The hooded knights leaned in, listening. Jesus, falling beneath the cross, looked down on them from the fresco, and there was endless human suffering in his Byzantine eyes.
Chapter Three
In which there will be talk of things having apparently little in common with each other, such as hunting with falcons, the Piast dynasty, cabbage and peas, and Czech heresy. And also of a dispute about whether one should keep one’s word. And if so, when and regarding whom.
The ducal retinue made a long stop on a hillock above the River Oleśniczka, which wound its way among black alder wetlands, a copse of white birches and bright green meadows, looking down on the thatched roofs and smoke of the village of Borów. Not in order to rest, however, but rather to tire themselves out by indulging in lordly pursuits.
As they approached, flocks of birds of many breeds flew up from the marsh. On seeing this, Duke Konrad Kantner of Oleśnica instantly ordered the procession to stop and asked for his favourite falcons. The duke passionately adored falconry, and the whole world could wait while he watched his favourite Motley rend the plumage from mallards and witness Silver intrepidly battling a heron in the air.
So the duke galloped through the rushes and wetlands like a man possessed, accompanied fearlessly by his eldest daughter Agnieszka, Seneschal Rudiger Haugwitz and several careerist pages.
The rest of his retinue waited at the edge of the forest but did not dismount, since no one knew when the duke would weary of his play. The duke’s foreign guest was yawning discreetly. The chaplain was muttering—probably a prayer; the bailiff was counting—probably money; the minnesinger was composing—probably rhymes;
Agnieszka’s ladies-in-waiting were gossiping—probably about other ladies-in-waiting; and all the while, the young knights were killing time by riding around and exploring the nearby undergrowth.
“Ciołek!”
Henryk Krompusz reined in his horse abruptly and turned, trying to determine which bush had just quietly called him by his nickname.
“Ciołek!”
“Who’s there? Show yourself!”
The bushes rustled.
“By Saint Jadwiga…” Krompusz’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “Reynevan? Is it you?”
“No, it’s Saint Jadwiga,” replied Reynevan in a voice as sour as a gooseberry in May. “Ciołek, I need help… Whose retinue is it? Kantner’s?”
Before Krompusz worked out what was happening, two other Oleśnica knights had joined him.
“Reynevan!” groaned Jaksa of Wiszna. “Christ Almighty, what do you look like!”
I wonder how you’d look, thought Reynevan, if your horse had given up the ghost just outside Bystre. If you’d had to wander all night through the bogs and wildernesses by the River Świerzna, and just before dawn exchange your wet, muddy rags for a smock swiped from the fence of a peasant’s cottage. I wonder how you’d look after something like that, you foppish dandy.
Benno Ebersbach, the third Oleśnica knight to ride up, was probably thinking the same thing.
“Instead of gawping,” he said dryly, “give him some raiment. Off with those rags, Bielawa. Come on, gentlemen, take whatever you have from your saddlebags.”
“Reynevan,” said Krompusz, still unable to believe what he was seeing. “Is it truly you?”
Reynevan didn’t reply. He put on a shirt and jerkin one of them threw him. He was so angry, he was close to tears.
“I’m in need of help,” he repeated. “In great need.”
“We see that,” Ebersbach confirmed with a nod, “and also concur that your need is great. Great indeed. Come on. We must present you to Haugwitz. And the duke.”
“Does he know?”
“Everybody knows. Everybody’s talking about it.”
If Konrad Kantner, with his oval face made longer by a deeply receding hairline, his black beard and the piercing eyes of a monk, did not overly resemble a typical member of the dynasty, his daughter Agnieszka was a veritable chip off the Silesian–Mazovian block. The princess had the flaxen hair, bright eyes and small, blithe retroussé nose of a Piast, immortalised by the now famous sculpture in Naumburg Cathedral. Agnieszka, Reynevan quickly calculated, was around fifteen, so must already be promised in marriage. Reynevan couldn’t recall the rumours as to whom.
“Stand up.”
He stood up.
“Know,” said the duke, fixing him with forbidding eyes, “that I do not approve of your deed. In fact, I consider it ignoble, reprehensible and opprobrious, and frankly advise remorse and penance, Reinmar of Bielawa. My chaplain assures me that there is a special enclave for adulterers in Hell. The devils sorely vex the miscreants’ instruments of sin. I shall forego the details owing to the presence of the maid.”
Seneschal Rudiger Haugwitz snorted angrily. Reynevan said nothing.
“How you will make amends to Gelfrad of Stercza is a matter for you and him,” continued Kantner. “It is not for me to interfere in this issue, particularly since you are both vassals of Duke Jan of Ziębice. I ought to simply wash my hands of the matter and send you to him.”
Reynevan swallowed.
“But,” continued the duke after a moment of dramatic silence, “out of respect for your father, who laid down his life at Tannenberg at my brother’s side, I shall not allow you to be murdered as part of a foolish family feud. It is high time we put an end to such feuds and live as befits Europeans. You may journey with my entourage all the way to Wrocław. But stay out of my gaze, for the sight of you does not please me.”
“Your Ducal—”
“I said begone.”
The hunt was definitely over. The falcons were hooded, the mallards and herons they had caught already hanging from the bars of the wagon. The duke was content, his entourage, too, because the potentially interminable hunt had been brief. Reynevan noticed several clearly grateful glances—the rumour had already spread through the retinue that the duke had curtailed the hunt and resumed the journey because of him. That probably wasn’t the only rumour doing the rounds, and his ears burned as though all eyes were on him.
“Everyone,” grunted Benno Ebersbach, who was riding alongside him, “knows everything…”
“Everyone, yes,” confirmed Henryk Krompusz, quite sadly. “But, fortunately for you, not everything.”
“Eh?”
“Are you playing the fool, Bielawa?” asked Ebersbach, without raising his voice. “Kantner would certainly drive you away, and perhaps also send you in chains to the castellan, if he knew somebody had dropped dead in Oleśnica. Yes, yes, don’t goggle at me. Young Nicolaus of Stercza is dead. Cuckolding Gelfrad is one thing, but the Sterczas won’t ever forgive you for killing their brother.”
“I never…” Reynevan said after a series of deep breaths, “I never laid a finger on Nicolaus, I swear.”
Ebersbach was clearly unimpressed by Reynevan’s oath. “And to complete the set, the lovely Adèle has accused you of witchcraft, saying you bewitched and took advantage of her.”
“Even if she did,” replied Reynevan after a short pause, “she was compelled to. On pain of death. She is in their grasp, after all—”