“As I presumed,” said the Inquisitor, nodding, “for the similarities are striking. And the horse, splendid, clearly genuine Castilian blood. From the Skałka stud, I’ll wager. Given by Dzierżka of Wirsing, the widow of Zbylut Leliwa.”

“The Rachenau family’s Buków is adjacent to Skałka,” explained Kassel. “Sir Tristram came to Mistress Dzierżka’s rescue. When that attack occurred, you know—”

“I know,” Hejncze cut in, looking Parsifal straight in the eyes. “Dzierżka escaped death twice. And here you are with a horse from her, lad. How strange are the twists of fate, how strange. Order the men to ride out, Egbert.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

It’s as though we’re riding to war, thought Parsifal. In battle array, with arms and gear, with sword in hand, under severe military command and rules. Suffice to look at the faces of Sir Egbert and the Inquisitor, at the faces of the foot soldiers, at the Inquisition’s infantry armed with crossbows. We’re going to war. Last night I dreamed of blood and fire… We are sure to see fighting. And not somewhere on the border, but most probably here, in the very heart of Silesia, by the Strzegom road, heading for Bolków, near the village of…

“The village of Chmielno,” said Egbert of Kassel, pointing. “And the tavern. Just as we were informed. What are your wishes, Grzegorz?”

“Surround it.”

A cock crowed. Dogs were barking. Ducks quacked, splashing in the duckpond. A blackbird was singing, bees were humming, flies were buzzing and the sun was shining joyously. And a peasant leaving the privy withdrew suddenly at the sight of soldiers and hid behind the door with a heart-shaped hole in it. A woman in a headscarf dropped her rake and fled, lifting her skirts above her calves. Children stared enraptured at the weapons, clothing and gear of the esquires and pikemen from Kopaniec who were surrounding the buildings. Parsifal took the position given to him. He wiped his sweaty hands on his cloak; vainly, for they began to sweat again at once.

“Urban Horn!” Inquisitor Grzegorz Hejncze called loudly and resonantly. “Come out!”

No reaction. Parsifal swallowed, fiddled with his belt and fingered his sword hilt.

“Urban Horn! The tavern is surrounded! You don’t stand a chance! Come out of your own free will!”

“Who calls?” came a voice from inside, behind partially open shutters.

“Grzegorz Hejncze, Papal Inquisitor! And Sir Egbert of Kassel from Kopaniec!”

The door of the tavern creaked and began to open. The footmen raised their crossbows; Kassel calmed them with a gesture and a barked word.

A man dressed in a short, grey cloak fastened with a shining buckle, in a tight-fitting, braided silver doublet and high cordovan boots, stood at the threshold. The man wore on his head a black satin chaperon even more fanciful than Parsifal’s, with an even longer and even more fancifully coiled liripipe.