“As a result,” she continued in the face of Reynevan’s silence, “it was one of the briefest kidnappings in the history of Silesia. The commonplace affair bored everybody and was soon forgotten. Or at least until Candlemas. Meaning until Katarzyna Biberstein’s delicate condition could no longer be concealed.”
Reynevan’s face gave nothing away. The Green Lady watched him beneath her eyelashes.
“Only then,” she continued, “did Jan of Biberstein go truly berserk. He offered a reward of a hundred silver grzywna to whoever found and turned in the kidnappers, and if they were themselves embroiled in the affair, an additional amnesty to avoid punishment. Sir Jan also put the screws on his daughter, but Kasia dug in her heels: she knew nothing, remembered nothing, had been unconscious and nauseous, blah, blah, blah. Jutta of Apolda, who was suspected not to have escaped with her maidenhood intact, either, also dug in her heels.
“Time passed, Katarzyna’s belly grew quickly and beautifully, and the direct creator of that wonder of nature still remained unknown. Jan Biberstein raged and the whole of Silesia enjoyed the rumours. But a hundred grzywna is a considerable sum. Someone appeared who cast light on the affair—a participant in the robbery and kidnap, a certain Notker Weyrach. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe in the pledges of immunity, preferring to conduct the case from a distance via his kinsmen—the Bolz family of Zeiskenberg—before whom, in the presence of a priest, he swore on the cross and gave testimony. And the cat was out of the bag. Or rather you were, my ephebe.
“The noble daughter of the noble Jan, swore Weyrach, was shown respect by the kidnappers, no one laid a finger on her or offended her honour with even a bold glance. Unfortunately, there happened to be in the honourable Raubritter company, quite by accident, a certain avowed miscreant, good-for-nothing debauchee and sorcerer to boot. He, bearing a grudge against Sir Jan, used magic to seize his daughter from the kidnappers and assuredly raped the poor child. Doubtless making use of black magic, so the poor thing remained unaware of what went on. The scoundrel and rapist went by the alias of Reinmar of Hagenau, but news travels fast, people put two and two together and the truth always comes out. It was revealed to be none other than Reinmar of Bielawa, known as Reynevan.”
“And that was sworn on the cross? The heavens are indeed forbearing.”
She snorted. “Weyrach’s revelations would have been believed without a cross, too. The reputation of Reinmar of Bielawa was already established in Silesia. He had already used witchcraft to coerce women… Suffice to recall the affair with Adèle of Stercza… You’ve paled a little, I see. Out of fear?”
“No. Not out of fear.”
“I thought not. Returning to the matter in hand: no one questioned the Raubritter’s testimony, no one had any doubts. No one thought twice. Save me.”
“Indeed?”
“Weyrach swore that only one maiden had been kidnapped: Biberstein’s daughter, to be precise. Only her. The second maid remained with the strongbox; she was ordered to pass on the ransom demand… Do you have anything to add?”
“I do not.”
“And nothing surprises you about the story?”
“Nothing.”
“Even that the pursuers didn’t find the other girl, Jutta of Apolda? And that the following day both maidens returned to Stolz? Together, even though, if Weyrach is to be believed, one was kidnapped twice in one day and the other not once? Doesn’t even that astonish you?”
“Not even that.”
“You can’t be so resistant to astonishment,” she suddenly sneered, and anger flashed in her blue eyes. “Thus, you mock me.”
“You do me an injustice, madam, imputing that to me. Or—which is more likely—you’re toying with me.”
“You know best what happened to the maids, first-hand. You were there, you don’t deny it, you took part in the robbery. Weyrach’s account points to you as the father of Katarzyna Biberstein’s child, and you indeed do not deny it, you appear only to suggest that the commerce occurred with her consent. Which seems strange, if not quite improbable… But also conceivable… You are paling and blushing by turns, my boy. Which makes one think.”
“Naturally,” he blurted out. “It must. I was found guilty in advance. I’m a rapist, which was determined by the testimony of a person as credible as Notker Weyrach, a brigand and a bandit. Biberstein will order me executed as his daughter’s molester and rapist. Without giving me, naturally, the chance to defend myself. And the fact that I shall pale and blush by turns while being dragged to my death, protesting my innocence? Every rapist does the same. But who would lend credence?”
“You are so righteously and sincerely indignant that I almost do—”
“Almost?”
“Almost.”
She spurred on her mare and rode ahead. And waited for him. Watching him with a smile he couldn’t decipher.
“Faulbrück is up ahead.” She pointed to a church steeple sticking above the trees. “We shall stop here. I am hungry. And thirsty. Neither should you disdain the chance to drink, Reinmar. Carpe diem, my boy, carpe diem. Who knows what tomorrow may bring? And thus… let us make merry as my kinsman, the Bishop of Krakow, Zawisza of Kurozwęki, used to say. Does that surprise you? I am, know you, of the Greater Polish Topór coat of arms, related to the bearers of the Różyc. Spur on your horse, Sir Knight. Let us make merry.”
The Green Lady’s decisive movements, the way she held her head—proudly yet naturally—and particularly the way she drank—gracefully and easily, cup after cup—in all that, there was indeed something that brought to mind Zawisza of Kurozwęki. The Green Lady might, the suspicion grew somewhat in Reynevan’s mind, simply be confabulating regarding her consanguinity. A good five hundred families in Poland bore the Topór coat of arms, and all of them, as was normal in Poland, could prove all sorts of family ties. Kinship with the Bishop of Krakow paled in the face of the blood ties declared by some families with King Arthur, King Solomon and King Priam. But looking at the Green Lady, Reynevan couldn’t rid himself of associations with Zawisza, the now legendary hell-raising bishop. And other associations following on from them, for the bishop had died as a consequence of immoral desires—he had been battered to death by a father whose daughter he had tried to ravish. And the lecher’s soul had been transported straight to Hell by devils, calling in wild voices, heard by many: “Let us make merry!”
“I drink to you, Reinmar.”
“Your good health, madam.”
She had changed for dinner. Her dormouse calpac had been replaced by a velvet rondlet with a band and a muslin liripipe. Her dark blonde hair, now revealed, was gathered on the back of her neck in a golden net. A modest string of pearls shone on her quite boldly bare neck. The white cotehardie worn over the green gown had plunging slashes at the sides, allowing one to admire her waist and the pleasing curves of her hips. Those extremely fashionable slashes were called by their critics les fenêtres d’enfer, for it was claimed they tempted one to mortal sin. There was indeed something in it.
Liebenthal and his company were occupying a bench in the corner behind the fireplace and getting drunk in brooding silence.