himself in the saddle so proudly and spiritedly that his armour creaked. He had at first meant to give a speech to the prisoners, a sermon intended to make the rabble aware of all the evils of heresy and warn them about the severe punishment awaiting dissenters from the faith. But he changed his mind and just looked on, pouting his lips. Why waste his breath? The Slavic rabble spoke poor German in any case. And the charred cadaver at the stake spoke more eloquently and emphatically about the punishment for heresy than he ever could. As did the corpses hacked and mutilated beyond recognition, piled onto a fire in the centre of the stubbled field. And the fire raging over the thatched roofs of the village. And the columns of smoke rising into the sky from other villages set alight along the Metuje River. And the horrifying cries from the stable where young women had been dragged for the enjoyment of Sir Půta of Častolovice’s Kłodzko pikemen.
Father Miegerlin ranted and raged amid the crowd of Czechs. Aided by soldiers and accompanied by several Dominicans, the priest was hunting Hussites and their sympathisers. The list of names Miegerlin had received from Birkart of Grellenort was helping in the hunt, but the priest didn’t consider Grellenort an
authority, nor his list sacrosanct. Claiming that one could recognise a heretic by his eyes, ears and general expression, so far the priest had apprehended at least five times as many people as there were on the list. Some were murdered outright, others clapped in irons.
“What about them, Your Eminence?” asked Lorenz of Rohrau, the marshal of the court bishop, riding up. “What are your orders for them?”
“The same as for the previous ones.” Konrad of Oleśnica looked at him severely.
Seeing the crossbowmen and pikemen with harquebuses, the crowd of shackled Czechs began screaming horribly. Several men broke free of the crowd and bolted; mounted soldiers gave chase, caught up with them and hacked and stabbed them to death. Others bunched tightly together, knelt and fell to the ground. Men shielded women with their bodies, and mothers shielded their children.
The crossbowmen cranked up their weapons.
Oh well, thought Konrad, there are no doubt some innocent people in the crowd, even good Catholics, perhaps, but God will know his flock. I’ll go down in history as the defender of the true faith, the vanquisher of heresy. Posterity will speak my name with reverence. But that’s for the future. As for today, will they finally appreciate me in Rome? Perhaps Wrocław will be granted an arch-diocese and I shall become Archbishop of Silesia and an elector of the Holy Roman Empire. Perhaps it’ll mark the end of that farce of the diocese being formally subordinate to the Polish Archbishop of Gniezno. Naturally, I’d rather go to hell than accept a Polack as my superior—especially one who impudently demands that I receive his pastoral visitation! In Wrocław! A Pole in Wrocław! Never! Nimmermehr!
The first shots boomed, bowstrings clanged and people trying to flee the encirclement were cut down. The screams of the slaughtered rose into the air.
This will not go unnoticed in Rome, thought Bishop Konrad, calming his frightened horse, they cannot ignore this. That here, in Silesia, on the marches of Europe and Christian civilisation, I, Konrad Piast of Oleśnica, hold the cross high. That I am a true bellator Christi, defensor and intercessor of Catholicism, and to heretics and apostates a flagellum Dei—a divine punishment and scourge.
Shouts from the highway hidden behind the hill suddenly joined the cries of people being executed, and a moment later, a detachment of horsemen burst forth, galloping east, towards Levín. Wagons rattled after the horsemen and the waggoners yelled, standing up and mercilessly whipping the horses, trying to make them move faster. Lowing cattle were being driven behind the wagons, and behind them ran foot soldiers, yelling loudly. In the confusion, the bishop couldn’t hear what they were yelling. But others could. The pikemen shooting the Czechs turned and fled to a man, following the mounted soldiers, the wagons and the infantry now filling the entire highway.
“Where are you going!” bellowed the bishop. “Stop! What is the matter? What is happening?”
“Hussites!” yelled Otto of Borschnitz, reining his horse in beside them. “Hussites, Father! The Hussites are coming! Hussite war wagons!”
“Nonsense! There is no field army in Hradec! The Hussites marched on Podještědí!”
“Not all of them! They’re coming for us! Fleeee! Save yourself!”
“Stop!” roared Konrad, flushing. “Stop, you cowards! Stand and fight! Fight, you dogs!”
“Save yourself!” bellowed Mikołaj Zedlitz, Starosta of Otmuchów, galloping beside him. “Hussiiites! They’re coming for us! Hussiiites!”
“Sir Půta and Lord Kolditz have already fled! Every man for himself!”
“Stop…” The bishop tried vainly to make his voice heard over the pandemonium. “Noble knights! What are you—”
His horse was frantic beneath him and reared up. Lorenz of Rohrau seized it by the reins and brought it under control.
“We must flee!” he shouted. “Reverend! We must save ourselves!”
Along the highway galloped more riders, bowmen and armoured troops, knights who only the day before had been boasting about their readiness to attack. And now they were fleeing in panic.
“Save yourselves, one and all!” yelled Tristram of Rachenau, speeding alongside. “Ambrož is coming! Ambrooož!”
“Christ, have mercy on us!” mumbled Father Miegerlin, running beside the bishop’s horse. “Save us, O Christ!”
