The Mercenary’s Purse

Bohemia, summer of the year 1402

The rain drummed on the shingle roof of the Golden Deer inn, turning the path outside the windows into a stream of mud. The pub was dark. Only a few tallow candles struggled with the smoke from the fireplace, and the scent of wet cloaks, beer, and roasted onions wafted between the tables.

Santa Claus moved his tankard closer to him and peered into its dark surface.

“So you’re really leaving?”

The man across from him nodded.

His name was Jan z Křinec, but few people called him that. To most people, he was simply One-Eyed Jan. Years ago, an arrow took his left eye somewhere near the borders of Lusatia, and since then he has worn a leather band over his face.

“I’m leaving.”

“To whom?”

“To Margrave Jošt.”

Nicolas snorted.

“Until yesterday you claimed that Jošt was a traitor.”

“Until yesterday I didn’t have an empty purse.”

That was an answer that was hard to argue against.

The innkeeper walked past them with a pitcher of beer, and somewhere in the corner a group of foremen burst out laughing. Otherwise, it was quiet.

It was getting dark outside the windows.

Mikulas took a leather pouch from his belt and poured its contents onto the table.

A few groschen.

Two smaller silver coins.

And one foreign coin that he had acquired years ago from a German merchant.

Nothing more.

That was all he had.

John looked at the coins.

“How many do you have?”

“Enough for three weeks.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“You eat too much.”

Micah couldn’t help but smile.

This was their old game.

They argued about everything.

About the prices of horses.

About wine.

About women.

About the king.

About war.

And now they argued about how many days a person could survive on a few groschen.

Jan reached into his purse and put another coin on the table.

Groš.

Freshly minted.

St. Nicholas recognized it immediately.

Kutná Hora.

Silver.

A good coin.

“Is that a deposit?”

“It’s a reminder.”

“What?”

“That loyalty is a beautiful thing. But it won’t satisfy you.”

There was thunder outside.

The innkeeper stoked the fire.

A wet log crackled in the fireplace.

“Do you know what’s strange?” said Jan after a while.

“No.”

“When we were young, we thought that wars were fought by kings.”

“And they don’t?”

“No.”

He pointed to the table.

At the pile of coins.

“They’re fought by these little round things.”

Nicolas was silent.

Because he knew he was right.

Ten years ago he would have given his life for King Wenceslas.

Five years ago too.

Today?

Today he was not sure.

The king was sitting somewhere in the castle.

The gentlemen were arguing.

The Margraves argued.

Everyone claimed that he was fighting for the good of the country.

And yet they all wanted the same thing.

Power.

And money.

While ordinary soldiers stood in the mud and waited to see who would pay them their next paycheck.

“Do you remember Benešov?”

Jan nodded.

How could he forget.

The fortress was burning.

Two days without water.

A third day without food.

And then the messenger came.

He didn’t bring reinforcements.

He didn’t bring orders.

He brought a chest.

A small oak chest full of coins.

And within an hour they were all ready to fight again.

It was that simple.

“See.”

Jan tapped the table.

“They’re not banners.”

Another tap.

“They’re not coats of arms.”

And one more thing.

“They’re coins.”

Santa picked one up.

It was cold.

Heavier than he remembered.

How many times had he held one like that?

A thousand times?

Ten thousand times?

He used them to pay for a night’s stay.

Food.

Shoes.

A new belt.

A doctor.

A grave for a friend.

A ransom.

Beer.

Life.

Death.

In the end, everything always ended with coins.

“And yet you leave.”

Jan nodded.

“Yes.”

“Even though you don’t know if Jošt is right.”

“I don’t know.”

“And you don’t mind?”

One-eyed John thought for a while.

A long time.

So long that Nicholas almost expected some wisdom.

Finally, the former soldier just smiled.

“Do you know what I learned?”

“What?”

“That the dead are usually right.”

“What do you mean?”

“The living argue about it. The dead already know.”

They both laughed.

Too loud.

Maybe because there was more truth to it than they would have liked.

The rain slowly stopped.

The first stars appeared among the clouds outside the windows.

Jan finished his beer.

He got up.

He threw his cloak over his shoulders.

And took his purse in his hand.

The same purse that had traveled with him half a kingdom.

There were only a few coins in it.

And yet it represented his entire future life.

“Well, goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

“When I come back in a year, you buy the beer.”

“When you come back in a year, I buy the whole barrel.”

Jan smiled.

Then he opened the door.

The cool evening air blew in.

And he disappeared into the darkness.

Santa Claus was left sitting alone.

A few groschen in front of him.

All his possessions.

All his future.

