Smoke trailed over the darkened town, dogs barked and oxen bellowed. The only illuminated building was the thatched complex of the inn, where many lights burned in spite of the late hour, and numerous people were milling around noisily. Reynevan quite quickly spotted Kuropatwa’s eye-catching grey and Ostrog’s black next to it. Lurking in the darkness, he intended to move closer, when suddenly a rather large party escorting a wagon arrived at the tavern with a tramping of hooves and a clanking of iron. The household servants poured out into the courtyard with torches, and after leaving the wagon, a sumptuously attired, well-built, ruddy and knightly-looking man stepped into the circle of light cast by the brands. A man in an overcoat trimmed with sable fur, slightly younger, of equally knightly height and posture and slightly chubby-cheeked, came out onto the tavern steps to greet him. Reynevan gasped. He knew both of them.

The traveller was Konrad, Bishop of Wrocław. The man greeting him was Zbigniew Oleśnicki, Bishop of Krakow. The bishops entered the building after exchanging greetings. Soldiers and the servants with flaming brands surrounded the building in a tight cordon, while mounted archers set off to patrol the vicinity.

Reynevan, stroking his horse’s muzzle, stepped back into the darkness. He had to return to camp. There wasn’t the slightest chance of stealing up and eavesdropping on the dignitaries.

“Polish fantasies,” said the Bishop of Wrocław. “Polish fantasies about Silesia. The cat is finally out of the bag. Heretics, apostates and Polish dissenters allied with them have plundered the Duchy of Racibórz, laid waste the Koźle region, burned down Krapkowice, Brzeg and Ujazd, robbed and destroyed the Cistercian monastery in Jemielnica, attacked Bytom, and are now marching on Gliwice and Toszek. And now the Polish Army is stationed on the border, in preparation for an armed intervention and the annexation of Upper Silesia. But you, O Bishop of Krakow, rather than curse the pagan-king in Krakow, rather than burn at the stake the Szafraniec, Zbąski and Melsztyński families and other Polish henchmen of heresy, you arrange a meeting with me, wanting to negotiate and conclude a contract. Of what kind? Regarding what? A year ago, I told your envoy, Bnin of the Łodzia coat of arms, that I would not ask for Polish intervention. Never.”

“The Polish Army will not march into Silesia until King Władysław issues the order.”

“A laughable guarantee! Jagiełło is a senile old fart. He listens to what is whispered into his ears.”

“Indeed,” agreed Zbigniew Oleśnicki. “And various things are whispered by various individuals. Including supporters of heresy, Ruthenian schismatics and men who would gladly see Lithuania separate from Poland. And your king, Sigismund of Luxembourg, aids them, infuriating Jagiełło by promising the crown to Witold.”

“King Sigismund may offer the crown to whomsoever he wishes,” said Konrad, proudly raising his head.