Part 7 (1/2)
Aside from what I'd seen in the movies, I knew nothing of lances or s.h.i.+elds. I really didn't want either of them- ' but the boss insisted. I picked both to be as light as possible.
”And what device on the s.h.i.+eld, sir?” All the s.h.i.+elds in the shop were white. Used s.h.i.+elds were rarely resold, since they usually were destroyed just before their owners were.
”Is there time?” I looked at Novacek. What with our frequent beer stops, it was now past noon.
A lot was left to be done, and he wanted to set out before first light.
”Have it done in an hour, sir, if it isn't too complicated.”
Novacek nodded affirmatively.
Maybe it was the beer and no food, or maybe it was something deep inside me that yelled, ”Do it!”
I said, ”A white eagle on a red field. Put a crown on the eagle.” The artist didn't react; I guessed the national insignia wasn't in common use yet. ”Is there a motto?”
”Poland is not yet dead.” He didn't react to that, either, because it was the first line of the national anthem and wouldn't be written for five and a half centuries.
The saddle and harness had been delivered to the stable and installed on the horse.
I managed to clamber aboard without doing anything too embarra.s.sing.
She was really an excellent horse: mild-mannered, obedient, not at all skittish. She was neck- trained and stirrup trained; you could guide her with your feet alone. Of course, there was nothing at all of the fierce war-horse about her, but that was fine by me.
We hadn't bought spurs yet-still another guild-and it was obvious that I would not need them.
Eventually, I rode back to the inn by the monastery with my new boss walking beside me. I wore a helmet, a full suit of chain-mail armor, and a huge sheepskin-lined red cloak. I had a horse and a saddle, plus a sword and lance and an audacious s.h.i.+eld. I would have made a truly splendid barbaric sight if my blue jeans had not been showing through my wrought-iron overalls. Also, I was in debt for more than a year's pay.
Chapter Seven
We were on the road an hour before gray dawn.
The last evening had been a frantic matter of wolfing down a meal, taking a last bath-it might be a while before the next-and collecting my gear. Father Ignacy came to my cell to wish me good- bye and G.o.dspeed. He gave me a letter of introduction and a list of Franciscan monasteries where I could scrounge a meal if I really got hard up. He also gave me a letter to be delivered to a Count Lambert at Okoitz.
”It's right on your way, and it will be worth at least a meal and a night's lodging to you. I carried it up from Hungary, but now you must complete its journey. G.o.d be with you, and know, my son, that you are always welcome here.” He smiled. ”All will be well with you, Sir Conrad. I can smell it.” The kid was waiting in the hallway with the clothes he'd borrowed. They were washed and folded. Some of them looked as if they'd been beaten between two bricks, but I didn't mention it.
He also had a carefully counted pouch of silver pennies.
”I thank you for the loan, Sir Conrad, and return your property. ”
”Thanks, kid. Look, why don't you keep the tennis shoes. They fit you.” ”Again, thank you, but they wouldn't go well with my ca.s.sock. Have you heard the news of the prost.i.tute Malenka?”
”No, what happened?”
”She has found a most permanent position with the innkeeper.”
”Indeed?”
”Yes. They've posted banns in the church and are to be married within the month.”
”I'll be d.a.m.ned!”
”Never that, Sir Conrad. With three pence in the right place, I believe you have saved a soul. Go with G.o.d.” There was something in the way he looked at me. Envy? Admiration? But that was impossible.
I reported to Boris Novacek at the inn, where he was still drinking. In the morning he surprised me by showing up in full armor himself. We ate a cold breakfast and left, taking with us two horses and a mule. I was on my red mare, I'd named her Anna after my lady of Zakopane-with my backpack serving as one saddlebag and a sack of food as the other. My s.h.i.+eld rode on top. My spear fit between a socket at my right toe and a clip on the saddlebow. Boris--we'd gotten on a first-name basis--when in private, over last night's beer-rode a gray gelding, with a pair of small but very heavy saddlebags behind him. He led a mule loaded with more supplies, a leather bag of beer, and some ”luxury” goods, sugar and pepper, each worth about one-fifth of an equivalent weight of silver. Both had been transported up from the Indies. We followed a trail just north of the Vistula River, heading west. Anna was walking sure-footedly on a track I could hardly see. She didn't shy at strange noises or blowing leaves. A fine animal. The plan was to follow the path until the river turned south and pick up another trail heading west again to the Odra River, then south into Moravia. With luck, and pus.h.i.+ng it, we hoped to reach the Moravian Gate, a low pa.s.s between the Carpathian and Sudeten mountains, on the evening of the fourth day, December 26.
