“He did not. I joined the Utraquists myself. According to my own will and choice, preceded by a lengthy consideration of the matter. And I am certain that I acted correctly. The truth is with us. I believe.”

The canon silenced him again with a raised hand. He didn’t care what Reynevan believed. The expression on his face left no doubts in that regard.

“As I said, I can guess what brought you to Wrocław,” he finally said, looking up. “I guessed it easily; the reasons are common knowledge. No one talks about anything else. For the last two months, your new fellow believers and brothers in faith, your confraters in the fight for the truth, your comrades and companions in the Chalice, have been laying waste to the Kłodzko lands and Silesia. For two months, your brothers—Královec’s Orphans—have been murdering, burning and looting in the name of faith and truth. They have sent Ziębice, Strzelin, Oława and Niemcza up in smoke, pillaged the monastery in Henryków and plundered and ransacked half of the Nadodrze. Now, word has it, they are besieging Świdnica. Then all of a sudden you appear in Wrocław.”

“Father—”

“Silence. Look me in the eyes. If you come here as a Hussite spy, a saboteur or an emissary, then leave my house immediately. Go to ground somewhere else. But not beneath my roof.”

“Your words have cut me to the quick, Reverend Father,” said Reynevan, meeting his gaze. “As has the suspicion that I would be capable of a base act like that. The thought that I would put you in harm’s way.”

“You did so by coming here. The house might be under observation.”

“I was cautious. I’m able to—”

“I know.” The canon cut him off bluntly. “And I know what you’re capable of. Rumours travel around quickly. Look me in the eyes and tell me straight: are you here as a spy or not?”

“I am not.”

“So why are you here, then?”

“I need help.”

Otto Beess raised his head and looked at the wall, at the painting depicting pagans flaying Saint Bartholomew with huge pliers. Then he fixed his gaze on Reynevan’s eyes once more.

“Oh, you do,” he said gravely. “You do indeed. And more than you think. Not only in this world, but in the next one, too. You’ve overstepped the mark, my son. Overstepped the mark. You have grown so zealous alongside your new comrades and brothers in the new faith that you have become notorious. In particular since last December, after the Battle of Wielisław. It ended the way it had to end. Now, if I may advise you: pray, be contrite and do penance. Don sackcloth and sprinkle ashes on your head, copiously. Or you’ll have no fucking chance of salvation. Do you know of what I speak?”

“I do. I was there.”

“You were? In the cathedral?”