And so they sat, naked as jaybirds, pouring water onto the hissing stones, in clouds of steam, skin flushed and faces dripping with sweat. Prokop the Shaven, also called the Great, director operationum Thaboritarum, the Tábor’s commander-in-chief; Bedřich of Strážnice, the Orebite preacher, once the most important figure in the New Tábor of Moravia; and the young Hejtman Jan Pardus, not as yet renowned for anything special. Dobko Puchała of the Wieniawa arms, renowned for a hell of lot.

And Reynevan, currently the Chief Hjetman’s personal physician.

“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.”