“Amen, Your Reverence.”
“Reynevan… Reinmar of Bielawa is not, you say, in the Kłodzko group. He’s gone off somewhere, you say. With Horn. Perhaps to the convent in White Church? For I understand the information about the convent is certain?”
“It is, Your Reverence, I can affirm that. Will we take any… action… there?”
“Not for the time being. Listen, Łukasz. Were that Reynevan to return to Kłodzko… Should he join the saboteurs… In brief: were he to fall into Sir Půta’s hands, you’re to get him out. Alive and unharmed. Understand?”
“Yes, Your Reverence.”
“Now leave me. I wish to pray.”
The six of them set off to Świdnica—Horn, Reynevan, Bisclavret and the three assassins that had come with Horn. The assassins only accompanied them to Frankenstein. They didn’t enter the town but split off and went on their way without wasting any words of farewell. They no doubt had their own goals and tasks in Silesia. Horn may have known what they were, may have known who they were planning to kill. But could equally well have not. Reynevan didn’t ask anything. But he wouldn’t have been himself had he not made a speech about ethics and morality.
Horn listened patiently. He was his old self again, the one Reynevan had first met, knew and remembered. The Horn in an elegant, short grey cloak fastened with a silver clasp and a doublet braided with silver thread, topped off by a satin chaperon with a long liripipe curling fancifully around his neck. Horn sporting a dagger with a ruby in the hilt and cordovan riding boots with brass-edged spurs. Horn, with his piercing eyes and mouth twisted into a slightly arrogant grimace. A grimace that became more pronounced the more Reynevan expounded on matters concerning morality, ethnic norms and the rules and principles of war, including in particular the use of terror as a weapon of war.
“Terror is immanent in war,” Horn began when Reynevan had finished, “and war relies upon terror. The very nature of war is terror. Ipso facto.”
“Zawisza the Black of Garbów wouldn’t agree with you. He conceived of war and jus militare differently.”
“Zawisza the Black is dead.”
“What?”
“Weren’t you told?” He turned around in the saddle. “Hasn’t word of the death of one of the most celebrated knights of modern Europe reached you? Zawisza the Black has fallen. A loyal vassal, he marched with Emperor Sigismund on an expedition against the Turks, to besiege the fortress of Golubac on the Danube. The Turks defeated them there, Sigismund bolted in customary fashion and Zawisza—also in customary fashion—covered the withdrawal. And perished. It’s said that the Turks decapitated him. It happened on the twenty-eighth of May, on the Friday after the holiday of Saint Urban, my patron, which is why I remember the date so well. And thus, Zawisza the Black of Garbów, the good knight, is no longer in this world. Sic transit gloria mundi.”
“Much more, I’d say,” said Reynevan. “Much more than gloria.”
As soon as they arrived in Świdnica, they came across a commotion. When they entered the town square after passing through the Lower Gate and along the mud-filled Long Street, they thought they had happened upon a festivity—the cause of the commotion was clearly a source of merriment. Bisclavret moved through the crowd to find out what was happening, while Reynevan was at once reminded of Prague in the summer of 1427, fomented and overjoyed by the news of the victory at Tachov. The associations turned out to be extremely apt, and Bisclavret’s face when he returned was extremely sour. The longer Bisclavret’s whispered account went on, the darker and gloomier Horn’s expression became.
“What happened?” Reynevan couldn’t restrain himself. “What’s going on?”
“Later.” Horn cut him off. “Later, Reynevan. We need to have a meeting now, and some important conversations. Let’s go. Bisclavret, find somebody trustworthy and well informed here. I want to know more.”
The meeting took place in a beer cellar in Bowyers Street, near the gate of the same name, and the important conversation concerned the supply of weapons and horses from Poland. And the interlocutor was a Raubritter known to Reynevan, the Pole, Błażej Jakubowski, of the Poraj coat of arms. Jakubowski didn’t recognise Reynevan. And no wonder. Some time had passed. And quite a lot had happened.
The conversation was somewhat disrupted by the commotion and the extremely cheerful mood of the guests filling the tavern. The people of Świdnica clearly had a reason to be celebrating. Reynevan wasn’t the one to wonder what it was.
“I hear you were defeated?” Jakubowski suddenly interrupted the negotiations, gesturing with his head towards the rejoicing townspeople. “In Lusatia? At some Kratzau or other? They say Lords Polenz and Kolditz gave you a licking, a sound hiding. Eh? Tell me, Horn, I’d like to hear the details.”
“Now isn’t the time to discuss it.”
Just then, Bisclavret returned and the Poraj guessed right away what was happening. And insisted that it was the right time. There was no choice.
“Jan Královec’s Orphans,” Bisclavret began reluctantly, “besieged some stronghold or other in Bohemia, my informer couldn’t recall which one. Their provisions were running out, the siege didn’t look like ending, so they decided to send a few regiments to Lusatia on the pillage. They set fire to Frydland on the sixth of November and on the following days ravaged the land around Zgorzelec, Löbau and Žitava. They loaded their wagons with spoils, rounded up the cattle and set off on the return trip along the road via Hradek and Nysa. And were—”
“—were attacked here, right?”
“Indeed,” Bisclavret reluctantly admitted. “Královec was too cocksure… He disregarded the Germans, underestimated them. And in the meanwhile, the Six Cities mobilised a powerful contingent under the command of Lothar Gersdorf and Ulrik Biberstein. Landvogt Hans of Polenz marched quickly from Lower Lusatia to help and Albrecht of Kolditz approached from Świdnica. They were soon joined by Duke Jan of Żagań and his brother Duke Henryk the Elder of Głogów. Gocze Schaff added his men from Gryf Castle. They set off in pursuit of Královec and at dawn of Saint Martin’s Day suddenly attacked the Orphans’ marching column. A mile outside Hradek. At Kratzau.”
“And defeated them.”
“Depends what you mean.” Bisclavret wore the expression of a man who had to swallow something foul. “Královec fled… Losing… Losing several—”
“Several hundred men,” finished the Pole. “The wagons. And all the spoils.”
“But plenty of German corpses were left on the battlefield,” snapped Bisclavret. “Including Lothar Gersdorf.”
“Nonetheless,” muttered Jakubowski, “Kratzau has shown that you aren’t invincible.”
“Only God is invincible.”
“And they who are in God’s grace and favour.” The Pole smiled wryly. “Have you Hussites perhaps fallen from grace?”
“God works in mysterious ways.” Horn looked him straight in the eyes. “His wonders to perform, m’Lord Jakubowski. His works are not to be predicted. Men are different, their works can. But there’s no sense in wasting time on deliberations. Let’s get back to our business. It’s become important.”