He reached out, poured the coins back into the bag, and held it tightly. he pledged.

In the morning he will have to decide.

Like thousands of other men in the turbulent years of Wenceslas IV’s reign.

Whom to serve.

Whom to trust.

And for whose coins to fight.

Because sometimes the fate of a kingdom is hidden in the crown of a king.

And sometimes in just a few silver groschen at the bottom of an ordinary mercenary’s purse.

The Kutná Hora Merchant’s Month

Kutná Hora, autumn of the year of our Lord 1402

It was warm in the house at the Golden Grosz.

The stove was roaring.

Two wax candles were burning on the table, their light reflecting off the metal scales that lay between the two men.

Not one he did not look like a warrior.

Neither carried a sword.

And yet both knew that dangerous times were coming.

Matthew of Kutná Hora took a groschen in his hand and placed it on the scales.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Carefully.

As always.

Opposite him sat Conrad of Nuremberg, a merchant of fabrics and spices.

“That’s all?”

Matěj nodded.

“For today’s trip, yes.”

Konrád sighed.

“Two years ago, I would have carried three times as much.”

“Two years ago, times were different.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

Matěj smiled.

The buyers often complained.

Sometimes with good reason.

Sometimes out of habit.

This time, however, he knew that his friend was right.

A few years ago, the journey between Kutná Hora and Nuremberg was almost boring.

The toll was paid.

The toll was paid. toll.

One ​​gunman was hired.

And one could set off.

Today?

Days it was necessary to hire four.

Sometimes six.

And even that wasn’t enough.

“How much did the protection cost you?”

“Twelve groschen.”

Matěj stopped.

“Twelve?”

“And I bargained.”

“Last year eight.”

“I know.”

“Forearm five.”

“I know too.”

Konrad took a sip of wine.

“People feel something is happening.”

“What?”

“They don’t know.”

“That’s not the answer.”

“But it is.”

The merchant shrugged.

“They don’t know the cause. They only see the consequences.”

Matěj nodded silently.

That made sense.

The farmers at the market knew nothing about the margraves’ disputes.

They knew nothing about the negotiations gentlemen.

They knew nothing about court intrigues.

But they noticed that iron had become more expensive.

That salt cost more.

That the merchant arrived late.

That the other one did not arrive at all.

That was how the common man recognized the approaching unrest.

Not from the chronicles.

From the prices.

Konrad reached into his purse.

He emptied its contents onto the table.

Kutna Hora groschen.

Florins.

A few imperial coins.

Even one Venetian one.

Matěj smiled.

“You must be driving half of Europe.”

“Half of Europe owes me money.”

“And the other half?”

“She wants to rob me.”

They both laughed.

After a while, however, the laughter died down.

A horseman rode past the house outside.

Quickly.

Too fast.

Like someone who carries bad news.

Konrad turned at the sound.

“See?”

“What?”

“This never happened before.”

“What exactly?”

“Hurry up.”

Matěj didn’t understand.

However, Konrád continued.

“When business is good, people travel slowly.”

“That’s a strange thought.”

“But true.”

He smiled.

“A merchant who makes money is in no hurry.”

“And when he doesn’t make money?”

“Then he runs away.”

They were both silent for a while.

Voices could be heard from the street.

Someone was closing up shop.

Someone was loading a truck.

Someone was counting the daily sales.

Just like every evening.

And yet something was different.

“Do you remember Master Ondřej?”

Konrád suddenly asked.

“The salt merchant?”

“Yes.”

“What about him?”

“He sold the warehouse last week.”

“Why?”

“He said he wanted to buy a field.”

Matěj frowned.

“That’s not It makes sense.”

“Exactly.”

They both stared into each other’s eyes for a long time.

They didn’t have to explain anything.

Traders know fear before soldiers.

Because soldiers get orders.

Merchants get the bill.

And the bill never lies.

“So you think there will be a war?”

Konrad shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s an answer worthy of a priest.”

“No.”

He pointed to the coins between them.

“That’s a merchant’s answer.”

He took a penny and slowly spun it around table.

The coin spun for a moment in the candlelight.

Then it lay down.

Face up.

“You know what’s strange?”

he said.

“Tell me.”

“Kings think they rule the land.”

“And “Are they not in control?”

“Just a little.”

He pointed to the penny.

“This coin travels more cities than most nobles.”

Another showing.

“He hears more languages ​​than most priests.”

And finally he placed it in front of him.

“And he knows the coming problems before most military leaders.”

Matthew smiled.

“That sounds almost like a prayer.”

“That’s not a prayer.”

Konrad finished his wine.

