“There, take that!” shouted Prokop the Shaven, lashing Bedřich with a bunch of birch twigs. “As a penance. Is it Lent? It is. One must do penance. Have some, too, Pardus. Ouch, what the hell! Puchała, have you lost your mind?”

“It’s Lent, Hjetman,” said the Wieniawa, grinning, dipping the twigs in a bucket. “Penance. One in, all in. Have some, too, Reynevan! For old time’s sake. I’m glad you survived that last battle.”

“I am, too.”

“But I most of all,” added Prokop. “I and my back. Do you know what, I might appoint him my personal physician.”

“Why not?” Bedřich of Strážnice smiled ambiguously. “After all, he’s trusted. Trustworthy.”

“And a notable fellow.”

“Notable?” Bedřich snorted. “Notorious more like. Far and wide.”

Prokop looked askance at him, picked up the pail and threw water on the stones. The steam blinded them, the violent heat entering their lungs as they breathed in. And stopping the conversation for some time.

Puchała lashed himself on the shoulders with the birch twigs.

“I have also,” he announced proudly, “become a notable fellow, I mean at the Wawel, as a result of the letters that Witold, Grand Duke of Lithuania, keeps sending to King Jagiełło. I’ve been informed at first hand, so I know what he’s written about me in those letters. I am—and I quote—a scoundrel, a brigand, a pest, and I bring evil and blight. Jagiełło is threatening to execute me. He has ordered me to leave Odry because I interfere with making peace, by causing here—and I quote—iniuras, dampna, depopulationes, incendia, devastationes et sangvinis profluvie.”

“I recognise the style,” said Bedřich. “It is Sigismund of Luxembourg, our former king. Witold’s only contribution is the questionable Latin.”

“Those letters,” said Jan Pardus, “are a clear consequence of the conference in Lutsk, where Sigismund won over the Duke of Lithuania and moulded him to follow his wishes.”

“By promising him the royal crown,” said Prokop, nodding. “And other pies in the sky—actually, a great abundance of pies. Unfortunately, it appears that the magnus dux Lithuaniae believed in them. Witold, up until now famous for his wisdom, good sense and Lithuanian shrewdness, is letting Sigismund wrap him around his little finger. Indeed, it is the truth: Stultum facit Fortuna quem vult perdere. Fortune makes a fool of the man she wishes to destroy.”

“It is too remarkable to my mind,” Bedřich declared, “to the extent that I suspect some kind of game in this. It wouldn’t be the first time for Witold and Jagiełło, as a matter of fact. Not their first deceitful game.”

“True,” said Prokop, pouring water over himself from the pail and shaking himself like a dog. “The problem is that the game is being played on a chessboard where we are also pieces. And if the Polish king were suddenly to step out into open play after hiding behind a rook, he’s liable to start interfering with negotiations. Then we must look several moves ahead, as in a game of chess, and place our pieces on the critical squares. While we are discussing pieces… Reynevan!”