“We broke them,” repeated Jan Královec of Hrádek. “We cut off the horn of Moab. Jan of Ziębice killed, Świdnica and Wrocław decimated. No one can stop us now. We shall take advantage of the victory. Silesia is at our mercy. Do you want vengeance? Come with us.”
“I must ride.”
The sun had broken through the clouds. The day promised to be frosty. The twenty-eighth of December 1428. The Tuesday after Christ’s Mass.
Královec breathed heavily.
“Ha, if you must, you must… Then ride. God be with you!”
A crow sat on the head of the hanged man.
The day, although frosty, was beautifully sunny, almost completely windless. The hanged man only swayed slightly and turned around on a creaking cord, which appeared not to bother the crow at all. Having dug its talons into what was left of the corpse’s hair, the bird was methodically and calmly pecking out what there was to peck out.
The tiles on the towers of Ziębice gleamed in the December sun. A column of refugees was heading towards the Town Gate. News of the approaching Hussites had clearly spread fast.
Reynevan patted the horse’s frothy neck. He had covered the six miles between Stary Wielisław and Ziębice in a truly remarkable hour and a half. The result was that he had absolutely exhausted the horse. It barely plodded the last stretch of road. And that was with breaks.
The crow flew up from the hanged man’s head and away, cawing, in order to alight a little higher, on the horizontal beam of the gibbet.
“Reinmar of Bielawa, I believe?”
He had no idea where the man who asked the question had appeared from. It was as though he had simply materialised. He was sitting on a small piebald horse and dressed like a burgher. His face was ordinary, his accent Polish.
“Reinmar of Bielawa, of course.” He answered his own question. “I’m waiting here for you, m’lord.”
Rather than answer, Reynevan reached for his sword. The man with the ordinary face didn’t even twitch.
“I’m waiting without any evil intent,” he said calmly, “only to pass on some information. Important information. May I speak? Will you listen calmly, m’lord?”
Reynevan had no intention of agreeing. The stranger noticed. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. There were evil, metallic notes in it.
“There’s nothing for you in the town, Reinmar of Bielawa. You rode fast and didn’t spare your horse. But still you are late.”
Reynevan fought the despair that suddenly engulfed him. He fought his weakness. He gained control of his leaping heart. He hid his hands, which had begun to shake, behind the pommel of his saddle. He clenched his jaw until it hurt.
“The maid whom you hurried to rescue is not in Ziębice,” said the stranger. “Be still! Nothing foolish! Patient, please be patient. Listen to me—”
Reynevan had no intention of listening. He drew his sword and spurred his horse. The horse strained, pawed the ground with a hoof, snorted, then raised and turned its head around. But didn’t budge an inch.
“Be patient,” repeated the stranger. “Don’t do anything foolish. Your horse can’t move and you can’t come any closer to me. Listen to me, please.”
“Speak. Tell me how Jutta is.”
“Miss Jutta of Apolda is hale and hearty. But she has left Ziębice.”
“How…” Reynevan breathed deeply. “How am I to know you aren’t lying?”
The stranger smiled unpleasantly. “Veritatem dicam, quam nemo audebit prohibere.” His excellent Latin betrayed him as a Pole just as much as his accent. “Miss Jutta is no longer in Ziębice. We decided she wasn’t safe in the hands of Duke Jan, and that the people the duke entrusted her to wouldn’t guarantee her personal inviolability. Thus, we decided to rescue Miss Jutta from the prison in Ziębice. Fortunately, we succeeded. And took her, so to speak, sub tutelam.”
“Where is she now?”
“In a safe place. Keep calm, young man, keep calm. She’s in no danger. Not a hair on her head will be harmed. She is, as I stressed, in our care.”
“Whose care? Whose damned care?”
“You are astonishingly dim-witted.”
“The Inquisition?”
“Tu dicis.” The stranger smiled. “You said it.”
Reynevan once again tried to urge his horse forward, but again the horse snorted and stamped on the spot.
“You burn others to death for using magic,” he spat. “You fucking hypocrites. I won’t ask what you want from me or what the purpose of the blackmail is, I can guess. And I loyally warn you: I’ve just killed one blackmailing whoreson, and I firmly resolve to kill any more that happen to appear. Pass that on to Gregorz Hejncze. And I shall remember you, O messenger, be certain. You won’t know the day or the hour.”
“Be patient, Reinmar, be patient.” The stranger curled his lip. “Control yourself and your behaviour, since lack of control may result in unforeseen, unpleasant consequences. Very unpleasant consequences.”
“For Jutta? I understand.”
“No, you don’t. Sheathe your sword and listen. Are you listening?”
“Do I have a choice? For if not there will be unpleasant consequences. After all, Jutta is in your hands. In your dungeon—”
“She isn’t in any dungeon,” interrupted the stranger. “No one will harm her, lay a finger on her, insult her or stain her honour. Jutta of Apolda is in our care. She is, naturally, in isolation… With the knowledge, actually, and approval of her mother, Lady Agnes, the wife of the Cup-Bearer of Schönau. Miss Jutta is residing in a safe place. Removed and isolated from the perils of this world. From certain ideas that once led Maifreda of Pirovano to the stake. And from you. Especially from you. And for the time being, Miss Jutta will remain removed and isolated.”
“For the time being?”
“Until…”
“Until when? When will you free her?”
“When the time comes. And under certain conditions.”
“Go on!” snapped Reynevan, still vainly trying to move his horse. “Get to the point! Tell me! What are the conditions? Who am I to betray this time? Who am I to sell? Turn over whom to their death? And when I do what you want, you will give me Jutta, will you? And perhaps you’ll throw in thirty pieces of silver?”
“Be patient!” The stranger raised a hand. “Quell your excitement, don’t rush ahead. I have said what I had to say. Now return to your people. To the Orphans, who, rumour has it, are marching northwards hard and will be here any moment. Go back. And wait for news from us. The Reverend Hejncze asked me to give you these words of the prophet Hosea: the ways of the Lord are right, and the just shall walk in them: but the transgressors shall fall therein. It’s time you stopped falling, Reinmar of Bielawa. Time to return to right ways. We shall try to help you in it.”
“I don’t doubt you will.”
“Wait for news. We shall find you.”
“Are you so sure you will?”
“We shall.” The Inquisition’s emissary smiled. “Without difficulty. Since you are like marjoram. You often appear. In every dish. My name is Łukasz Bożyczko.”
“I shall remember.”