Liebenthal was still huffing but obeyed. They rode on in an uncomfortable silence.
And Reynevan, previously undecided, resolved to take action. He had to run away. It turned out that Birkart Grellenort hadn’t lied—he did indeed have eyes and ears everywhere. The chaplain Zwicker hanged at the foot of the Karkonosze wasn’t his only spy; it turned out there was also an informer in Ulrik Biberstein’s entourage. The escort taking him to Silesia had been easily tracked down and didn’t stand much of a chance in a dangerous confrontation with the Black Riders. Alone, he thought, I’d more easily manage to hide, more easily lose my pursuers.
The knights’ experience hadn’t escaped his attention. He couldn’t just run away from those men. A method was needed. A ruse.
After covering more or less a mile, they entered Janovice, a large village on the Bóbr, just as the church bell was tolling noon. Around an hour later, they reached a junction—their route crossed a highway leading from Świerzawa to Landeshut. The previously empty road was now teeming with travellers and the escort’s mood clearly improved. The knights stopped looking around, knowing that now, among a group of people, they were much safer than in the wooded wilderness of the Karkonosze hills. Priedlanz once again complained that he was itching for a woman, and Stročil resumed praising various whorehouses he had once visited. Otto Kuhn was singing Bavarian songs under his breath. Only Liebenthal was still nervous, irritable and cross. Almost every traveller he passed was treated to muttered abuse. A Jewish hawker became “murderer of Christ,” “bloodsucker” and—of course—“Jew boy.” All merchants were naturally “thieves” and the miners from the nearby copper mine were “Walloon vagabonds.” A group of Friars Minor were awarded the label of “fucking slovens” and some Knights Hospitaller riding under arms were called a “gang of sodomites.”
“Know what?” Stročil suddenly spoke, accurately sensing the reason for the mood. “I don’t think it was human, that character in black who was tracking us.”
“So what can it be?” asked Liebenthal.
“A spirit. A demon. Why, this is the Karkonosze, have you forgotten?” said Stročil.
“The Rübezahl…” guessed Kuhn. “Jo, jo…”
“The Rübezahl has deer’s antlers and wears a long beard,” Priedlanz said with conviction. “That one didn’t.”
“The Rübezahl can take on any form.”
“Fuck… A crucifix would come in handy. Or any kind of cross. Anybody got one? What about you, Bielawa? Don’t have a cross, do you?”
“No.”
“All that’s fucking left is to pray to the saints… But which ones?”
“To the Fourteen Holy Helpers,” suggested Stročil. “All of them at one go. There are a few bold’uns among them. Saint George, for example, obviously. Apart from him, Cyriac kept the Devil on a chain, Margaret tamed a dragon and Eustace tamed lions. Vitus… I can’t recall what Vitus did. Must have been something.”
“Vitus cavorted amusingly,” interrupted Kuhn.
“You see. What did I say?”
“Shut the fuck up, will you!” yelled Wilrych of Liebenthal. “It makes my blood boil to listen to it!”
“Look, at that wealthy party.”
Indeed, one had to admit that the entourage passing them heading from Bolków looked magnificent. At the head rode an outrider in blue and silver livery, with a similarly chequered pennant. He was followed by armed riders and ornately dressed courtiers surrounding a carriage pulled by four greys, upholstered with patterned fabric and decorated with blue ribbons. A corpulent matron in a mob cap and wimple, emanating an aura of dignity, was seated on the carriage surrounded by ladies-in-waiting.
“Rosamunde of Borschnitz,” said Priedlanz, bowing.
“Née Bolz,” confirmed Stročil in hushed tones. “Ha, she’s said to have been a veritable beauty once. My late papa told me that in his younger days half of Silesia was in love with her—bachelors chased after her like dogs after a bitch, for apart from being comely she was also well dowered. She finally wed Kuno Borschnitz, the one who—”
“Dragons were still walking the Earth when your papa was young,” Liebenthal interrupted scathingly. “It was so long ago that the Wrocław bishops still obeyed the Gniezno Archdiocese, the Duchy of Świdnica was ruled by the Piasts and the King of Bohemia, Wenceslaus IV, was still in nappies. That old crone Lady Borschnitz must be well over sixty by now—it’s a marvel she hasn’t turned her toes up yet. Crack the whip, it enrages me when we crawl along like this! Hey, heretic, spur that mare! I say! One of you whack that nag on the rump!”
“Calm yourself, Wilrych.”
They made camp in Bolków, a small town lying at the foot of a mountain, at the top of which towered a celebrated and menacing castle.
This time they slept in an inn—Liebenthal finally decided to delve deeper into the purse Dachs had given him to cover the costs of the journey. They also treated themselves to supper in the form of tasty cabbage and mushroom pierogi.
Reynevan—hunger satisfied—fell into a dreamless sleep.
The following day, low clouds covered the sky and it began to drizzle. They rode on, seldom breaking the silence. They were vigilant, but there was no sign of the rider tracking them. He had vanished. Like a ghost. Perhaps it really had been a ghost? Perhaps it really had been the Rübezahl, the demon of the Karkonosze? Perhaps it had disappeared because they were further away from the Karkonosze?
It went on drizzling.
It only cleared up in the late afternoon. When they reached Świebodzice.
They stopped at the tavern called the Bearded Goat. It’s late, said Wilrych Liebenthal, and there’s a risk that we won’t reach Świdnica before dusk and the closure of the gates. And since Świdnica observes the one-mile law, you won’t find a tavern within a radius of one mile from the town. And there’s a pleasant smell coming from that Bearded Goat.
The smell, it turned out, was cabbage, onion, kasha and rye soup made with smoked bacon, but above all roast goose. The holiday of Saint Martin was coming and he made his presence felt. There were several wagons outside the tavern located close to the Bolków Gate and plenty of horses in the stable. The guests might have been enticed by the Goat’s kitchen—or they were forced to stay there owing to Świebodzice’s travel laws.
“Busy here today?” Reynevan said to the stable boy. “Rushed off your feet, are you? And whose are those horses?”
The boy told him. He was very excited. And very talkative. They would have talked longer but for Liebenthal.
“I say! You! Bielawa! What’s this chit-chat? Not another word and get over here! Look lively!”
The tavern, full of smoke, the smell of a fire and pleasantly warm, was crowded. Peasants predominated, observing the ancient rural tradition that demanded they get blind drunk on a Saturday night. There were also merchants and pilgrims from Compostela with scallop shells sewn onto their cloaks. There were Cistercian questors emptying bowls and jugs with gusto. On a bench by the hearth sat six pikemen in leather jerkins and beside them at the table sat four glum characters dressed in black.