“Adnue conanti per laudes ire tuorum
deque meo pavidos excute corde metus…”
I wonder, thought the magister, closing the window, where that character is now?
“Do you know that woman?” Parsifal Rachenau asked his comrade. “And that maiden?”
“You saw me greeting her,” snapped Henryk Baruth, called Starling, loosening his belt. “Saw me kissing her hand. Do you think I usually kiss unknown women on the hand? It’s my aunt, Hrozwita, travelling somewhere. The chubby one is her maidservant and the one in the cap is her housekeeper.”
“And the maid?”
“My aunt’s daughter, who’s my cousin. My aunt’s husband is my uncle. But not Uncle Henryk, Lord of Smarchowice, who’s also known as Heineman, nor Henryk called the Crane, from Bald Mountain, but the third, my father’s youngest brother, who’s called—”
“Henryk,” guessed Parsifal Rachenau, staring at the fair-haired girl.
“Do you know him? Well, you do now. So he’s my uncle, my aunt’s his wife and the girl’s their daughter. Her name’s Ofka. And why are you staring at her like that, eh?”
“I…” said the boy, blushing. “Nothing… I only…”
Ofka of Baruth was only pretending to be absorbed in fidgeting on the bench in the tavern, kicking her legs, tapping a spoon on a bowl, staring at the ceiling and tugging at the end of her plait. Actually, she’d noticed the squire’s interest long before and had suddenly decided to react. By sticking her tongue out at him.
“Silly goose,” Starling commented in disgust. Parsifal didn’t comment. He was quite fascinated. The only thing that bothered him was the question of kinship. The Rachenaus were related to the Baruths; one of Uncle Gawein’s sisters was probably the cousin of an aunt of the wife of Henryk called the Crane. A thing like that probably demanded a dispensation, which might be hard to get. Parsifal thought of marriage as a disagreeable duty, if not literally a punishment, but now he understood beyond reasonable doubt that if he had to, he much preferred Ofka of Baruth to the thin-as-a-rake and pimply Zuzanna, whose father, old Albrecht of Hackeborn, Lord of Przewóz, was obstinately trying to arrange to marry into the Rachenaus. Parsifal was resolutely determined to delay the marriage as long as possible. For over the years, Zuzanna Hackeborn might at most accumulate more pimples, while Ofka had the makings of a comely maiden. A very comely maiden…
The comely in spe maiden, clearly happy with the attention, first bared her lower teeth at him and then stuck out her tongue again. The matron in a bonnet sitting beside her rebuked the girl sharply. Ofka bared her teeth, this time her upper ones.
“How old might she be…?” mumbled Parsifal Rachenau.
“Of what interest is it to me?” Starling said gruffly. “Or you, for that matter? Get that kasha down you, we must away. Sir Půta will be cross if we don’t arrive in Kłodzko on time.”
“Why, if it’s not Sir Henryk Baruth and Sir Parsifal of Rachenau,” came a voice beside them.
They looked up. Beside them stood a priest, tall and grey-haired. His eyes were the colour of iron. Or perhaps it only appeared so in the smoke-filled tavern?
“Indeed.” Parsifal Rachenau bowed his head. “Indeed, Father. It is us. But we aren’t knights. We’re not yet knighted—”
“Oh, that’s just a matter of time,” said the priest, smiling, “and a short one, I’m certain. If I may: I am Father Schlossknecht, servant of God… Oh, it’s chilly today… Mulled wine would go down well… Would you honour me, good sirs, by accepting a mug each? Are you eager?”
Starling and Parsifal looked at each other and swallowed. They were most eager. Cash was the problem.
“Father Schlossknecht, God’s servant.” The priest repeated the introduction as he placed the mugs on the table. “Presently of the Brzeg Collegiate Church. At one time chaplain to Sir Otto Kauffung, may God have mercy on his soul—”
“The chaplain of Lord Kauffung!” Parsifal Rachenau tore his eyes away from Ofka of Baruth and almost choked on his mulled wine. “By the head of Saint Tiburtius! Why, he died in my arms after being felled in battle. It was two years since, in September, in the Goleniowskie Forests. I was in his entourage when we were attacked by brigands! When the brigands abducted two maidens, the daughters of Lords Biberstein and Apolda, in order later to ravish them both, poor things.”
“God be merciful.” The priest put his hands together in prayer. “Innocent maidens ravished? How much evil there is in the world… How much evil… How much sin… Who could have dared to do such a thing?”
“Brigand-knights. Their ringleader was Reinmar of Bielawa. A scoundrel and a sorcerer.”
“Sorcerer? It can’t be!”
“You’ll believe it when I tell you. I saw it with my own eyes… And heard much…”
“I could also tell you a few things!” said Starling, sipping from his mug. His cheeks were already quite flushed. “For I also saw that Bielawa’s witchcraft! I saw witches flying to a sabbath! And people killed on the road near Frankenstein, at the foot of Grochowa Mountain!”
“It can’t be!”
“Oh, indeed,” Starling assured boastfully. “I speak the truth! The Black Riders killed the men of Lady Dzierżka of Wirsing, the horse trader. The Company of Death. Devils! That Bielawa is served by actual devils! You won’t believe it when I tell you!”
The grey-eyed priest assured him that he would. The mulled wine went to their heads. And loosened their tongues.
“What did you say, Reverend?” asked Fryczko Nostitz, frowning as he tossed his saddle over the beam. “What’s your name?”
“Father Haberschrack,” the priest repeated in a soft voice. “Canon at the Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary in Racibórz.
“Aye, aye, I’ve heard of you,” Fryczko confirmed with an absolutely certain expression. “And what brings you to me? Something so urgent you intrude on me in the stable. If it’s about Hedwiśka, Strauch’s daughter, from Racibórz, I swear—and may Saint Anthony burn me to death—that she’s lying. I cannot, by any means, be the father of her bastard, for I only fucked her once and that was in the arse.”
“No, no,” said the priest quickly. “It concerns something quite different from Strauch’s daughter. Though just as delicate, I would say. I would like to know… Hmm… I would like to know the circumstances of the death of a close relative. Oh, but perhaps not… I’d rather…”
“What would you rather?”
“I’d rather talk to somebody else. For you see—”
“You’re not being straight, Pater. Speak or get out of here! I’m late for the tavern, my comrades are waiting. Do you know what comrades are? My fellows? Go on! Now say what this is about!”
“But will you answer, if I ask?”
“That all depends.” Fryczko Nostitz pouted. “For you, damned priests, too often stick your noses in other people’s affairs instead of busying yourselves with your own. And the breviary. And praying to God, and helping the meek, as the rule instructs.”