“No, she isn’t,” countered Ebersbach. “The lovely Adèle fled from the Augustinian priory, where she publicly accused you of devilish practices, to Ligota and the safety of the Cistercian nuns’ convent.”
Reynevan sighed with relief. “I don’t believe those accusations,” he repeated. “She loves me. And I love her.”
“Beautiful.”
“If you only knew how beautiful.”
“That’s as may be,” said Ebersbach, looking him in the eyes, “but it got quite ugly when they searched your workshop.”
“Ah. I was afraid of that.”
“You ought to be. In my humble opinion, the only reason the Inquisition isn’t on your back already is because they still haven’t finished cataloguing the devilry they found there. Kantner may be able to protect you from the Sterczas, but not, I fear, from the Inquisition. When news of that sorcery gets out, he’ll hand you over to them himself. Don’t come to Wrocław with us, Reynevan. Take my advice—split off before we get there and flee, hide somewhere.”
Reynevan didn’t reply.
“And by the by,” Ebersbach threw in casually, “are you indeed versed in magic? Because, you see, I recently met a maiden…
And… How can I put it…? An elixir would come in handy…”
Reynevan didn’t reply.
A cry sounded from the head of the entourage.
“What is it?” asked Ebersbach.
“Byków,” guessed Ciołek Krompusz, urging on his horse. “The Goose Inn.”
“And thanks be to God,” Jaksa of Wiszna added in hushed tones, “because I have a dreadful hunger after that sodding hunting.”
Reynevan still said nothing. The rumbling coming from his guts was all too eloquent.
The Goose was roomy and probably famous, for there were plenty of guests, both locals and visitors, judging by the horses, servants and soldiers bustling about. When Duke Kantner’s retinue rode into the courtyard with great flourish and noise, the innkeeper, who had been forewarned of their imminent arrival, dashed out through the doorway like a ball from a bombard, scattering poultry and splashing muck around. He hopped from foot to foot, bowing and scraping.
“Welcome, welcome, you’re most welcome,” he panted. “What an honour, what an honour it is that your enlightened graciousness—”
“It’s thronged here today.” Kantner dismounted from his bay, helped by his servants. “Who are you putting up? Who is emptying your pots? Will there be sufficient for us, too?”
“Most definitely, most definitely,” assured the innkeeper, struggling to catch his breath. “And it isn’t at all thronged now… I drove the lesser knights, bards and free peasants outside… I only just saw m’lords on the highway. There’s room in the chamber now, in the snug, too, only—”
“Only what?” Rudiger Haugwitz raised an eyebrow.
“There are guests in the chamber. Important and clerical personages… Emissaries. I dared not—”
“And well you didn’t,” interrupted Kantner. “You would have slighted me and the whole of Oleśnica had you dared. Guests are guests! And as I am a Piast, not a Saracen sultan, it is no offence to me to eat alongside other guests. Lead on, gentlemen.”
The partially smoke-filled chamber perfused with the smell of cabbage was indeed not crowded. In truth, only one table was occupied. Two of the three tonsured men seated there wore clothing typical for journeying clergy, but so opulent that they couldn’t have been ordinary priests. The third was wearing the habit of a Dominican.
At the sight of Kantner entering, the clergymen stood up from the bench. The one with the most sumptuous costume bowed, but without undue humility.
“Your Grace Duke Konrad,” he said, showing that he was well informed. “This is indeed a great honour for us. I am, with your permission, Maciej Korzbok of the Poznań Diocese, on a mission to Your Grace’s brother in Wrocław, and my travelling companions are Master Melchior Barfuss, curate to the Bishop of Lubusz, and Reverend Jan Nejedlý from Vysoké, prior Ordo Praedicatorum.”
The Brandenburgian and the Dominican lowered their tonsured heads, and Konrad Kantner responded with a faint tilt of his.
“Your Eminence, Your Excellencies,” he said nasally, “it will be delightful to sup in such company. And to converse, both here and on the road, if it doesn’t tire you, Reverends, since I also ride to Wrocław. With my daughter… Over here, Aneżka… Curtsy before Christ’s servants.”
Aneżka curtsied and bowed her head, intending to kiss Maciej Korzbok’s hand, but he stopped her, blessing her with a swift sign of the cross over her flaxen fringe. The Czech Dominican put his hands together, leaned over and muttered a short prayer, adding something about clarissima puella.
“And this,” continued Kantner, “is Seneschal Rudiger Haugwitz. And these are my knights and my guest…”
Reynevan felt a tug on his sleeve. He obeyed Krompusz’s gestures and hisses and followed him out into the courtyard where the commotion caused by the duke’s arrival continued. Ebersbach was waiting there.
“I asked around,” he said. “They were here yesterday—Wolfher of Stercza and five other men. Those Greater Poles over there, they said the Sterczas had stopped them but didn’t dare try anything with these clergymen. They are clearly searching for you on the Wrocław highway. In your shoes, I’d flee.”
“Kantner,” Reynevan mumbled, “will defend me…”
Ebersbach shrugged. “It is your decision. And your neck. Wolfher is proclaiming loudly and in detail what he’ll do to you when he catches you. If I were you—”
“Firstly, I love Adèle and I will not abandon her!” Reynevan burst out. “And secondly… Where do you suppose I could escape to? To Poland? Or perhaps Samogitia?”
“Not a bad idea. About Samogitia, I mean.”
“Bugger!” said Reynevan, kicking a hen that was bustling around his legs. “Very well. I’ll think about it. And make a plan. But first I’ll eat something. I’m dying of hunger, and the smell of cabbage is killing me.”
Had they delayed any longer, the young men would have ended up with nothing. Pots of kasha and cabbage with peas and bowls of meaty pork bones had been placed on the high table, before the duke and his daughter. The dishes only headed to the other end of the table after the three clergymen sitting closest to Kantner—who, it turned out, were good trenchermen—had eaten their fill. On the way, to make matters worse, was Rudiger Haugwitz, who was no slouch, either, and the duke’s foreign guest. The black-haired knight’s face was so swarthy he might have only just returned from the Holy Land, and he was even broader-shouldered than Haugwitz. Thus, by the time the bowls reached the lower-ranking and younger men, there was almost nothing left in them. Fortunately, a moment later, the innkeeper gave the duke a huge board of capons, which looked and smelled so tasty that the cabbage and pork fat lost some of their appeal and reached the end of the table almost intact.
The Duke’s daughter Agnieszka nibbled a capon leg with her little teeth, trying to stop the grease from dripping on the fashionably slashed sleeves of her dress. The men discoursed about this and that. It was the turn of one of the clergymen, the Dominican Jan Nejedlý of Vysoké.