Oh God, Jesus and Mary, Marketa Lazarová wept and wept. Nothing would lift her spirits, nothing would cheer her, all her strength had left her. She was dressed like a farm maid, and languid was her step. See the path of her former walks, the rolling woodlands and rolling fields, the sloping landscape, the intimately familiar landscape, into whose uncomeliness God has conjured a sweet smile and a loveliness that will forever bring a blissful sigh from your breast. Your land, Marketa’s land! See the path of foolish fantasies, the trail of shame, the place of the capering tree, the confines of the field mouse, the little oak with the firepit, everything you once loved. All that is lost and all that returns. Rejoice, woe to those who cannot rejoice in the country of their youth. Woe to Marketa, for she walked and saw nothing and heard nothing, seeking a ring amidst the roots of desolation. She did not lift her head, and if a girlfriend who loved her very much had met her, she surely would not have recognized her.
On that day, spring was well on the way. The shepherds and the wayfarers told each other that it was finding its voice, for you could really hear the horns of the winds, blown by the angels of the sun. In the celestial meadows and the pastures clouds trundled along as livestock trundle in terrestrial meadows. A breeze was blowing, the earth was drying, and in the gullies and along the low fences the first blossoms were budding. To think of the dungeon during this time of awakening? Now that’s a sorry thing indeed, truly sad.
After about six hours of walking, Marketa came to a place where the road rose to a moderately elevated spot from where one could see the mountain on which stood the Cloister of the Assumption. An order of nuns resided there. More than one of these sisters was reputed to lead virginal lives of the utmost purity, and they were scrupulous in keeping the Lord’s commandments. Marketa went up a hill and then down again, as a valley lay between the hill and the holy mountain. She stopped before the gate, her eyes stupefied by its loveliness, her ears stupefied by its quietude and the graceful jingling of the bell.
Marketa prostrated herself and began to pray – listen to her prayers:
"O Lord, who have had mercy on so many different sinners, have mercy on Mikoláš. Send down an angel to touch his shoulder and rap on his helmet that encases such a stubborn head. Grant that he may accept Your love, grant that he overcome the lion cub in his heart and walk the path of righteousness. Then to me, O Lord, allow me to believe that at the end of my penance I shall look upon the threshold of paradise, a butterfly or a midge that, to gladden the soul, flies over the crocuses of hell."
As Marketa prayed while lying on the ground, the portress walked past her, and then when she was sitting with the other sisters, she said:
"Sisters, dear sisters, a girl lies prostrate outside the gate at the eastern entrance. I saw that she has peasant clothes yet an unpeasant-like face. It must be some penitent whose confessor has surely sent her to weep before our sanctuary. Let us go and ask the mother superior whether she finds her agreeable enough for us to bring her into the church or to one of the cells."
Two or three nuns immediately left the others and went to the mother superior of the Cloister of the Assumption and told her all that the portress had said. The mother superior of whom we speak was named Beatrice. She was no more than twenty-six years old and appeared to be rather high-born, for every one of her years counted for two as far as wisdom and her strength of mind were concerned. The archbishop of Regensburg once heard her sweet speech, lightly dismissed her tender age, and she became the mother superior of the Cloister of the Assumption three years prior. It was an unexpected stroke of good fortune. I must say, she’s quite the mother superior! I am fond of her!
Lest you think her gracefulness somehow detracted from her strictness, she had her eyes wide open. Under her roof, God and His sweet reason ruled. Nothing unexpected and shocking happened here. The garden slowly grew, there was peace and the comforts of peace.
The sisters of the order came to Prioress Beatrice on that day and said to her:
"Prioress, before the cloister gate lies a girl, and she is reluctant to enter. What should we tell her? She does not enter nor does she go away."
"Tell her to come in."
