“No, Reinmar. I wouldn’t.”
“But you claim that you are in favour of revolution, that you support insurrections. That it’s time to transform the old order, to shake the world at its foundation. Stay with us. We shall transform the order, and we shall give the world a good shake, believe me. At any moment—”
“I know,” interrupted Malevolt, “what’s going to happen at any moment. I listened to your conversations and looked into your eyes when you talked about war. With all my heart, I’m for revolution and anarchy; I support the movement and transformation utterly. But I won’t risk personal involvement in this process. The revolutionary struggle for change changes you. Transforms you. You need great strength to stay in control and not become… something it is ill to transform into. I’m not sure of my strength or self-control. So, I prefer to step aside. Enough! But I wish you all… And you, Reinmar… Success. Farewell, Reynevan.”
The beguiler parted company with them but left something behind him. Several days later, Reynevan saw Samson Honeypot practising blows and thrusts with the goedendag, the iron-edged Flemish weapon, on the threshing floor. Samson and Malevolt, having taken a liking to each other, had spent hours playing cards and dice, so the goedendag may have been won in a game. It might also have been a present, a parting gift.
Reynevan didn’t ask.
On the Feast of Saint Vincent, the joint patron of Wrocław Cathedral solemnly celebrated in Silesia, the goliard Tybald Raabe appeared in Gdziemierz. He had probably visited all his informers, for he finally brought news from Bohemia. Kolín, he reported, had capitulated at last. After eighty-four days of siege, on the Tuesday before Saint Thomas’s Day, Sir Diviš Bořek of Miletínek gave up the town on condition that the garrison could leave unharmed. Prokop agreed to the condition. He’d had enough of the siege. And had other plans.
“Prokop,” reported the goliard, “is now mobilising the Tábor, the Orphans and the Praguians. A plundering raid on Hungary is certain.”
Tybald set off again. He was away for a long time, right up until Invocavit Sunday, when he returned with fresh tidings. Just as expected, the army commanded by Prokop and Jaroslav of Bukovina had struck Uherský Brod and from there the Hungarian lands. The towns of Senice, Skalice, Orešany, Modra, Pezinok and Jur were captured and burned down. On Ash Wednesday, however, the eighteenth of February, the Czechs reached Pressburg itself, torching the suburbs and all the surrounding villages. They set off on their return journey with wagons full of spoils. They marched past Trnavy and Nové Město nad Váhom to the great horror of the residents. No one dared to stand in their way or oppose them in battle.
“And in the meantime,” Tybald continued knowingly, “powerful reinforcements arrived in Moravia: armed units from Nymburk, Slané, Uničov and Břeclav.”
“So it’s Silesia’s turn,” said Bisclavret, grinning.
“Our time has come,” Drosselbart announced briefly. “Let’s make ready.”
“Let’s make ready,” Urban Horn echoed.
They made ready. For whole days and nights, they pored over maps and planned. Bisclavret and Rzehors left with packhorses, returning after two days with a large, clinking load. They must have brought several dozen grzywna.
Reynevan once again set out for White Church, but Jutta wasn’t in the convent that time, either. The winter, it turned out, had separated the only recently united lovers a second time.
It was Lent. The Feast of Saint Maciej who breaks the ice passed. The saying didn’t lie. The ice was broken and winter no longer had the strength to resist. Caressed by a warm southern wind, the snows melted and snowdrops showed through them. The heady fragrance of spring was in the air.
Tybald Raabe returned with the wind and the fragrance. When they saw him riding up, they knew: it had begun.
“It has begun,” confirmed the goliard with burning eyes. “It has begun, gentlemen. Prokop has struck. He crossed the boundary of the Duchy of Opava on Shrovetide. We are at war.”
“War,” Urban Horn echoed. “Deus pro nobis! ”
“And if God is with us,” added Drosselbart dully, “who can stand against us?”
The wind blew from the south.
Chapter Seventeen
In which the Tábor marches into Silesia, Reynevan begins sabotage activities and Duke Bolko Wołoszek happens fortunately upon the chariot of history.
Reynevan, Urban Horn and Rzehors set off to meet the Tábor. Bisclavret and Drosselbart went to Głuchołazy and Nysa, to spread black propaganda and sow panic. Scharley and Samson remained in Gdziemierz, intending to join them later.
In the beginning, the former group took the Krakow road to Racibórz. Soon, however, just beyond Prudnik, problems began—the road was congested with refugees, mainly from Osoblaha and Głubczyce, where, the refugees claimed, horrified, that the Hussites could already be seen. The confused, fragmented accounts spoke of the burning of Ostrava and the plunder and destruction of Hukvaldy. Of the siege of Opava. The Hussites, the fugitives gabbled in trembling voices, were marching in great force, in an unimaginable horde. Hearing it, Rzehors smiled wolfishly. His time had come. A time for solo acts of black propaganda.
“The Hussites are coming!” he cried to the passing fugitives, feigning a panicked tone of voice. “A terrible host! Twenty thousand armed men! They’re coming—burning and murdering! Flee, people! Death is upon us! They are close at hand! They’re in sight! Forty thousand Hussites! None can stand up to them!”
Soldiers appeared on the road behind the fugitives and their wagons laden with whatever they had taken with them. Also clearly fleeing, groups of quite miserable-looking knights, lancers and bowmen listened to the accounts of the approaching fifty thousand Hussites, to stories told in a feigned panic-stricken voice and liberally peppered with mispresented or simply invented quotations from the Apocalypse and the Prophetic Books.
“The Hussites are coming! A hundred thousand! Woe unto us, woe unto us!”
“That’ll do,” growled Horn. “Restrain yourself. A little goes a long way.”
Rzehors restrained himself. In any case, there was no one left to agitate, for the road had emptied. And a little later they saw two similar columns of black smoke rising high into the sky beyond a wall of trees.
“Nová Cerekev and Kietrz.” One of the last refugees pointed with his head. He was driving a wagon bearing his wife and a Minorite monk, their belongings and children. “They started burning yesterday… They say bodies are lying in heaps…”
“It’s divine retribution,” pronounced Rzehors. “Run, people. Waste no time! Flee far from here. For verily do I tell you, it’ll be like it was two hundred years ago: the invaders will march all the way to Legnica. Thus does God punish us for the sins of the clergy.”
“What are you saying?” The monk bridled. “What sins? Have you lost your mind? Don’t listen to him, Brothers! He’s a false prophet! Or a traitor!”
“Run away, good people, run away!” Rzehors spurred his horse onwards but still turned around in the saddle. “And don’t believe monks or priests! And don’t drink the water outside the castle walls! The Bishop of Wrocław has ordered the wells poisoned!”