“But your commander does. Am I right?”

“No doubt,” said Rymbaba, puffing up. “Sir Eberwin of Kranz is a shrewd fellow. He must know.”

“Ask him, Paszko. Find out.”

“I shall not: orders.”

“Paszko. Didn’t I come to your aid at the Battle of Lutom? The infantrymen were advancing on you, remember? They’d have stuck you like a pig had it not been for me and Samson. You are indebted. Are you a knight or not? It doesn’t befit a knight to forget such debts.”

Paszko Rymbaba thought for a long while. And so intensively that beads of sweat appeared on his brow. He finally brightened up and wiped his forehead.

“You saved me,” he admitted, standing up straight. “But later in Bodak you jabbed me perfidiously in the side. And that beloved maid of yours kicked me in the stones and threw me down the stairs. I had headaches for a long time after that. Thus we’re quits. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Paszko—”

“Have you finished? Then hold your hands out. I must bind them again.”

“Can’t you tie them a bit looser?”

“I cannot: orders.”

They set off again at dawn, in a fog which meant Reynevan lost his bearings. He thought they were heading towards Prudnik, on the Głubczyce road, but he couldn’t be certain.

Three horsemen were waiting for them at the edge of a leafless birch copse along with a tightly sealed wagon being pulled by four shaggy horses. The wagon’s purpose was more than obvious, so Reynevan wasn’t surprised when they shoved him inside and bolted the doors behind him. He even greeted the change with certain pleasure. He was still a captive, but at least his hands were untied.

Hooves thudded, the wagon strained and set off, its axles creaking and rattling. The only light came from a tiny grated window, which wasn’t much. But it was enough to be able to see a person lying on the floor, covered with a blanket or a mantle.

“Praise the Lord, Brother,” he said. “Who are you?”

The man on the floor didn’t answer. The groan he gave couldn’t be considered an answer. Reynevan sniffed. He approached and felt the man’s forehead. It was as hot as a furnace. Feeling himself on the contrary suddenly growing cold from fear, he pulled off the blanket, reached under the sweat-soaked clothes and pressed the man’s belly, then felt his neck, armpits and groin. He was searching in the faint light for the marks of blood, pus and a rash. The sick man put up no resistance, continuing to lie motionless, groaning.

“You’re lucky and I’m lucky,” Reynevan finally muttered, sitting up. “It’s not the plague. Or smallpox. I believe.”

“Adsumus…”

“What?” Reynevan started. “What did you say?”

“Adsumus…” mumbled the sick man. “Adsumus peccati quidem immanitate detenti… Sed in nomine tuo specialiter congregati…”