Having heard the prioress’s reply, the sisters went to Marketa, and lifting her up they tried to make her behave sensibly. She walked at the side of the two nuns, but neither of them realized they were escorting Marketa Lazarová. She was so unlike herself! She was so unlike the type of radiant girl who comes to have a look at the place where she will soon be a nun herself. Marketa found herself in a room, and everyone was interrogating her and bombarding her with questions. Two or three crones with the impious faces of idolaters were sternly grilling her as if they were the very scribes of God. And the others? They were as cordial as girlfriends tend to be. Marketa was ashamed to say her name. Yet there was no need for her to say it. The prioress asked the sisters to leave, and after they had done so and she was alone with Marketa, she said: "I recognized you, Marketa Lazarová, the instant your lips stopped in the shape of your name. You have overcome your shame. This suffices for God, who indicated to me who you were, and it doubly suffices for me. I am His servant. Do not speak of your transgressions. I know of them. The Cloister of the Assumption is in the land of both Obořiště and Roháček. We have already learned of what has happened. Alas, I am not a confessor and shall offer you neither solace nor a place here. Go to your bishop or to his vicars and ask them what you must do."
"Prioress," replied Marketa, "I hear that your voice is full of mercy, speak more, speak for a little while longer, for none speaks to me but damnation and sinful love."
"You unfortunate girl, what are you saying? Are you still the same girl that you were?"
"It is so," replied Marketa, "I have not uprooted carnal love from my heart." Saying this, the forlorn bandit's mistress burst into tears and wished to be shackled and cast into the dungeon.
The prioress took a step back and made the sign of the cross. She then sought wisdom in prayer. She now rose from the prie-dieu and said:
"What do you need, Marketa Lazarová? Oh, you desperate girl, you call for punishment? Do you, who consumes sorrow as if it were bread, want to be goaded by tortures? What kind of rat would you have me set loose in your jail? Begone! God has denied you true repentance and endowed you with consciousness of your guilt. A consciousness whose teeth are sharper than the teeth of the vermin that torment prisoners. Your tears defile you. Call upon God’s help. Let Him grant you contrition, without which there is no forgiveness. Let Him bestow it on you, let Him grant it to you!"
Who would like to hear more of this conversation? No one? The gist of it all is God! But you and I do not believe in this sovereign lord of times. In an eternal night, a night interminable, was this Word conceived, and it rules over souls that tremble at its sound, as pigeons and fowl tremble at the approach of a hawk!
O you of doubt, even you pale, even you shudder? Fear not! Heaven is empty. The infinite is a void. The infinite, this madhouse of the gods, on whose periphery wanders a star. We have shown compassion to all suffering, and night and day we contemplate a certainty that would be as powerful as the demented voice of poets. Ah, you lunatics! What horror you have populated time with, what terror you have sown into the subconscious of little children. What a rampage of doubt! Will you forever be asking why a rooster’s eye is round? Why the shaggy creature at your feet has the attributes of a dog? Will you forever be observing the cradle and the grave? Will you forever be speaking of mystery while neglecting the things of life?
Say what you will, heaven is empty! Empty as empty can be!
Prioress Beatrice spoke with Marketa late into the night. When it was time for everyone to go to sleep, the cenobite took the sullen girl by the hand and led her to a cell that was the smallest of all the rooms. When they went in, she pointed to the bed and told Marketa:
"Stay here until I call you." Then she locked the door from the outside and took the key.
Shunning the bed, Marketa lay on the ground; she lay on the hard stones, but God, as the story goes, sent her to sleep.
No one told the nuns who had come and who was sleeping in the Cloister of the Assumption, but the talk started up all by itself, and it became common knowledge that the poor vagabond and penitent was Lazar’s daughter. Some of the sisters spoke ill of her and others felt sorry for her. The poor things, what do they know about lovemaking!
How fortunate that our tale does not end on a note of sorrow and resignation. How fortunate that Marketa's torpor does not last. How fortunate that Mikoláš is planning new campaigns. How fortunate, and how regrettable, for what he is planning is more lawlessness.
One day followed another. Mikoláš slept in the forest and ate horseflesh. One night, the fifth, he set out for the place where Kozlík kept his cache. He scanned the area as he walked, carefully crossing the bog, and reached the place. He cleared away earth and stones and lifted and dragged up from the depths a great, heavy trunk. The brigand’s face blazed in the glare of the metal and the precious stones. The faint light of a star kindled this glow. Starlight and jewels! The brigand plunged a furry arm down to the bottom of the trunk and filled a pouch with ducats. Then he swept everything back in place and pressed down to shut the lid, for the treasure, however diminished, had gained in volume. His work done, he made his way back, careful not to leave any tracks. Finally he was back on his horse.
