“She’ll live,” stated the monk dryly, the infirmarian from the Friars Minor monastery summoned from Środa Śląska. “She’ll survive, if God permits… In time, fresh skin will grow over the wounds. Her bones and joints will knit and heal, God willing…”

“Will she be able to walk?” asked Sir Tristram Rachenau, Lord of Bukowa, biting his moustache. His son, Parsifal, was watching behind him. “Ride a horse? For she’s a horse trader, horses are her life. Will she mount a horse?”

The Franciscan shook his head and glanced at Elencza.

“I don’t know,” he stammered. “Perhaps. Perhaps one day, by the grace of God. She is dreadfully mangled. It’s fortunate, m’lord, that you and the troop arrived with help and scared away those men. Otherwise—”

“I simply helped, as befits a neighbour,” snapped Tristram Rachenau. “Thus, naturally, she may stay with us. Until she recovers, is able to stand and her men rebuild Skałka. Why, it’s a miracle that they broke out of that stable, otherwise they’d all have burned to death, not a soul would have survived. And most of the horses escaped from the fire. Upon my word, it’s a miracle, a genuine miracle.”

“It was God’s will,” said the Franciscan, crossing himself. “And I shall stay here, m’lord, if you permit. I must attend the patient ceaselessly, change her dressings. The maid will help me. Miss?”

Elencza raised her head and rubbed her eyelids, swollen from weeping, with her wrist.

“Indeed.”

Dzierżka of Wirsing moved in bed, moaning softly beneath the bandages.

It was the thirtieth of March Anno Domini 1429.

Chapter Eleven

In which we return to Moravia, to the town and castle of Odry, where the Polish deputation suggests removing the obstacle to strengthening fraternal links with Bohemia, and Reynevan learns this and that about politics.

It was the fifth of April when they reached Odry.

The incident with the fugitive Schilling meant they were concerned about Horn’s fate and decided to visit Sovinec on the way. But they didn’t have to. The first person they met in the castle courtyard was Urban Horn himself.

When he saw them, his face darkened and his eyes blazed. He didn’t make the barest gesture, just stood there calm and unmoving. Perhaps because his movements were severely limited by his thickly bandaged neck and left hand in a sling. And because it was three against one.

“Greetings,” Reynevan began. “How are you?”

“As you see.”

“Oh, my.”

“We left you in better shape, I recall,” said Scharley, winking almost imperceptibly at Reynevan and Samson. “Who did that to you?”

Horn swore, spat and glowered at them.

“Schilling,” he said, clenching his teeth. “Took me by surprise, the bastard. He escaped from Sovinec.”

“Escaped, oh my,” said Scharley, wringing his hands theatrically. “Hear that, Reinmar? Samson? Schilling escaped! Too bad, too bad. But on the other hand, good.”