“Might one ask,” Samson enquired gently, looking up from his whittling, “what you have in mind?”
“Don’t interfere, please.” Reynevan was focused. “Supirre, spe, vero. Aures quia audiunt. Supirre, spe, vero.”
He began making out every word before the sound of the spell had faded.
“May I croak if I be lying,” said the swarthy one. “I ain’t never seen such a fine body on a woman, never. Tits like Saint Cecilia’s from a church painting, and firm, as though carved from marble. Stuck up even when she was on her back, they did. No wonder Duke Jan lost his head over that Frenchwoman.”
“But he grew wise,” said another with a snort, “and got rid of her, tossed her into a dungeon.”
“May God reward him for that.” The swarthy man chortled. “Or we’d not have had our pleasure with her. And such pleasure, you’ve not known the like… Every night we gathered in the Ziębice gaol… And took turns… She fought back furiously, I tell you, often scratching our faces like a she-cat… But that made the merriment all the greater.”
“Had you no fears? That she’d bewitch you? There was talk of the Burgundian being a witch, in league with the Devil. They say the Abbot of Kamieniec declared—”
“Aye,” admitted the swarthy man, “I won’t lie, I was frit at first. But my urges were stronger, ho-ho. How often do you have the chance to fuck a beauty that Duke Jan of Ziębice used to roll in his satin sheets? Anyhow, the prison guards allayed our fears. For three years they’ve been fucking all the young wenches who get locked up, and most of them have a delation for witchcraft. They fuck’em freely. And no’arm’s came of it. Too much is made of sorcery.”
“What did you say at confession?”
“Confession? Fiddlesticks. I’m telling you, you never saw her, that Adèle. If you’d seen’er, stripped naked, your fear would have vanished at once. Round about the fifth night, we—”
The swarthy man’s company were never to find out what happened on the fifth night. Reynevan acted as though in a trance, almost mechanically. He leaped to his feet, sprang forward and punched the storyteller in the face. His nose crunched; blood gushed. Reynevan rocked at the hips and punched him again. The swarthy man screamed so horrifyingly that the tavern fell silent. People began to dash for the door. The traveller’s companions sprang up but stood petrified. And when the swarthy man tumbled from the bench to the floor, they fled. Bisclavret and Rzehors pushed the students and goliards towards the door, while Scharley restrained the innkeeper, who had come running. A serving wench began to scream in a high-pitched voice.
The swarthy man on the ground was also screaming. Also in a high-pitched, desperate, pleading voice. He choked as Reynevan kicked him in the mouth with all his strength. When Reynevan jerked him to his feet, the man gobbled, spat blood and teeth, his head lolled, his eyes rolled up, he went limp and hung inertly. Reynevan took aim, but his fist was no longer enough, it was completely inadequate. Everything around him became blindingly bright, clear and white. He shoved the traveller against a post and snatched up a jug from the table, which shattered at the first blow. He then picked up a stout staff from the table and struck the man above the elbow. The bone crunched and the swarthy man howled like a dog. Reynevan struck him once more, with all his might, on the other arm. Then on the leg. Reynevan struck him on the head as he fell, and when he was lying on the ground, he kicked him in the belly, and then again in his groin with his other foot. The swarthy man wasn’t screaming now, just shuddering as though in a fever, trembling convulsively. Reynevan was also trembling. He threw down the staff, knelt over the man on the ground, seized him by the hair and began to furiously slam the back of his head against the floor. There was a crunch and he felt the skull crack. Like an eggshell. Somebody caught him, violently tugging him away. It was Samson.
“Enough,” said the giant, holding him in a powerful grip. “Enough, enough, enough. Control yourself!”
“If that’s how you fellows carry out secretive activities and espionage, please accept my warm congratulations,” rasped Rzehors.
“We have a mission to accomplish,” added Bisclavret, “and now they’ll be hunting us for murder. Reynevan! What came over you? Why did you—”
“There was clearly a reason.” Scharley cut him off.
“Aha,” said Rzehors. “Let me guess. Adèle Stercza. Reynevan! But you promised—”
“Shut up.”
A large, gleaming puddle, black in the light of torches, spread around the head of the man on the ground. Scharley knelt down beside him, seized him by the temples, gripped tightly and twisted suddenly and powerfully. There was a crunch and the fellow tensed up. Then drooped. Reynevan was still seeing everything in shades of bright, violent white. All sounds were muffled. His legs felt like jelly and he would have fallen if not for Samson.
Scharley stood up.
“Well, Reinmar,” he said coldly. “That was something of a turning point for you. But you still have much to learn. I’m referring to your technique.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Bisclavret. “Quickly.”
“You’re right,” said Samson.
They didn’t talk. They fled in silence at a gallop, following the Biała into the Kłodzko valley. Without knowing when, they found themselves at a crossroads, on the road running parallel with the right bank of the Nysa. Since noon, crowds of refugees had been moving along the road. They were being driven on by panic. By desperation.
The companions merged into the crowd. No one paid attention to them. No one showed any interest in them. No one came after them. No one was interested in a common crime, a trivial murder, an unimportant victim, an unimportant perpetrator. There were more important matters. Much more important. Much more dangerous. Sounding in the shaking voices of the refugees from the south.
Bobošov was burned down. Lewin was burned down. Homole and Štěrba Castles were besieged. Mezilesí was in flames. The invaders were marching through the Nysa valley, burning and murdering indiscriminately. A powerful army numbering several thousand Hussite heretics. The notorious Orphans under the command of the notorious Jan Královec.
Almost half a century later, fidgeting on a hard stool, an old chronicler monk from the Augustinian monastery in Żagań straightened up the parchment on his lectern and dipped his quill pen in ink.
In medio quadragesime Anno Domini MCCCCXXVIII traxerunt capitanei de secta Orphanorum Johannes dictus Kralowycz, Procopius Parvus dictus Prokupko et Johannes dictus Colda de Zampach in Slesiam cum CC equites et IV milia peditum et cum CL curribus et versus civitatem Cladzco processerunt. Civitatem dictam Mezilezi et civitatem dictam Landek concremaverunt et plures villas et opida in eodem districtu destruxerunt et per voraginem ignis magnum nocumentum fecerunt…
The monk jerked up his head in terror on smelling smoke. But it was only weeds being burned in the monastery garden.
Chapter Nineteen
In which Reynevan tries to help in the capture of the town of Kłodzko, insistently, doggedly and using various means, in other words, as the chronicler was to write half a century later, per diversis modis.