That night was his last in Šerpin Holt. At daybreak Mikoláš rode out on the open road that led north. He waited there for a burgher's cart to present itself. He waited for some portly townsman afflicted with persistent coughing since morning to come across his sword. If only! Around seven he happened on a runt whose cloak was no longer than the shirt of an unchristened babe, who didn’t even have a little sword and was sleepy to boot. Mikoláš passed him by. But when he encountered a stout fellow, his spirits lifted, and he struck the man's horse on the rear until it began to squat.
"Get down, my town-dwelling neighbor," he told the hefty gent, "I require your cloak, your top boots, and your hat! Dismount, I want you to hand me your filly’s bridle. Take this pair of horses and three ducats for your trouble. Well then, get on with it, do as I’ve asked. See that thicket, use it as cover so you won’t feel ashamed."
"Who in the world are you?" asked the rider, and his face displayed irritation rather than fear. But Mikoláš whipped out his sword and repeated his request with such firmness that our townsman slid down from his horse like a weasel. Although he had a hunting knife and was perhaps not unfamiliar with the art of combat, such ruthlessness and warfare emanated from his adversary that it was easy to see he was a man who would not scruple to leave next to the hat he requested the lifeless body of its owner. The traveler then gave Mikoláš all he wanted. He was a merchant, so he took the money and said to himself: “My word, this nonsense isn't such a bad deal! I’ll buy myself a cloak down to my heels and still have enough to buy gold brocade for the wife. If only more such good fellows were about. They pay in gold while they look as worn as a copper. They pay in gold and even want to fight you over it. Ah, you warped rube, if this is how you conduct business your little pieces of gold won't bring you more than a rooster." The merchant went on talking to himself in this way as he led Mikoláš’s animals by the bridle, having lost all interest in swinging himself up into the saddle.
Yet Mikoláš rode on his merry way. Did he now look like a merchant? Well, just a little bit, not so you’d notice, he was oblivious to the fact that the air of the brigand wafted from him and that he reeked of the forest for two miles around. He quickly rode on, making the rounds of inns where horses were changed, of cabins sordid and drear at crossroads, of shanties above which one forest merged with the next. He was looking for henchmen, desperadoes and blackguards with the law on their tail.
No matter the times, these places were brimming with such types. They play dice, or with their chin in their hand they stare into the flames of the fireplace. The innkeeper sits before his gate and his wife plucks a chicken that didn’t turn out well. Such a sly landlady, who knows from what clutch the chicken has come. Yet let her be, I like this inn. I see a blackened ceiling, a proper table, a spacious hearth, and next to it a tray with baby geese pecking their way out of their eggs. Mikoláš stopped before the gate and dismounted. The innkeeper ran to meet him, and as is the custom of such people, he inquired of his heart who this might be. He asked and replied, to his wonder: he is a prince, and to his incredulity: he is an adventurer.
Mikoláš took no more notice of the innkeeper than he would of a speck and entered the room. Stopping before some ne'er-do-wells, of whom there were three, he said:
"Why are you hiding? What trespasses weigh on you?"
They began to reply as if they were honest men.
"Eh," he interrupted, preventing them from saying more, "what do your sins matter to me! I see the scabs and hunger rashes covering you, I see how your jaw trembles at the thought of food. Here’s a handful of gold coins. Take them! But I do not hand out ducats for nothing. I want you to serve me for two weeks. I intend to attack the donjon of Boleslav!" Then Mikoláš said his name. It took the men by surprise, and they were seized by fear. Fear of the king and fear of the brigands. Little did it matter. Would someone starving refuse the offer of food? If gold is there for the taking, would you turn it down? No! All three pledged their obedience to Mikoláš and followed behind him.
Using the unsavory recruiting tactics of the crimp, Mikoláš pressed twenty-three men into his service. They made a horrifying impression. One had the face of a corpse and another the face of a raven. One was emaciated down to the bone, and another was corpulent and potbellied. Mikoláš laughed seeing these soldiers rescued from the gallows, these fiendish murderers who would literally go to extremes. Did they have anything to lose? Not a single one of them had more than a neck that had been surrendered long ago.
And a soul?
