However, the longer Reynevan resided in the convent, the more departures from the rule he noticed. What was conspicuous right away was the quite relaxed approach to the clausula. Absolutely inaccessible from the outside, from the inside the clausula wasn’t a barrier—the nuns could move through the entire convent. Even the presence in the convent of two men—Reynevan and Samson—didn’t limit their freedom of movement. There was only a peculiar piece of etiquette to observe—the nuns pretended that there weren’t any men and the men pretended not to see them. This didn’t apply to the abbess, who did what she wanted, when and how she wanted to. The sister housekeeper and the infirmarist also had complete freedom of contact.
The more Reynevan was accepted by the nuns and considered trusted, the more he was allowed to see. And he saw that the penance and contemplation ordered by the rule were substituted in White Church by study; the reading of books, writings and postills; discussions; and even debates. But he was not allowed into those restricted areas. Although Jutta had access to them, he didn’t.
But the biggest shock was the Mass. Reynevan didn’t participate in it. The atmosphere of White Church made him feel safe, so he had no intention of hiding the fact that as a Calixtine and Utraquist he didn’t recognise either the papist Mass or Communion.
Once, however, he felt the need and went to Mass, having decided after some thought that it was doubtful whether God had the time or desire to be bothered by liturgical minutiae. He went to the church and received a shock. The Mass was being celebrated by the abbess.
A woman.
After a few days, the abbess unexpectedly asked Reynevan to see her. As he went, he was aware both of the honour and of the fact that he was about to be interrogated. Which he had been expecting for some time.
As he entered, she was reading an incunable lying open on a lectern. Reynevan, as a bibliophile and bibliomaniac, immediately recognised Joachim of Fiore’s Psalterium Decem Cordarum by its illuminations and engravings. Other works that were lying in eyeshot were: Hildegard of Bingen’s Liber Divinorum Operum, Saint Bernard’s De amore Dei, Hesiod’s Theogony, and Nicholas of Clémanges’ De ruina ecclesiae. He didn’t know why, but the sight of a well-thumbed copy of Necronomicon among the books didn’t surprise him in the least.
The abbess looked at him for some time over the polished lenses of her spectacles, as though challenging him to endure her gaze.
“An unprecedented thing,” she finally said, and the expression on her face might have been a smile or a sneer. “An unprecedented thing. Not only am I treating a Hussite in my convent. Not only am I protecting a heretic. Not only have I allowed in a sorcerer—and a necromancer at that. Not only do I tolerate and nurse him, why, I even permit him to indulge in amorous pleasure with a converse entrusted into my care. A converse from a noble family, for whom I am responsible.”
“We are in—” he began.
She didn’t let him finish. “Indeed. In the throes of passion, I’d say. And I wonder whether you’ve thought about the possible consequences? For even a moment?”
“I am a doctor—”
“Firstly, do not forget that. Secondly, I was by no means only thinking about the possibility of pregnancy.”
She said nothing for some time and played with the linen cord girdling her habit, with the four knots in it symbolising the four vows of Saint Clare, the patron and founder of the Order of Poor Ladies.
“I meant the future.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Something that is most uncertain in today’s hard times. I want to know whether you and Jutta think about the future. Whether you, Reynevan, think about the future. No, no, not the details. The simple fact of it.”
“I do, Reverend Mother.”
Her bright, blue-grey eyes held his gaze. Her facial features reminded him of somebody, but he could not think who.
“You claim to be thinking about it.” She tilted her head. “And what, I wonder, dominates in your thoughts? What is there more of? Jutta and what is best for her? Or perhaps war? The fight for a good cause? The desire to change the world? And if, let’s suppose, a conflict arose, if your ideals opposed each other… what would you choose? And what would you give up?”
He said nothing.
“It is generally known,” she continued, “that where the good of great and weighty matters is concerned, individuals mean nothing. They are sacrificed. Jutta is an individual. What will happen to her? Will you toss her away like a stone onto the ramparts?”
“I don’t know.” He swallowed with effort. “I cannot pretend in front of you, Honourable Lady, and do not wish to. I sincerely do not know.”
She looked him long in the eyes.
“I know you don’t know,” she said finally. “I wasn’t expecting an answer. I just wanted you to give it some thought.”
Soon after Saint Peter and Paul’s, when all the meadows were blue with cornflowers, a long period of nasty, rainy weather arrived. The secluded spot where Reynevan and Jutta usually made love became a muddy pond. The abbess looked on for some time as the pair wandered around the arcades of the garth, as they gazed into each other’s eyes—only to finally part and go their separate ways.
One evening, having rearranged the sleeping quarters in the abbey, she summoned them both and led them to a cell, tidied and decked with blossom.
“Here you will live,” she declared dryly. “And sleep. Both of you. From now on. From this night.”
“We thank you, Mother,” they said in unison.
“Don’t thank me. And don’t waste time. Hora ruit, redimite tempus.”
Summer had come. The hot summer of 1428.
Every now and then, the unflagging gardener unflaggingly brought new rumours. Jan Kolda’s surrender and the loss of Sobótka Castle, he said, stamping on some naked baby mice he had unearthed from their nests, infuriated the Hussites. Midway through July, on the Thursday after Saint Margaret’s Day, the Orphans, in revenge, attacked and captured Jelenia Góra, razing the town to the ground in a swift foray.
Although it took him more time, the gardener also passed on rumours from Bohemia—the news Reynevan and Samson had been yearning for. The hejtman of the New Town in Prague, Velek Kúdelník of Březnice, recounted the gardener, scraping shit from his pitchfork, struck the land of the Bavarians around Saint Urban’s Day. The Hussites burned down Mosbach, the residence of Count Palatine Otto, and marched along the valley of the River Naab to Regensburg. They thoroughly pillaged and utterly ruined the Cistercian abbey in Walderbach. Wagons laden with loot, they returned to Bohemia, leaving scorched earth behind them.
At more or less the same time, said the gardener, picking his nose and looking intently at the contents, the Tábor attacked Austria with a savage plundering raid in order to teach Duke Albrecht a lesson. Burning, wreaking havoc, sacking, without encountering any resistance, the Taborites got as far as the Danube. Though only a short distance separated them from Vienna, they couldn’t cross the great river. They shot a few cannons from the left bank in a show of strength and then departed.
“And our Scharley was no doubt there, too,” Reynevan muttered to Samson. “Up to no good.”