After that it was to be an easy trip in warmer weather into Hungary, where we would buy 144 barrels of wine for delivery to the Bishop of Cracow in the spring. The purchase was for use in the ma.s.s and had nothing to do with the bishop's fondness for red Hungarian wines, of course. The sun was fully up when we pa.s.sed the Benedictine abbey at Tyniec, high on the white rocks across the river, but we saw not a single person from the time we left Cracow until ten o'clock in the morning.
With the sun up, Boris trotted up and rode beside me for a little conversation. Talking in the dark had been difficult because we couldn't see each other to gesticulate. He wanted to know about Arabic numbers, and I complied. Boris caught on to the salient points quickly. He was' amused by the idea of zero (”A special character that signifies nothing! Hah!”), but he soon saw its usefulness.
I drew the numbers in the air in front of me as though it were a blackboard, and he memorized their shapes without difficulty. He considered the idea of positional notation to be a brilliant creation.
The decimal point was still giving him trouble when we heard a rider galloping up from, behind.
We pulled off with me to the left side of the trail and Boris to the right to let the fellow through.
The man stopped abruptly between us and turned to my boss. He acted as if I wasn't there.
”You are Boris Novacek?”
”I am.”
”You are a thief! You run out on your debts!” he said with a thick German accent.
”Who are you and why do you call me a thief?”
”I call you thief because you do not pay the twenty-two thousand pence that you owe Schweiburger the cloth merchant! And I am the man he sold the debt to!” ”I do not owe you anything, for I do not know you. As for Schweiburger, my debt is not due until Christmas, and today is only December twenty-third!” The argument got more and more heated, and I became apprehensive. I was unsure of the legalities of the case, but it was obviously my duty to defend Boris if it came to that.
The man must have forgotten about me because while shaking one fist at my employer, he reached behind his back to draw his dagger. I didn't want to use my sword and kill him, so I grabbed him by the back of the neck and the belt and heaved him out of his saddle. My intention was to throw him over my head and onto the ground. Then I could take my lance and stop any real violence.
But he was much heavier than I had expected. He b.u.mped my lance free while he was airborne, and I tried to catch it with my right foot. But my high saddlebow and cantle had given me a false sense of security; it was quite possible to fall out sideways, which I did. I never claimed to be a horseman. I was sliding off the right side of the saddle, but my hands were full of creditor so that I couldn't grab the pommel. My tight foot was out of the stirrup, stopping my lance from falling.
Trying desperately to find the stirrup, I let the lance go. Then there was nothing left to do but think, Oh s.h.i.+t, why Me? I hit the ground in a tangle of arms, legs, and instruments of violence. The horses scattered, and we were untangled in an instant. He was on his feet and drawing his sword before I got up. Fortunately, his first blow was to my left, because I parried it before my sword was fully out of the sheath. I got my sword out in time to parry a vicious chop at my head. ”Hey! Stop!
I don't have an argument with you!” I shouted as I blocked a blow at my right side.
”b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” he yelled as he tried to bash my skull three more times. ”I'm not your enemy!” I parried a cut at my left leg. ”I was only trying to stop you from committing a murder!”
Keeping him from hitting me required no great skill. A parry almost always requires less motion than an attack and so is inherently faster. Also, my opponent had little skill and no ability at subterfuge. He telegraphed every blow long before it landed.
”You ride with thieves, you!” He sent two more whacks at my right leg. What the guy did have was a heavy sword and an unG.o.dly amount of stamina and persistence.
”Look, I don't want to hurt you!” He was bas.h.i.+ng -at my head again. I was once the best man on campus with a saber, but I hadn't worked out in six years. Even then, I had been used to parrying a fencing saber, which weighs less than a tenth of what this guy was swinging.
”You are Polack thief and liar like everybody you know!” He kept on swinging. ”Can't we stop and talk about this? Don't you ever get tired?” My right arm was getting numb.
”b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” he yelled, and started chopping faster. Had it been the twentieth century. I would have known that he was on some kind of dope. Finally he got one by me, hitting my right shoulder.