Desist in the loveliness of your song, say these louts, for nothing at all will come of your singing. The soul is invisible, but hunger kneads the gut and ties it up in great knots. What use do we have for some ethereal dove whose wings are not real wings, whose beak is not a real beak? We don’t believe in any of that!
In addition to the bugs and the squalor we cannot deny these damned souls a measure of self-esteem, but I am afraid that not even this sign of a free spirit will secure their reputation. Their reason has fled and lunacy taken up residence in them.
Mikoláš led them into Šerpin Holt and established a camp at the place he and his brothers had agreed upon. The brigand was no longer behaving like a brigand. Do you think he’s become a better person? No, he hasn’t, yet conflicts and squabbles were best avoided. He sent his henchmen to distant markets, and they bought heifers, calves, and wethers. Quite a few of them turned out to be cowherds and butchers and cooks!
Dear gentlemen, tender or tough, it all disappeared behind their fangs. The fire warmed them, and because men aren’t loners, a camaraderie developed such as one finds among soldiers. Who knows? On every face a glint of beauty appears, and perhaps they aren’t as villainous as we think.
In the meantime, the final thread was unwinding from the spindle of events. Lady Kateřina was fingered and taken captive. It happened near the village of Písečná Lhota in the Turnov region. Taken prisoner along with Kateřina were several of the little girls and her son, Václav, the youngest of Kozlík’s children.
How did this happen? The lady had fled north, following her son’s will, and she took refuge in an area of gorges and grottoes. As no one knew her in these parts, they could walk along the roads and sleep in the homes of kindhearted folk. On the tenth day they came to a millhouse at the edge of a forest. It was a good house and a good mill flanked by a forebay with water running through a sluice onto the turning wheel. The miller was dawdling in front of the house. He was a poor man with a wife and a single servant. His mill looked like a convent for two nuns. He greeted them in the name of the Lord, and Lady Kateřina praised his house and said:
"People come to you to mill their grain and sleep in your home. Do us that kindness and let us sleep in the room where they sleep. We have been walking for a long time and the children are little." Then the miller’s wife came out and led them into the house, doing all that you yourselves would do.
Asking for a night’s lodging in those olden days was nothing unusual. They made themselves at home. No sooner had the kids crossed themselves than they were fast asleep, breathing like angels after a good day's work.
Lady Kateřina was certainly clear-eyed about the world, but this house was so pleasant. The clacking of the mill could be heard, and all around everything was covered with a white powder. Who could be afraid?
Lady Kateřina was removing cloth after cloth, and now the precious fabric was visible. It was torn, of course, but a magnificent color shone beneath the layer of mud. She unwound the top cloth and the one beneath it, and then an exquisite fibula fell out of the clothing. It hit the ground and chimed.
"Miller’s wife," said Kateřina, "pick up that brooch and keep it. I want to give it to you for the kindness you have shown to me and the children." The peasant woman lifted the jewel, turned it over in her hand, and from then on her speech faltered and her gaze slid down the walls and wandered over the ground. She then went out to her husband and started to speak:
"What do you say to this, she’s no village woman off to see her relatives, she’s not just any old so-and-so!"
They consulted for a good long time as to what they ought to do, and from this council emerged a diabolical resolution indeed. Were these folks wicked or not? I don’t know, but it sure looks like something has put a scare into them.
That very night the miller got on his horse, which was truly not used to carrying a rider. Where might he find a saddle? Pah, the good peasant clung to the halter strap and rode best as he could bareback. He reached the Turnov gates by ten o’clock and called out to the gatekeeper:
"Gatekeeper, let me in!" Naturally, that was the wrong thing to say, for why would anyone let such a shabby sight into the town at night. Let him speak his mind at the little gate and then let him go back.
"This very evening," said the miller, "a lady came to my mill claiming to be a peasant woman. But she isn’t! Cross my heart, sir, I’ll give you the shirt off my back if I’m wrong. She’s no widow off to burden her relations. I saw right through her! She’s some kind of crazy woman who’s forgotten she's a noble and goes traipsing through the woods with children in tow. And if she isn’t a lunatic, then, upon my honor, she’s a smuggler, a lady smuggler that is, since the person who came to us is a woman. She’s draped all over with jewels, she’s got mud in her hair, and she's just such a bizarre sight, as I would be if I had a sword and buckler made of gold."
