“Clarus Mons,” said Jakub Nadobny of Rogów shortly. “Jasna Góra. The Pauline monastery by Częstochowa.”

The Pauline Order’s cenobium, funded almost half a century earlier by Władysław of Opole, was getting closer and closer. They could see the two-winged claustrum and church with its buttresses. They could even hear the monks singing.

“Is this our destination?” asked Reynevan. “The monastery? We’re going to the monastery?”

“Indeed,” replied Fedor of Ostrog, with his hand on a war hammer stuck into his belt. “Why? Don’t you approve?”

“It’s Easter today,” said Nadobny. “We’re visiting a sacred edifice.”

“For we are most godly,” added Kuropatwa of Łańcuchów. Although his voice sounded serious, Jan Tłuczymost snorted and the Kondzioł brothers chuckled.

“Ride on,” Ostrog cut them off. “Don’t talk.”

They were getting nearer and nearer to the monastery.

Benedicta es, caelorum regina,

et mundi totius domina,

et aegris medicina.

Tu praeclara maris stella vocaris,

quae solem justitiae paris,

a quo illuminaris.

Reynevan reined back his horse to let Jerzy Skirmunt, who was bringing up the rear, draw level. The young Lithuanian gave him a brief, frightened glance.

“Things are beginning to look ill here, friend,” he muttered. “There’s a whiff of the noose. What to do, eh?”

“It’s too late for anything,” said Reynevan, angrily and bitterly.

“What will you do?”

“Stay out of the way. And not take part. If possible.”

Te Deus Pater, ut Dei mater

fieres et ipse frater,

cuius eras filia,

sanctificavit, sanctam servavit,

et mittens sic salutavit,

Ave plena gratia!

At the gates, they dismounted, and a small group of pilgrims fled at the sight of them. If Reynevan had entertained any doubts before, the sight of weapons being drawn dispelled them. Melchior and Mikoszka Kondzioł threw off their sheepskins and rolled up their sleeves. Achacy Pełka spat into his hand and seized a large battleaxe. Kuropatwa of Łańcuchów walked up and banged his sword hilt against the gate, once and twice.

“Who’s there?” The voice of the gatekeeper was old and trembling.

“Open up!”

“What do you mean: open up? To whom?”

“Open up! And look lively! We are here by order of the king!”

“What do you mean?”

“Open the gate, you whoreson!” roared Fedor of Ostrog. “And be quick! Or we shall break it down with our axes!”

“What is this?”

“Slide back the fucking bolt, now!” yelled Kuropatwa. “While we are still tranquil!”

“Have mercy! This is a sacred place!”

“Open up, dammit!”