Reynevan breathed out. Too soon.
“There remains, though, Reinmar, the causa fidei. The case of religion and the Catholic faith. For I cannot be sure you don’t share the same views as your deceased brother regarding the question of Unam Sanctam, the authority and infallibility of the Pope, the sacraments, transubstantiation and communion sub utraque specie. As well as regarding the Bible for common folk, auricular confession and the existence of purgatory. And so on.”
Reynevan opened his mouth, but the Inquisitor quietened him with a gesture.
“I don’t know,” he continued, spitting out a fishbone, “whether, like your brother, you read Ockham, Huss and the rest, or whether, like your brother, you distribute the said literature in Silesia, Neumark and Greater Poland. Nor do I know whether, following your brother’s example, you give protection to Hussite emissaries and spies. In short: whether you are a heretic. I presume—and I have studied the case a little—that you aren’t. I believe that you were simply entangled in the whole affair by ‘chance,’ if one can use that term to describe Adèle of Stercza’s feminine charms. And your well-known weakness for such charms.”
“Grzegorz…” Reynevan had difficulty forcing the words out of his constricted windpipe. “I mean, please forgive me, Reverend Father… I assure you, I have nothing to do with heresy. My brother also, I vouch, the victim of a crime—”
“I’d be wary about vouching for your brother,” interrupted Hejncze. “You’d be surprised how many delations were justifiably issued against him. He would have been brought before the tribunal and turned in his accomplices. I trust you wouldn’t have been among them.”
He threw down the herring’s backbone and licked his fingers.
“Piotr of Bielawa’s imprudent activities,” he continued, starting on another fish, “were halted, not by justice, not by criminal proceedings, not by poenitentia, but by a crime, the perpetrators of which I’d like to see punished. As would you, yes? I see you would. So know that they will be and soon. That knowledge ought to help you to make the decision.”
“What…” Reynevan swallowed. “What decision?”
Hejncze crumbled a slice of bread in silence. He was torn out of his reverie by a cry from somewhere in the building, the desperate, horrible scream of a person suffering intense pain.
“From what I can hear,” the Inquisitor indicated with a movement of his head, “Brother Arnulph must have prayed briefly and gone back to his work. A zealous fellow, very zealous. But it reminds me that I also have work to do. Hence, let us reach a conclusion.”
Reynevan cringed. And rightly so.
“My dear Reynevan, you’ve become embroiled in quite the scandal. You’ve been made a tool of. I sympathise. But since you are a tool, it would be a sin not to make use of you, particularly in a good cause and to the glory of God. You shall walk free. I shall release you from the tower, protect and defend you from the people who wish you harm. And that number has grown—your death is sought, from what I know, by the Sterczas; Duke Jan of Ziębice; Jan’s lover, Adèle of Stercza; the Raubritter Buko of Krossig; and also—for reasons that are still unclear—Sir Jan of Biberstein. Why, there is reason indeed for you to fear for your life. But, as I said before, I shall take you under my protection. But not for nothing, naturally. You scratch my back… To ut des. Or rather: ut facias.”
The Inquisitor began to speak more quickly, as though reciting a text he’d learned. “I shall arrange everything so that no suspicions will be aroused in Bohemia, where you will be going. In Bohemia, you will make contact with the Hussites, with the men I tell you to. You ought not to have difficulty making contact. After all, you’re the brother of Piotr of Bielawa, who rendered great service to Hussitism, was a good Christian, a martyr for the cause, and was murdered by accursed papists.”
“Am I to be…” uttered Reynevan. “Am I to be a spy?”
“Ad maiorem.” Hejncze shrugged. “Dei gloriam. Everyone should serve as he can.”
“But I am not fit… No, no. Grzegorz, not that. I won’t consent. No.”
“Do you understand what the alternative is?” The Inquisitor looked him in the eyes.
The man being tortured howled from somewhere in the building, then screamed and choked on the scream. Even without that timely reminder, Reynevan suspected what the alternative was.