When the peasant had said his piece, he once again mounted his beast, which had been standing and swishing its tail, and hastened homeward twice as fast as he had made for town.
The gatekeeper at the town gate was a very important figure compared to the millers who carted flour into town, but not so important that he could completely ignore folks' prattle. Early the next day he went to the district scribe and related all he had heard the night before. Ah, the scribe of Turnov, he’s just like the wind. He’s so small and daft, and he went running back and forth. He had one quill in his hand and another behind his ear, and as soon as he took something into his hand it would fall to the ground. He had a purse at his waist and a dagger, too, of course, but don’t think for a second that any stabbing was done with it, no, it’s an instrument of law and order. The scribe only cut his quills with it, absolutely nothing else.
After the scribe heard what had happened, he ran out and then came back in again, opened a window, and shouted at a coachman standing in the courtyard of the district seat to get moving and hitch up the horses at once. "When are you going to drive up?" he called to him after a while, and no sooner had he spoken than he forgot about everything and continued to write and write.
Oh, the hapless scribe, hapless his crazed head. Many years ago he came across a lady who had unexpectedly found herself in difficult straits, and he presented her with his little horse. Good Lord, what a marvelous deed that was! The outfit he was presently wearing was given as a reward, and he was twice praised for his generosity and received a cash payment on top of it all. So naturally the scribe hoped that Lady Kateřina was no less than an errant duchess.
Well, may the Lord God grant him good health, he was now on his way to Písečná Lhota in a massive rattletrap.
But what’s the point of going into detail; a tale that drones on is not really worth its salt.
The scribe endeavored to persuade Lady Kateřina to get in the carriage and leave with him, but she refused so resolutely that he was taken aback. Doubt stole into his heart that this vagabond was a duchess, and he shouted as scribes were wont. It did no good, and he returned alone. Now overcome with anger, he went to the town's captain and gave him a detailed account of everything that had transpired, and above all, everything that he had said and intended.
So it happened that bailiffs were sent after Lady Kateřina, and they caught her on the forest road, for after the scribe’s departure the lady had immediately left the treacherous mill. She was now sitting in jail while the townspeople and the country lads repeated her name over and over. Unfortunate woman, unfortunate children!
Time passes quickly, and before you know it the trees are blossoming and the birds are returning. Three weeks went by, and the day we have been waiting for was now near. Kozlík’s sons gathered per their agreement. They came with their wives and their children and their minions. Their minions? They had done the same as Mikoláš, but the number of men they had assembled was small indeed. Yet they brought a good many swords and hatchets. Hatchets, for Mikoláš had so ordered. They waited an entire day. Mikoláš inspected the horses’ shoeing, harnesses, reins, and again the swords. He tried every weapon, took every single one in hand, and any deemed of no use and too worn was tossed away.
Jan was the eldest brother, yet in matters of war and raids Mikoláš was more accomplished. His foresight was unparalleled. He was the bravest, and he was designated the leader of the force.
"I will not follow Jan’s plan," he said before the gathering, "we go to the town at daybreak and en masse. I and five of my men will go before the gate, and when the drawbridge comes down we will overpower the guards. Then the way to the tower will be clear."
The troops, or rather the rabble the rebels had assembled, lay in their tents peering through the openings, through which smoke escaped. They looked downcast and not unlike the birds of prey that roost in the woods. They were motionless, and many a one of those cads was saying his final farewells to the countryside and to this oh so lovely world. And it’s still a very lovely world whether you’re suffering privation, hounded from place to place, or facing a hundred warrants.
A downpour has drenched your head? You're hungry? You'd like a whore? My good gentlemen, everything will work out! One day the jailer will lose his key, and the holy gatekeeper of paradise will clap his hands. And as soon as he claps the sun will come out and this human kennel will be beautiful once more and you will again find your little lamb. We will again taste of the bountiful fruits of the land in places without number and satisfy our hunger with a red apple. Listen carefully to what is said! We will again herd sheep that traverse the sky, and our steps will keep pace with torrents.
So why be harsh with the vagabond, why be so harsh with this divine world?
