The discussion of plans and strategies brought home to Reynevan that an offensive and a war were actually only weeks away. The three members of the Vogelsang were absolutely certain that the Hussites would attack Silesia when the spring came. Urban Horn neither confirmed nor denied that; he kept his own counsel. Pressured by Reynevan, Horn let him in on a secret. He said that it was more than certain that Prokop would attack Silesia.
“Forces from Silesia and Kłodzko attacked the regions of Broumov and Náchod three times: in 1421, 1425 and this August, right after the victory at Tachov. The atrocities they committed demand equally cruel reprisals. The Bishop of Wrocław and Půta of Častolovice need to be taught a lesson. Thus, Prokop will teach them a lesson they won’t forget in a hundred years. It must be done, in order to raise the morale of the army and the people.”
“Aha,” said Reynevan.
“That’s not all. The Silesians have sealed the economic embargo so tightly they’ve practically annihilated trade. They are also effectively blocking the route for goods from Poland. That blockade is proving very costly to Bohemia, and if it lasts much longer may cost the Czechs their lives. The papists and supporters of Sigismund cannot defeat the Hussites militarily and are suffering defeat after defeat on the battlefields. In the economic arena, however, they are beginning to win and are landing painful blows on the Hussites. This cannot continue. The blockade must be broken. And Prokop will do it. Breaking, at the same time, if possible, Silesia’s spine. With a crack. In order to cripple it for a century.”
“Was it only about that?” asked Reynevan, disappointed. “Only that? And the mission? And the message? And preaching the true word of God? And the fight for true apostolic faith? For ideals? For social justice? For a new, better world?”
“Why, of course!” Horn raised his head and smiled with the corners of his mouth. “Those, too. It’s about a better, new world and the true faith. It’s so obvious it doesn’t bear mentioning. Which is why I didn’t.
“An offensive against Silesia is thus certain,” he said, interrupting the lengthy, heavy silence. “It will occur, beyond reasonable doubt, in the spring. One thing I still don’t know is the direction from which Prokop will attack. Which way will he enter: through the Lewin Pass? Through the Mladkov Gate? From Landeshut? Or perhaps he will come from Lusatia, after first giving the Six Cities a hiding. I don’t know. But I’d like to. Where the hell is Tybald Raabe?”
Tybald Raabe returned on the twelfth of December, the Friday before the third Sunday in Advent. He didn’t bring the information Horn was expecting, but rumours. Queen Sophia had given the King of Poland, Jogaila, a third son, christened Casimir, in Krakow on Saint Andrew’s Day. The Poles’ joy was somewhat marred by a horoscope created by the famous mage and astrologer Henryk of Brzeg, according to which Jogaila’s third son had been conceived and born under a foreboding astral conjunction. During his reign, the astrologer prophesied, misfortune and numerous disasters would befall the Kingdom of Poland. Reynevan rubbed his forehead and pondered. He knew Henryk of Brzeg and that he bought his horoscopes from Telesma at the House at the Archangel. And Telesma’s horoscopes always came true. In their entirety.
It was evident that Urban Horn was only mildly interested in the fate of the Jagiellonian Dynasty. He was waiting for other tidings. Tybald Raabe was sent out into the world again, before fully resting.
The first blizzards began after the third Sunday in Advent. In spite of that, Reynevan rode to White Church several times to rendezvous with Jutta of Apolda. Owing to the cold, they couldn’t meet in the forest, so their trysts occurred with the permission of the smiling abbess, quite openly, in the convent garden, under the interested gaze of the grey-habited Poor Clares. And naturally had to be limited to holding hands. The abbess pointedly pretended not to see anything, but the lovers didn’t dare to be any bolder.
The beguiler Malevolt, who arrived at the Silver Bell Inn on the seventeenth of December, had something to add to Reynevan’s growing knowledge of the convent. Like, for example, that the church with whitewashed walls, whose name Alba Ecclesia applied to the entire village beside it, had already stood for over a hundred and fifty years, and that the village belonged to the Lords of Byczeń. When that family died out, Duke Bolko I of Świdnica, the great-great-grandfather of Jan of Ziębice, gave the village to the Poor Clares of Strzelin and founded a convent and provostry in White Church.
“It’s not an ordinary nunnery or provostry,” Malevolt informed him with a strange grimace. “White Church, they say, is a place of punishment, a place of banishment for dissenting nuns. Meaning the kind who think too much, too often, too independently and too freely. It’s said a veritable elite of free-thinking nuns is gathered there.”
“What do you mean? And Jutta?”
“Your Jutta must have quite good connections.” The beguiler winked. “It’s the dream of most Silesian nuns and candidates to end up in White Church.”
“In a place of punishment and imprisonment?”
“Are you dim-witted or what? Not long ago we were talking about girls and universities, about how no academy would ever, not for anything in the world, let girls enter their halls. But women’s universities already exist. Concealed in convents, like the one in White Church. That’s all I’ll say. It ought to satisfy you.”
Urban Horn said more, a few days later.
“University?” He grimaced. “Oh, well, you could call it that. Nonetheless, I’ve heard that the curriculum there covers learning you won’t find at other academies.”
“Hildegard of Bingen? Christine of Pizan? Erm… Joachim of Fiore?”
“For a start. Add to them Mechthild of Magdeburg, Beatrice of Nazareth, Juliana of Liège, Baudonivia and Hadewijch of Brabant. Add Elsbet Stangl, Marguerite Porete and Heilwige Bloemardinne of Brussels. And the crowning glory is Maifreda of Pirovano, the female Pope of the Guglielmites. Be cautious with the last few names if you don’t want to make trouble for your darling.”
The blizzard hadn’t let up, the world had vanished in snow, drifts were lying halfway up the walls of the Silver Bell Inn and the roads were absolutely covered. Reynevan, like it or not, had to abandon his visits to White Church to meet Jutta of Apolda. The snowdrifts were so high that their feverish passion was snowbound and had to cool off.
On the last Sunday before Christmas, the blizzards abated, the snowdrifts subsided and the roads became somewhat passable. And then—to Reynevan’s delight—Tybald Raabe brought Scharley and Samson Honeypot to Gdziemierz. The friends greeted and hugged each other so warmly they were moved to tears. Why, even Scharley sniffed once or twice.
First one and then another demijohn appeared and with so much to discuss they didn’t stop at two.
After fleeing from Trosky, Samson had found Scharley, Berengar Tauler and Amadej Baťa, and the four of them immediately resolved to set off in search of Reynevan. Aware that they wouldn’t get far against Grellenort’s Black Riders, they rode headlong to Michalovice to ask Jan Čapek for help. Čapek cheerfully agreed—he appeared more interested in the secret underground passage Reynevan and Samson had escaped through from Trosky than in Reynevan’s fate. It was easy to imagine the hejtman’s irritation when it turned out that Samson had forgotten the location of the cave and couldn’t find it. They searched all day, but without success. Čapek’s annoyance grew. When Scharley suggested that rather than wandering up and down the stream they finally start to track Reynevan, the infuriated Orphan hejtman sent his men back to Michalovice, declaring to the company that they could continue the hunt alone.