“No, we couldn’t,” she whispered back. “I live in a convent, I told you, didn’t I? And Advent has begun. During Advent, one may not…”
“But… But I… Jutta—”
“Go, Reinmar.”
When he looked back the last time, she was at the edge of the forest, glowing in the light of the setting sun. In that glow and the winter light, he realised with horrifying certainty that she wasn’t Jutta of Apolda, daughter of the Cup-Bearer of Schönau, a conversa with the Poor Clares. At the edge of the forest, mounted on a grey mare, was a goddess. A bright figure of rare beauty, an unearthly apparition, divina facies, miranda species. A heavenly Venera, lady of the elements. Elementorum omnium domina.
He loved and adored her.
Chapter Sixteen
In which numerous encounters occur, the separated friends meet again and Anno Domini 1428—a year that will prove eventful—dawns.
He returned slowly, deep in thought, staring at the horse’s mane, letting the animal plod drowsily in the wet snow and virtually find the way itself. After crossing the Wrocław highway, he took a shortcut down the road he had followed on the way to find Jutta. He didn’t hurry, even though dusk was falling and the red globe of the sun was already sinking below the treetops.
The horse snorted as hooves clattered on timbers and planks, and Reynevan raised his head and tugged at the reins. Sooner than he had expected, he reached a footbridge crossing a forest ravine, along the bottom of which a swift stream boomed and seethed. The footbridge was none too wide, rickety and quite rotten. Hurrying to Jutta, he had ridden across it. This time he preferred to dismount and lead his snorting horse by the bridle.
He was halfway across when he saw a rider in a black cloak emerging from behind the beeches on the far side.
Reynevan grew anxious. He instinctively looked back, although he had no chance of turning his horse around on the bridge. His instinct didn’t disappoint him. There was also a rider behind him. He ground his teeth, cursing under his breath his frivolity and lack of vigilance.
Another rider joined the one standing at the far end. Reynevan held the horse’s reins tighter. He felt for the hilt of his dagger. And waited for events to develop.
The men barring his way were evidently also waiting for the same thing, for neither of them said anything or made any movements. Reynevan glanced downwards, under the bridge. He didn’t like what he saw. The ravine was deep and the rocks around which the water was foaming had hideously sharp edges.
“Who are you?” he asked, although he knew. “What do you want from me?”
“It is you who wants something from us,” said the one at the back, removing his hood. “It’s time to say what. And on whose orders.”
Reynevan recognised him right away. It was the tall, swarthy man with the unremarkable face and the look of a journeyman. The one who first watched him in the inn in Ciepłowody and then saved him by giving him a horse.
The others also revealed their faces. He knew one of them, too. It was the pig-like, fair-haired man with the prominent chin, the very same who two weeks before had burst into his chamber holding an Andalusian navaja. He didn’t know and had never seen the third, whose skinny, bony face resembled a skull. But he guessed who they were.
“Where’s the fourth man?” he asked imperiously. “That Master Olbram, or whatever his name was? The one who tried to stab me while I slept at the Silver Bell?”
Skull-face threw back his cloak, which was draped over the horse’s side, revealing a loaded crossbow. The small size and manufacture told Reynevan that it was a hunting weapon rather than a military one. Crossbows like that were no match for military ones in terms of range and penetration but were definitely superior regarding accuracy. A skilled bowman couldn’t miss with such a weapon and from a range of up to twenty paces would hit an apple as surely as William Tell from the Canton of Uri.
“I’ll graze your horse.” Skull-face appeared to read Reynevan’s thoughts. “I’ll just graze him with a bolt. The horse will kick and toss you off the bridge. Your masters from the Inquisition will treat it as an accident when they find your broken corpse at the bottom of the ravine. They’ll simply write you off and forget about you.”
“I don’t serve the Inquisition.”
“It matters not to me whom you serve. I recognise the stench of a spy. Even from this distance.”
“I have no less sensitive a nose.” Reynevan, though petrified with fear, remained defiant. “And I can smell a traitor, thief and embezzler, and on top of that a common thug. I don’t wish to talk with you further. Shoot, kill me, you venal rogue. Oh, the thought of what Neplach will do to you when he catches you fills me with delight.”
“You’re shaking like a leaf, spy,” said the fair-haired man. “Every spy is a coward.”
Reynevan let go of the bridle and drew his dagger.
“Come onto the bridge, O bold gentleman with his cronies behind him,” he snarled, “There’s room for two here! Come on, have at you! Or do you only use that Spanish knife when your victims are asleep?”
Skull-face lowered the crossbow and laughed dryly. First the swarthy apprentice and then the fair-haired man joined in.
“I swear,” he said. “The spit and image of his brother.”
“The spit and image,” repeated Skull-face. “Come to us, Reinmar of Bielawa, brother of Piotr of Bielawa. Let us shake your hand, Reynevan, brother of our comrade, the late lamented Peterlin.”
Reynevan pulled the snorting horse from the bridge. He was scowling, but he had overcome his shaking knees. Skull-face shook his hand and patted him on the shoulder. His thinness and cadaverous complexion were shocking at close quarters.
“Excuse our excessive vigilance,” he said. “Life has taught us to be so, and thanks to that lesson we are alive. As you’ve correctly guessed,” he continued, “we’re the Vogelsang. We aren’t traitors, we haven’t been turned, we haven’t changed sides. We didn’t embezzle the money entrusted to us. We are ready to take action. We believe that you’ve come from Prokop and Neplach. We believe that you represent them, that you have their authorisation. That on their orders you are to lead us, because the time has come. Then lead us, Reynevan. We trust you. My name is Drosselbart.”
“Bisclavret.” The fair-haired man introduced himself.
“Rzehors.” The hand of the swarthy apprentice was as hard and rough as an unplaned board.
“Thanks for the horse in Ciepłowody.”
“Don’t mention it.” Rzehors’s eyes were even harder than his hand. “We wondered where you were headed on that horse.”
“Have you been following me?”
“We wanted to know where you were going,” repeated the fair-haired man, Bisclavret, like an echo. “From whom you were seeking help.”
“Those monks—”
“Those Świdnica Dominicans, spies of the Inquisition. They saw Rzehors, we didn’t want to take a risk… Especially because in the tavern there were two more we had our suspicions about. So—”
“So we did what had to be done,” Rzehors finished unemotionally, “and then we set off after you. Some of us thought you’d fly straight to Świdnica and seek protection under the Inquisitor’s wings… Olbram—”