“Indeed.”

The canon was silent for a time, drumming his fingers on the table.

“You’ve been to many places,” he finally said. “Far too many, I’m afraid. In your shoes I would curb myself. Returning ad rem: since the twenty-third of January, since Septuagesima Sunday, you are cast out of the Church. I know, I know what you’ll say to that, O Hussite. That our Church is evil and apostatic, while yours is virtuous and true. And that you care not for anathema. By all means care not, as you will. For this is neither the time nor the place for theological debates. You didn’t come here, I presume, to seek help in the matter of salvation. You think more about secular and commonplace matters, more about the profanum than the sacrum. So, speak. Tell me. Confide your woes in me. And since I must to Ostrów Tumski before Vespers, be succinct in the telling. As far as you are able.”

Reynevan sighed. And told him. Succinctly. As far as he was able. The canon heard him out. After which he sighed. Heavily.

“Oh, my boy, my boy,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re becoming bloody repetitious. All your problems are of the same ilk. Every difficulty of yours—to express it eruditely—is feminini generis.”

The earth shook under the stamping of hooves. The herd galloped across the field; gleaming flanks and rumps flashed past in a kaleidoscope of bay, black, grey, dun, dapple-grey and chestnut. Tails and thick manes flowed, steam belched from nostrils. Dzierżka of Wirsing braced herself against the pommel of her saddle with both hands, joy and delight in her eyes, as though she wasn’t a horse trader admiring her colts and mares, but a mother, her children.

“It appears, Reynevan,” she said, finally turning around, “that all your worries boil down to the same thing. Every vexation of yours, it appears, wears a frock and has a plait.”

She spurred her grey to a trot and followed the herd. He hurried after her. His mount, a magnificent bay stallion, was a pacing horse and Reynevan still wasn’t entirely accustomed to the unusual rhythm of its gait. Dzierżka waited for him to catch up.

“I can’t help you,” she said firmly. “The only thing I can do is to give you the colt you’re sitting on. Along with my blessing. And a medal of Saint Eligius, the patron saint of horses, pinned to its bridle. He is a fine steed. Strong and robust. He will serve you well. Take him from me as a gift. In gratitude for Elencza. For what you did for her.”

“I only repaid a debt, for what she once did for me. And I thank you for the horse.”