“I understand that. I understand that, my son. They’ll remain in Sensenberg. And should you need men, draw them from my mercenaries. Be my guest.”
“I’m grateful.”
“I should hope so. And now go. Unless you have something to say.”
“It so happens that I do.”
“What might it be?”
“Two things. The first is a warning, the second a request, a humble supplication.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Don’t underestimate Reinmar of Bielawa, Bishop. You don’t believe in miracles, you mock Arcane Knowledge, you shrug magic off with a wry smile. That’s foolish, Bishop, if I may say so. Magna Magia exists and miracles happen. I saw one lately. In the vicinity of Reynevan, actually.”
“Indeed? What did you see?”
“A creature that shouldn’t be. That shouldn’t exist.”
“Ha. Perhaps you looked into a mirror by accident, my son?”
The Wallcreeper turned his head away. The bishop, although pleased with his spitefulness, didn’t smile. He inverted the hourglass—media nox had passed and in around eight hours it would be officium matutinum. It’s high time I retired to bed, he thought. I work too much. And what do I have to show for it? Who appreciates it? Pope Martin, that whoreson, zum Teufel mit ihm, still won’t hear of an archbishopric for me. The diocese is still formally under Gniezno’s authority!
He turned towards the Wallcreeper, his face grave. “I understood the warning. I shall bear it in mind. And the request? You mentioned a request.”
“I don’t know what plans you have, Father, but when the time comes, I’d like to deal with this Reynevan… with my own hands. Him and his companions. I’d like Your Eminence to promise me that.”
“I promise,” said the bishop, nodding. “You will.”
If it’s in my interest and that of the Church, he added in his mind.
The Wallcreeper looked him in the eyes and smiled.
They were riding down a road beside the rapidly flowing Bóbr, along an avenue of alders and elms. The weather had improved, the sun even shining occasionally. Seldom and briefly, unfortunately, but why, it was November. The seventh of November, to be precise. Septima Novembris. Friday.
The family of Wilrych of Liebenthal, singled out by Biberstein to command the escort, had come from Meissen. He was said to be distantly related to the powerful Liebenthals of Liebenthal near Lwówek. He liked to boast about it. Which was actually one of his few defects.
The other members of the escort couldn’t be accused of much, either. Deep down, Reynevan thanked providence, aware that he might have ended up much worse off.
Bartoš Stročil considered himself a Silesian. Reynevan vaguely recalled that a Stročil kept an apothecary’s shop in Wrocław, but he preferred not to delve into it.
“I know a fine little brothel in Świdnica,” repeated Stročil yet again, rocking in the saddle. “And near the castle in Rychbach I knew two merry maids, seamstresses… It was two years ago, in truth; they might have got married, the whores…”
“We could stop off there and find out…” said Stoss of Priedlanz with a sigh.
“We ought to.”
“Jo, jo,” said Otto Kuhn. “We ought to.”
Stoss of Priedlanz, a Lusatian but of Czech descent, was a client of the Bibersteins—like his father, grandfather and probably great-grandfather. Otto Kuhn came from Bavaria. He didn’t brag about it, being a man of few words, but when he did speak, the guttural sounds left no doubt: only the Bavarians could butcher the beautiful German tongue like that.
“Ha!” said Liebenthal, spurring his horse. “Then we shall stop, methinks, at that Świdnica brothel. I’ve also been feeling strong urges recently. And when I think about carnal urges I become poetical. A second Tannhäuser.”
“It’s the same with me. Just without the Tannhäuser.”
“I say!” Priedlanz stood up suddenly and turned back. “Did you see? Over there?”
“What?”
“A rider! Someone was watching us from that hillock! High up, behind those firs. Now he’s gone. He’s hidden…”
“Dammit. That’s all we need. Did you recognise his colours?”
“Dressed in black. And his horse was black.”
“A Black Horseman!” cackled Stročil. “Again! Lately it’s been nothing but Black Riders, black apparitions, the Company of Death. The Company of Death here, the Company of Death there, the Company rode by, the Company attacked Lord Bergow’s men over the Izera… And now you’re affected, Priedlanz?”
“I saw him, strike me dead! He was there!”
“Urge on the horses,” Wilrych Liebenthal ordered dryly, without taking his eyes from the edge of the trees. “And be heedful.”
They did so and rode quicker, with their hands on their sword hilts. The horses snorted.
Reynevan felt waves of fear flowing over him.
The anxiety spread to the others. They rode vigilantly, looking around intently. No one was jesting now, quite the opposite—the incident was being taken extremely seriously, to such an extent that they set up an ambush, cunningly and efficiently. In one of the ravines they passed, Stročil and Kuhn dismounted and hid in the undergrowth with crossbows at the ready. The others rode on, making an excess of noise and talking loudly.
The Silesian and the Bavarian waited concealed for almost an hour. In vain. No one was trailing them. But even then, the tension didn’t diminish. They were still riding cautiously and often glanced back.
“I think we’ve lost him…” Stročil sighed.
“Or Priedlanz really was seeing things,” stammered Kuhn.
“Neither the one nor the other,” growled Liebenthal. “The scoundrel’s behind us, I just saw him. On the hill to the left. Don’t look around, dammit.”
“He’s a cunning bastard.”
“He’s following us… What does he want?”
“Who the hell knows…”
“What do we do?”
“Nothing. Keep your weapons at the ready.”
They rode on, tense and downcast, along a road running through ravines beside the bank of the Bóbr, the water foaming in rapids among alder, elm, maple and frequent groves of old, sometimes enormous oak trees in autumn foliage. The view was glorious and should have calmed them. It didn’t. Reynevan glanced surreptitiously at the knights and saw the anger growing in them. Kuhn, examining his crossbow, ground out some guttural Bavarian curses. Priedlanz spat. The usually garrulous Stročil was as quiet as the grave. Liebenthal kept up the appearance of calm for a long time, but finally exploded, too.
“And him,” he wheezed out, casting a hideous look at Reynevan. “And him, he was sent to us from Hell, riding that half-dead nag, slowing us down! We’re crawling along like fucking snails because of him.”
Reynevan looked away, determined not to be provoked.
“Damned heretic!” Liebenthal accosted him again. “What bloody well made you renounce the true faith? Forsake Our Lady? Venerate that devil, Huss? Blaspheme against the sacraments?”
“Let him be, Wilrych,” Stoss of Priedlanz calmly advised. “Let him be.”