The first harbinger of that intoxicating change was Wilkosz Lindenau, the wounded Wrocław esquire who had been transported with no little difficulty to his family home. The cause of that difficulty was of course his perforated side. The wound, though dressed, was festering, the esquire was burning with fever and trembling and could not have stayed in the saddle without Reynevan’s help. Were it not for the medicines and spells Reynevan employed to keep the inflammation in check and fight the infection, Wilkosz Lindenau would have had scant chance of seeing the town walls or the copper helmets of the spires of Saint Elisabeth, Saint Mary Magdalene, Saint Adalbert and the other churches towering above them and soaring into the grey February sky. Scant chance of delighting in the nearness of the Świdnica Gate which led to the city. Or of sighing with relief.

“So, we’re home,” said Wilkosz Lindenau, sighing with relief. “And that’s thanks to you, Reynevan. Had it not been for you—”

“Don’t mention it.”

“On the contrary,” said the esquire dryly. “I wouldn’t have made it without you. I am indebted to you—”

He broke off, looking at the Church of Corpus Christi, where a bell was just sounding.

“They excommunicated you for your sins,” he said. “May God pardon you them. But I am alive thanks to you, and I am indebted to you for that. So I shall repay that debt. For as you see, I cheated you a little. You and your Hussites. Had they known the truth, they wouldn’t have set me free, for freedom would have cost me greatly. Lindenau is my family name; I carry it in honour of the family and of my father. But my father died when I was but a tiny babe and my mater wed again soon after. Thus, in truth the only father I have ever had is Lord Bartłomiej Eisenreich. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Reynevan nodded, since the name of one of Wrocław’s wealthiest patricians indeed meant a great deal. Wilkosz Lindenau leaned over in the saddle and spat a bloody clot onto the snow.

“I wouldn’t say or suggest this to a criminal, a Hussite or a foe,” he continued, wiping his lips. “But indeed, you do not travel to Wrocław as a foe, for I gather that a more private and personal matter brings you here. Thus, I may repay you. I shall not take you under my roof or harbour you, for you are excommunicate… But I am able to help.”

“As a matter of—”