The army, though it looked dangerous, stood frozen to the spot and silent, as though entranced. The only things moving were the black dots of crows circling in the grey sky, and the cloud of smoke billowing above the town, here and there shot with red tongues of flame.
They trotted between the wagons. For the first time, Reynevan saw the famous Hussite battle wagons at close hand. He examined them with interest, admiring the clever construction of the lowered bulwarks made of solid planks, which could be raised if need be to turn the vehicle into a genuine bastion.
They were quickly recognised.
“Master Brázda,” said a Czech in half-armour and a fur cap, with the red chalice on his chest that appeared to be customary for the more senior ranks. “The noble knight Brázda has finally deigned to join us with his elite noble cavalry. Well, better late than never.”
“I never thought it would go so smoothly,” replied Brázda of Klinštejn with a shrug. “Is it all over? Have they surrendered?”
“Of course they surrendered. They have no one to defend them. We only had to burn down a few cottages and they began to parley. Now they’re putting out fires, and the Reverend Ambrož is receiving their envoys. Thus, you must wait.”
“If we must, we must. Dismount, lads.”
They went on foot towards the Hussite army’s staff, the only Czechs among them being Brázda, Halada and the moustachioed Velek Chrastický, accompanied by Urban Horn and Tybald Raabe.
They had arrived at the very end of the negotiations. The Radkov emissaries had just left, the pale and very frightened burghers glancing back anxiously and crumpling their caps in their hands. It was clear from their expressions that they had achieved little.
“As is customary,” a Czech in a fur hat said quietly, “the womenfolk and children may leave at once. The men must buy themselves out in order to leave and pay a ransom for the town or it will be put to the torch. Furthermore—”
“All papist priests must be turned in,” finished Brázda, also clearly experienced in these matters. “And all the fugitives from Bohemia. I needn’t have hurried at all—it will be some time before the women come out and the ransom payment is collected. We won’t be leaving here for a while.”
“Come before Ambrož.”
Reynevan recalled Scharley and Horn’s conversation about the former parish priest from Hradec Králové. He remembered they had described him as a fanatic, extreme in his zealotry and ruthlessness even among the most radical Taborites. He thus expected to see a small, skinny, fiery-eyed tribune, brandishing his arms and proclaiming declarations, dripping with saliva and demagoguery. He saw instead a well-built man, economical in his movements, wearing a black costume resembling a habit but shorter, revealing high boots. He wore a beard as wide as a shovel that almost reached his belt, from which a sword hung. In spite of the sword, the Hussite priest appeared rather benign, jovial even. It might have been the high, bulging forehead, bushy eyebrows and magnificent beard making Ambrož resemble God the Father in a Byzantine icon.
“Master Brázda.” He greeted them warmly. “Well, better late than never. The expedition, I see, has ended in success? Without loss? My compliments. And Brother Urban Horn? From what cloud has he fallen here?”
“From a black one,” replied Horn sourly. “Thank you for the rescue, Brother Ambrož. It came not a moment too soon.”
“I’m glad.” Ambrož nodded. “And others will be, too. We were already lamenting you when we heard the news. It’s hard to escape the bishop’s grasp. Indeed, easier for a mouse to escape a cat’s. It was fortunate, as I didn’t send the raid to Frankenstein for you.”
He shifted his gaze towards Reynevan, and Reynevan felt a cold spot between his shoulder blades. The priest said nothing for a long time.
“Young Sir Reinmar of Bielawa,” he finally said, “the brother of Piotr of Bielawa, a virtuous Christian who did so much for the Chalice’s cause, and who gave his life for it.”
Reynevan bowed without a word. Ambrož turned his head and stared long at Scharley. Scharley finally meekly lowered his eyes, but clearly only to be diplomatic.
