“Adultery is a sin,” intoned the priest, straightening his skinny frame behind the table. “Adultery is also a crime. But God punishes sins and the law punishes crimes. Nothing justifies mob law and killings.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed the burgermeister, but fell silent at once and devoted all his attention to the beer that had just arrived.
“Nicolaus of Stercza died tragically, which pains us greatly,” added Father Gall, “but as the result of an accident. However, had Wolfher and company caught Reinmar of Bielawa, we would be dealing with a murder in our jurisdiction. We know not if there might yet be one. Let me remind you that Prior Steinkeller, the pious old man severely beaten by the Sterczas, is lying as if lifeless in the Augustinian priory. If he expires as a result of the beating, there’ll be a problem. For the Sterczas, to be precise.”
“Whereas, regarding the crime of adultery,” said the goldsmith Łukasz Friedmann, examining the rings on his manicured fingers, “mark, honourable gentlemen, that it is not our jurisdiction at all. Although the debauchery occurred in Oleśnica, the culprits do not come under our authority. Gelfrad of Stercza, the cuckolded husband, is a vassal of the Duke of Ziębice. As is the seducer, the young physician, Reinmar of Bielawa—”
“The debauchery took place here, as did the crime,” said Hofrichter firmly. “And it was a serious one, if we are to believe what Stercza’s wife disclosed at the Augustinian priory—that the physician beguiled her with spells and used sorcery to entice her to sin. He compelled her against her will.”
“That’s what they all say,” the burgermeister boomed from the depths of his mug.
“Particularly when someone of Wolfher of Stercza’s ilk holds a knife to their throat,” the goldsmith added without emotion. “The Reverend Father Jakub was right to say that adultery is a felony—a crimen—and as such demands an investigation and a trial. We do not wish for familial vendettas or street brawls. We shall not allow enraged lordlings to raise a hand against men of the cloth, wield knives or trample people in city squares. In Świdnica, a Pannewitz went to the tower for striking an armourer and threatening him with a dagger. Which is proper. The times of knightly licence must not return. The case must go before the duke.”
“All the more so since Reinmar of Bielawa is a nobleman and Adèle of Stercza a noblewoman,” the burgermeister confirmed with a nod. “We cannot flog him, nor banish her from the town like a common harlot. The case must come before the duke.”
“Let’s not be too hasty with this,” said Father Gall, gazing at the ceiling. “Duke Konrad is preparing to travel to Wrocław and has a multitude of matters to deal with before his departure. The rumours have probably already reached him—as rumours do—but now isn’t the time to make them official. Suffice it to postpone the matter until his return. Much may be resolved by then.”
“I concur.” Bartłomiej Sachs nodded again.
“As do I,” added the goldsmith.
Jan Hofrichter straightened his marten-fur calpac and blew the froth from his mug. “For the present, we ought not to inform the duke,” he pronounced. “We shall wait until he returns, I agree with you on that, honourable gentlemen. But we must inform the Holy Office, and fast, about what we found in the physician’s workshop. Don’t shake your head, Master Bartłomiej, or make faces, honourable Master Łukasz. And you, Reverend, stop sighing and counting flies on the ceiling. I desire this about as much as you do, and the same goes for the Inquisition. But many were present at the opening of the workshop. And where there are many people, at least one of them is reporting back to the Inquisition. And when the Inquisitor arrives in Oleśnica, we’ll be the first to be asked why we delayed.”
“So I will explain the delay,” said Father Gall, tearing his attention away from the ceiling. “I, in person, because it’s my parish and the responsibility to inform the bishop and the papal Inquisitor falls on me. It is also for me to judge whether the circumstances justify the summoning and bothering of the Curia and the Office.”
“Isn’t the witchcraft that Adèle of Stercza was screaming about at the Augustinian priory a circumstance?” persisted Jan Hofrichter. “Isn’t the workshop itself? Aren’t the alchemic alembic and pentagram on the floor? The mandrake? The skulls and skeletons’ hands? The crystals and looking glasses? The bottles and flacons containing the Devil only knows what filth and venom? The frogs and lizards in specimen jars? Aren’t they circumstances?”
“They are not,” said Father Gall. “The Inquisitors are serious men. What interests them is inquisitio de articulis fidei, not old wives’ tales, superstitions and frogs. I have no intention of bothering them with that.”
“And the books?” said Hofrichter. “The ones we have here?”
“The books ought first to be examined,” replied Jakub Gall calmly. “Thoroughly and unhurriedly. The Holy Office doesn’t forbid reading. Nor the owning of books.”
“Two people have just gone to the stake in Wrocław,” Hofrichter said gloomily, “for owning a book, or so the rumour runs.”
“Not for owning books,” the parish priest countered dryly, “but for contempt of court, for an impertinent refusal to renounce the content propagated in those books, among which were the writings of Wycliffe and Huss, the Lollard Floretus, the Articles of Prague and numerous other Hussite pamphlets and tracts. I don’t see anything like that here, among the books confiscated from Reinmar of Bielawa’s workshop. I see almost exclusively medical tomes. Which, as a matter of fact, are mainly or even entirely the property of the Augustinian priory’s scriptorium.”
“I repeat,” Jan Hofrichter stood up and went over to the books spread out on the table, “I repeat, I am not at all keen to involve either the bishop or the papal Inquisition—I don’t wish to denounce anyone or see anyone sizzling at the stake. But this concerns our arses and ensuring that we aren’t accused of possessing these books, either. And what do we have here? Apart from Galen, Pliny and Strabo? Albertus Magnus, De vegetabilis et plantis… Magnus, ha, a nickname right worthy of a wizard. And here, well, well, Shapur ibn Sahl… Abu Bakr Muhammad ibn Zakariya al-Razi… Pagans! Saracens!”
“The works of these Saracens are taught at Christian universities,” Łukasz Friedmann calmly explained, examining his rings, “as medical authorities. And your ‘wizard’ is Albert the Great, the Bishop of Regensburg, a learned theologian.”
“You don’t say? Hmmm… Let’s keep looking… See! Causae et curae, written by Hildegard of Bingen. Undoubtedly a witch, that Hildegard!”
“Not really,” Father Gall said, smiling. “Hildegard of Bingen, a visionary, called the Sibyl of the Rhine. She died in an aura of saintliness.”
“If you say so… But what’s this? John Gerard, A Generall… Historie… of Plantes… I wonder what tongue this is. Hebrew, perhaps. But he’s probably another saint. And here we have Herbarius, by Thomas of Bohemia—”
“What did you say?” Father Jakub lifted his head. “Thomas of Bohemia?”
“That’s what is written here.”