“I am,” he sermonized, “or rather was the prior of Saint Clement’s in Prague Old Town and a Master at Charles University. Now, though, as you see, I am an exile, dependant on someone’s else’s generosity. My monastery was plundered, and I fell out of favour at the academy with apostates and scoundrels like Jan of Příbram and Křišťan of Prachatice, may God strike them down—”
“There is among us,” Kantner interrupted in mid-sentence, catching Reynevan’s gaze, “a student from Prague.”
“Then I would advise you to keep a close watch on him.” The Dominican’s eyes flashed above his spoon. “Loth as I am to make accusations, heresy is like soot, like pitch. Like dung! Whoever comes close to it must be fouled.”
Reynevan quickly lowered his head, once again feeling his ears burn and the blood rushing to his cheeks.
“Whatever next!” laughed the duke. “Our scholar a heretic? Why, he’s from a decent family and is studying to be a priest and a physician at the Prague Academy. Am I right, Reinmar?”
“By Your Grace’s leave,” Reynevan said, swallowing nervously, “I no longer study at Prague. On my brother’s advice, I left the Carolinum in 1419, soon after Saints Abdon and Sennen’s Day… I mean, right after the Defenestra— You know when. Now I’m thinking of studying in Krakow… Or in Leipzig, where most of the Prague masters fled… I won’t return to Bohemia while the unrest endures.”
“The unrest!” the Dominican spat, strands of cabbage flying from his mouth onto his scapular. “A nice little word, indeed! You here, in this peaceful land, cannot even imagine what heresy is afoot in Bohemia, what monstrosities that hapless land is witness to. Fomented by heretics, Wycliffites, Waldensians and other servants of Satan, the mob has directed its unthinking fury at faith and the Church. In Bohemia, God is being destroyed and His temples burned. God’s servants are being slaughtered!”
“Truly dreadful tidings reach us,” confirmed Melchior Barfuss. “One doesn’t want to believe—”
“But one must!” the Dominican insisted, his voice growing ever louder. “Because none of the accounts are exaggerated!”
The beer in his mug splashed around and Agnieszka shrank back involuntarily, shielding herself with the capon leg.
“Do you desire examples? I can oblige. The massacres of friars and chaplains in Český Brod, of Cistercians in Zbraslav, of Dominicans in Písek, of Benedictines in Kladruby and of Premonstrant nuns in Chotěšov. Monasteries looted and burned down, priests burned alive, altars and holy pictures desecrated… Sacrilege not even the Turk would stoop to, atrocities at the sight of which even Saracens would tremble! O God, how long will You refrain from avenging our spilled blood?”
The silence that followed, in which only the murmured prayers of the Oleśnica chaplain could be heard, was interrupted by the deep, resonant voice of Duke Konrad Kantner’s guest, the swarthy, broad-shouldered knight.
“It didn’t have to be like that.”
“I beg your pardon?” The Dominican raised his head. “What do mean by that, sir?”
“It could all easily have been avoided. Had Jan Huss not been burned at the stake in Constance.”
“You defended the heretic then,” said the Dominican, squinting, “by shouting, protesting, submitting petitions, I know you did. And you were as wrong then as you are now. Heresy spreads like a weed and the Bible orders the weed destroyed by fire. Papal bulls decree it—”
“Leave bulls for conciliar quarrels,” the swarthy man interrupted. “They sound risible in a tavern. But I was right in Constance, whatever you say. King Sigismund had given his royal word and guaranteed Huss safety. He broke his word and his oath, thus besmirching royal and knightly honour. I could not gaze on that unmoved, and did not wish to.”
“A knightly oath,” growled Jan Nejedlý, “should be given in the service of God, whoever made the vow, whether squire or king. Do you call keeping one’s word and promise to a heretic divine service? Do you call that honour? I call it a sin.”
“If I give my knightly word, I give it before God. Which is why I keep my word even to Turks.”
“One may keep it to Turks,” said Jan Nejedlý, “but not heretics.”
“Verily,” said Maciej Korzbok, the Poznań curate, very gravely. “The Moor or the Turk is a heathen from ignorance and savageness. He can be converted. A dissenter or schismatic turns away from faith and the Church, derides them, blasphemes against them, which is why he is a hundredfold viler to God. And however heresy is fought is right. Why, no one of right mind who goes to kill a wolf or a rabid dog talks of honour or the knightly parole! All things are permitted against a heretic.”
“In Krakow,” Kantner’s guest turned his weather-beaten face towards him, “Canon Jan Elgot cares not for the sanctity of confession when trying to ensnare a heretic. Bishop Andrzej Łaskarz, whom you serve, orders the same from priests of the Poznań Diocese. All things are permitted indeed.”
“You do not hide your sympathies, sir,” Nejedlý said sourly, “so neither shall I. Huss was a heretic and had to burn at the stake. The Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund, King of Hungary and Bohemia, acted correctly by not keeping his word to a Czech heretic.”
“Which is why the Czechs love him so much now,” retorted the swarthy man. “For that reason, he fled Vyšehrad with the Czech crown under one arm. And he now rules Bohemia, but from Buda, because he won’t be allowed back into Hradčany in a hurry.”
“You dare to sneer at King Sigismund,” observed Melchior Barfuss, “and yet you serve him.”
“One doesn’t rule out the other.”
“Or perhaps for another reason?” the Czech retorted scathingly. “For you, sir, fought with the Poles on King Jogaila’s side at Tannenberg against the Knights Hospitaller of the Virgin Mary. Jogaila—a neophyte king who openly abets Czech heresy and bends a willing ear towards schismatics and Wycliffites, while Polish knights slaughter Catholics and plunder monasteries in Bohemia. Jogaila pretends all this occurs without his will and consent, yet he does not ride against the heretics himself. Were he to ally with King Sigismund in a crusade, they would be done with the Hussites in a trice! Why, then, does Jogaila not do that?”
“Indeed.” The swarthy man sneered knowingly. “Why not? I wonder.”
Konrad Kantner cleared his throat loudly. Barfuss pretended that all his attention was taken up with cabbage and peas while Maciej Korzbok bit his lip and nodded grimly.
“It is true,” the swarthy man admitted, “that the Holy Roman Emperor has more than once shown he is no friend of the Polish kingdom. Yet I can vouch that every Greater Pole will come to the defence of the faith—but only if Sigismund guarantees that no Teutonic Knights or Brandenburgians will attack us as we march south. And how can he give such a guarantee if he is scheming with them to divide Poland up? Am I right, Duke Konrad?”
“Why are we prattling on about this?” Kantner’s smile lacked sincerity. “We politick unduly, and politics is an ill partner for vittles. Which, incidentally, grow cold.”