“You may get into trouble,” he said as they bade each other goodbye. “They took the money, but they wouldn’t hesitate to turn you in. Don’t you prefer to come with us?”
“I’ll cope.”
“Are you certain?”
“They’re only men. I know how to handle them. Godspeed. Farewell, Elencza.”
“Farewell, Mistress Dorota. Thank you for everything.”
They skirted the town from the south and reached the river along a track among some osiers. They found a ford and crossed onto the left bank. Soon the horses’ hooves thudded on harder ground. They were on the highway.
“Have the plans changed?” asked Elencza, coping quite tolerably in the saddle, as it turned out. “Are we heading where we were meant to?”
“Yes. It’s this way.”
“Will you cope?”
“We will.”
“Let’s ride, then. We’ll leave the Wrocław road and head westwards. Quickly! We need to get as far away as possible while it’s still light.”
“Elencza.”
“Yes.”
“I thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.”
The May night smelled of bird cherry blossom.
By saying they would cope, Reynevan had been lying to Elencza Stietencron. In actual fact, the only things keeping him and Samson in the saddle were the leather straps. And their fear of Grellenort.
The journey through the gathering darkness was sheer torment. Indeed, it was a blessing that Reynevan didn’t remember much of it, as he was trembling from the fever again and barely aware of the surrounding world. Samson wasn’t in a much better state; the giant was groaning, huddled and hunched over in the saddle, his head nodding onto the horse’s mane as though he were drunk. Elencza rode between their horses to hold them up.
“Elencza?”
“Yes.”
“Three years ago, in Ścibor’s Clearing… How did you save yourself?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Dorota mentioned that later, in December, you survived the massacre in Bardo—”
“I’d rather not talk about that, either.”
“Forgive me.”
“I don’t have anything to forgive you for. Keep upright in the saddle, please. Sit upright… Don’t lean over like that… Oh, God, I wish this night could finally be over…”
“Elencza…”
“Your friend is awfully heavy.”
“I don’t know… how to repay you…”
“I know you don’t.”
“What’s the matter?”
“My hands are growing numb… Sit up straight, please. And ride on.”
They rode on.
It began to grow dusk.
“Reinmar?”
“Samson? I thought—”
“I’m lucid. Generally speaking. Where are we? Is it much further?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s close.” Elencza spoke up. “The monastery’s close. I can hear the bell… Morning worship… We’ve arrived…”
The young woman’s voice and words gave them strength and euphoria overcame their tiredness and feverishness. They quickly covered the remaining distance to the monastery. Emerging from the sticky, shaggy greyness of the dawn, the world became completely unreal, illusory, mysterious, as though everything was happening in a dream. The nightjars flitting around in the air seemed dreamlike, the monastery seemed dreamlike, the monastery wicket gate with its grating hinges seemed dreamlike. The nun in a grey habit of thick Frisian wool who guarded the gate seemed dreamlike as she emerged from the fog. Her cry as though from the beyond… And the bell. The morning worship… Thoughts drifted through Reynevan’s head. Laudes matutine… But what about the singing? Why aren’t the nuns singing? Oh, it’s White Church after all. The Poor Clares don’t sing the hours, but say them… “Jutta… Jutta? Jutta!”
“Reynevan!”
“Jutta…”
“How are you? What’s the matter? Are you hurt? Mother of God! Get him out of the saddle… Reynevan!”
“Jutta… I…”
“Help me… Lift him up… Oh! What is it?”
“My shoulder… Jutta… Enough… I can stand… It’s just my legs that are weak… Take care of Samson…”
“We’ll take them both to the infirmary. Right away, at once. Sisters, help me—”
“Wait.”
Elencza of Stietencron didn’t dismount but remained in the saddle with her head turned away. She only looked at him when he called her name.
“You said you had somewhere to go. But perhaps you’ll stay?”
“No. I’ll be going.”
“Where to? If I wanted to find you—”
“I doubt you would.”
“But I might.”
“Skałka near Wrocław…” she said reluctantly and seemingly with effort. “The estate and stud of Lady Dzierżka of Wirsing.”
“Dzierżka?” He couldn’t control his amazement. “You’re staying with Dzierżka?”
“Farewell, Reinmar of Bielawa.” She reined her horse around. “Take care of yourself. And I—”
“I shall try to forget,” she said softly. When she was far enough away from the convent gate for him not to hear her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In which time—spent pleasantly and blissfully—passes fleetingly for Reynevan during the summer of Anno Domini 1428. And one would just love to finish the story with the standard ending: “They lived happily ever after.” But what one would love and what actually happens are two quite different things.
Reynevan lay in the convent infirmary until Trinity Sunday, the first Sunday after Pentecost. Exactly nine days. As a matter of fact, he only totalled up those days afterwards, since the returning waves of fever meant he remembered little of his stay or the treatment. He remembered Jutta of Apolda spending a great deal of time at his bedside, and the stout infirmary nurse, called—most aptly—Sister Misericordia. He remembered being treated by the abbess: a tall, serious nun with bright, blue-grey eyes. He remembered the remedies she gave him, acutely painful and invariably causing fever and delirium. It was thanks to those remedies, however, that he still had his arm and could make tolerable use of it. He heard the nuns talking during the treatments—and they discussed his clavicle, shoulder joint, subclavian artery, axillary nerve, lymph nodes and fasciae. He heard enough to know that the abbess’s medical knowledge had saved him from numerous complications. Not to mention the medicaments she had and knew how to apply. Some of them were magical, some of which Reynevan knew, either by their smell or by the reactions they caused. She used both dodecatheon—much stronger than the one they had obtained in Oława—and peristereon, a medicine which was very rare, very expensive and very effective against inflammation. The abbess used a medicine called garwa, the secret of which had apparently come all the way from the druids in distant Ireland, on his wound, which had to be re-opened several times. Reynevan also recognised by its typical poppy-like scent wundkraut, a magical herb of the Valkyries which the priests of Wotan had employed to treat the wounded following the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest. The scent of dried henbane leaves betrayed hierobotane, and the scent of poplar bark leukis, two powerful anti-gangrene medicines. The powder called lycopodium bellonarium smelled of clubmoss.