“That’s accounting.”

When he left for the inn an hour later, his purse still weighed the same.

The same number of coins.

The same wealth.

And yet he felt that he was poorer than in the morning.

Because some losses are not counted in pennies.

Sometimes a person loses his confidence.

And when confidence begins to fade, it doesn’t take long for coins to disappear too.

A few months later, King Sigismund’s troops enter the Czech lands.

But that evening no one did not know.

The buyers only felt what merchants have felt since time immemorial:

that the air had changed.

And that the times to come would not be cheap.

The Treasure of the Landlord

Landštejn Castle, Winter of the Year of the Lord 1402

The snow had been falling for the third day.

The courtyard under the tower disappeared under a white blanket, and only the dark tips of the spruces emerged from the forest below the castle.

William of Landštejn stood by the window and looked at the landscape.

Beautiful.

Quiet.

And deceptive.

Because a person could own the entire region and still not be sure that he would own it in a year.

Behind him, the fireplace crackled.

The scribe unrolled the parchment.

“Another report from Prague, sir.”

William did not turn around.

“Read.”

“There is talk of new disputes between the king’s supporters and Margrave Jošt.”

“Again.”

“Yes, sir.”

William sighed.

He had heard dozens of similar reports in recent months.

Each one was a little different.

Each one was a little worse.

“And what about Kutná Hora?”

“The mining continues.”

“That’s good.”

“But the merchants complain about the safety of the roads.”

Vilém nodded.

He already knew that.

He knew it even better than the merchants.

Because the merchants saw the ambush car.

He saw the reason.

In recent years, the country had changed.

Not on the outside.

Castles stood.

Cities prospered.

Churches rang bells.

But underneath it all, something was cracking.

Like ice on a pond in early spring.

At first glance solid.

In reality, ready to break.

He turned away from the window.

A small iron-bound chest stood on the table.

He placed his hand on it.

It was heavy.

There were coins inside.

Not hundreds.

Not thousands.

Just a few dozen of the best.

Ducats.

Florins.

Grosses.

Money he could use at any time.

His real wealth did not lie in a chest.

It lay outside.

In three villages.

In two mills.

In one pond.

In the forest.

In the fields.

In the people.

But that’s exactly why coins were important.

Because you can’t take away the fields.

You can’t take away the forests.

You can’t take a village away.

You can take a coin away.

He opened the chest.

It wasn’t full by any means.

It used to be.

Years ago.

Before he repaired the walls.

Before he settled the border dispute.

Before he paid his sister’s dowry.

Before he helped his cousin.

Before the king asked for extraordinary help.

The scribe asked cautiously:

“Should we answer the Lord of Hradec?”

William smiled.

That was the question that occupied him for weeks.

The Lord of Hradec offered alliance.

Friendship.

Joint action.

At least that’s what he called it.

In reality, he only wanted to know one thing.

Which side would the Landštejns take?

“No.”

“No?”

“Not yet.”

The scribe looked up in surprise.

“Sir, most of the nobility is already making up their minds.”

“That’s why.”

William took one ducat out of the chest.

He placed it on the table.

Next to it was another.

Then a third.

Finally fourth.

“You know what’s strange?”

The scribe shook his head.

“When I was young, I thought a nobleman made decisions based on honor.”

“And today?”

“Today I know that first he must survive.”

Youth is simple.

An enemy is an enemy.

A friend is a friend.

The right thing is obvious.

Then you get old.

And you find that most decisions are not between good and evil.

But between two bad choices.

A honking outside wind.

Somewhere under the castle a dog barked.

“If I sided with the king today and he lost, what would be left for my son?”

The scribe was silent.

“And if I sided with his enemies and they lost?”

Again no answer. William nodded.

Exactly.

That’s why hesitated.

Not out of cowardice.

Out of responsibility.

A mercenary risks his own life.

A merchant owns property.

A master risks the future of people who will be born long after his death.

He closed the chest again.

The metal lid clicked hollowly.

“Write to the gentleman from Hradec.”

“What should I write?”

“That I thank you for his friendship.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that I will think about the whole thing some more.”

The scribe sighed.

“That will not be a satisfactory answer.”

Willem smiled.

“That’s why it’s right.”

When the scribe left, he was left alone in the hall.

He went back to the window.

The snow was still falling.

As quietly as it had been an hour ago.

As quietly as it had been a hundred years ago.

As quietly as it would fall in a hundred years.

Kings come and go.

Wars begin and end.

Coins change hands.

But the land remains.

And the duty of a good lord is not to win the next battle.

It is to ensure that his family and his people survive the next one.

 

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