“Master Scharley,” the parish priest from Hradec said at length, “who doesn’t abandon people in need. When Piotr of Bielawa died at the hands of vengeful papists, Master Scharley rescued his brother, heedless of the danger he was exposing himself to. Indeed, a rare example of honour for our times, and of friendship. The old Czech saying is apt: v nouzi poznaš přítele—a friend in need is a friend indeed. Meanwhile,” he continued, “we hear that young Lord Reinmar shows clear evidence of brotherly love by professing his faith and bravely opposing papist errors and immoral deeds. Like every pious and virtuous fellow, he sympathises with the Chalice and spurns venal Rome like the Devil. You will receive your reward. You have already, in any case, Reinmar and Master Scharley. When Brother Tybald informed me that the Devil’s spawn had cast you into a dungeon, I didn’t hesitate for a moment.”
“Our thanks—”
“It’s you who deserves our gratitude. For, thanks to you, the money with which that scoundrel and heretic the Bishop of Wrocław meant to buy our deaths will now serve our worthy cause. You will dig it up and give it to us righteous Christians, will you not?”
“The mon… The money? What money?” stammered Reinmar.
Scharley sighed quietly. Urban Horn coughed. Tybald Raabe cleared his throat. Ambrož’s face hardened.
“Do you think to make a fool of me?”
Reynevan and Scharley shook their heads, and there was such childlike innocence in their eyes that the priest restrained himself. But only a little.
“Am I thus to understand,” he drawled, “that it wasn’t you who robbed the tax collector in aid of our cause? If it wasn’t you, then somebody will have to explain himself. Master Raabe!”
“Why, I didn’t say,” mumbled the goliard, “that it was definitely they who robbed the tax collector. I said it was possible, that it was likely…”
Ambrož straightened up. His eyes blazed fiercely and his face flushed like a turkey’s crop in the places not covered by his beard. For a moment, the Hradec parish priest looked not like God the Father, but like Zeus the Thunder-Wielder. Everyone cringed, expecting a bolt of lightning. But the priest quickly calmed down.
“You told me something quite different,” he finally said. “Oh, you deluded me, Brother Tybald, you misled me so that I would send riders to storm Frankenstein, knowing I would not have done so otherwise!”
“V nouzi,” Scharley interrupted quietly, “poznaš přítele.”
Ambrož looked him up and down but said nothing. Then he addressed Reynevan and the goliard.
“I ought to have all of you tortured one after the other, my friends,” he snarled, “since there’s something fishy about this whole business with the tax collector and his money. And you all look suspicious to me. But in memory of Piotr of Bielawa, I shall not.” The priest’s eyes bored into Reynevan. “I shall get over the bishop’s money—I was not fated to receive it. But our accounts are settled. Out of my sight. Get you gone and to Hell with you.”
“Reverend Brother.” Scharley cleared his throat. “Passing over the misunderstandings… we were counting on—”
“On what?” Ambrož snorted into his beard. “That I would permit you to join us? That I would take you under my wing and escort you to Hradec? No, Master Scharley. You were imprisoned by the Inquisition and thus may have been turned by them. In short, you may be informers.”
“You insult us.”
“Better to insult you than my own good sense.”
The arrival of one of the Hussite commanders, an amiable fat man resembling a questor or a pork butcher, relieved the tension, “Brother Ambrož—”
“What is it, Brother Hlušička?”
“The burghers have paid the ransom and are coming out, women and children first, as was agreed.”
“Brother Velek Chrastický,” Ambrož beckoned him, “take the riders and patrol the perimeter
of the town to prevent anyone fleeing. Everyone else, follow me. Everyone, I said. I charge Lord Brázda of Klinštejn with the temporary supervision of our… guests. Onwards!”
A column of people was indeed emerging from the Radkov Gate, anxiously and reluctantly passing between a double file of Hussites bristling with blades. Ambrož and his staff stopped nearby, surveying the men coming out. Very carefully. Reynevan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in anticipation of something dreadful.
“Brother Ambrož,” asked Hlušička, “will you be giving a sermon?”
“To whom?” The priest shrugged. “To that German rabble? They don’t understand our speech, and I don’t feel like talking in their tongue, for… I say! Over there! Over there!”
His eyes flashed rapaciously like an eagle’s and his face suddenly froze.
“Over there!” he roared, pointing. “Over there! Seize them!”
