Kłodzko, whose panorama they saw in the morning, turned out to be a mass of red tiles and golden roofs perching on a hillside, descending to the very waters of the Młynówka Canal which encircled the hill. Reflected in the water of the Nysa, wide at this point, the slope was crowned by the castle hill dominating the town with its towers.
The road was still blocked by the conveyances of refugees, their stinking livestock and stinking young. The closer to the town, the greater the number of wagons, the hubbub became louder, the children appeared to be reproducing spontaneously and the stench suddenly intensified.
“The Old Horse Market is ahead of us.” Rzehors pointed. “And the Wygon suburb. Soon there’ll be the bridge over the Jodłownik.”
The Jodłownik turned out to be a small, fast-flowing river, and the bridge was totally thronged. Reynevan and company didn’t wait for the road to free up but copied other riders by urging their mounts into the water and crossed the stream without difficulty. Further on, cottages, shacks and sheds stood on either side of the road and their dwellers busied themselves with everyday tasks, not gracing the travellers with anything more than a passing glance. They rode quite briskly for some time, but soon another obstruction stopped them. This time it was impassable.
“The bridge over the Nysa,” said Bisclavret, standing up in the stirrups. “That’s what is causing the hold-up. There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to wait.”
They waited. The queue moved forward slowly, at a speed that allowed them to admire the landscape.
“Oho,” muttered Rzehors. “I see many changes. Walls and towers renovated, new earthworks, chevaux-de-frise and stockades on the banks of the Młynówka… Sir Půta hasn’t been idle. He clearly smelled a rat.”
“Ambrož’s plundering raid of three years ago taught him something,” mumbled Scharley. “Do you see that?”
Wagons laden with foodstuffs, stones and bundles of bolts increased the crush on the road.
“They’re making ready the defence… But what’s happening over there? Are they knocking down buildings?”
“It’s the Franciscan monastery,” explained Bisclavret. “They’re sensibly destroying it. In a siege, it would be an ideal breaching tower and it’s built of stone to boot. Cannons are most accurate at four hundred paces, so balls shot from the monastery wall would strike the centre of the town, at the very town hall. It’s sensible of them to knock it down.”
“The men demolishing it most energetically are the Franciscans themselves,” observed Scharley. “I see they’re working with great joy and gusto. Quite the symbolic twist of fate. They are smashing up their own monastery and enthusiastically, what’s more.”
“As I said, they are acting sensibly,” Bisclavret replied. “What a throng by the bridge… Dammit… Could they be searching?”
“If word has got out about—” Rzehors looked at Reynevan, who was still saying nothing.
“It hasn’t.” Scharley cut him off. “It can’t have. Don’t panic.”
“I won’t, because I’m not accustomed to doing so,” Rzehors replied. “And now I bid you farewell. I won’t enter the town; you’ll need someone outside the walls. Bisclavret? The usual signals?”
“Naturally. Farewell.”
Rzehors urged on his horse, melted into the crowd and vanished. The others crept on slowly towards the stone bridge. Reynevan was silent. Scharley rode closer and their stirrups clinked.
“You did what you did,” he said coldly. “It can’t be undone. For a few nights, instead of sleeping you’ll be staring at the ceiling ravaged by your conscience. But right now, get a grip.”
Reynevan cleared his throat and looked at Samson. Samson didn’t return his glance. He nodded, agreeing with Scharley.
Unsmiling.
In front of the bridge stood a squad of halberdiers and a group of monks in black habits with leather belts, identifying them as Augustinians.
“Heed!” shouted the corporals. “Heed, people! The town is being made ready for defence, so entry onto the bridge is only granted to those skilled in arms and ready to fight! Only them as are skilled in arms! Those as aren’t but can labour are to help demolish the monastery and erect a palisade. Their families may stay in Kłodzko. The rest go on, to the Rybaki suburb, where Franciscan friars are making vittles and serving them and tending to the sick. From there, after you’ve rested, head north, towards Bardo. I repeat, Kłodzko is preparing for a siege, entry only to those who are skilled in arms! They are to report at once in the town square, to receive orders from the guild masters…”
The crowd murmured and seethed, but the halberdiers were firm. Soon a division had occurred—some turned towards the bridge and the rest, several of them swearing vehemently, rode on along the Wrocław road leading between the bank of the Nysa and the cottages of the suburb.
It became a little less crowded.
“Heed! The town will be defended! Entry only to those as are skilled in arms!”
Unrest was occurring before the bridge. There was quarrelling; raised voices could be heard. Reynevan stood up in the stirrups. Three clergymen in travelling attire were arguing with a captain with a blue and white shield on his tunic. A tall Augustinian with an aquiline nose and bushy eyebrows walked over to the clergymen.
“Father Fessler?” he asked, recognising one of them. “Parish priest of Waltersdorf? What brings you to Kłodzko?”
“An amusing jest, indeed,” answered the priest, frowning exaggeratedly. “As if you didn’t know. But we won’t bandy words here, in front of these churls. Stand down your soldiers, Frater! You can bar the way to tramps, but not me. I’ve been travelling all night; I must rest before I continue.”
“And whither does your journey take you, may I ask?” said the Augustinian, slowly.
“Don’t play the fool!” The parish priest was still extremely angry. “The infernal Hussites are coming in a great host, burning, pillaging and murdering. My life is dear to me. I’m fleeing to Wrocław, perhaps they won’t get that far. I advise you to do the same.”
“I thank you for the advice.” The Augustinian tilted his head. “But duty keeps me here, in Kłodzko. We mean to defend the town along with Sir Půta. And shall succeed, with God’s help.”
“Perhaps so, perhaps not,” the parish priest rejoined. “But that’s your affair. Out of my way.”
“We shall defend Kłodzko.” The monk had no intention of complying. “With the help of God and good people. Any help will come in useful. And we shan’t spurn yours, Fessler. You left your parishioners in the lurch. Here you have an opportunity to atone for your sin.”
“How dare you mention sin?” the priest yelled. “And atonement? Out of my way! And watch your words—you insult the Church in my person! And what of it, O barefoot beggar? That I flee? Yes, I do, for it is my duty to save myself, my person and the Church! The heretics are approaching, murdering priests; I am saving the Church in my person, for the Church is me!”
“No,” responded the Augustinian calmly. “It is not. The Church is faithful Christians. Your parishioners, whom you left in Waltersdorf, though you owe them help and support. It’s them, those people yonder, preparing to defend, not to flee. So cast down your bundle, Reverend, seize a pick and get to work. And not another word, Fessler, not another word. I’m humble, but the captain here, God forgive him, is blessed neither with humility nor undue patience. He can order you to work with a flogging. He can also order you hanged. Sir Půta granted him wide powers.”