“At present,” said Rixa Cartafila of Fonseca, smiling. “But it will change one day.”

“You’re dreaming.”

“Dreams come true. The prophet Daniel assures us of it. May God keep Your Eminence.”

“God be with you, daughter.”

First there were heavy steps. The clink of iron. Then the infernal, literally hair-raising rattle of bolts making Reynevan huddle up on the muck-covered straw. And the stark light of torches which made him cringe even more, tightly clenching his eyelids. And his teeth.

“Get up. Get out.”

“I—”

“Get out. And look lively! Move!”

The sunlight stung his eyes painfully, blinding him. Making him dizzy. Making him stagger and lose his balance. He fell over. Full-length, stiff like a drunk man, not even trying to cushion his fall onto the timbers of the drawbridge.

He lay prone and though his eyes were open he couldn’t see anything. At first, he couldn’t hear anything apart from the buzzing in his head, through the cocoon he was wrapped in, until slowly, very slowly, sounds began to penetrate and be discernible. At first incoherent and incomprehensible, they gradually began to assume cadences. Some time elapsed, however, before he understood that the sounds were words. Before he began to understand their meaning. And before he finally realised that the speaker was Scharley.

“Reynevan? Can you hear me? Do you understand? Reynevan? Don’t close your eyes! Jesus Christ, you look dreadful. Can you stand?”

He tried to answer. But couldn’t. Each attempt to make a sound turned into sobbing.

“Pick him up and carry him down. We’ll put him on the wagon and go to town. He needs tidying up.”

“Scharley.”

“Reynevan.”

“Did you… Did you get me out?”

“I played a part in it. The financial part.”

“The black wagon?”

“Indeed.”

“Where are we?”

“In the village of Niegowa, by the Siewierz road. At the back of the Demijohn tavern.”

“What day… is it today?”

“Tuesday. After Quasimodogeniti Sunday. The sixth of April. Anno Domini 1434.”

Ofka of Baruth rushed into the kitchen, her plait streaming behind her, and almost trod on the cat. She grabbed a large cauldron with both hands and flung it down onto the floor. She swept bowls and spoons from the table.

She kicked the waste pail hard, so hard it rolled under the stove. Finally, she kicked the cauldron, but it was solid and heavy and didn’t yield. Ofka screamed, swore and hopped on one leg and sat down hard on a bench, holding her foot, and burst out crying, weeping tears of pain and anger.

The housekeeper observed it all with her plump forearms crossed on her chest.

“All done?” she finally said. “Is the performance over? Shall I learn what the matter is?”

“The ass!” yelled Ofka, wiping her eyes and cheek on her sleeve. “The clodhopper! The silly young pup!”