He pointed at a woman muffled up in a mantle, carrying a child. The child was trying to break free and sobbing spasmodically. The soldiers parted the crowd with their pikestaffs, hauled the woman out of the crowd and tore off her mantle.
“That’s no woman! It’s a fellow dressed in a frock! A priest! A papist! A papist!”
“Bring him here.”
The priest was dragged over and thrown down onto his knees. He was trembling in fear and kept his head stubbornly bowed. He had to be forced to look Ambrož in the face. And then he closed his eyes tightly and his mouth moved in a silent prayer.
“Well, well,” said Ambrož, standing with arms akimbo. “What faithful parishioners. To save their priest, they not only gave him a woman’s shift, but an infant, too. What a sacrifice. Who would you be, papist scum?”
The priest screwed his eyes up even tighter.
“It is Mikołaj Megerlein,” said one of the peasants accompanying the Hussite staff. “The local parish priest.”
The Hussites mumbled. Ambrož flushed, inhaling noisily.
“Father Megerlein,” he said in a slow, drawling voice. “Well I never. What a stroke of luck. I’ve dreamed of such an encounter ever since the last bishop’s raid on the Trutnov region. We were pinning our hopes on such an encounter. Brothers!” he said, straightening up. “Take a look! Here is a cur of the Whore of Babylon! A murderous tool in the hands of the Bishop of Wrocław, he has bedevilled the true faith and condemned good Christians to torture and torment, and spilled innocent blood with his own hands at Vízmburk! God has given him up into our hands that we might punish evil and wrongdoing! Do you hear, you murdering papist? What, you close your eyes to the truth? Close your ears, like the deaf adder from the Bible? Ha, heretical swine, you do not know the Bible if you consider your wanton bishop, your venal Rome and your Antichrist Pope the only authorities. And your blasphemous gilded paintings! So I will teach you the word of God! The Apocalypse of John, fourteen, nine: ‘If any man worship the beast and his image, and receive his mark in his forehead, or in his hand, the same shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God! And shall be tormented with fire and brimstone!’ Fire and brimstone, papist! Hey, over here! Take him and wrap him up, as we did the monks in Beroun and Prachatice!”
Several Hussites seized the parish priest. He saw what the other men were bringing and began to scream. He was struck in the face with an axe-handle, fell silent and went limp in the arms of the men holding him.
Samson struggled, but Scharley and Horn caught him at once. Seeing that two might be too few to restrain him, Halada rushed to help them.
“Be quiet,” hissed Scharley. “By God, be quiet, Samson…”
Samson turned his head and looked him in the eyes.
Four sheaves of straw were placed around Father Megerlein. After a moment’s thought, two more were added, so that the priest’s head was entirely covered in straw. Then he and the sheaves were bound tightly with a chain and the straw lit in several places.
Reynevan began to feel uncomfortable and turned away.
He heard a wild, inhuman roar, but didn’t see the burning effigy run, stumbling, across the shallow snow through a double file of Hussites, who shoved it with their pikes and halberds. Or see it finally fall, rolling and thrashing around, smoking and throwing up sparks.
Burning straw does not generate enough heat to kill a person. But it does generate sufficient to transform them into something that barely resembles one. Something that thrashes around in convulsions and howls inhumanly, although it has no mouth. That must finally be quieted with merciful blows of club and axe.
The women in the crowd from Radkov moaned and the children wept. Another commotion occurred and a moment later another priest, a skinny old man, was dragged into Ambrož’s presence and thrown down on his knees. This one was not in disguise. He was trembling like a leaf as Ambrož leaned over him.
“Another one? Who is this?”
“Father Straube.” The peasant informer hurried to offer his obsequious explanation. “He was the previous parish priest. Before Megerlein…”
“Aha. So a priestus emeritus. Well, old man, nearing the end of your earthly life, I see. Time to think about the eternal one? About renouncing your papist errors and sins? For you shall not be saved if you endure in them. You saw what was done to your confrater. Receive the Chalice, accept the Four Articles and you will be free, today and for ever.”
