Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy Page 6

  Jaroš was the Old Town’s primary jailor, torturer, and executioner. He was bringing his assistants and apprentices to clean up the remains of yesterday’s—what was it? Execution? Lynching? Father Conrad suspected the jailor wasn’t sure what to call it or how to think of it. The mob had coalesced so suddenly, so fiercely, and with such determination, charging across the river to old Fen’ka’s house and then dragging her to the river to test her in the water and then bringing her to the square to be burned. But the execution had not been ordered by a court or judge and the priest knew the jailor felt strongly about the rule of law. The priest also suspected the jailor had felt sorry for the old woman because, despite the push and shove and chaos of the crowd, he had noticed the jailor only shackled Fen’ka to the stake rather than nail her to the wood. Now as Jaroš and the younger men shoveled the remains of the fire into their carts and wheelbarrows, they pulled the iron shackles near the bottom of the pile of ash, wood, bone, and scraps of cloth from the clothes she had been wearing. Jaroš put the shackles aside and then sent a few of the older teens who worked with him to sweep up the traces of the fire that had blown around the square during the night as well as during the sudden storm yesterday afternoon. Watching the boys spread out across the square, one of the young men working with Jaroš wiped his brow.

  “The storm yesterday?” the apprentice asked the jailor. “It makes me very uneasy. Did you notice, Master Jaroš, how it came up out of nowhere, just as the fire was lit. Then the lightning struck right in front of the fire…”

  “Yes,” the jailor agreed. “It sent them all running, scattering the crowd like vermin, did it not?”

  “That, plus the appearance of that figure in the clouds,” the apprentice went on. “It is almost enough to make me think that the old god Svetovit heard old Fen’ka’s cries and came to vindicate his servant. What do you think, Master Jaroš? Was she the Devil’s handmaid?”

  “She might have been indeed,” the jailor reluctantly agreed.

  “Might have been?” Father Conrad had overheard their last remarks and wandered over to the jailor and his apprentice. “Master Jaroš, do you doubt the proof of the mark on her buttocks that she had made a pact with Satan?”

  The jailor stood silently, refusing to answer the priest.

  “I realize this is the first time a witch has been burned in Prague,” the priest went on after an awkward pause. “Perhaps here in Bohemia you are not familiar with the proper disposal of the witch’s remains.

  “It is important that the ashes and pieces of her body that did not burn be properly disposed of,” the priest lectured Jaroš. “It is just as important as it was to burn her properly in the first place. Some say witches have to be burned to deny them the chance of reviving their bodies after death. Others say that witches must be burned to deny the Devil the possibility of mimicking the resurrection of the dead. In either case, without a body to reanimate, the witch can no longer torment her victims from beyond the grave. She cannot cast her spells. She cannot return to leach away their lifeblood, like a vampire, nor can she attack them with her fangs and claws, like a werewolf. The townsfolk will be safe at last.”

  “You think I do not know my work, priest?” the jailor muttered.

  “But the ashes had to be properly disposed of as well,” the priest went on, ignoring Jaroš’ remark. “Otherwise there is the possibility, however slight, that the powers of darkness that she commanded while alive can be cajoled into reconstructing the corpse and that could result in the witch’s return to a half-life that would still pose a grave risk to the townspeople. As jailor and executioner, it is your duty to see that both the execution and the proper disposal of the bodies of all criminals executed in the Old Town are properly carried out, is it not?” Conrad asked.

  Jaroš nodded sullen agreement.

  “I understand that in most cases this involves the display of the heads of those executed, most often near the wooden bridge,” the priest resumed his instruction. “But that is not possible in this case. So you and your apprentice and assistants are here to clean up the result of the town’s fury so righteously carried out against Fen’ka yesterday. You must take the full carts down to the river’s edge and empty their contents into the swirling current, making sure that the river carries away the detritus, ensuring the safety of your neighbors who rely on you for protection at times such as these.”

  Jaroš interrupted Conrad’s speech. “Of course, the fully laden carts could be taken to a crossroads and their contents buried there instead.”

