Samson snorted. Reynevan sighed. Water dripped from the icicles.
Twelvetide—Christmas, Nativitas Domini, Wynachten—was observed at the Silver Bell Inn extremely riotously, though only by the small group of companions. After a short-lived thaw, the blizzards returned and the snow-covered roads once again cut the tavern off, and in any case few people travelled at that time. Aside from Reynevan, Scharley and Samson, aside from the Vogelsang, Urban Horn and Tybald Raabe, the innkeeper, Marcin Prahl, also joined in the celebrations. Without regret, he brought up several kegs of Rhenish, Multan and Transylvanian wine to add to the party. The innkeeper’s wife, Berta, made sure there was a rich and delicious bill of fare. The only guest from the “outside” turned out to be the beguiler, Jon Malevolt, who, to everyone’s astonishment, didn’t arrive alone, but accompanied by the two sylvan witches. The astonishment was great, but by no means disagreeable. The witches turned out to be attractive women with endearing looks and bearing. After the ice was broken, they were accepted by everyone, including Berta Prahl, who was horrified at first.
The witches also honoured the celebration by contributing two huge barrels of bigos. Excellent bigos. The term “excellent” was utterly insufficient—why, even the name “bigos” was inadequate. The dish prepared by the sylvan witches was a veritable hymn in honour of stewed cabbage, an ode in praise of smoked bacon and pork fat, a paean to venison and a panegyric to fatty meats, a melodic and loving canzone to dried mushrooms, caraway seed and pepper.
The poetry was enhanced beautifully by the wormwood vodka Malevolt brought, which was prosaic, but effective.
The winter, which had seemed harsh in December, only showed what it was capable of after Circumcisio Domini. The blizzards grew stronger and for some time it snowed hard day and night. Then the sky brightened up and a somewhat pale sun shone from behind the clouds. And then the frosts came. They gripped with such strength that the earth appeared to groan and froze rock solid.
The frost was so bitter that you came back numb with cold after going out to the privy or for firewood, and any longer expeditions threatened severe frostbite. The others looked at Horn and Tybald—who had decided to leave at Epiphany—as though they were mad. But Horn and Tybald did go. They had to.
It was 1428.
Urban Horn returned on the twenty-eighth of January. The shocking news he brought with him wrenched the company out of its drowsy winter lethargy.
An attempt had been made on the life of Duke Jan of Ziębice at Epiphany, the day of the Revelation of the Lord. When the duke was leaving the church after Mass, the would-be killer forced his way through his guard and attacked him with a dagger. Jan only survived thanks to the sacrifice of two of his knights, Tymoteusz of Risin and Ulrik of Seiffersdorf, who shielded him with their own bodies. Risin even took the blade for the duke, which gave others the chance to disarm the assailant. He turned out to be none other than Gelfrad of Stercza, the knight who had disappeared years before in foreign lands and whom everybody, including his own family, had thought dead.
Rumours about the incident quickly spread through Silesia. Few were in doubt regarding Gelfrad Stercza’s motive, since everybody knew about Duke Jan’s affair with the knight’s wife Adèle, the gorgeous Burgundian. Everybody knew how ruthlessly Duke Jan had treated his lover at the close of the affair; everybody knew the death that Adèle had met owing to that treatment. And although no one, naturally, approved of or tried to justify Gelfrad’s deed, the matter was discussed at length and seriously by the knighthood in burgs and watchtowers, and efforts were made to convey information about the discussions to Ziębice. And although the infuriated Duke Jan demanded a cruel and painful execution for the assailant, he had to draw in his horns under the influence of the opinions. Not only his closest kinsmen the Haugwitzes, the Baruths and Rachenaus, but all the other powerful knightly families in Silesia stood up for Gelfrad. Gelfrad Stercza, it was declared, was a knight, and a knight from an old family, who acted blindly to challenge a stain on his honour, and it was known who was responsible for that stain. Duke Jan raged on, but his advisors quickly dissuaded him from a sadistic execution. A time when a Hussite invasion could be expected any moment, they declared, wasn’t a good moment to alienate the knighthood. Thus, only the even more resolute Bishop of Wrocław, Konrad, took the side of the resolute duke. The bishop rejected the argument about the defence of honour, turned the entire matter into a political issue, claimed that Gelfrad Stercza had acted from Hussite instigation and demanded for him a cruel death for high treason, witchcraft and heresy. Stercza, roared the bishop, had acted from similarly base motives as the brigand Chrzan, the murderer of the Cieszyn Duke Przemko, and thus ought to be burned with fire and his flesh torn with pincers like Chrzan. The Silesian knighthood, however, wouldn’t hear a word of it, dug their heels in and prevailed to such an extent that Gelfrad almost got away with it. He was only to be punished with exile, the Silesian knights refusing to contemplate a harsher punishment to the fury of Duke Jan and the bishop. Gelfrad Stercza would have escaped with his life had it not been for one minor fact. In court, the knight not only did not express remorse, but also declared that no banishment would stop him from further attempts on the life of the duke and that he wouldn’t rest until he had spilled his enemy’s blood. And refused to take back his words. The powerful men of Silesia no longer had any arguments against such a dictum. They washed their hands of it and Jan of Ziębice cheerfully sentenced the knight to death. By beheading.
The sentence was carried out swiftly, on the fifteenth of January, the Thursday before the second Sunday after Epiphany. Gelfrad Stercza went to his death calmly, bravely, but without swagger. He didn’t give a speech from the scaffold. He just looked at Duke Jan and uttered a single sentence, in Latin.
“What?” Reynevan asked softly. “What did he say?”
“Hodie mihi, cras tibi.”
Reynevan couldn’t hide his dejection, it was too visible and conspicuous. Feeling the need to confide, to unburden himself, he told the company everything. About Adèle, Duke Jan and Gelfrad Stercza. About his revenge. No one said anything. Except Drosselbart.
“Revenge, they say, is a delight,” pronounced the beanpole. “But usually it’s the meaningless delight of a fool, delighting in a dream of delight. Only a fool puts his head on the block when he doesn’t have to. Hodie mihi, cras tibi, what happens to me today will happen to you tomorrow… Your eyes shine at the sound of those words, Reinmar of Bielawa, I see it. I know what you’re thinking. And I have one request: don’t be foolish. Will you promise me? Promise us all?”
Reynevan nodded.
Just as abruptly and suddenly—like the frost before it—came a thaw. Reynevan, missing Jutta, saddled his horse and galloped to White Church. There was actually less galloping and more laborious forcing his way through melting snowdrifts. The expedition lasted several hours, and the result was learning from the nun at the gate that Jutta had gone to her sister’s wedding and was in Schönau.
Reynevan couldn’t risk the ride to Schönau. He returned to Gdziemierz after dusk. And the following day had to part with Jon Malevolt, the beguiler anarchist.
“Won’t you stay with us?” he asked the beguiler as the latter was leading his shaggy horse from the stable. “Won’t you ally with us? What you helped Tybald with has a natural consequence. Wouldn’t you like to be part of it?”