The grey-eyed priest looked at him for a while.
“Indeed, you will not,” he said finally.
A lightning-fast movement, assisted by all the strength of his shoulder. The fist, armed with studded brass knuckles, struck the confessor straight in the Adam’s apple and penetrated deep to crush the windpipe and larynx. Brother Kajetan rasped, brought his hands up to his throat and his eyes bulged. He had survived the massacre that Žižka’s Taborites committed on Chrudim Dominican monastery in April 1421. But he couldn’t survive that blow. Saint Catherine and the chubby little angels looked on indifferently as he died.
The priest with the iron-grey eyes took the brass knuckles from his fingers, bent over, seized the corpse by the cassock and dragged it behind the confessional. And sat down on the bench, covering his face with the hood. He sat in complete silence, in the aroma of incense and candles. He waited.
Katarzyna of Biberstein, daughter of Jan Biberstein, the Lord of Stolz, was due to come with her child to confession at the parish church dedicated to her patron. The grey-eyed priest was curious as to the sinful thoughts of Miss Katarzyna Biberstein. Her sinful deeds. And certain extremely sinful facts from her biography.
In the town of Świdnica, on Sunday the nineteenth of October, soon after the Mass, the singing and sounds of a lute lured passers-by to Kotlarska Street, near a potter’s stall located right by the lane leading to the synagogue. Standing on a barrel, the not-so-young goliard in a red hood and a jerkin with an ornately trimmed edge strummed and sang.
Do not bow before the bishops,
With their piles of gold,
For they have corrupted our faith,
May they redress, for God’s sake…
The number of listeners increased with each verse until a small crowd surrounded the goliard.
It’s true there were also those who vanished hurriedly when they found out that the goliard wasn’t singing about sex, as they had expected, but about politics, which had lately become dangerous.
The lords have ruined the chaplains,
Canons and deans;
Everything in the church is corrupt,
Piety is in short supply…
“It’s the truth! The honest truth!” shouted several voices from the crowd, and a dispute commenced. Some began to fiercely criticise the clergy and Rome, while others stood in their defence, asking astutely: if not Rome, then what? And the goliard took advantage of the situation to steal away.
He turned into the Chmielne Arcades, then into Castle Street, heading towards the area by the town walls at the Grodzka Gate. He soon saw his destination: a sign to the beer cellar called the Red Gryphon.
“You sang nicely, Tybald,” he heard behind him.
The goliard pulled his hood aside and looked quite provocatively straight into eyes the colour of iron.
“I waited two hours for you outside the parish church after the Mass,” he said reproachfully. “You didn’t deign to show yourself.”
“You sang nicely.” The grey-eyed man, wearing the mendicant habit of a Friar Minor, didn’t bother either making excuses or apologising. “Nicely, upon my soul. Just a little dangerously. Aren’t you afraid you’ll be thrown into the tower again?”
“Firstly,” Tybald Raabe pouted, “pictoribus atque poetis quodlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas. Secondly, how else am I to work for the cause? I’m not a spy who hides in the shadows or in disguise. I’m an agitator, it’s my job to move among the people—”
“Very well, very well. Information.”
“Let’s sit down somewhere.”
“Must it be here?”
“The ale’s first class here.”
When they were sitting at the table, the goliard said, “The black horsemen you asked about have been seen in Silesia several times. In particular, curiously, they were seen both in Strzelin, where Master Bart was killed, and in the region of Sobótka, where Sir Czambor of Heissenstein fell. In the first case, the witness was a half-witted herdsman, in the second a drunk organist, so—as one might surmise—neither was believed. I consider more reliable the stablemen and grooms of Lady Dzierżka of Wirsing, the horse trader, whose entourage was attacked and routed by knights in black armour near Frankenstein. Many witnessed that occurrence. The Inquisition’s servants also say interesting things—”
“You questioned the servants of the Inquisition?”
“Of course not. Not myself. Through confidants. The servants said that the papal Inquisitor, the Reverend Grzegorz Hejncze, has been conducting an intensive investigation into the case of some demonic horsemen who’ve been prowling around Silesia on black horses for at least two years. They’ve even been christened the Company of Death, or, more biblically, the Demons at Midday. They’re also called… the Avengers. But out of the Inquisitor’s earshot. Why, it became obvious some time ago that the Company of Death kills people suspected of aiding the Hussites, trading with them, supplying them with food, weapons, black powder, lead… Or horses, like the above-mentioned Dzierżka of Wirsing. So the Black Knights are our allies and not our enemies, the Inquisitor’s men whisper behind his back. Why pursue them, why hamper them? Thanks to them we have less work.”
“And the attack on the tax collector? Carrying taxes destined, after all, for the war against the Hussites?”
“It’s not known if the Company attacked the tax collector. Nothing is known about that case.”
The grey-eyed man said nothing for a long time.
“I’m curious whether anyone might have survived that robbery,” he said at last.
“I doubt it.”
“You did.”
“I am skilled.” Tybald Raabe smiled slightly. “I’m always either hiding or running away, so I’ve developed a sixth sense. Ever since I left my alma mater in Krakow to wander with my lute and songs. You know how it is, Master: a poet is like a devil in a women’s convent, everyone always blames him for everything. You have to know how to run away. Instinctively, like a hart. If anything happens, you don’t think, you flee. As a matter of fact…”
“What?”
“I had plenty of luck back then, in Ścibor’s Clearing. I was afflicted by the trots.”
“Eh?”
“There was a maiden in the entourage, I told you, a knight’s daughter… I couldn’t do it in the proximity of a maid, the shame… So I went far away to defecate, into the bulrushes right beside the lake. When the robbery occurred, I fled through the marsh. I didn’t even see the assailants…”
The grey-eyed man was silent for a long time.
“Why,” he finally asked, “didn’t you tell me earlier there was a lake?”
The drowner was very vigilant. Even dwelling in a small lake, deep in the forest near Ścibor’s Clearing, in the wilderness, even at dusk when the chances of encountering anybody were almost none, it was extremely cautious. Emerging from the water, it made no more ripples than a fish and had it not been for the fact that the surface was as smooth as glass, the grey-eyed man hidden in the undergrowth might simply not have seen the spreading circles. Coming out onto the bank among the reeds, the creature barely splashed, barely rustled; you’d have said it was an otter. But the man with eyes the colour of iron knew it wasn’t.