What he earned he spent on whores
And I’m just the same
What I earn I give to them!
The villagers of Mieczniki watched gloomily as the three riders swayed in their saddles. The one who was singing, accompanying himself on the lute, was wearing a red, horned cap with dishevelled grey hair sticking out of it. One of his companions was a handsome young man and the other an ugly dwarf in a tight hood. The dwarf looked the most drunk of the three. He could barely stay on his horse, was roaring in a deep voice, whistling through his fingers and accosting girls. The peasants had fierce expressions but didn’t approach or start a brawl. The one in the red cap had a short sword in his belt and looked threatening. The ugly dwarf was patting an ugly club hanging from his saddle, whose thicker end was bound with iron and which was equipped with an iron spike. The peasants couldn’t have known the club was a notorious Flemish goedendag, a weapon which the French knighthood had been on the receiving end of at the Battles of Courtrai, Roosebeke, Cassel and elsewhere. But its appearance was enough to discourage them.
“Not so loud, gentlemen,” hiccoughed the handsome young man. “Not so loud. Let’s not forget the principles of secrecy.”
“Fuck secrecy,” commented the dwarf in the hood in a drunken bass. “On we go! I say, Raabe! Where did you say that fine tavern was? We’ve been riding for hours and our throats are dry!”
“About another furlong,” said the grey-haired man in the horned cap, swaying in the saddle. “Another furlong… Or two… On we go! Spur your horse, Reinmar of Bielawa!”
“Tybald… Nomina sunt odiosa… Secrecy…”
“Pshaw!”
My mamma was a washerwoman
But never washed a thing
What others washed and hung up
She swiped from the washing lines…
The dwarf in the hood belched long and loud.
“On we go!” bellowed the bass, patting the goedendag at his side. “On we go, noble lords! And what are you staring at, peasants? Churls? Cowherds?”
The folk of Grauweide looked on sombrely.
When the hour called nox intempesta arrived and an impenetrable darkness had absolutely muffled and embraced the monastery village of Gdziemierz, two men stole towards the dimly lit Silver Bell Inn. They were both dressed in black jerkins, close-fitting but still allowing free movement. Their heads and faces were swathed in black kerchiefs.
They circled the inn, found the kitchen door at the back and went noiselessly inside. Hidden in the darkness under the stairs, they listened to the mumbled voices that were still coming from the guest room on the first floor, despite the late hour.
Dead drunk, one of the black-clothed men signalled to the other.
Even better, replied the other, also using shared sign language. I can only hear two voices.
The first listened a little longer. A troubadour and a dwarf, he signed. A good thing. The drunk spy is asleep in the next room. To work!
They cautiously climbed the stairs. Now they could clearly hear the voices of the people talking, mainly a deep voice that was holding forth quite indistinctly. Regular and loud snoring could be heard coming from the chamber alongside. Weapons appeared in the hands of the men in black. The first drew a knight’s misericorde. With a swift movement, the second opened a navaja, a folding knife with a slender, razor-sharp blade, the preferred weapon of Andalusian Gypsies.
At an agreed sign, they burst into the chamber, bounded over to the pallet, pounced on the person sleeping there and pinned them beneath the eiderdown. They plunged in their knives at the same time. And realised simultaneously that they had been taken in.
But it was too late.
The first, struck in the back of the head by the goedendag, was felled like a tree under a woodman’s axe. The second was brought down by a blow from nowhere with a table leg. They crumpled but were still conscious, wriggling on the floor like worms, scratching at the floorboards. Until the falling goedendag knocked that idea out of their heads.
“Beware, Malevolt,” they heard before they plunged into oblivion. “Don’t kill them.”
“Fear not! Just another tap and that’s that.”
One of the men tied up had hair as fair as straw, eyebrows and eyelashes of the same colour, and a stubbly, broad, prominent chin. The other, older man, had very thinning hair. Neither said a word or uttered a sound. They sat, tied up, backs against the wall, staring vacantly ahead. Their faces were lifeless, frozen, without a trace of emotion. They ought to have been a little astonished, if only by the fact that despite the sounds of merrymaking none of their vanquishers was drunk. By the fact that the voices had come from somewhere no one had been. By the fact that they had been expected, that they’d fallen into a precisely devised and laid trap. They ought to have been surprised. Perhaps they were. But they weren’t showing it. Only now and again did the flickering of candles appear to make their lifeless eyes react. But that was only an illusion.
Reynevan sat on a pallet, watching and saying nothing. The beguiler was hiding in the corner, resting on the goedendag. Tybald Raabe was playing with the navaja, opening and closing it.
“I know you.” The goliard was the first to break the lengthening silence, pointing his knife at the balding man. “Your name is Jakub Olbram. You lease out the mill near Łagiewniki from the Henryków Cistercians. How amusing, people generally had you down as a snitch who reported to the abbot. Was that a cover? Because I see you have other skills. Apparently, you don’t shrink from contract killing, either.”
The balding character didn’t react. He didn’t even glance at Raabe and seemed not to hear his words at all. Tybald Raabe snapped the navaja open and kept it open.
“There’s a small lake in the forest near here.” He turned towards Reynevan. “With a nice, thick layer of sludge at the bottom. No one would ever find them. You can consider your mission non-existent,” he added seriously. “You found the Vogelsang. But it’s not the Vogelsang any longer. It’s a gang of thieves prepared to murder in defence of their loot. Don’t you understand? The group was equipped with huge funds. A lot of money to set up networks and sabotage groups, to prepare for ‘special operations.’ They pocketed the money, embezzled it. They know what awaits them if it comes out and Flutek finds them—that’s why they vanished. Now they’ve taken fright, they’re dangerous. It was them and no one else who tried to kill you in Ciepłowody. So I advise you: show no mercy. Stones around their necks and into the lake.”
No traces of emotion appeared on the faces of the two bound men, no traces of life in their vacant eyes. Reynevan stood up and took the navaja out of the goliard’s hand.
“Who shot a crossbow at me in Ciepłowody? Who killed the monks? You?”
Not a trace of reaction. Reynevan leaned over and cut the men’s bonds, one after the other. He tossed the knife down at their feet.
“You are free,” he pronounced dryly. “You may go.”
“You’re making a mistake,” said Tybald Raabe.
“A very stupid one,” added the beguiler from the corner.
“I am Reinmar of Bielawa.” Reynevan spoke as though he hadn’t heard them. “The brother of Piotr of Bielawa, whom you once knew well. I serve the same cause as Piotr. I’m staying here, at the Silver Bell. I’ll be here all week. If the Inquisition or the bishop’s men appear, news of it will go to Bohemia. If I die one night at the hands of assassins, news of it will go to Bohemia. Prokop will know that the Vogelsang can’t be relied upon, because the Vogelsang has ceased to exist.