“The Czech people are paying a dozen groschen for a bushel of rye and one and a half for a loaf of bread. That’s a dozen times dearer than before the revolution. That’s what the Chalice and the war have given the Czech people. Reynevan, I don’t want to quarrel. I summarised the current political situation for you and sketched out the perspectives comprehensibly, making predictions about the events of the coming months, if not days, with a large helping of likelihood. I know something about how you can lose contact with reality—often for a long time—when you’re locked up. That contact occasionally returns, but one can’t hurry the process. So don’t. Rely on me, trust me.”

“Could you be more precise?”

“Half a mile from here is a crossroads where two roads meet. We will ride southwards from here, down the road to Olkusz, Zator and Cieszyn. We will cross the Jabłonków pass, and from there the way is straightforward. Čadca, Trenčín, Nitra, Esztergom, Buda, Mohács, Belgrade, Sophia, Philippolis, Adrianople. And Constantinople. The pearl of the Byzantine state.”

“And you accuse me of a lack of contact with reality?”

“My plans are quite down to earth and cling to reality as tightly as a priest to his parish. And they are based on the actual economic power I possess. Come with me, Reinmar, and I swear on my old cock that before Advent, you’ll see the sails on the Sea of Marmara, the Golden Horn, Hagia Sophia and the Bosporus. Well? Are we going?”

“No, Scharley. We aren’t. Forgive me, but my plans are quite different.”

The penitent looked at him in silence for a long time. And then sighed.

“I fear I can guess,” he said finally.

“I’m glad.”

“In March 1430, in the forests by Kłodnica,” said Scharley, going over to Reynevan and grabbing him by the shoulders, “as you were leaving, you said you’d had enough. Frankly speaking, you didn’t surprise me at all. And, as you recall, I didn’t stop you. Your reaction was quite reasonable to me. You had known misfortune, and you reacted to it by throwing yourself into the maelstrom of the fight for true apostolic faith, for ideals, for social justice, for Regnum Dei, for a better world. And you suddenly saw that it wasn’t a mission, but politics. It wasn’t inspired, but calculated. The Word of God and apostolic faith are traded just like any other goods: with a view to profit. And you can see Regnum Dei on church frescos. Or read about it in the writings of Saint Augustine.”