“Amen,” concluded the burgermeister.
“In short,” Hofrichter kept pushing, “someone like Reynevan cannot be guilty? Is that it? Eh?”
“He who is without guilt,” Father Gall replied inscrutably, “let him cast the first stone. And God will judge us all.”
For a while, such a pregnant silence reigned that the rustle of moths’ wings striking the window could be heard. The long-drawn-out and melodious call of the town guard was audible from Saint John’s Street.
“Wherefore, to summarise,” said the burgermeister, sitting up straight at the table so as to rest his belly against it, “the brothers Stercza are to blame for the disturbance in town. The brothers Stercza are to blame for the material damage and bodily injuries. The brothers Stercza are to blame for the grave injury to and—God forbid—the death of the Very Reverend Prior. They, and they alone. And what happened to Nicolaus of Stercza was a… mishap. Thus shall we present it to the duke on his return. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Consensus omnium.”
“Concordi voce.”
“But were Reynevan to appear anywhere,” Father Gall added a moment later, “I advise seizing him quietly and locking him up here, in our town-hall gaol. For his own safety. Until the matter blows over.”
“It would be well to do so swiftly,” added Łukasz Friedmann, examining his rings one last time, “before Tammo of Stercza gets wind of the damnable business.”
As he left the town hall and headed straight into the darkness of Saint John’s Street, the merchant Hofrichter glimpsed a movement on the tower’s moonlit wall, an indistinct, moving shape a little below the windows of the town trumpeter, but above the windows of the chamber where the meeting had just finished. He stared, shielding his eyes from the somewhat blinding light of the lantern carried by his servant. What the Devil? he thought and crossed himself. What’s creeping across the wall up there? An owl? A swift? A bat? Or perhaps…
Jan Hofrichter shuddered, crossed himself again, pulled his marten-fur calpac down over his ears, wrapped his coat around him and set off briskly home.
Thus he didn’t see a huge wallcreeper spread its wings, fly down from the parapet and noiselessly, like a nightly spectre, glide over the town’s rooftops.
Apeczko of Stercza, Lord of Ledna, didn’t like visiting Sterzendorf Castle. There was one simple reason: Sterzendorf was the seat of Tammo of Stercza, the head and patriarch of the family—or, as some said, the family’s tyrant, despot and tormentor.
The chamber was airless. And dark. Tammo of Stercza didn’t let anyone open the windows for fear of catching cold, or the shutters, because light dazzled the cripple’s eyes.
Apeczko was hungry and covered in dust from his journey, but there was no time either to eat anything or to clean himself up. Old Stercza didn’t like to be kept waiting. Nor did he usually feed his guests. Particularly members of the family.
So Apeczko was swallowing saliva to moisten his throat—he hadn’t been given anything to drink, naturally—and telling Tammo about the events in Oleśnica. He did so reluctantly, but he had no choice. Cripple or not, paralysed or not, Tammo was the family patriarch. A patriarch who didn’t tolerate defiance.
The old man listened to the account, slumped on a chair in his familiar, bizarrely twisted position. Misshapen old fart, thought Apeczko. Bloody mangled old bugger.
The cause of the condition of the Stercza family’s patriarch was neither fully understood nor common knowledge. One thing wasn’t in doubt—Tammo had suffered a stroke after a fit of rage. Some claimed that the old man had become furious on hearing that a personal enemy, the hated Konrad, Duke of Wrocław, had been anointed bishop and become the most powerful personage in Silesia. Others were certain the ill-fated outburst was the result of his mother-in-law, Anna of Pogarell, burning Tammo’s favourite dish—buckwheat kasha with fried pork rind. No one would ever know what really happened, but the outcome was evident and couldn’t be ignored. After the accident, Stercza could only move his left hand and foot—and clumsily at that. His right eyelid drooped permanently, glutinous tears oozed ceaselessly from his left, which he occasionally managed to lift, and saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth, which was twisted in a ghastly grimace. The accident had also caused almost complete loss of speech, giving rise to the old man’s nickname: Balbulus. The Stammerer-Mumbler.
The loss of the ability to speak hadn’t, however, resulted in what the entire family had hoped for—a loss of contact with the world. Oh, no. The Lord of Sterzendorf continued to hold the family in his grasp and terrorise everybody, and what he wanted to say, he said. For he always had to hand somebody who could understand and translate his gurgling, wheezing, gibbering and shouts into comprehensible speech. That person was usually a child, one of Balbulus’s countless grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
This time, the interpreter was ten-year-old Ofka of Baruth, who was sitting at the old man’s feet and dressing a doll in colourful strips of rag.
“Thus,” Apeczko finished his account, cleared his throat and moved on to his conclusion, “Wolfher asked me through an emissary to inform you that he will deal swiftly with the matter. That Reinmar of Bielawa will be seized on the Wrocław road and punished. But for the present, Wolfher’s hands are tied because the Duke of Oleśnica is journeying with his entire court and diverse eminent clergymen, so there is no way to pursue him. But Wolfher vows to seize Reynevan and claims he can be entrusted with the family’s honour.”
Balbulus’s eyelid twitched and a dribble of saliva trickled from his mouth.
“Bbbhh-bhh-bhh-bhubhu-bhhuaha-rrhhha-phhh-aaa-rrh!” reverberated through the chamber. “Bbb… hrrrh-urrrhh-bhuuh! Guggu-ggu…”
“Wolfher is a bloody moron,” Ofka of Baruth translated in her high, melodious voice. “An idiot I wouldn’t even trust with a pail of puke. And the only thing he’s capable of seizing is his own prick.”
“Father—”
“Bbb… brrrh! Bhhrhuu-phr-rrrhhh!”
“Silence,” translated Ofka without raising her head, busy with her doll. “Listen to what I say. To my orders.”
Apeczko waited patiently for the wheezing and croaking to finish and then for the translation.
“First of all, Apecz,” Tammo of Stercza ordered via the little girl’s mouth, “you will establish which of the women in Bierutów was charged with supervising the Burgundian. She obviously didn’t realise the true aim of those charitable visits to Oleśnica or alternatively was in league with the harlot. Give that woman thirty-five sound lashes with a birch on her naked arse. Here, in my chamber, in front of my eyes, that I might at least have a little diversion.”
Apeczko of Stercza nodded. Balbulus coughed, wheezed and slobbered all over himself, then grimaced dreadfully and gaggled.
“I order the Burgundian, meanwhile, to be taken from the Cistercian convent in Ligota, where I know she is in hiding,” translated Ofka, tidying her doll’s oakum hair with a small comb, “even if you have to storm it. Then imprison the trollop among monks favourably disposed towards us, for example—”
Tammo abruptly stopped stammering and gobbling, his wheezing caught in his throat. Apeczko, pierced by the old man’s bloodshot eye, saw that he had noticed his embarrassed expression. That he understood. That it was impossible to hide the truth any longer.