“And beyond,” interrupted Kolúch with a wicked grin. “Lusatia! Grabštejn, Frydland, Žitava, Zgorzelec! But we cannot do it alone. We lack forces. For where can we look to for support? To Prague? Prague, if it isn’t planning treachery, is playing at revolutions and street brawls. To the Tábor? The Tábor is besieging Kolín, a Czech town. As if there were no Hungarian, Austrian or German ones.”
“They say,” said Scharley, “that Prokop is planning something of that kind now. That his gaze turns towards Hungary and Austria.”
“God willing. But meanwhile you’ve seen for yourselves what manner of neighbours we have here.”
“One name hasn’t been uttered yet,” said the penitent, seemingly casually. “Does he not trouble you? I have in mind Otto of Bergow at Trosky Castle, some four miles from Michalovice. What kind of neighbour is he, I wonder?”
“A thorn in the arse.” The old woman, fiddling at the spindle, spoke before the Hussites. “That’s what Lord Bergow is to you, gentleman brigands, isn’t he? A thorn in the arse!”
There was a long silence, indicating that the old woman had touched a nerve. Jan Kolúch of Véska broke the silence.
“We are Warriors of God,” he said, playing with a knife. “We are mindful of the Lord’s word when He spoke through the mouth of the prophet Jeremiah: The most proud shall stumble and fall, and none shall raise him up. I will kindle a fire in his cities, and it shall devour all round about him.”
“Give him according to his deeds,” added Čapek, also clearly versed in biblical quotations.
“Render to him all that he has done.”
“Amen.”
“Bergow has a winged fish on his coat of arms,” added Štěpán Tlach, ominously and to the point. “Neither fish nor fowl. The day will come when we’ll scale that little fish. And pluck that little bird.”
“Amen to that.” Vojta Jelínek stood up. “I’m drowsy, Brethren.”
“I also.” Jan Kolúch stood up, too, and Brázda of Klinštejn and Štěpán Tlach followed his example.
“Indeed, the day was hard… Are you going, Brother Čapek?”
“I shall sit a while yet. With our guests.”
The fire crackled. Tawny owls hooted around the tower. The old woman’s spinning wheel rattled softly.
“We are alone,” said Jan Čapek of Sány, interrupting the long silence. “Speak.”
They did so.
“A wizard,” the Hejtman of the Orphans said in disbelief. “You are searching for a wizard? You? Serious men?”
After the serious men had confirmed their intentions, he said, “I’ve never ever heard of Rupilius the Silesian, but there’s a seer, alchemist or mage in almost every castle here, so it’s quite likely that Lord Bergow has one as either a guest or a prisoner. The problem lies elsewhere—”
“You are the problem,” said the old woman, demonstrating her good hearing. “Hanging’s too good for you!”
“Pay her no heed.” Čapek grimaced. “Treat her like a piece of furniture. When Lord Michalec fled before us, he left a great many things. Furniture, livestock, ham in the smokehouse, wine in the cellar. A coat of arms on the wall. And that old crone. In that very corner. I wanted to pack her and her bloody spinning wheel off to the servants’ quarters but was unable to, she kicked up such a row. But I can’t drive her from the castle, she’d die of hunger. I let her stay there, spinning—”
“I’ll sit and spin,” the old woman snapped. “I’ll sit here until Lord Michalec returns and drives you from here, bare arses.”
“Where was I?”
“With the problem,” Scharley prompted him.
“Yes, indeed. It lies in the fact that Trosky Castle, where your Rupilius may reside, is unassailable and cannot be penetrated. It’s impossible to get into it.”
“There’s a man in the company who knows how to do it,” said Scharley, lowering his voice.
“Aha—those two,” guessed Čapek. “That Tauler with the bandage and the other one. Well, I advise not putting too much hope in them. Be particularly heedful if an underground passage is mentioned. Know that all secret passages and tunnels supposedly linking Trosky Castle to other places in the area, even as far as a quarter of a mile away, are legends and fabrications. Fairy tales. If that Tauler promises to deliver you into the castle using a secret tunnel, then he’s either a trickster and a liar himself, or has swallowed somebody else’s lies. Either possibility is perilous to you. If you wander around searching for a ‘secret passageway,’ you’ll finally fall into German or papist hands.
“We Orphans,” he continued, “have been here in Podještědí since spring 1426. If there’d been any secret passages, we’d have found them. Were it possible to get into Trosky, we’d have done so. For the old woman spoke honestly: Trosky and that damned German, Bergow, are thorns in our arses. We never stop looking for a way to rid ourselves of that thorn.”
“The passage may be magical,” Reynevan remarked. “Do you believe in magic?”
“What’s to believe?” Jan Čapek pouted. “There’s no such thing. But if by some chance it did exist, it would be utterly baffling and out of reach of ordinary mortals. Magic would be of no benefit to an ordinary fellow like me. Which means if something were magical it might as well not be. Is that logical?”
“Stunningly.” Scharley smiled. “It’s hard to argue with logic like that. Would you thus advise us, Hejtman, to drop our plans and return home?”
“I would indeed. Return home. And wait patiently. Rumour has it that Bergow was in league with Hynek of Kolštejn in Prague on the sixth of September. Prokop the Shaven won’t forgive anyone who supported the plot. He’s now laying siege to Bořek of Miletínek, it’ll soon be the turn of others. Any moment now, Bergow will get his just desserts and Trosky will be ours. And everything that Trosky contains. Including your sorcerer.”
“Wise advice,” said the penitent, without taking his eyes off Reynevan. “Isn’t it, Reynevan?”
“You called Lord Bergow a ‘damned German,’” said Reynevan unexpectedly. “There aren’t any other German-born families in the area, are there? Aside from the Lords of Dohna in Falkenberg and Grabštejn?”
“Aye, there are only those two families. What of it?”
“Nothing. For now.”
“For now,” said Čapek, standing up, “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Brethren.”
“And to you, Brother.”
The fire in the hearth wasn’t crackling any longer but just flickering, now flaring up, now dying down. The spinning wheel had stopped tapping, too. The old woman wasn’t spinning but sitting still.
“What has befallen this castle?” she suddenly said. “Dedicated to Archangel Michael, it’s stood for a hundred and fifty years, and for a hundred and fifty years the Markvartic family have been the Lords of Michalovice. But now… Such a rabble… Oh my days… I recall when kings stayed here… And today? It’s a shame!”