“I am also glad to see you,” Reynevan interrupted. “And pleasantly surprised. The whole journey I was wondering if I would find you here. Whether you had followed Puchała’s example and sold all your castles to the Silesians. Along with your ideals and God’s truth.”

“I haven’t, as you see,” replied the director of the Tábor positions in Silesia. “Nor did I give them away, although they put great pressure on me. Me in Niemcza and Pardus in Otmuchów. But they failed and departed empty-handed.”

“I’ve heard the view that it’s only a matter of time. That you won’t retain the Silesian castles without the intervention of Poland and reinforcements from Bohemia. And apparently that can’t be counted on.”

“Unfortunately,” Bedřich calmly agreed, “it can’t. Though four years ago things were quite different. Quite different. Do you recall Szafraniec and his grand-sounding programme? The return of Silesia to the motherland? The sceptre of the Jagiellonians leading all the peoples linguagii slavonici? Conquering all the lands between the Baltic and the Adriatic? Ruthenia and Crimea? Great plans and huge ideas that fell through after some slight damage to one icon, which wasn’t especially well painted, in any case.

“The Poles,” he continued, “when their anger after Częstochowa had subsided, would gladly have seen Čapek join them fighting the Teutonic Knights, but they gave us no help in Silesia and will give us none now. After Częstochowa, even the enthusiasm of the Szafraniec family began to wane, even Spytek of Melsztyn, Siestrzeniec and Zbąski drew in their horns. We are alone here. Korybut has gone and Wołoszek is as quiet as a mouse. As for Bohemia…”

“Yes?”