  “But the crossroads that are customary to use are quite a distance away, Master Jaroš. Is that not true?” the priest sneered. “Who can tell what might happen on the way? Besides, the remains might be dug up by a desperate wolf or some other animal one night. Then how safe would the town be? It will be much safer to take the carts with their hideous loads the short distance to the river and deposit the ashes and other remains there. The very water that rejected her yesterday, proving she was a witch and sealing her doom, will today accept her ashes. I promise you that. The same river that sent her to her death will now wash away her sin and drown her sorrow. It is her one chance of finding rest now that she is dead.” Having concluded his instruction of the jailor, the priest returned to stand near the entrance of his parish.

  While Father Conrad stood watching Jaroš and the others go about their grisly work, Lucrezia came strolling around from the left side of the church. She was laughing and talking with another young woman, whom the priest recognized but did not know by name. She carried an empty basket, as did her friend, and they walked past the priest, oblivious to his presence. They seemed in no great hurry as they ambled towards one of the merchant stalls.

  Lucrezia was a beautiful Italian girl who lived behind the church and whose first story window overlooked the road that curved around the back of the church’s apse. She was also one of the best known and most expensive prostitutes in the city. She was popular with everyone, and would have been no matter what her profession had been. The young men liked her sparkling eyes, the older men her fresh, soft skin and burnished black hair that tumbled freely from beneath her headscarf. Old women fell in love with her infectious laughter and the other young women, who might have regarded her as competition—both the other prostitutes and the respectable women—loved her for her generous spirit and kind heart. No beggar ever stretched out his hand to her without receiving at least a small coin and a good wish.

  She never seemed ashamed or embarrassed by anyone or anything. The priest, however, thought she flaunted her beauty in the chill autumn air. He saw that she was half-exposed, as if it were midsummer, with the upper portion of her breasts clearly visible above her brightly patterned dress and apron. He watched her saunter between the market stalls with her basket, joking with the merchants and their apprentices and gratefully accepting small gifts and samples of their wares that she deposited in her basket. All the men in the Old Town—Germans, French, Czechs, Italians, and all the rest—seemed to trip over their own feet in their eagerness to show her some favor and to see her smile turned in their direction. What other behavior could he expect from the simple Czechs? But he was ashamed and embarrassed by the behavior of his fellow Germans. They ought to know better.

  Father Conrad fumed. Here was another sinner, another manifestation of that plague of wickedness engulfing the world. The Black Death, which had repeatedly swept across and decimated Europe (but had strangely left Bohemia almost unscathed), was only to be expected, the priest grumbled to himself. “It is the result of all this wickedness, this evil behavior,” he muttered under his breath. “What do any of them expect? If they indulge their passions, they must expect to pay the price. But, of course, none of them ever expect that they will have to do that. Not even on Judgment Day do they expect to face the consequences of their behavior. All sinners deserve the punishment they get, both in this life and the next! The plague will come here as well. Just let them wait and see!” He was sure that a
ll the latest medical theories notwithstanding—the ideas of noxious miasmas and poison air and poisoned water from the wells—wicked, sinful behavior was the true root of all the terrible illnesses in the world. He pulled his cassock tighter around him, as if to prevent it touching the air contaminated by the sin of everyone he saw fawning over the whore.

  A messenger approached him from across the square. The priest recognized the man as one of the servants from the bishop’s house across the river. As he passed Lucrezia, even he tipped his hat and wished her good morning with a lighter spring in his step. Father Conrad glowered. The archbishop should know better than to keep such a flighty, silly man in his service. The man approached him, and bowing slightly, reported, “The archbishop would like to see you. Now.”

  The request did not surprise him. He just hadn’t been sure when to expect the summons. He nodded to the messenger and together they set out and crossed the river. The bishop’s house sat in a courtyard slightly beyond the end of the bridge in the Little Town, near the complex of buildings that constituted the seminary for Bohemia. The parish priest entered the tall, narrow house and was escorted to the bishop’s receiving room in the back, through an inner courtyard. He stood there a moment, waiting alone. The archbishop entered from another door in the corner and sat behind the great oak desk.

