“This loathsome Czech heresy deranges order! It preaches evil and perverse teachings about the sacraments! It condemns marriage. Eyes fixed on carnal pleasures and bestial desires, it does away with all the legal bonds and public order that once kept crimes in check. And more than anything, craving Catholic blood, it compels anyone who doesn’t agree with its errors to kill and burn with bestial cruelty: cutting off the lips and noses of some, the hands and members of others and quartering still others. Orders pictures of Jesus Christ, His Holy Mother and the other saints destroyed and despoiled—”
“When will the alms be given out, eh?” called a voice from the crowd. The soldier on the scaffold straightened up and stood with arms akimbo, scowling. The heckler was quietened down.
“In order to better explain the gravity of the matter, good folk,” said the clerk in black, meanwhile, “in order to open your eyes to the vileness of Czech heresy, a letter from Heaven will be read. It fell from Heaven on the city of Wrocław, in front of the very cathedral, and is written in the hand of Jesus Christ, our Lord, amen.”
A whispered prayer passed through the crowd and people crossed themselves, elbowing one another. There was some confusion. Reynevan began to withdraw, pushing through the mob. He’d had enough.
On the scaffold, the other Dominican unrolled a parchment.
“Oh, you sinners and scoundrels,” he read solemnly. “Your end is nigh. I am patient, but if you don’t sever your ties with Czech heresy, if you continue to offend the Mother Church, I will curse you for ever. I shall send down on you hail, fire, thunderbolts and tempests to destroy your work. I shall lay waste your vineyards and seize all your flocks. I shall punish you with bad air and bring great poverty down on you. Thus do I admonish you and forbid you from listening to Hussites, heretic masters and other whoresons, the servants of Satan. And whoever betrays Me will not see eternal life, and blind and deaf children will be born to him—”
“Fraud!” shouted somebody from the throng in a thunderous bass. “Swindling papist falsehood! Don’t believe that, brothers, good folk! Don’t give credence to fraudulent bishops!”
The soldier on the scaffold ran over to the edge and shouted some orders, pointing to where the voice came from, and the crowd swayed as halberdiers marched in, jostling people with their pikestaffs. Reynevan stopped. Things were becoming interesting.
“‘Mother,’” someone yelled from a completely different part of the square, in what sounded like a familiar voice. “The Roman Church calls itself the ‘Mother’! But it is a cruel serpent and spat poisonous venom onto Christianity when it raised a vicious cross in its bloody hands against the Czechs and proclaimed from its venal mouth a crusade against true Christians! Priestly immorality dripping with mendacity wants to kill in Bohemia God’s immortal truth, which considers God Himself its proliferator and defender! And whoever raises a hand against God’s truth will suffer death and the torment of damnation!”
The clerk on the scaffold issued orders and pointed, and mournful bruisers in black jerkins began to force their way through the crowd towards the voice.
“Rome is a venal harlot!” bellowed a new voice from a fresh location. “The Pope is the Antichrist!”
“The Roman Curia is a gang of thieves!” sounded a similar bass voice, but from somewhere else entirely. “They aren’t priests, but sinful scoundrels!”
A lute strummed away and a very familiar voice sang loudly and brightly.
The truth is of Christ
Lies are of the Antichrist
The priests conceal the truth
for they fear it,
Deceiving the common folk!
The people began to laugh and take up the song. The halberdiers and the sorrowful men scurried around in various directions, swearing, poking and striking with their pikestaffs, combing the square in search of the hecklers. In vain.
Reynevan stood a better chance. He knew who to look for.
“God help us, Tybald Raabe.”
The goliard retreated at the sound of the words, backing into a fence and frightening a horse standing on the other side. The horse thudded a hoof against the wall of the stable and snorted and other horses followed it.
“Young Master Reinmar…” Tybald Raabe got his breath back, but the pallor didn’t leave his face. “Young Master Reinmar! In Silesia? I don’t believe my eyes!”
“I know him,” said the goliard’s companion, a hooded dwarf. “I’ve seen him before. Two years ago, on Grochowa Mountain, at the sabbath during the holiday of Mabon. Or, as you call it, the aequinoctium. He was with a comely maid. It turns out he’s one of ours.”
He took off his hood. Reynevan gasped involuntarily.
The creature’s oval, elongated head—there could be no doubt that it wasn’t a human being—was adorned with short, ruddy bristles as stiff as a hedgehog’s spines. The picture was completed by a nose as hooked as the Pope’s on a Hussite pamphlet and bulging eyes covered with red veins. And ears. Large ears. So large, the word “colossal” would have been more accurate.
The creature chortled, clearly amused by the impression it was causing.
“I’m a beguiler,” it boasted. “Don’t say you didn’t hear me.”
“I did. A moment ago, in the square. So it’s true what they say about you…”
“That we can direct sound from anywhere we please?” The beguiler opened its mouth, but its bass voice came from behind Reynevan, who started in astonishment.
“Indeed we can.” The beguiler smiled joyously as its voice issued from somewhere beyond the horses’ stalls. “It’s child’s play for us. Long ago, we used it to lure travellers into swamps,” the creature went on, its voice emerging from all sorts of places: behind the wall, under a pile of straw, from the attic. “For amusement. We still do it, but more seldom, for we became bored of that amusement. How fucking long can you keep that up? But the skill occasionally comes in handy…”
“I saw and heard.”
“Let’s go and have a drink,” suggested Tybald Raabe.
Reynevan swallowed. The beguiler chortled and pulled the tight hood over its head.
“Fear not,” explained the goliard with a smile. “We’ve had some practice. If anyone’s taken aback, we tell him he’s a foreigner. A stranger from distant lands.”
“From Samogitia.” The beguiler sniffed and wiped its nose on its sleeve. “Tybald even gave me a Samogitian nickname. My right name is Malevolt, Jon Malevolt. But call me ‘Brazauskas’ in company.”
The innkeeper placed another jug on the table and glanced once again with interest at the beguiler.
“What’s it like in that Samogitia?” he said, unable to restrain himself. “As dear as it is here?”
“Even dearer,” Jon Malevolt replied gravely. “They want fifteen groschen for any old bear now. I’d move permanently to these parts, but they water down the drinks a little too much.”
The innkeeper went away without revealing whether he’d understood the allusion. Tybald Raabe scratched his head. Reynevan had just finished his tale. Tybald gave him his complete attention and didn’t interrupt once. He now appeared to be lost in recollections.