Oh, do not be, just relax and enjoy, though how will you ever escape from this scoundrel whose will is like an axe? You’ll find it very difficult to refuse him a small service without getting run through. Yesterday one good fellow took it into his head to escape and went about it so clumsily he was caught. What became of him? Just keep in mind that it was Mikoláš who ordered his execution. At that moment all of us rued the abundance of food and felt like guests at a posh wedding, morsels stuck in our throats.
It was rather late indeed for such reflections. Now there was no choice but to mount the horse.
At that moment the Angelus bells were ringing in the villages, but a sparrow hawk was flying over Šerpin Holt describing a circle like the clapper of a bell. Mikoláš’s forces were on the edge of the forest and saying goodbye. Farewell, farewell! The women remained in camp and would wait until the men returned, and if they did not return, they would flee to Saxony. The goodbyes now said, the host rode off. The troops were heading out of the forest, but Mikoláš turned back. He sought out one of the little boys he had befriended and told him:
"Jeník, if I do not return by evening tomorrow, find Marketa Lazarová and tell her what my brothers who do return say." Then Mikoláš accepted his promise, and in no time he had caught up with his men.
They advance. They advance along grassy knolls over which runs a frightened hare, past a poplar with a chirping bird, along a watercourse with rushes swaying. They walk and trot and then a gallop tosses the mare’s mane and rocks the sword. The sky sparkles with stars, and fleecy clouds extend from place to place, now reaching Orion. Dressed in starlight, the hills wear a sorrel cloak, a cloak and tunic the color of fear.
I fear for this expedition. Shadows teem and wage war beneath the horses’ legs. The armed men are elongated and grotesque. Who stretches out their limbs? Death!
Now they are in front of the town with daybreak near. See Jan’s unit and his younger brother’s unit.
Now they have clustered together, now Mikoláš and his horsemen break off, now they ride to the gate.
Now he has stopped and stands still. His legs are like legs of brass, legs of iron, his arms bulge, rippled with muscle. His legs and his arms are like active lion cubs, like sculpted limbs. He slowly advances, his eyes dart more quickly than a hawk’s, and he sees better. He sees the guard who keep watch on all sides. The brigands and those who are with them wait in a niche in the rampart, pressed up against the wall, and they can see Mikoláš but not the one who is posted before him in the turret.
See the brigand raise the horn to his lips, and now hear it peal, brooking no protest and no delay. Mikoláš calls out, and then the gatekeeper can be seen descending, his peaceful face appearing four times in a window, lower and lower.
Now the drawbridge falls and the key rattles in the lock.
Mikoláš did not spur his horse, he did not whip it to run – he rode in slowly. He came right up to the gatekeeper and his subalterns without so much as a word to alarm them. And yet alarmed they were! And yet they trembled at the sight of this face that neither smiled nor scowled.
Like a souse who does not like the first sips of wine, like a gambler who husbands his strength in a prolonged game, like a steer reluctant and resistant, like a buzzard hovering without moving its steel pinions, like a spectator who shunts aside what is obstructing his view, like a teacher scolding a pupil, nothing worse, and in no way violent, the brigand touched the gate guard with his sword. The poor man fell face first to the ground. His cry startled the pigeons. They flew upward, flapping their wings, and circled overhead.
The canopy of quiet was rent. Shouting came from all sides. Men-at-arms came running from inside the tower and, suddenly, the guard was there.
The town captain was more prudent than the brigands! The captain knew your deeds and had taken everything you might do into account. He knew you and he knew outlaws like you. He slept and little did you occupy his mind, but those trusted boys of his, this sleepy and beardless guard rubbing their eyes, would keep a lookout for him. And they would die for him. They had already sniffed something fishy in the air, their lances twitched like the ears of a rabbit, and now they grabbed their swords and were already riding out.
Mikoláš looked toward the gate; the drawbridge was still down and glittering like a river. It was empty! Where was your mercenary army? Running away!
Then came the sound of a joyous bell, ringing and clanging. This was not the Angelus bell, not a festival chiming.
That beatific sound, that joyful sound, it was the bell of oblivion, the bell of nothingness, of death! Who was ringing it? A young boy. He saw the surly horses and the scornful gaze of the brigand who slaughtered without anger or fear. The patron saint of bastions, observation posts, and towers, the patron saint of walled cities breathed courage into his heart. He sensed that the moment had arrived for these boys who were becoming men. He wanted to forestall the murdering of innocents, and he rocked the bell. He hung by the bell rope, swinging, and the clapper swung with him. It was quite a performance, such a sweet playing, a veil on the face of the fury who lops off heads over and over.
