“You’re an idiot,” was his comment about the brief and general account of the to-do in the gambling den. “To take such a risk and for whom? A common prostitute! They could have cut all your throats; I’m actually astonished they didn’t. Huncleder had probably given his best bodyguards the day off. But don’t worry, my physician, so dear to my heart and kidneys. The swindler won’t endanger you or your company of misfits. He will be warned of the consequences.
“And regarding the other matter,” continued Flutek, interlacing his fingers, “you’re even greater idiots. The Podkrkonoší is in flames, the Lusatian borderland is burning. The Vartenberk, Biberstein and Dohn families and various Catholic magnates are relentlessly waging what they call a ‘gallows’ war with us. Otto of Bergow, the Lord of Trosky, has already acquired the nickname of ‘Hussite-killer.’ And my promise to fulfil your request? I revoke it. Primo, you tricked me despicably; secundo, your request is idiotic; et tertio, you refuse to tell me what you mean to search for there. Having considered everything, I decline. Your death on a Catholic gibbet would be a loss to us, all the worse for being senseless. And we have plans for you. We need you in Silesia.”
“As an intelligence agent?”
“You declared your support for the cause of the Chalice. You asked to join the ranks of the Warriors of God. Good for you! Everybody should serve the best he can.”
“Ad maiorem Dei gloriam?”
“Something like that.”
“I’ll serve the cause much better as a physician than as a spy.”
“Leave that to my judgement.”
“I’m counting on it. Because it was your kidney I removed a stone from.”
Neplach said nothing for a long time, scowling.
“Very well.” He sighed, looking away. “You’re right. You cured me. You relieved my torment. And I promised to fulfil your request. If you so desire it, if it’s your greatest dream, you can go to the Podkrkonoší. I, meanwhile, will not only not ask you what it’s all about, but will furthermore aid you in the escapade. I’ll give you men, an escort, money and contacts. I repeat: I won’t ask what you plan to deal with there. But you are to make short work of it—you must be in Silesia by Christmas.”
“You have hundreds of spies at your disposal,” Reynevan said, “trained in the trade, spying for cash or the cause, but always willingly and of their own free will. But you insisted on me, a dilettante with no expertise who is unsuitable for spying and about as effective as a lame horse. What logic is there in that, Neplach?”
“Would I bother you if there wasn’t? We need you in Silesia, Reynevan. You. Not hundreds of ideologically committed or professional spies trained in the craft. You, and you alone. For matters that no one but you is capable of accomplishing. And for which you can’t be replaced.”
“Details?”
“Later. Firstly, you’re heading into a dangerous place and may not return. Secondly, you didn’t share the details with me, so I return the favour. Thirdly, and most importantly: I don’t have time now. I’m leaving for Kolín to see Prokop. As regards the escapade, talk to Hašek Sýkora. He will give you men, a special unit. And remember: make haste. Before Christmas—”
“I’m to be in Silesia, I know. Although I don’t want to be—and it’s a poor agent who acts unwillingly under duress.”
Flutek said nothing for a while.
“You cured me,” he finally said. “You rescued me from the clutches of agony. I shall repay you. I’ll see to it you go to Silesia without being forced. Why, willingly even.”
“Eh?”
“You’ve become a father, Reinmar.”
“Whaaat?”
“You have a son. Katarzyna Biberstein, daughter of Jan Biberstein, Lord of Stolz, gave birth to a child in June 1426. To a boy, born on the holiday of Saint Vitus and christened with that saint’s name. He is now, as one can easily calculate, a year and four months old. According to my agents’ reports, a bonny lad, the spit and image of his father. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to see him.”
“Splendid,” Scharley repeated. “Splendid twice over.”
“I must have sent her ten letters,” Reynevan said bitterly. “More than ten, I’d say. I know we’re at war and times are uncertain, but one of the letters must have reached her. Why didn’t she reply? Why didn’t she send word? Why did I have to find out about my own son from Neplach?”
The penitent tugged on the horse’s bit. “The conclusion suggests itself,” he said, sighing. “She has no desire to see you at all. It might sound cruel, but it’s only logical. Perhaps even—”
“Perhaps even what?”
“Perhaps he isn’t even your son? There, there, calm down, control yourself! I was only thinking aloud. But on the other hand—”
“On the other hand, what?”
“It might be that… Oh well, no! Never mind. If I say it, you’ll do something foolish.”
“Speak, damn it!”
“You might not have received answers to your letters because old Biberstein is ashamed and furious and has locked his daughter and the little bastard up in the tower… Why, no, that’s utterly banal and sentimental. Like Aucassin et Nicolette… By the saints, don’t make faces like that, laddie, you’re frightening me.”
“Don’t talk nonsense and I won’t. Agreed?”
“By all means.”
After taking a detour around Prague, they headed north. Rain was falling relentlessly; when it stopped pouring, it began to spit, and when it stopped spitting, it began to drizzle. The mounted squad became bogged down in the mud and was making slow progress—in two days they had only reached the Labe and the bridge linking Stará Boleslav to Brandýs. The following day, having skirted around the town, they continued on their way towards the Nymburk road.
Samson Honeypot—riding behind Scharley and Reynevan—said nothing, but sighed from time to time. Berengar Tauler and Amadej Baťa, riding behind Samson, were deep in conversation. The conversation—perhaps because of the weather—quite often descended into a quarrel, which was fortunately as short-lived as it was sudden. And bringing up the rear, wet and gloomy, rode the Cherethites and Pelethites. Unfortunately.
Scharley, Samson, Tauler and Baťa had arrived at White Mountain on Saint Ursula’s Eve, the day after the departure of Flutek, who had set off for Kolín, having been summoned by Prokop the Shaven. Red-haired Marketa, they reported, had remained in Prague, successfully billeted in the house on the corner of Saint Stephen’s and Na Rybníčku Streets with Mistress Blažena Pospíchalová. Mistress Blažena took in the girl, for she had a warm heart, a heart Scharley additionally appealed to, admittedly, with the sum of a hundred and twenty groschen in cash and promises of further funding. Thus Marketa—the girl clearly preferred not to reveal her surname—was tolerably safe. The two ladies, Samson Honeypot assured them, had taken a liking to each other and ought not to tear each other’s eyes out during the next few months. And afterwards, he concluded, we shall see.