He didn’t finish. Samson Honeypot rode over on his lancer’s stallion, caught Bedřich by the collar and the seat of the pants, hauled him from the saddle, lifted up the yelling Czech and hurled him into the duckweed-covered pond. There was a splash, a foul smell drifted up and the frogs fell silent for a moment.

Samson waited in the utter silence for the preacher to emerge, green from the weed and spitting out mud.

“My delicate honour was offended,” he said. “But this will suffice as satisfaction.”

Chapter Ten

In which we visit Wrocław once again, during the days preceding Easter, for many things happen there which it would be simply a shame not to talk about.

That morning a sudden rain fell and when the sun rose, it lit a copper and gold fire on the Wrocław churches. The roof over the nave of Saint Elizabeth’s Church shimmered like the Golden Fleece, the twin spires of Mary Magdalene shone blindingly, the domes and helmets of Saints Nicholas, Adalbert, Dorothy, James, the Holy Spirit, Saint Mary on the Sand and all the thirty-five Wrocław churches gleamed. A heavenly luminosity was reflected in the wet roofs of the city, a city that appeared to be now equally everlasting.

A little bell rang melodiously in the Church of Corpus Christi. Wrocław was awake and people were already bustling around near the Świdnica Gate.

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.