“You wouldn’t believe what comes to light during painful confessions.” Hejncze confirmed his speculation. “What secrets are revealed. Even bedroom secrets. During an investigation carried out by somebody as zealous as Brother Arnulph, for example, when a rascal confesses and says everything about himself, he begins to disclose information about others. Occasionally, it’s even awkward to listen to testimonies of that kind, finding out who, with whom, when and how… And it often concerns clergymen. Or nuns. Or wives, believed to be faithful. Or marriageable maids, believed to be virtuous. By God, I think everybody has secrets like that. It must be terribly humiliating when the pain forces one to reveal them. To someone like Brother Arnulph. In the presence of torturers. Well, Reinmar? Do you have any secrets like that?”
“Don’t treat me like this, Grzegorz.” Reynevan clenched his teeth. “I understand everything.”
“I’m most glad. I truly am.”
The man being tortured screamed.
“Who are they torturing?” Anger helped Reynevan to overcome his fear. “On your orders? Which of the men I was imprisoned with?”
“Interesting that you ask.” The Inquisitor raised his eyes. “Because it is indeed a model illustration of my disquisitions. The town scribe was among the prisoners. Do you know who I mean? I see you do. Accused of heresy. The investigation soon revealed that the accusations were false and motivated by personal reasons, the denouncer being his wife’s lover. I ordered the scribe released and the lover arrested, in order to check if he was only interested in ladies’ charms. Imagine, at the very sight of the instruments, the adulterer confessed that she was not the first townswoman he had robbed under the pretext of romance. He gave somewhat confusing evidence, so some tools were employed to assist him. And then I heard a lot about other married women, from Świdnica, from Wrocław, from Walbrzych, about their immoral urges and inventive ways of satisfying them. And during a search, a satire defaming the Holy Father was found and a picture showing the Pope with devilish talons protruding from beneath his pontifical vestments. No doubt you’ve seen similar.”
“I have.”
“Where?”
“I don’t remem—”
Reynevan choked and paled. Hejncze snorted.
“See how easy it is? I guarantee you that the strappado would refresh your memory. The fornicator couldn’t remember at first who had given him the lampoon and picture of the Pope, but he soon recalled it. And as you can hear, Brother Arnulph is checking whether his memory isn’t perhaps concealing any other interesting matters.”
“And you…” Fear, paradoxically, lent Reynevan a desperate bravado. “You enjoy it. You aren’t the person I knew, Inquisitor. In Prague, you made fun of fanatics yourself! But today? What is this position to you? Still a profession or now a passion?”
Grzegorz Hejncze knitted his bushy eyebrows. “In my position,” he said coldly, “there oughtn’t to be a difference. And there isn’t.”
“Like hell.” Although Reynevan was trembling and his teeth were chattering, he went on, “Tell me something more about the glory of God, about your lofty goal and holy zeal. Torture for the slightest suspicion, the slightest denunciation, the slightest word overheard or obtained through entrapment. Death by burning for admitting one’s guilt under torture. Hussites lurking around every corner. And quite recently I heard a respected clergyman declaring bluntly that all he cares about is wealth and power, and if it wasn’t for that, the Hussites could take communion using an enema, for all he cared. And if Peterlin hadn’t been killed, you would have hauled him into a dungeon, tortured him, forced him to testify and probably burned him at the stake. And for what? For
reading books?”
“That will do, Reinmar, that will do.” The Inquisitor grimaced. “Calm yourself and don’t be crude. In a moment, you’re liable to threaten me with the fate of Konrad of Marburg.” A moment later, he said firmly, “You’ll go to Bohemia and do as I command. You will serve and thus save your skin. And at least partly atone for your brother’s guilt. For your brother was guilty, and not of reading books.
“And don’t accuse me of zealotry,” he continued. “I am not perturbed by books, even false and heretical ones. I believe that no books should be burned, and that even erroneous and misleading opinions may be respected. One may also observe, having some philosophical perspective, that there is no monopoly on the truth, for many truths once hailed as false are now considered true and vice versa. But the faith and religion I defend are not just theses and dogmas. The faith and religion I defend are the social order. When there ceases to be order, chaos and anarchy will ensue. Only malefactors desire chaos and anarchy. Thus, malefactors ought to be punished.
