“Us,” guffawed the bishop. “Piast blood, brother, Piast blood. But in truth, I must tell you she isn’t the best party for young Konrad. We don’t see eye-to-eye with the Hohenzollerns. They dream of a union with Poland, are plotting with Jagiełło, plotting with the Hussites—”

“You exaggerate,” said Kantner, grimacing. “You are furious at Fritz Hohenzollern because he married his son off to Jadwiga Jagiellonian. But it is true that the Hohenzollerns’ star is in the ascendancy. One should stay close to people who are on the way up, affiliate with them. And I’ll tell you something else.”

“Say on.”

“The stock of the Jagiellonians is also rising. Prince Władysław is five years old. Little Anna, my youngest, is also five.”

“You’re either jesting,” said the bishop, frowning, “or you’ve lost your mind. With whom would you comingle Piast blood?”

“I see Piast blood returning to the Polish throne,” said Kantner, sitting upright. “To the Wawel! But you are blinded by hatred. You don’t see the changes around you. Gott im Himmel! Don’t you see that the world has changed? This is about Silesia’s future. The Hussites have grown in strength, we won’t stop them by ourselves! We need help. Real help. Powerful help. And what are we doing? The Strzelin Union, an alliance with Bischofswerda, a conference in Świdnica, all a damned waste of time. The Six Cities, the Elector of Saxony, Meissen, do you call them allies? They each look after their own, for each of them trembles with fear before the Hussites. The Czechs are advancing; the Lusatians and Saxons will lock themselves fast away in their castles. They won’t come to our rescue. Nor would we to theirs, if they were attacked—”

“What are you driving at, brother? For I see that you hint at something.”

“Receive…” Kantner stammered. “Receive the envoy. Do as you wish, you are the governor of Silesia. But receive him. Be ready to listen.”

“To whom: Brandenburg?” said the bishop, smiling wryly. “Or the Poles?”

“The envoy of Zbigniew Oleśnicki, Bishop of Krakow. I met him on the way. We conversed… About this and that…”

“Indeed. Who was it?”

“Andrzej of Bnin.”

“I don’t know him,” said the bishop. “But before an audience occurs, I shall know all there is to know about him.”

Andrzej of Bnin, of the Łodzia coat of arms, still not yet thirty, was a handsome, black-haired and swarthy man. A Master of the Krakow Academy, a royal secretary, the Presbyter of Pobiedziska and the Canon of Łęczyca and Poznań, he was advancing swiftly up Poland’s clerical hierarchy. Ambitious, even a little too ambitious, he was aiming at becoming at least a bishop. Oleśnicki, so the rumours went, trusted him implicitly. Which couldn’t be said for everyone.