The beverages were also impressive: four—an exemplum of the four seasons—barrels of Cypriot wine. Twelve—for the months in the year—kegs of Hungarian and Italian wine. An enormous number—too many to count, but probably fifty-two bottles, the same number as weeks in the year—of Moldavian and Hungarian wine, jugs of mead and a demijohn of the famous Kaunas linden-blossom mead.

The forty days of Lent had left their mark. Having sat impatiently through the Pater noster and Benedic Domine said by the pale guardian, the post-Lenten revellers fell on the food and drink like a hawk on a woodcock, like Charles Martel attacking the Arabs at the battle of Poitiers, like the Swan ravishing Leda, or the Cretan Bull ravaging Pasiphaë disguised as a cow. The table, which at first resembled a cornucopia—the inexhaustible offerings of the horn of the goat Amaltheia—began quite quickly to empty and the sight of gnawed bones started to bring more and more to mind an excavated graveyard.

Duke Bolko Wołoszek unfastened the buttons of his doublet. And belched. A long-drawn-out and lordly belch.

“The mendicant order has exerted itself,” he said. “Although I incurred the costs so as not to ruin it completely. Ill times are coming for monks and priests. I shall cast them all out. Have you seen the guardian sitting over there? Such a pale face, such a sour expression. See him staring at the wall, as though he has seen Mene, Tekel and Peres there? As a matter of fact, I feel sorry for the Franciscans, for those friars are decent: all Poles and Czechs, loyal to the principles of the Saint from Assisi. They treated the sick and helped paupers. Wherever there was poverty, calamities, misfortunes, they were always there when they were needed. So I shall feel sorry to evict them. But I shall evict them. The New is coming, great changes, revolution, the last shall be first and vice versa. The innocent will suffer along with the guilty. For the New is coming and it wouldn’t be up to much if it didn’t start by giving the Old a good kick up the arse. Am I right, Reynevan? Right, Brother Bedřich?”

“So you are Presbyter Bedřich of Strážnice?” said one of the Polish guests, of the Leliwa arms.

“I am,” said Bedřich, stopping for a moment to pick his teeth. “And you are Spytek Leliwa of Melsztyn, the Voivode of Krakow. And you, m’lord, are Mikołaj Kornicz Siestrzeniec, the Burgrave of Będzin. As you see, not just your names and arms, but your ranks are known to me. So please let me introduce myself according to mine. On the basis of the alliance formed today and our joint operations, the whole of Upper Silesia will soon be under our control and will belong to the Tábor, Sigismund Korybut and Duke Bolesław here present. I, meanwhile, will bear the rank and title of director, commander-in-chief of the Tábor’s outposts in Silesia.”