See the blood spurt! The bristling moustache and the bared teeth of the slayer! See the sword wet with the warmth of bodies. Mikoláš had not even a moment to turn around. He backed away, defended himself, and as his horse stepped backward it crushed the limbs of those who had fallen. The brigands were giving way, but the gateway darkened with a new battle, darkened with the horsemen whom Mikoláš’s brothers had driven into the bottleneck with drawn swords.
The rear or the brigand’s horse collided against this pack. This horse could not move forward and it could not move back. Once again Mikoláš heard the bell, once again he saw that good fellow escaping on the white horse he had given him, a horse more precious than the rest, once again he saw him dashing over the grass, leaving the town behind, or was he having visions?
It had only been an illusion, for in the gateway they were fighting head to head, and the drawbridge was being raised.
Ah, head to head, and in every one of those heads was an ebullient brain, and into every brain was sunk the claw of mortal terror.
Jan, who was three horse-lengths behind his brother, slew a henchman, and when he killed him and when his horse fell, there was an opening, and another brother was able to wedge his stallion in along Mikoláš’s flank and so afford this architect of bloodshed a chance to exhale and catch his breath. Then he gave a yell, as do those whose livers are being pecked by the beak of madness, and his sword struck with renewed vigor. A breeze dispersed the desperate man’s shout, and he pushed his way forward completely alone. He was pale, drenched in blood and enervating sweat. He was terrible!
And then amidst this utter chaos, into this tumult, burst bells of alarm, and a hue and cry rose up as if God had placed a hand over His sun. The gate shook, the town was roused, and a voice was heard shouting: fire, fire!
Oh, what fools! A whole row of guard turned around, the halberdiers tossed their halberds aside, the soldiers dwindled, and the way cleared more and more. Those who were left of Mikoláš’s putative accomplices cowered against the walls like frightened rats. They wept over their villainy and pleaded with a burgher standing nearby to vouch that they had entered the town against their will.
"There were thirty-nine of us and everyone ran off, only we pitiful few were driven by the bandits to the gate. Those who fell were slain by the bandits, not by the town's defenders. They’re demons, sir!"
The burgher, his hand on his chin, nodded at them, but suddenly there was another uproar, and it was best for the good barber to make himself scarce.
Mikoláš and his brothers rode through the town up to the prison tower. They encountered a few chubby men running with their hats in their hands and their skivvies sagging, and they encountered stout gents brandishing canes and shouting out challenges that no one paid any attention to.
"You imbeciles, do as I say and you’ll save our fair town from ruin. But may you be burned to ashes, you ignorant rabble. How angry I am! I’m angry at you, and I’m going to scoot on home to look after my own roof. Mark my words! It’s the only one in this entire dungheap of yours that’s worth a damn."
Ah, our good little capon pressed a pail into his wife’s hand, and together they ordered about a pair of crackpots who owed them money.
The guard, once defeated and in disarray, were only half-hearted in their pursuit of the brigands. It so happened that no one was a match for Mikoláš’s ferocity and the ferocity of his brothers. Nothing would help but divine providence, unfathomable as a yawning abyss. I see the poor wretch’s end. I see the death of his brothers.
When the brigands had made their way to the prison tower, there were enough soldierly types to keep them from gaining entry. The door gleamed with iron. They struck at it! They openly flaunted their rabid madness. The sublime madness of a vain and futile struggle. With a cohort of men in armor at their backs, with the points of lances almost touching their bodies, while the royal captain girded himself up, while a unit of cavaliers rode up to pin them to the ground with their swords, at such a moment they still had thoughts of attack. What mad folly! For the last time does their armor adorn them. For the last time will they lift their swords. One more blow, just one more little blow.
