“Other men than statesmen know what happened in Lutsk,” replied Bedřich. “And other men than statesmen can see what is happening in Poland now. Bishop Oleśnicki persecutes Polish Hussites and is urging Jagiełło to launch a crusade against Bohemia. Witold will soon be crowned King of Lithuania—”

“That coronation will never happen,” interrupted Reynevan. “Believe me.”

“Of course it won’t,” said Siestrzeniec, fixing him with his gaze. “The Pope won’t allow it. Or perhaps you have something else in mind?”

“He didn’t,” Bedřich assured them on Reynevan’s behalf. “And I, sirs, still don’t know in whose name these important personages are travelling to Bohemia, to a meeting of whom we’re heading to Zator. And to whom am I meant to serve as an escort.”

“They are travelling on behalf of the Kingdom of Poland,” said Spytek of Melsztyn, knitting his dark brows. “I assure you. Say what you like, but Poland is one and its good health comes above all else. With its kings, dukes, bishops and all. And, if necessary, without its kings and bishops.”

“Without them?” said Bedřich and smiled with the corners of his mouth. “Sounds like a call to rebellion, Lord Melsztyn. Do you have rebellion in mind?”

“No, not rebellion. A confederation. A shield, a refuge, a temple of our golden liberty. The privilege of our knightly estate. In order to restrain the unfavourable direction of public affairs and abuse of power, whether royal or ecclesiastical; in order to maintain control in a poorly governed kingdom, hampered in progress or simply hurtling towards its doom, violent means are needed. Bold ones. Military ones. Evil taken to the extreme requires effective medicine, because when all is said and done it must be cured, one way or another. By the sword, if necessary.”

“That sounded serious.”

“I know.”

“Gentlemen,” said Scharley, standing up in the stirrups. “The Pszczyna region is across the river.”

“We must be vigilant now,” said Bedřich. “Hussites and their allies are hunted mercilessly here. The Pszczyna widow pays generously for captives.”

“Is she still a widow?” asked Siestrzeniec, surprised. “I heard she married Přemek of Opava.”

“Přemek considered it,” confirmed the preacher. “One, because marriage with the widow would have joined the Pszczyna lands to Opava. Two, because the widow is an impressive specimen of womanhood—not so young, indeed, but a vigorous and red-blooded Lithuanian. Who knows, perhaps old Přemek was afraid of falling short in bed? Suffice it to say he took some Bosnian or other as his wife and the Pszczyna widow remains just that: a widow. But such persistent rumours were circulating that plenty of people believe her to be Přemek’s wife. And since the Bosnian also happens to be called Helena, some folk are confused.”

“Is Helena of Pszczyna Sigismund Korybut’s sister?” asked Reynevan.

“Indeed,” said Spytek, “the daughter of Dmitry Korybut, son of Olgierd. King Jagiełło’s niece—”