It was the twenty-first of March, Anno Domini 1429.

Grzegorz Hejncze, Inquisitor a Sede Apostolica at the Wrocław Diocese, sat upright in the saddle and stretched, joints crunching.

It’s good to be home again, he thought.

The bell at Saint Vincent’s began to toll the Angelus. The Knights Hospitaller lowered their heads and crossed themselves. Bishop Konrad beckoned to his servants, instructing them to charge the goblets. The immense chapter hall of the Ołbin abbey was filled with the noble aroma of Burgundy, seasoned with cinnamon, ginger and rosemary.

The singing of monks in the church could be heard.

Gratiam tuam, quaesumus, Domine,

mentibus nostris infunde;

ut qui, Angelo nuntiante,

Christi Filii tui incarnationem cognovimus…

“So,” said the bishop, raising his goblet, “Johann, Prince Elector and Margrave of Brandenburg, has decided to support Silesia in the fight against heretical Bohemia and is sending us four hundred heavily armed Knights Hospitaller from the Margraviate. Who would have thought it…? For the thoughts of Johann’s father, the Elector Frederick Hohenzollern, turn more often to Poland than to Silesia… But never mind. It was a noble gesture of the margrave’s, worth drinking to. The good health of Margrave Johann! And your good health, m’lords!”

Baltazar of Schlieben, Herrenmeister of the Margraviate, reciprocated the toast. His bony hand, covered in liver spots, trembled under the weight of the goblet.

“The Hospitallers of Saint John of Jerusalem,” he said in a nasal voice, “may not stand idly by in the face of a threat to the faith and the Church. We took vows and will remain true to them. We, the knights of the Brandenburg Bailiwick, pride ourselves on our loyalty to vows and monastic principles.”

“Yes, indeed,” proudly added Nikolaus of Thierbach, Commander of Swobnica.

“So help us, God,” added Henning of Alzey, the brother of the Dytmar who fell at the Battle of Nysa, sticking his jaw out.

“Then let us drink!” urged Konrad. “To the confusion of the Hussites!”

“Down with them!” snarled Henning of Alzey.

The bishop knew that his other brother, Dytryk, had fallen at the Battle of Drahim. Fighting the Poles.

“During their stay in Wrocław, your knights will be quartered at Ołbin with the local Premonstratensians, Master Baltazar,” said the bishop, addressing Schlieben. “And I shall cover all the expenses from my own casket. Where do you make for after Wrocław?”

“Legnica. To Duke Ludwik.”

“Ah, naturally,” said Konrad, squinting slightly. “Why, Ludwik of Brzeg is the margrave’s brother-in-law. Ha, I sincerely nurture the hope that now, having under his command the celebrated weapons of the Knights Hospitaller of the Margraviate, Duke Ludwik will display greater warcraft than he has to date. For he has not in the battles with the Hussites up until now. He has only become known for his manoeuvres. And what is a manoeuvre if not a rapid retreat? But enough, enough of unpleasant matters. Your good health!”