Wiping his mouth as his glance swept over his collocutors, the bishop said, “I shall share with you some news that has lately reached us from France, along with the first-rate Burgundy we are drinking. Why, a peasant girl from Champagne, a common maid called Jehanne, a mystic and perhaps also a soothsayer, has appeared at the court of King Charles VII in Chinon. She has utterly possessed and bewitched the king. The voices of saints from Heaven, she said, have proclaimed her the saviour of France and the divine scourge of the English invaders. And do you know what? She has roused the indolent king and the entire knighthood, and even the common people. Having proclaimed her La Pucelle—the Virgin—they are all flocking to Orléans and her standard and the English besieging the town are trembling in their breeches with fear.”

“Such a thing does not behove a maiden,” said Baltazar of Schlieben, frowning. “Some new French fashions. We, too, saw a similar maid, in male attire, riding a horse and holding a javelin in the yard at your court on Ostrów Tumski, Bishop. But a maid ought not to dress as a man. It is an act against God. It is blasphemous.”

“And I tell you,” said the bishop, sitting upright, “that the end justifies the means. And that you don’t appreciate the importance of symbolism. You can wear out your throat harping on about honour, the fatherland, faith and the Church. The people won’t budge, they don’t give a shit. But give them a symbol, any symbol at all, and they will follow it at once. A symbol means more than a regiment of soldiers. Which is why, who knows, perhaps I’ll also search for a Jehanne like that here, in Silesia. I’ll call her the Virgin, teach her about voices from Heaven, tell her to preach nonsense and bait the Hussites, dress her in armour, hand her a pennant… Perhaps it will work?”

“But it may not be so,” the Grand Master repeated severely. “Male attire on a wench is a sin, debauchery, lecherous provocation and blasphemy. Wenches who wear male attire, who believe they can be equal to men, ought to be burned. Burned!”

“Of course.” Konrad snorted. “Of course they should! But only once they do what is required and outlive their usefulness.”

Twenty-two groschen from the bishop. Grajcarek totted it up again, sliding a finger over the table in a dark corner of the Blue Carp tavern. Thirty from the woman smelling of rosemary. Twelve from the Inquisition. Not bloody much, those infernal priests are stingy. Twenty from the Fuggers. After deducting costs, that makes about fifty. And I need to give my wife some money to get by, four children, fuck it, the fifth on the way. Jesus, when will that woman start visiting witches when she falls pregnant? I’ll manage to put forty aside at most. It’s not much. It’s still too little to go into business with my brother-in-law and buy the mill by the Widawa from Sir Werner Pannewitz. Lord Pannewitz, may the devils roast him in hell for his stinginess, is asking eighty-five grzywna for the mill… I’ll have to work more. And harder. But things are getting dangerous. Inquisitor Hejncze has returned to Wrocław, he will be making up for lost time, they’re already building pyres for after Saint Adalbert’s Day. The town’s crawling with spies. Kuczera of Hunt is sniffing and tracking. The bishop has become suspiciously courteous. As though he suspects something.