“In conclusion: Piotr of Bielawa and his comrade dissidents may freely read Wycliffe, Huss, Arnold of Brescia and Joachim of Fiore, but here my tolerance ends, Reinmar. I will not allow the Fraticelli and Picards to proliferate here. I shall strangle the likes of Wat Tyler and John Ball at birth, and crush emerging Žižkas.”
After a moment of silence, he added, “The end justifies the means, and whoever isn’t with me is against me. As John said, if a man abide not in Me, he is cast forth as a branch and is withered. And men gather them and cast them into the fire, and they are burned. Burned! Do you understand? I see that you do.”
The man being tortured hadn’t screamed for a long time. He was probably confessing in a trembling voice to whatever Brother Arnulph demanded of him.
Hejncze stood up. “You’ll have a little time to think the matter over. I must leave for Wrocław forthwith. I’ll tell you something: I thought I’d mainly be interrogating lunatics here, and to my surprise, I’ve uncovered a gem. One of your fellow prisoners, the priest from the Niemodlin Collegiate, saw with his own eyes and was able to describe a demon. The destruction that lays waste at noon, if you recall the relevant psalm. Thus, I must urgently attend to a certain minor confrontation. When I return, however, and I shall return soon—by Saint Lucy’s Day at the latest—I shall bring a new resident to the Narrenturm. I once promised him I would and I always keep my word. You, Reinmar, mull it over well in the meantime. Weigh up the benefits and the drawbacks. When I return, I’d like to know your decision and hear a declaration. I’d like it to be the correct one, a declaration of loyal collaboration and service. Because if it isn’t, by God, even though you are a varsity comrade, you will be to me a withered branch. I shall not deal with you directly. I shall hand you over to Brother Arnulph and leave you alone with him.
“Of course,” he added a moment later, “after you have confessed to me personally what you were doing on Grochowa during the night of the autumn equinox. And who the woman you were seen with was. You will also confess to me, naturally, which clergyman joked about an enema. Farewell, Reynevan.”
He turned in the doorway. “One more thing. Bernhard Roth, alias Urban Horn—give him my regards. And tell him there’s no…”
“… there’s no time now to deal with you properly,” Reynevan repeated word for word. “He would like to devote enough time and effort to you with Brother Arnulph as you indeed deserve. And he’ll set about it immediately after his return, by Saint Lucy’s Day at the latest. He advises you to organise the knowledge you have, since you will have to share that knowledge with the Holy Office.”
“The whoreson.” Urban Horn spat on the straw. “He’s softening me up. He’s letting me ripen. He knows what he’s doing. Did you tell him about Konrad of Marburg?”
“Tell him yourself.”
The surviving residents of the tower sat in silence, secluded in their pallets. Some were snoring, some weeping, some softly praying.
“What about me?” Reynevan said into the silence. “What am I to do?”
“You think you have worries?” said Scharley, stretching. “Horn has a painful interrogation in prospect. I—who knows what’s worse?—might have to rot here for ever. In comparison, your problem is risible. The Inquisitor, your university pal, is giving you your freedom on a plate, as a gift—”
“As a gift?”
“I’ll say! You’ll sign an oath of loyalty and walk free.”
“As a spy?”
“There’s no rose without a thorn.”
“But I don’t want to. I’m disgusted by such a practice. My conscience won’t permit it. I don’t want—”
“Grit your teeth,” said Scharley with a shrug, “and force yourself.”
“Horn?”
“Horn what?” He turned around suddenly. “Want some advice? Some words of moral support? Then listen. Resistance is an innate trait of human nature. Resistance to base behaviour. Opposition to wickedness. A refusal to accept evil. They are innate, immanent human traits. Ergo, only individuals entirely bereft of humanity do not resist. Only blackguards become turncoats out of fear of torture.”
“So?”
“So,” said Horn, without even blinking an eye, arms folded on his chest, “sign the loyalty oath and agree to collaborate. Go to Bohemia, as they command. And when you’re there… Resist.”