  “Father Conrad,” the bishop began, extending his hand across the desktop. The priest took the prelate’s hand and kissed it, as protocol and piety demanded. The bishop, who had been elevated to the status of archbishop about eleven years before—in fact, the same year that he and the emperor (then king) Charles IV had laid the foundation stone for the great new cathedral on the hill—was still commonly referred to by most of his simple Czech flock as “Bishop.” They seemed to love him as a true father and, whereas most of Father Conrad’s parish might respect or even fear him, he knew that no one could be said to love him the way they loved the bishop.

  He resented the archbishop’s simple love for his people as well. Clergy were called to love their flocks, Conrad acknowledged, but this mutual care and affection between prelate and people seemed too informal, too inappropriate, too unseemly. But he had always been respectful of the archbishop in public and was trying to maintain that posture even now, in the privacy of this office.

  Archbishop Arnošt spoke to the priest in German, rather than Czech. He knew that the priest would listen to what he had to say more easily if it was in his mother tongue rather than the Czech he was known to despise. “You know, Father, that my family comes from Pardubiče, and has long had connections with the German-speaking peoples to the north. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the scholars of the German churches and monasteries. I also appreciate the business that the German merchants bring to our humble markets and the vast wealth that their businesses and taxes generate for the emperor here. The Germans are an important people, not only for the whole of the emperor’s dominion, but for his capital here in particular.”

  The bishop continued, looking down at his hands, folded together on the desk before him, “But you also know, Father, that my venerable predecessor in this office of diocesan ordinary, Bishop Jan IV, closed the office of the Inquisition precisely because he was offended—I might dare go so far as to say, he was disgusted—at the inquisitors handing over more than twenty townsfolk to be burned by the emperor’s father. While heresy and heretics cannot be taken lightly or treated with a lackadaisical attitude, he was convinced there are better ways to convert a man from his error than such an execution. Even if execution is warranted, he thought there were better ways than burning, even for the simple, lower classes.

  “I am constrained, Father, to follow the precedents both of my predecessor, Bishop Jan, and the German scholars who have been so careful to point out the dangers of witchcraft and of consorting with the devils. You have been diligent in sharing with the townsfolk the fruits of this German study. You have taught them to properly fear the powers of darkness, which struggle against both God and His Holy Church, and how to recognize those who consort with them. I also understand that you were one of the principal voices in yesterday’s mob that seized that elderly woman—Fen’ka, I believe she was called—and that you not only exposed her Devil’s mark to the crowd but that you encouraged her unlawful burning in the Old Town Square.” The bishop paused to take a deep breath. The priest waited.

  “You know that I could have you imprisoned,” the hierarch continued. He looked up, eyebrows knit together in consternation, directly into the parish priest’s eyes. The priest returned the steady look, calmly and without anger. “You seem to have instigated the execution of this alleged witch without a proper examination by the constables and jailor of the Old Town or a proper trial and sentencing. For all this you could be either imprisoned by the Church or handed over to the emperor to be punished by his judges and jailors. Or I could send you back to your hometown.” He paused. “If you were in my position, Father, what would you do?” He arched one eyebrow as he waited for the priest’s reply.

  Father Conrad thought a moment, and swallowed. He had expected this, but his throat was still dry and he was nervous. He had thought last evening about what he might say at this moment; although he was not often at a loss for words, he had never before confronted one of his religious superiors. Whenever he had been forced to confront men before, they had always been layfolk and he had been not only sure of his opinion but also of his right to lecture and instruct them, no matter what their secular titles or ranks.

  “I realize, Archbishop, that you are the emperor’s right hand and that he does nothing without you. You are his chief advisor and ambassador, his principal diplomat and spokesman. You are indeed trapped. You need to be faithful both to the teaching of our Holy Mother, the Church, and to our divinely anointed emperor’s wishes.” The priest smirked. For all the archbishop’s bluster and controlled indignation, he knew there was little that the prelate could do.