What is left for me to tell? They were set upon. See the first, the second, the third onslaught. Sword follows sword. The fulguration of swords, the swoosh of swords. I see Death get on a horse. She mounts from the left side, and the judges hold the stirrup for her. Your death, brigands. Your death, Mikoláš. There you stand, back against the prison doorpost, and your head tips and falls to your shoulder. Your arm is heavier and heavier. You are flagging, your eyes glazed over. All becomes darkness, and darkness reigns. Darkness, the center of God’s pupil, darkness, a vast darkness, a point more dense than that of the astronomers. I hear the clarion of time, of galloping time that pushes us on. Everywhere over the town hangs a riot of color, but you don’t see it. Dawn is breaking, Roháček is ablaze with the rays of the rising sun. Look, it has already vaulted onto the horizon, but you are blind. Are you dying? No! You are not, for a death more ignominious awaits you. See the crossbeam of the gallows! See it, open your eyes!
At that moment a trumpet sounded. Royal men-at-arms were arriving. And as the wind tosses a mote of dust to and fro, as the wolf scatters a herd, as the congregants in a cathedral press against the wall to give the bishop room to pass, so did the ragtag soldiers assailing the wounded men make way. The trumpeter’s instrument resounded like the sun. On its neck fluttered a pennon upon which the king’s insignia alternated with purple. Such men-at-arms were many, but the king’s insignia increased their number tenfold. They proceeded without haste. They drew near, but who was that standing before them? Who was standing against them?
I see bloody figures lying before a door with hardly so much as a dent in it. I see one brigand trying to get to his feet, I see another tottering along the wall. I see heads split open and blood dripping from wounds. I see the annihilation and death of those who were once brigands and who waged battles of rebellion.
Meanwhile, Kozlík in his cell heard the bell ringing and the commotion. He recognized his dear sons! His heart ached with hope, he laughed, shook the bars violently and beat on the door, shouting: "I’m here! I’m here and I’m waiting!"
Deep in the prison darkness, Alexandra was also listening.
Yet the din subsided. Silence fell. Inside the tower Kozlík put his ear to the wall and listened for the pounding and the rapid footfalls of men in armor. Nothing. A moment of silence passed, a baleful silence, a whistling silence, as if the listener were falling into an abyss.
In vain do you wait, O knight, in vain does your heart twitch with hope. Your sons have been trounced and they lie at the soldiers’ feet. Their helmets are strewn before the door and rattle on the cane of a foppish burgher. Their limbs are splayed in the dust, and the town rabble pushes and pulls at them as they please. Just listen, you battlefield magician, you poet of savage scenes, you too guileless gambler, you pompous ass, you cutthroat, you foolish madman! Just listen, your ear to the blackened wall, your finger between your teeth, a buzzing in your head and in your heart, in your heart a thimbleful of blood that no longer surges. Listen for the glorious sound of the trumpet. Now it sounds, now it sobs, sobs, sobs. The end of the tale is near, and sweet solace alights on an empty bowl of events like a dove bringing consolation to a widow.
Death! Ah, that crazed name of vanity that ever terrifies. Your word is worth nothing to me, you glib idiot, I am afraid of death, terrified of it, and with everything I have I will turn to prayer! "The hell with your endless chatter. Life and death. These are but two sides of the same coin I use to make my purchases. God grant our customers good health, for they shall have fear only as long as they have life!"
We will all, late one night on a chilly watch, we will all lie beneath the pallid moon and whistle our little tune through the narrow slit between our parted teeth, and you know well that it cannot be averted. Dear gentlemen, observe how abject and exhausted Godmother Death is herself. On her claw I see a tumor exuberant with life!
And will no one be able to resist her? Have you ever heard of her vanquishing lovers? No! You haven’t! Behold the Angel of the Annunciation, his face ruddy! His body magnificent and laugh full-throated. He slinks behind waves of bushes, in bedchambers, by rivers, in the snow and in the sand, everywhere the impressions of human bodies are found, there he lingers, often with right hand raised and the palm of the left placed upon his heart. He speaks the words of life. He loves men and women, but utterly detests virginity and the isolating of males. Dear gentlemen, the adventures of Marketa Lazarová are not over! She will not die but be delivered of a son, who will be christened with the name of Václav. This Václav will have six sons. Burjan’s children, Jan’s children, the children of the other brothers, even the great many illegitimate ones, will likewise be endowed with progeny. Yet it pleases me most to say that the uncle of these children, Kozlík’s youngest son, remained alive, and fertility would not be denied him either.