“M’lord!” the old man gibbered, cowering and placing his hands together. “Good m’lord! Have mercy! How may I renounce my faith… After all, Peter… Before the cock crowed… I may not thus… Lord, have mercy… I cannot!”
“I understand.” Ambrož nodded. “I do not approve, but I understand. Why, God looks down on us all. Let us be merciful. Brother Hlušička!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Let us be merciful. Without suffering.”
“Yes, sir!”
Hlušička went over to one of the Hussites and took a flail from him. And for the first time in his life, Reynevan saw the instrument that was already widely associated with the Hussites in action. Hlušička swung the flail, spun it around and struck Father Straube in the head as hard as he could. The man’s skull split open like a clay pot, splashing blood and brains around.
Reynevan felt himself go weak at the knees. He saw Samson’s pale face, saw Scharley and Urban Horn tightly gripping the giant’s shoulders.
Brázda of Klinštejn couldn’t take his eyes off the smouldering and smoking corpse of Megerlein, the parish priest.
“Miegerlin,” he said suddenly, rubbing his chin. “Miegerlin. Not Megerlein.”
“What?”
“The damn priest who was with Bishop Konrad in the raid on Trutnov was called Miegerlin. And this one was Megerlein.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning this priest was innocent.”
“Never mind,” Samson said in a flat voice. “It’s nothing serious. God will know. We’ll leave it to Him.”
Ambrož turned around suddenly, fixed his eyes on Samson and stared at him for a long time. Then he looked at Reynevan and Scharley.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit,” he said. “An angel sometimes speaks through the mouths of imbeciles. But keep watch over him. One day, someone might think the dimwit understands what he says. And that someone will be less forbearing than me and it will end badly. Both for him and for his masters. But all in all, the halfwit is right,” he added. “God will judge, separate the wheat from the chaff and the guilty from the innocent. In any case, no papist priest is innocent. Every minion of Babylon is worthy of punishment. And the hand of a faithful Christian…”
His voice grew louder, thundering more and more mightily, rising above the soldiers’ heads, soaring beyond the smoke still billowing even though the fires had been extinguished throughout the town, from which a long column of fugitives was still streaming after paying the ransom.
“The hand of a faithful Christian may not tremble when it chastises a sinner! For the world is the soil and the sons of the kingdom are the good seed, while the so
ns of Evil are weeds. Thus do I gather the weeds and burn them with fire, as it will be at the end of the world. The Son of Man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all things that offend, and those who do iniquity, and shall cast them into a furnace of fire. There shall be a wailing and a gnashing of teeth.”
The crowd of Hussites yelled and bellowed, upraised halberds glistened and voulges, pitchforks and flails swayed.
“And the smoke of their torment,” thundered Ambrož, pointing at Radkov, “the smoke of their torment ascendeth for ever and ever. And they have no rest, day nor night, those who worship the beast and his image, and whosoever receiveth the mark of his name!”
He turned around, a little calmer now.
“And you,” he said to Reynevan and Scharley, “you now have the chance to convince me of your real intentions. You’ve seen what we do to papist clerics. I vouch that it is a trifle compared to what will befall the bishop’s spies. We have no mercy for such as they, even if they be the brother of Piotr of Bielawa. Do you still beg for help? Do you wish to join me?”
“We are not spies,” Reynevan burst out. “Your suspicions are offensive to us! And nor do we beg for your help! On the contrary, it’s we who can help you! If only in memory of my brother, about whom much is said here, but with empty words! By all means, if you want, I shall prove to you that I am closer to you than to the Bishop of Wrocław. What will you say to the information that treachery is imminent? A conspiracy? A plot against people’s lives? Yours, among others—”
Ambrož’s eyes narrowed.
“Tell me who is in danger.”
Reynevan pretended not to see Scharley’s desperate signs and expressions. “I know of a plot aimed at killing the leaders of the Tábor. The following are to meet their deaths: Bohuslav of Švamberk and Jan Hvězda of Vicemilice…”
Ambrož’s officers suddenly began to murmur. The priest didn’t take his eyes off Reynevan.
The Tower of Fools Page 56
