“How old is the news?”
“It reached Oybin last night, post sexta die mensis Novembris, at the third night vigil. And now it is the night of the seventh of November and the first vigil has just passed. The messenger, may I remark, rode day and night, not sparing his horse. The tidings he brought can be considered absolutely fresh.”
Gregorz Hejncze, Inquisitor a Sede Apostolica specialiter deputatus to the Wrocław Diocese, lounged comfortably, stretching out the soles of his boots towards the heat coming from the hearth.
“It ought to be expected,” he murmured. “It ought to be expected that Reinmar of Bielawa won’t sit still, particularly when he finds out about… certain matters. It was to be predicted that the Bibersteins would catch him. Are they indeed taking him to Stolz?”
“Of course,” confirmed Łukasz Bożyczko, a Pole, a deacon at Saint Lazarus’s Church who worked diligently and very committedly for the Holy Office. “They are taking the Sudety road, naturally, and at this moment must be in the vicinity of Bolków. They certainly don’t journey at night and the day is short at present. Your Excellency? We could seize them in Świdnica. We have people there—”
“I’m aware of that.”
“If he…” The deacon coughed into his fist. “If Reinmar of Bielawa ends up in Stolz, he won’t leave alive. If he falls into the clutches of Jan Biberstein, he’ll be tortured to death. He ravaged Sir Jan’s daughter and Sir Jan will visit cruel revenge on him—”
“If he’s guilty,” interrupted Hejncze, “he deserves to be punished. Are you sorry for him? He’s a heretic, a Hussite, after all, his death is a joy, a pleasure and a delight to us good Catholics. The crueller the death, the greater the delight. You took an oath, after all, like the whole of Silesia. Must I remind you of it? Die Ketzer und in dem christlichen Glauben irresame Leute zu tilgen und zu verderben… That was it, wasn’t it?”
“I merely…” the deacon mumbled, quite put off his stroke by the Inquisitor’s sarcasm. “I merely wanted to mention that this Reinmar might know a great deal… If Biberstein tortures him to death, then we—”
“Lose the chance to torture him to death ourselves,” Hejncze finished. “Well, there is that risk.”
“I’d say it was a certainty.”
“The only certainties are taxes, and that the Church of Rome is everlasting.”
The deacon had no further arguments.
“Send the messenger on to Świdnica,” the Inquisitor said a moment later. “To the Dominicans. Have them send their best agents to tail him and observe him discreetly. For I think…”
Hejncze realised he was talking to himself. He tore his gaze away from the stain on the ceiling and looked at the somewhat pale deacon.
“I think that Reinmar of Bielawa will get himself out of trouble,” he finished. “I think there’s a chance he’ll lead us to—”
“—lead me to the Vogelsang,” finished Konrad of Oleśnica, Bishop of Wrocław. “The matter of the robbed tax is small beer; we’ll solve it somehow or other, there’s no rush. But the Vogelsang… Were I to get my hands on the Vogelsang, now that would be something. And that infernal Reynevan of Bielawa, he’s becoming more and more fascinating, I do declare… He might lead me to the Vogelsang.”
The bishop finished a glass of Rhenish wine. Since the morning worship he had already drunk three quarts of various wines, at the very least. Wine ensured health, drove away melancholy, increased potency and protected from disease.
“From what Prior Burchard reports from Oybin,” he continued, pouring himself more wine, “it appears that this Bielawa must be in the vicinity of Bolków, so we should assume he will reach Świdnica in two days, on Sunday, nona die Novembris. Hmm. I have agents with the Świdnica Dominicans, but I fear that many of them work for both sides, which means they work for Hejncze, too… I’ll have to send one of my own bodyguards… Hmm. I give up my bodyguards reluctantly, for I’ve received reports that my murder is being planned. By Hussites, naturally. Ah well, I’d show them, if I caught the men from the Vogelsang… If I talked them round, turned them, if they began to work for me… Ha! Do you understand my plan, Birkart, my son?”
The Wallcreeper didn’t reply. He had wrapped himself tightly in a fur, for it was chilly in the chamber, the wind from Rychleby whistling through the cracks in Nysa Castle’s walls.
“You do,” Konrad answered himself. “Thus, you’ll also understand the order I hereby issue to you: leave Reynevan alone. And incidentally, how the hell did he manage to escape from you in the Karkonosze?”
“It was miraculous.” Either the Wallcreeper’s face twitched or it was the flickering of the candle. “Miracles happen. Does Your Eminence doubt that?”
“Indeed I do, for I have seen them fabricated. But now isn’t the time to quibble. Clearly providence meant for Reynevan to escape from you. Don’t take a stand against providence, son. Call your dogs, your ill-famed company, your Black Riders, off the scent. Let them sit tight in Sensenberg and wait for orders. They’ll be needed when—following Reinmar of Bielawa—we track down the Vogelsang. While you, Birkart of Grellenort, will be ever with me, by my side. Here, in Nysa. In Otmuchów Castle. In Wrocław. In short, wherever I happen to be, I want you close to me. Always and everywhere. I told you, the Hussites are after me, are planning an attempt on my life…”
The Wallcreeper nodded. He knew perfectly well that the “attempt on his life” was humbug; the bishop himself had invented it to create a pretext for intensifying terror and oppression. The matter of linking Reynevan of Bielawa with the secret Hussite organisation code-named “Vogelsang” was also extremely doubtful. Bishop Konrad had, in truth, numerous sources of information, but they weren’t always reliable. Too often the obsequious informers told the bishop what the bishop wanted to be told.
“In the event of an assassination attempt,” he said, “perhaps it would be better if my Horsemen—”
“Your Horsemen,” said the bishop, slamming a fist down onto the table, “are to sit tight in Sensenberg! I’ve told you! People are talking too much of the Company of Death! Hejncze has his eye on me and would be pleased to be able to link me with the Horsemen, with you, black magic and witchcraft! You’re being talked about too much, too many rumours are circulating!”
“We took pains that they would,” the Wallcreeper reminded him calmly. “To sow terror. It is, after all, our joint initiative, my dear bishop. I did what we agreed. And what you personally ordered me to do. For the cause. Ad maiorem Dei gloriam.”
“For the cause?” The bishop gulped wine from a goblet and grimaced as though it were gall, not Rhenish. “Hussite spies and sympathisers who possessed valuable information you murdered in cold blood. For pleasure. For the pleasure of killing. So don’t say it was to the glory of God. For God is liable to be annoyed.”
“We’ll leave that matter to divine judgement.” The Wallcreeper’s face didn’t even twitch. “I shall carry out your order, Bishop. My men will remain in Sensenberg.”