“Don’t lie, Grandmama.” Scharley’s reaction slightly surprised Reynevan, who was now a little sleepy. “It’s unseemly, in the winter of your life. You’ve never seen a king, old woman—unless it was Herod in a nativity play.”
“Who are you calling old? May your tongue shrivel up. And I’ve seen more kings than you’ve had hot dinners.”
“Where, may I ask?”
“In Vienna.”
“Where?”
“In Vienna, fool!” The old woman straightened up on her stool. “At Easter Anno Domini 1353, the monarchs of this world gathered in Vienna. Emperor Charles, whose wife Anne of Bavaria had just died, was arranging to marry the young Anne, niece of Bolko II of Świdnica-Jawor. Oh, the kings and lords that came to Vienna then—”
“And you were there, were you, Grandmama? An invited guest?”
“What would you know, boor? Fool! For I… I was pretty then… Young… First Emperor Charles caught me in the cloisters of an evening, bent me over the banister, lifted up my shift. He tickled my neck with his beard and I laughed so loud he almost popped out… He was furious, so I took him in hand and put him back where he belonged. Oh, then he said, I’m fond of you, little Moravian, I can give you in marriage to a knight… But I wasn’t thinking of marriage then, when there were so many comely lads around…
“The second,” the old woman said dreamily, “was Ludwik, the King of Hungary. How eager was that young man…? Then I caught the fancy of the King of Poland, Casimir the Great… His nickname was apt, let me tell you—”
“You’re lying, old woman.”
“Ruprecht, Count Palatine of the Rhine… Getting on a bit and a German to boot. Don’t expect any sweet nothings or compliments, he just barked: Mach die Beine breit! While Arnošt of Pardubice, the Archbishop of Prague, hey, he had a silver tongue and was well-versed… Oh, he knew various tricks and ingenious mischief… Przecław of Pogorzela, Bishop of Wrocław, a Pole, he was also handy, knew his way around a woman, but his footwraps stank to high heaven… Albrecht, Duke of Austria—”
The old woman choked and had a coughing fit. It was some time before she went on.
“But the one who satisfied me most wasn’t a king or a bishop, but a poet, a Tuscan,” she said, drooling a little. “He was a dream of a man. Not just hot-blooded but could talk the most beautifully of them all. Ha, you know a good bird by its song. Oh, how he could talk… In rhyme, even. They called him… Erm… His Christian name was like that saint from Assisi… But his surname… Let me think… What the Devil… Raucous? Petraucous?”
“Perhaps it was…” Reynevan stammered. “Perhaps it was Petrarca? Francesco Petrarca?”
“Perhaps.” The old woman nodded. “Perhaps, son. The memory fades after all those years.”
Chapter Nine
In which a brilliant idea occurs to Reynevan. As a result, he finds out how much it’s worth to various people. The fact that towards the end of the chapter its value grows at lightning speed ought in principle to please him. But it doesn’t.
Scharley utterly surprised Reynevan. Having heard the premises of the brilliant plan, he by no means mocked, or jeered, or called him a clown or an idiot—why, he didn’t even tap his forehead, which he did quite often in discussions. Having heard the premises of his brilliant plan, Scharley calmly put down the mug of beer he was drinking with his breakfast, stood up and left the room without a word. He didn’t respond to being called, didn’t even turn his head. He didn’t even kick the dog that had got caught up in his feet but stepped over it with menacing calm. He didn’t even slam the door as he went out. He simply walked away.
“I do understand him a little,” said Jan Čapek of Sány, who had appeared in the castle kitchen at just the right time to hear the premises of the brilliant plan. “You are a dangerous man, Brother Bielawa. I once had a comrade who often entertained similar ideas. Often. He was a serious threat. Until recently.”
“Until recently?”
“Indeed. As a result of his last idea, he was broken on the wheel in Loket town square a year ago, as part of the Saint Ludmila’s Day celebrations. Two others were also executed with him. There are ideas which don’t just harm the author but the people around him, too. Regrettably.”
“My plan will certainly not harm anybody,” said Reynevan, slightly irked. “If only because I shall undertake and execute it myself, alone. Only I will be taking a risk.”
“But a great one.”
“Do we have a choice? No, we don’t! Tauler is still unconscious, and even if he comes round, you said yourself, Brother Čapek, that the secret underground passage to Trosky is an illusion and nothing will come of it. Time is short. We must take action. I consider my plan for entering the castle quite feasible, with a good chance of success.”
“My, oh my!”
Reynevan bristled. “Lord Bergow is a German.” He began counting on his fingers. “Lord Dohna, too. The Hussites who captured the young Keuschburg, indeed also a German, are much closer to Trosky than to Falkenberg. It’s normal and logical that they would send an emissary with a demand for a ransom to Lord Bergow. It is clear and obvious that Lord Bergow would inform Lord Dohna, his fellow countryman, about it.”
“Lord Bergow,” said Čapek, shaking his head, “would seize the Hussite emissary by the arse and chuck him into the dungeon. As he usually does.”
“The Hussites know he does that.” Reynevan smiled triumphantly. “They have learned that oaths mean nothing to him, that knightly parole may be violated. For which reason they will use a completely chance person as an emissary. A foreigner. An itinerant poet from Champagne wandering aimlessly around the countryside.”
Čapek said nothing. He just raised his eyes towards the heavens. Or actually towards the kitchen ceiling.
“An itinerant poet from Champagne.” Samson shook his head. “Oh, my, Reinmar, Reinmar… And do you know even three words of the tongue of the Franks?”
“I know more than three. Don’t you believe me?”
Par montaignes et par valees
Et par forez longues et lees
Par leus estranges et sauvages
Et passa mainz felonz passages
Et maint peril et maint destroit…
“Quite fluent,” admitted Samson with a sigh. “The accent, I must admit, is also half-decent. And the choice of an excerpt from a romance… Why, most apt and fitting for the circumstances.”
“So fitting,” interjected Scharley, who had just entered the kitchen soundlessly, “it couldn’t be more so! All you need, O itinerant poet from Champagne, is to think up a suitable name. A nom de guerre that is equally fitting and aptly characterises you. I suggest Yvain Le Cretin. When do we set off?”
“I’m setting off. By myself.”
“No.” Samson Honeypot shook his head. “I am. This matter concerns me and only me. I don’t want to put any of you at risk because of me. It’s high time I took my own affairs into my own hands. Assuming that Reinmar’s idea is a good one, it can be slightly modified: in order to deliver to Trosky a ransom demand for the young Keuschburg, they might make use of an itinerant idiot. I think it’s quite a decent cover, and my appearance—”