“M’Lord Chamberlain of Krakow ordered us to sing,” said Rynard Jursza, squinting his eyes. “For reasons of propaganda, he said. Reminding us that this is Upper Silesia. And that we are returning to our ancient lands and to the motherland.”

“To the motherland, the motherland,” Dobko growled with hostility. “Let it be. But if you really must, sing the Bogurodzica.”

Two wagons trundled along with the Poles from Lesser Poland. One was weighed down with loot, the other was carrying wounded men. Dreadfully mutilated. Two died just after arriving, two others were fighting for their lives and the condition of the other four was grave. Reynevan and the field surgeons had their hands full.

The wounded were from Scharley’s unit.

“Oh well,” said Bedřich of Strážnice, spreading his arms, “if you insist, I won’t keep you here. I’m reluctant to let you risk your life far away on raids, but I understand you want to meet your friend. This is even a fitting occasion, for I am sending Scharley replacements after the Pszczyna men gave them such a hiding that only he and five others escaped with their lives. Riding in company you won’t lose your way and will be safer. It’s even fortunate, because—”

“Because?”

“Another man will go with you,” said Bedřich, lowering his voice. “A certain individual. It is a secret; I forbid you from talking to anyone about him. But it is fortunate that you know him.”

“I do?”

“Indeed. I’m just waiting… Ah, and here he is.”

Reynevan was struck dumb to see who was entering the headquarters.

The clerk from Fuggers and Company took off his ornately embroidered cloak and handed it to a servant. Underneath, it turned out, was a quite unwarlike costume, although an ordinary one for a clerk. The narrow black velvet doublet reached hips clothed in close-fitting blue and red mi-parti, with the loins covered by a padded codpiece which dramatically emphasised his manhood. The codpiece was called a braguette in French. Scoffed at by level-headed men, it was the height of fashion among dandies and fops.

“Good day,” said the clerk and greeted Reynevan with a bow. “Canon Otto Beess was asking after you. I’m glad to be able to reassure him and inform him about your good health.”

“I would be grateful.”

“And tell him that misfortune hasn’t broken you. For it has not, I trust?”

“I’m bearing up.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said the official, adjusting his cuffs. “Oh well, there’s a long road ahead of us—we must, I hear, ride to somewhere near Ujazd, and it would be good to arrive there before sunset. I suggest we set off, Reinmar. If you are ready.”

“I am,” said Reynevan, standing up. “Farewell, Bedřich.”

“What do you mean by ‘farewell’?” asked the preacher, frowning.

“I meant to say: till the next time.”

“Reynevan?”

“Aye.”