Telesma was backed up by Bezděchovský. The venerable sorcerer had not only heard of Rupilius, but had met him personally, years before, in Padua. Rupilius, he announced, might indeed help Samson. But no one knew if he’d agree to, because in Padua he’d proved himself to be an arrogant and unobliging arsehole.
Astonishingly, Samson himself treated the project quite sceptically and coolly. Samson hardly participated in the discussion, just grunting now and then. He didn’t argue for or against and said nothing most of the time. But Reynevan now knew him too well. Samson simply didn’t count on the expedition’s success. When he finally agreed to take part, Reynevan couldn’t help but get the impression he was doing it out of politeness.
That left Scharley. Reynevan knew Scharley’s opinion about the venture before asking him. But he did so, for form’s sake.
“It’s simply idiotic,” Scharley said calmly. “Furthermore, it’s beginning to remind me of Silesia two years ago and the memorably enthusiastic odyssey to rescue Miss Adèle. An expedition to Trosky looks similarly devised and would probably be carried out similarly, and I can already see the result in my mind’s eye. You’ll probably never grow wise, Reinmar.
“You claim that we have obligations regarding Samson, that we owe him something,” he continued, a little quieter and more seriously. “Perhaps you’re right, I don’t deny it. But life remains life, and the chief rule of life requires us to forget about debts like that, strike them from our memory. The thing with life is that you should look after number one. Love thy neighbour by all means, but not to one’s own disadvantage. I claim we’ve done plenty for Samson, and if the opportunity arises, we’ll do more. And the opportunity will occur, I’m certain, sooner or later. All we must do is sit down and wait patiently for that opportunity. Why bother looking for it, which sounds suspiciously like looking for trouble? Let’s look after number one, Reinmar, because that’s of prime importance. And what risk are you exposing us to, laddie? Where do you plan to lead us? There’s turmoil, war, fire, chaos, disorder and lawlessness around us. It’s not a good time for madcap expeditions. Never mind unprepared ones.”
“You’re mistaken,” replied Reynevan. “I disagree with you entirely. And not just concerning your cynical philosophy of what’s most important in life. I disagree with your assessment of the situation. For time is not only on our side, it’s also running out. Podještědí and the Jičín Hills are controlled by our army, and the few Catholic lords of that region are intimidated, their morale crushed by the defeat of the crusade at Tachov. They’re like smoked bees. So if we’re to launch an expedition, let’s do it now, before they recover and start stinging again. What do you say to that?”
“Nothing.”
“Regarding preparations, you’re right. Let’s set about them. What do you suggest?”
Scharley sighed.
Reynevan and Samson left Prague on the tenth of October, a Friday, which happened to be the day that the holiday of Saint Gereon and his companion martyrs fell on that year. They left the city in the early morning. When they rode through the Poříčí Gate, the sun came out from behind the clouds, flooding Vítkov and the Hospital Field in a fabulous blaze. Reynevan took the heart-warming sight as a good omen.
Both he and Samson were feeling rough. They had partaken in an effusive farewell with the mages from the House at the Archangel apothecary’s shop that was celebrated long into the night. Reynevan was sighing and fidgeting in the saddle—he’d also had to celebrate an additional farewell with Mistress Blažena Pospíchalová.
They were heading for Kolín, which had been besieged by the Tábor, Orphans and Praguians since the middle of September. The siege was being led by Prokop the Shaven. Scharley was in Prokop the Shaven’s army. Scharley was meant to have spent the month that had passed since parting from them preparing the expedition. He claimed he had the capabilities. Reynevan believed him. Scharley was both capable and resourceful. The penitent didn’t hide the fact—why, he even boasted about it—that he was fighting in the Taborite army for spoils and profit, and that he had already plenty squirrelled away in various hiding places. The sun disappeared behind black clouds coming from the north. It was sombre and gloomy. Not to say ominous.
Reynevan thought that the signs were foolish superstitions.
Prokop gave the impression he wasn’t listening. But that was deceptive.
“Give Brother Scharley leave,” he repeated. “Release him from service in the army during wartime. For your private affairs, Brother Bielawa. In other words, self-interest comes first, and duty to God and the fatherland are second. Is that it?”
Reynevan didn’t reply. He just swallowed loudly. Prokop snorted.
“Agreed,” he said. “I give my permission.” Clearly enjoying their astonishment, he continued, “There are three reasons. Firstly, Brother Scharley has served in the Tábor’s ranks for over a year now and has earned his leave. Secondly, Brother Neplach has informed me of your contributions, Brother Bielawa. You have battled the enemies of our cause with dedication and you apparently fought heroically against the rebels in Prague on the sixth of September. You have treated the wounded, without eating, drinking or sleeping. That unquestionably deserves a reward. And thirdly and most importantly…”
He stopped and turned around. They were outside a granary, currently serving as headquarters and the organisational centre of the siege staff.
“You’ll find out later what is third and most important; we’ll return to it, but right now I have other matters to attend to. You’ll hear what those matters are because I’m keeping you beside me.”
“Brother—”
“That’s an order. Let us go. And your servant… Oh, I see he has occupied himself with something. Good. He won’t do any harm.”
Samson Honeypot, pretending as usual that he couldn’t hear or understand anything, had sat down at the foot of the granary wall, taken out a pocketknife and begun whittling a scrap of wood. Samson often whittled. Firstly, he explained, it was a perfect activity for the idiot he appeared to be. Secondly, he went on, whittling was calming and beneficial to the nervous and digestive systems. Thirdly, he added, carving wood helped him when he was forced to listen to discussions about politics and religion, since the scent of fresh wood shavings alleviated the vomiting reflex.
They went into the granary, entering a large room which still smelled pleasantly of grain despite being converted into a staff headquarters. Inside, two men were bent over maps spread out on a table. One was short and thin, dressed in the fashionable black of Hussite priests. The other, younger, in knightly garb, was more powerfully built and fair-haired, with a somewhat cherubic, somewhat harsh and weary face, calling to mind Flemish miniatures of the Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry.
“At last,” said the smaller one in black. “We’ve had quite a wait, Brother Prokop.”
“Duties, Brother Prokop.”
Unlike his namesake, the other Prokop had a beard, if a spare, unkempt and rather comical one. By virtue of his size, he had also been singled out with a nickname—he was called Little Prokop. Also a preacher among preachers at the beginning, he made a name for himself with the Hussites—or more specifically the Orphans—after the death of Jan Žižka of Trocnov. Little Prokop had been with Ambrož of Hradec Králové at Žižka’s deathbed, and the Orphans considered the witnesses of the final moments of their venerated leader virtually saints—they would even kneel before him and kiss the hem of his robes, and mothers brought their feverish children to him. This esteem elevated Little Prokop to the position of chief spiritual leader—thus he held an analogical office among the Orphans to the one Prokop had performed in the Tábor before he took up the position of Director.