A wagon full of spoils with a broken wheel was blocking the highway. It was pushed off and tipped over, and chests, trunks, barrels and other objects plundered from the villages being burned were scattered in the mud. When another wagon got stuck, and behind it another, the waggoners jumped off and fled on foot. The road was already strewn with spoils discarded by the foot soldiers. A moment later, the bishop saw discarded pavises, halberds, battleaxes, crossbows and even firearms among the bundles of loot. The unburdened pikemen ran so hard they were catching up with the horsemen and armoured men. Men who were falling behind wailed and yelled in panic. Cows lowed. Sheep bleated.
“Quicker, quicker, Reverend…” Lorenz of Rohrau urged him on, his voice shaking. “We must save ourselves… We must save ourselves… We must reach Homole… And the border…”
In the centre of the highway, partly trampled into the ground, stained with cow shit, covered with bagels and pieces of broken pots, lay a standard with a large red cross. The sign of the crusade.
Konrad, Bishop of Wrocław, bit his lip. And spurred his horse. To the east. Towards Homole and the Levín Pass. Save yourself while you can. As quick as you are able. Quickly. Because…
“Ambrož is coming! Ambrooož!”
“Ambrož,” Scharley said, nodding, “was the Hradec parish priest at the Church of the Holy Spirit. I’ve heard about him. He was at Žižka’s side up until his death. He’s a dangerous radical, a charismatic people’s champion, a real rabble-rouser. Moderate Calixtines are scared stiff of him, because Ambrož regards moderation as a betrayal of the ideals of Huss and the Chalice. One nod from him and a thousand Taborite flails fall in behind him.”
“It’s true,” Horn confirmed. “Ambrož was already raging during the bishop’s previous plundering raid in 1421. At that time, as you remember, it ended in a truce negotiated by Hynek Krušyna and Čeněk of Wartenberg with Bishop Konrad. The bloodthirsty priest called the two men traitors and procrastinators and the mob attacked them with flails. They barely escaped. Ever since, Ambrož has talked only about revenge… Reinmar? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“You look absent,” said Scharley. “You’re not ill, are you? Never mind. Let us return to the bishop’s plundering raid, my dear Mommolem. What does it have to do with us?”
“The bishop caught plenty of Hussites,” explained Horn. “They say he was catching people according to a list. Did I not say he had good spies?”
“You did,” replied Scharley. “So, the Inquisition is busy wringing testimonies out of those captives. And so you think they won’t have time for us for the present?”
“I don’t think. I know.”
The conversation that had to happen took place that evening.
“Horn.”
“I’m listening to you, laddie, most attentively.”
“You don’t have a dog now, no matter how it grieves you.”
“That cannot be denied.” Urban Horn’s eyes narrowed.
Reynevan cleared his throat loudly to attract Scharley’s attention, who was nearby playing chess with Tomasz Alpha using pieces formed from clay and bread.
“Neither will you find here,” he continued, “any hollow, or humours, or fluids. In short, nothing that could protect you from the necessity of giving me answers to my questions. The same ones I asked you in Balbinów, in the stable of my murdered brother. Do you remember what I asked you?”
“I don’t usually have problems with my memory.”
“Splendid. So giving me the answers you owe me shouldn’t cause you any problems, either. I’m ready. Start talking.”
Urban Horn placed his hands under his neck and stretched, then looked Reynevan in the eyes.
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br /> “Well, well,” he said. “How fierce. ‘Start talking.’ And if I don’t, what then? What will happen if I don’t answer your questions? Assuming, as I rightly believe, that I don’t owe you anything? What then? If I may ask?”
“Then you may get a beating.” Reynevan glanced to see if Scharley was listening. “Before you can say credo in Deum patrem omnipotentem.”
Horn said nothing for some time, continuing to lie with his fingers interlaced under his head.
“I’ve already said it didn’t completely surprise me to see you here,” Horn finally replied. “You blatantly ignored the warnings and advice of Canon Beess, mine also, which had to end badly for you. It’s a miracle you’re still alive. But you’re in prison, laddie. If you haven’t realised it yet, it’s time you did: you’re locked up in the Tower of Fools. And you’re expecting—nay, demanding—from me answers to questions. You want information. And what, may I ask, do you mean to do with it? What do you expect? That they’ll release you to celebrate the anniversary of the discovery of Saint Smaragdus’s relics? That somebody will mercifully free you as a penance? No, Reinmar of Bielawa. You can expect the Inquisitor and an interrogation. Do you know what strappado is? How long do you think you’ll last when they pull you up by your arms twisted behind your back? With a forty-pound weight hanging from your ankles? And burning torches held under your armpits? Well? How long do you think you’ll last before you begin to sing? I’ll tell you: before you can even say the Veni Sancte Spiritus.”
“Why was Peterlin killed? Who killed him?”
“You’re as stubborn as a mule, laddie. Didn’t you hear what I said? I won’t tell you anything. Nothing you might reveal under torture. The game is too important and the stakes are too high.”
“What game?” Reynevan shouted. “What stakes? I care nothing about your games! Your secrets haven’t been secrets for a long time. The cause you serve is no longer a secret, either. What, do you think I can’t put two and two together? Let me tell you, I don’t give a damn about it. I don’t give a fuck about conspiracies or religious disputes. Do you hear, Horn? I’m not asking you to turn in your accomplices, to betray any more hiding places where Joannes Wicleph Anglicus is buried. But I must, by the Devil, know why, how and by whose hand my brother died. And you will tell me. Even if I have to beat it out of you!”
The Tower of Fools Page 50