  The archbishop continued to look at the priest and then spoke. “You are, of course, quite correct. I can deny neither the example of our good Czech Bishop Jan, who condemned such senseless executions, nor the German proclivity for such executions after they find the Devil lurking in every shadow and under every rock. The German fashion for hunting down witches has great support in some circles, including the circle of merchants and businessmen who brought you to serve in this place. They are important figures here in the Old Town and in the various towns they call home. The emperor cannot afford to offend them needlessly. Neither can he—nor I—defile the memory of Bishop Jan or offend the Czech nobility, which find such practices repugnant.”

  Archbishop Arnošt took another deep breath. “I rebuke you, Father Conrad. You have overstepped your bounds but for now I can do nothing beyond chastising you. I warn you not to overstep yourself again. Neither the emperor nor I will tolerate another such display that you may orchestrate. Watch your steps and tread carefully, Father. Your words, in either German or Czech, will be listened to by many ears and there is little you can say that I will not know.”

  The priest was aware that the emperor’s old friend and tutor, now Pope Clement VI, would not listen to complaints made against Archbishop Arnošt, so it would do the German priest no good to lodge an accusation against the archbishop for laxity in dealing with witches and heretics. Even the former bishop, Jan, had been called to Avignon to explain himself and defend his decision to close the Inquisition court and release those imprisoned after he had obediently opened it; he had been kept in France for eleven years before being sent back to Prague to resume his pastoral duties. Though he could not accuse the archbishop to his superiors, the priest could cause plenty of trouble in his parish and the city. It was this local trouble that Arnošt appeared eager to avoid. Ethnic strife was always under the surface, especially in the Old Town, where the Germans tended to live and exert their financial power and importance.

  “Return to your parish,” the prelate dismissed the priest. “You should be
as eager to eradicate the practice of necromancy, so popular among your fellow German-speaking clerics, as you are to eradicate witchcraft from this valley.” Conrad bent low to kiss the archbishop’s proffered hand again and turned to leave, careful to ignore the archbishop’s taunting about the popularity among German clergy of invoking the dead to know the future. “Be careful, Father,” Arnošt repeated. “I hear that Fen’ka had special words for you in her curse yesterday afternoon.” The bishop chuckled as the priest closed the door behind him.

  Conrad saw the servants in the bishop’s house avert their eyes as he passed them on his way out. He sensed they might even be laughing at him after he left. Such insolence, he thought. These Czechs took nothing seriously. Rather than laugh at him, they should fear him. If not because he was a priest, then because he had been singled out by Fen’ka in her curse.

  He could not deny the truth of Archbishop Arnošt’s words. “Fen’ka did look at me. Straight at me from the fire,” he muttered as he paid the toll and walked back across the wooden bridge to the Old Town. “She promised me that the sky would be brass above me and the earth I walk on, iron. She cannot curse a priest of God,” he argued to himself, oblivious of the crowd around him on the bridge. He simply walked and expected everyone else to get out of his way. Which they did. No one wanted an encounter with the German priest if they could avoid it. Especially today. Even those who had eagerly listened to him as he pointed out the discoloration on Fen’ka’s backside and joined the mob in the square yesterday wanted nothing to do with him today. They were ashamed of their behavior, which had cost an old woman—even an unpopular old woman who might have been everything the priest claimed she was—her life. Word had traveled fast that the parish priest had been called to the archbishop’s office and probably rebuked. Arnošt was not known to tolerate such behavior. Neither was the emperor Charles, which was why the soldiers had been sent into the square yesterday. It was only Fen’ka’s bad luck that they had arrived too late. Maybe the bad luck of the townsfolk as well. They were unsure how the emperor would react today. Would he also rebuke the people of the Old Town as the archbishop had rebuked the priest? Or would the emperor bide his time, unwilling to openly confront the German colony outside the Old Town, behind Father Conrad’s church on the northeast side of the square? To rebuke the townspeople for burning the witch would be the same as openly rebuking the Germans, who were famous for such behavior in their hometowns and villages. Was that something the emperor wanted to risk at this point in his reign? No one was sure. They held their breath and hung their heads and avoided the priest who had started it all.