“I don’t understand—”
“You don’t?” Scharley snorted. “Really? Reinmar, our friend is preceding a very immoral offer with a lecture about moral and pure human nature. He suggests you become a so-called double agent and work for both sides: the Inquisition and the Hussites. After all, everybody already knows you’re a Hussite emissary and spy, with the possible exception of those imbeciles moaning in the straw over there. Isn’t that so, Urban Horn? Your advice to Reynevan sounds quite clever, but there’s snag. Namely the Hussites. Like everybody who has dealt with espionage, they are already familiar with double agents. They know from experience that they are often triple agents. Therefore, any agents who show up should by no means be confided in. Quite the opposite—they should be hanged, after having first been forced to testify using torture. So you are preparing a sad fate for Reynevan with your advice, Urban Horn. Unless you give him a solid, trusted contact in Bohemia. Some secret password, something the Hussites will believe… But…”
“Go on.”
“You won’t give him anything like that because you don’t know if he’s already signed a loyalty oath, or whether his university pal the Inquisitor hasn’t already taught him how to spy for two sides.”
Horn didn’t reply. He simply smiled. Wickedly, with just the corners of his mouth, without narrowing his ice-cold eyes.
“I have to get out of here,” said Reynevan quietly, standing in the middle of the prison. “I have to leave this place. Otherwise I’ll cause the downfall of Fair Nicolette, Katarzyna of Biberstein. I must escape from here. And I have a way.”
Scharley and Horn listened to the plan surprisingly calmly and waited, without interrupting, until Reynevan had finished. Only then did Horn snort with laughter, shake his head and walk away. Scharley was serious. Deadly serious, one might say.
“I can be sympathetic to the fact that you’ve lost your mind, but don’t insult my intelligence, laddie.”
“The Occultum is still on the wall, Circulos’s glyphs and sigla are still there. On top of that, look, I have his amulet—I managed to take it unseen. Circulos told me the activating spell and gave me the means of conjuration. I know a little something about evocations, I studied the practice… The chance is slender, I admit. But it’s a chance! I don’t understand your reserve, Scharley. Do you doubt the existence of magic? What about Huon of Sagar? And Samson? Why, Samson—”
“Samson is a fraud.” The penitent cut him off. “A friendly, quite clever, pleasant companion, but a fraud and a charlatan nonetheless, like most people who invoke spells and witchcraft. The rest is insignificant. Reinmar, I don’t doubt the e
xistence of magic. I’ve seen enough not to doubt it. It’s you that I doubt. I’ve seen you levitate and find roads, but as far as the flying bench goes, Sagar was certainly behind it—you couldn’t have done that yourself. But you’ve a long way to go before becoming a real demon tamer, lad. You must know that. You must understand that hieroglyphics, pentagrams and hocus-pocus scribbled on walls by a moron are fit for nothing. And that sorry excuse for an amulet is a vulgar, shitty piece of junk. You must be aware of all that. Therefore, I repeat, don’t insult my intelligence or your own.”
“I have no choice,” said Reynevan through clenched teeth. “I have to try. It’s my only chance.”
Scharley shrugged and rolled his eyes.
Circulos’s Occultum looked worse than woeful, Reynevan had to admit. It was dirty, and all the magic books demanded immaculately clean sanctuaries. The Goetic Circle on the wall had been drawn crookedly, and the rules in the Sacra Goetia stressed the importance of precise drawing. Nor was Reynevan entirely certain regarding the correctness of the spells written inside the Circle.
The ceremony of evocation itself would have to take place not at midnight, as the grimoires laid down, but at dawn, since at midnight darkness prevented any activities in the tower. The black candles demanded for the ritual were out of the question—as were candles of any other colour. For obvious reasons, the madmen in the Narrenturm weren’t given candles, cressets, lamps or any other means of starting a fire.
Actually, he thought bitterly as he began the ritual, I only conform to the principles of the grimoires in one respect: a mage intending to evoke or invoke has to meet the condition of a suitably long period of abstinence from sexual intercourse. And for two months I have been an absolute, although unwilling, abstainer in this regard.
Scharley and Horn observed him from a distance, keeping quiet. Tomasz Alpha was also quiet, mainly because he had been threatened with a beating should he in any way dare to disturb that silence.
Reynevan finished putting the Occultum in order and drew a magical circle around himself. He cleared his throat and spread his arms.
The Tower of Fools Page 54
