They rode east. Towards Jelenia Góra. Towards the road linking Zgorzelec with Świdnica, Nysa and Racibórz.
I’m going to Silesia, thought Reynevan, rubbing his itching nose against the fur collar of his cloak. I’m returning to Silesia, as I promised. As I vowed. To myself and others.
If Flutek knew, he’d surely be glad. It’s the beginning of November, a mere four days after All Souls’ Day. It’s a long time until Christmas, and I’m already in Silesia.
They rode east. Towards Jelenia Góra. Towards the Sudety highway, which linked Zgorzelec with Świdnica, Nysa and Racibórz. Which passed through Frankenstein on its way. And the area of Stolz Castle.
The castle, thought Reynevan, wiping his nose on his collar, where my Nicolette is. And my son.
They reached the village of Hermsdorf around noon. They speeded up, spurring the horses, anxiously glancing towards the granite rock and tower of Chojnik Castle rising above the village. Mikuláš Dachs, warning against possible tricks by potential pursuers, ordered them to be particularly vigilant in the vicinity of Chojnik. Common sense suggested that Janek Schaff couldn’t be in the castle as his trip through the Karkonosze wilderness and valleys must have taken him considerably longer than their route along the highway. But their anxiety didn’t begin to leave them until the castle vanished from sight.
In the valley, they passed Cieplice, a village well known for its warm springs and healing waters. They soon saw Jelenia Góra, the spire of the parish church and the tower of the castle rising above the town, which was allegedly built by Bolesław the Wrymouth, Duke of Lesser Poland, three hundred years earlier and enlarged two hundred years later by his great-great-something grandson.
The escort’s leader, Liebenthal, reined his horse around, rode over and rested his stirrup against Reynevan’s. Then drew a knife and cut the rope binding his wrists.
“We’re going through the town,” he said dryly. “I don’t want people to stare. Or for tongues to wag. Do you understand?”
“I understand and thank you.”
“Thank me tomorrow. For know this: any tricks and I’ll use this blade to cut off your ears. I swear on the Holy Trinity that I will. Even if I am punished by the Bibersteins, I’ll cut off your ears. Beware.”
“Beware also,” added Priedlanz, the one with the fair moustache, “that even though we hold you captive, you can expect worse treatment from the others. Remember what Dachs said—the men who are pursuing you are planning torture and death for you. And can we be sure who’s following us? Foltsch, perhaps, and the other one, Warnsdorf of Rohožec. Bergow, perhaps? Klüx? Janko Schaff? And these lands, know this, are the estates of Schaff and his relatives and comrades—the Nimpcz, Zedlitz and Redern families. Even if you escaped from us you wouldn’t get far. You’d be caught by peasants and they’d turn you over to their masters.”
“Without a doubt,” said the third member of the escort, nodding in agreement. “In sooth, better let us deliver you to Stolz. And count on Sir Jan Biberstein’s mercy.”
“I shan’t try to escape,” Reynevan assured them, rubbing his wrists. “I’m not afraid of Jan Biberstein, for I don’t consider myself guilty. I shall prove my innocence.”
“Amen,” summed up Liebenthal. “Let us ride, then.”
They stopped to rest and make camp a short way beyond Jelenia Góra, in the village of Maywaldau. They ate whatever was to hand and slept in a shed, the wind blowing down from the mountains again whistling through the many holes in the walls and roof.
Reynevan, exhausted by the hardships, fell asleep quickly. So quickly that wakefulness passed smoothly into sleep and, imperceptibly, dreams replaced reality. Ooh, ooh, gentlemen, but I long for a woman. Damn you, Priedlanz, for mentioning it, I won’t get to sleep now. Never mind, we’ll soon be in Świdnica and I know a little brothel there… And near the castle in Rychbach I know two merry maids…
Nikel Keuschburg foams at the mouth, waving a gnawed bone: He killed my horse Sturm under me, shot him with a crossbow, the whoreson, forty grzywna I gave for him, but I never regretted it, for he was fleet… No, not the Hussite! The horse was fleet! My Sturmie… And that Hussite, Reinmar of Bielawa, may he meet a bad end…
Run, hisses Douce of Pack, narrowing her blue-green eyes. Hefting a javelin. Flee, adds Birkart of Grellenort, standing alongside her. I’ll catch you whatever happens. I have ears and eyes everywhere. In every monastery.
He’ll find a way out of it, says Gregorz Hejncze, Inquisitor a Sede Apostolica specialiter deputatus at the Wrocław Diocese. And then there’s a chance he’ll lead us to…
I’m interested in birdsong, says Konrad of Oleśnica, the Bishop of Wrocław. Reinmar of Bielawa will lead me to the trail of birdsong.
The rider gallops into the night through forests and rocky canyons. He bangs on the iron-bound gate of the monastery, reinforced like a stronghold. It’s opened by a monk in a white habit and a black scapular decorated with a cross and the letter “S” winding around the base.
Hans Foltsch, the Zgorzelec mercenary at Roimund, fulfilled his responsibilities completely—he personally delivered Nikel Keuschburg, who’d been bought out of Hussite captivity, to Falkenberg Castle, located at the top of Falcon Mountain, one of the Dohna family’s residences. The now-liberated youth was greeted at the castle with unalloyed joy, and fourteen-year-old Barbara of Dohna wept with happiness, as did her thirteen-year-old sister Eneda. After all, an identical misfortune might happen, if not that day, then the day after, to Eneda’s suitor, Kasper Gersdorf. Barbara and Eneda’s mother, Her Ladyship Margareta of Jenkwicz, also wept, to keep them company. As did their grandfather, old Sir Bernhard of Dohna, but he was elderly, and although he often laughed and wept, he seldom knew why.
Friedrich of Dohna, Lord of Falkenberg, son of Bernhard, husband of Margareta and father of the girls, didn’t display any joy. He tended to smile wryly and only feign happiness. He hadn’t just been impoverished by the ransom of four thousand eight hundred groschen. By paying the Hussites for Keuschburg, he had officially declared him as the official candidate for son-in-law, and he was certain Barbara could have done better. So he chewed his moustache, smiled affectedly and couldn’t wait for the banquet at which he meant to drink himself stupid in order to forget.
Among the remaining people, one of the few to be genuinely pleased was Hans Foltsch. He had received the sum of six thousand groschen from Friedrich of Dohna for Keuschburg’s ransom. He had knocked Hejtman Jan Čapek down to three thousand six hundred. But told Sir Friedrich it had been four thousand eight hundred. When the story of Nikel Keuschburg’s adventures had circulated throughout both the upper and lower castles, the rider surreptitiously left Falkenberg.
He rode his horse hard. After just under an hour’s ride, a little after midnight, he banged on the iron-bound gate of the Celestine monastery in Oybin, which was reinforced like a stronghold. In the monastery, no one was still in bed—the severe Celestine rule ordered the monks to rise at midnight and begin their prayers and labours.
“Where did the news come from?”
“From Oybin, Your Excellency. From the Celestines. From Prior Burchard.”