Fortunately, the road led them into a basin, additionally protected by a beech forest. And then they smelled smoke and saw a small light. It was quiet. In weather like that not even the dogs felt like barking.
In the tavern, apart from beer, they were only serving herring, cabbage and peas without gravy—it was Lent, after all. There were so many guests that Reynevan and company found it hard to get a room. Among the customers, colliers from Złoty Stok and Cukmantl predominated and there were also plenty of refugees—from Paczków, Vidnava and even Głuchołazy. Naturally, the Hussite invasion was the chief topic of conversation, displacing even the economy and sex. Everybody was talking about the Hussites. Rzehors wouldn’t have been Rzehors if he hadn’t taken advantage of the occasion.
“Let me tell you this,” he began, when he was allowed to speak. “In this world, some men make an honest and fair living and eat their daily bread. But others devour that bread like thieves and plunderers, for they didn’t work for it, and only stole and robbed it from the men that work. And among them are noblemen, prelates, priests, monks and nuns, who suck the people like leeches, who don’t follow the word of the Gospel, but in fact act quite the opposite. Thus, they are all enemies of God’s law and deserve to be punished. Do you know, Brothers, how the peasants from Ketř and Głubczyce recently saved their homes and chattels? They took the matter into their own hands and resolved it themselves. When the Czechs reached them, they saw the charred ruins of the church and the lord’s castle, and the lord and the parish priest dangling from nooses. Think this matter over, Christian Brethren. Think it over well!”
The audience nodded, yes, yes, that’s true, he’s right, the magnates and masters oppress us, give us a hard time, more beer, innkeeper, and the priests and monks are the worst bloodsuckers, damn them, beer, beer, mehr Bier, and taxes, verfluchte Scheisse, they’ll probably throttle us soon, hard times have come, all our women think about is whoring, the young are ever discontent and don’t listen to their elders, it used to be different, more beer, mehr Bier, crack open a keg, innkeeper, that herring of yours is damned salty.
Scharley, bent over his bowl, swore under his breath, and Samson whittled and sighed. Reynevan chewed the peas, which tasted like chicken feed without any gravy. Smoke crept under the tavern’s low, soot-covered ceiling, cobwebs rippled and illusory shadows played.
They slept in the stable and in the morning continued their journey towards Lądek. Reynevan and Scharley wouldn’t let Rzehors forget his performance of the previous evening. Taken to one side, he was made to listen to a few comments, mainly concerning the principles of underground activities. Reynevan reminded him that the Vogelsang were heading for Kłodzko on a secret, important mission, which demanded discretion and secretiveness. Bringing unwelcome attention on them could compromise the mission.
Rzehors sulked a little to begin with, referring to the order given him directly by Prokop, which was to spread propaganda among the peasantry. He boasted that he had shaken the morale of the bishop’s infantry at Nysa, and so on and so forth. Finally, he agreed to observe a little more discretion. He held out until the village of Radochów, about half a mile past Lądek.
“Let me tell you this!” he yelled to a gathering of peasants and refugees after climbing up onto a barrel. “Priests and magnates spread stories about the Czechs bringing war. They lie! This is not war but brotherly help, a peace mission. The Warriors of God are bringing a peace mission to Silesia, because peace, pax Dei, is the holiest of holy for good Czechs. But for there to be peace, we must defeat the foes of peace, with arms and force if needs be! It’s not the Silesian folk, who are friends of the Czechs, who are the enemy, but the Bishop of Wrocław, a scoundrel, oppressor and tyrant. The Bishop of Wrocław is in league with the Devil—he poisons wells and has decided to spread a plague through Silesia and wipe out the people. Thus, the Czechs only stand against the bishop, the priests and the Germans! The common people must not fear the Czechs!”
When the crowd had grown in size, Bisclavret also found a chance to show what he could do. He read the crowd a letter from Jesus Christ that had fallen from Heaven onto a field near Opava.
“The end is nigh for you, O you sinners and scoundrels,” he read fervently. “I am patient, but if you do not break away from Rome, from that Beast of Babylon, I, my Father and my angels will curse you for ever and ever. I shall send down on you hail, fire, lightning and storms, so your work will be spoiled. I shall destroy your vineyards and take away all your flocks. I shall punish you with bad air and bring great poverty down on you. Thus do I admonish you and forbid you from paying a tithe to the unworthy papists, priests and bishops, servants of the Antichrist; I forbid you from listening to them. And whoever betrays us will not see eternal life, and in his house will be born blind, deaf and scabrous children…”
The listeners crossed themselves, faces contorted in horror. Scharley swore under his breath. Samson kept peacefully silent and acted the idiot. Reynevan sighed but took no action and said nothing.
The valley of the Biała led them straight into the Kłodzko valley, where they stopped to rest in a tavern outside the village of Żelazno. The wealth of taverns and inns wasn’t surprising since they were travelling along a trade route particularly popular with merchants wanting to avoid Kłodzko’s tolls on the way to Bohemia. Owing to the considerable height of the Krutvald Pass, the road was too arduous for laden-down wagons, but merchants carrying light loads often took that route. The company chose it for other reasons.
In the tavern in Żelazno, apart from merchants, travellers and in recent times war refugees, there was a group of goliards, troubadours and merry scholars making a lot of noise and disturbance. Rzehors and Bisclavret naturally couldn’t help themselves. It was too tempting. After telling a dozen obscene stories about the Pope, the Bishop of Wrocław and the clergy in general, a game of political riddles began.
“Why does the Roman Curia tend its sheep?” Rzehors asked.
“To fleece them!” the goliards shouted back, banging their mugs on the table.
“And now heed!” called Bisclavret. “This’ll be about the Roman hierarchy! Who’ll guess this? Virtus, ecclesia, clerus, diabolus! Cessat, calcatur, errat, regnat!”
“Virtue perishes,” the students deftly paired up the words. “The Church oppresses! The clergy goes astray! The Devil reigns!”
The innkeeper shook his head and several merchants ostentatiously turned their backs on them. The goliards’ amusement was clearly not to the liking of five travellers dressed in dull clothing at a table alongside, particularly a fellow with a complexion as dark as a Gypsy’s.
“Keep it down!” demanded the Dark Man finally. “Keep it down, there are others here! We can’t talk for your clamour!”
“Oho!” the goliards shouted back. “Hark at him! A peasant wishes to object! Well, well!”
“Enough, I said!” The swarthy man wasn’t giving up. “Enough easy manners!”
The goliards drowned him out with whistles and catcalls. They went on revelling, but now a little less exuberantly and with slightly lowered voices. Perhaps that’s why what happened, happened. Reynevan’s hearing wasn’t now dulled or drowned out by the laughter at foolish anecdotes about popes, anti-popes, bishops and priors, and he began to listen for other sounds and noises. All of a sudden, he began to pick out snatches of the five dull travellers’ conversation from the bedlam and pandemonium. There was something in their conversation that enticed his ear, some words, syntax, phrases. Or a name, perhaps? Not knowing why, Reynevan wetted a finger in his beer and drew on the tabletop the Supirre sign, which was used for eavesdropping. Feeling Samson’s astonished eyes on him, Reynevan traced over the sign with a dry finger, deliberately thickening the line. He began to hear more clearly at once.