It wasn’t just the weather that was perilous. Like numerous regions of Moravia, the Šumperk region resembled a veritable chequerboard then—the estates of Catholic lords loyal to Duke Albrecht bordered with the lands of the gentry supporting the Hussites—and it was difficult to stay on top of it since men changed sides and loyalties too often. The confusion was all the greater since some lords remained neutral, which meant they were indifferent regarding whom they attacked and robbed: they attacked and robbed everybody.

Scharley had shared some information with Reynevan so he knew perfectly well that he wasn’t safe with anybody and that it would be best to slip through unnoticed in order not to chance upon any of the parties. Neither the Strážnický lords from Kravaře in Zábřeh who supported the Chalice nor the lords of Kunštát from nearby Lošticíce. Nor even more so the Catholics on Albrecht’s side: the Šumperk Valdštejns, the lords of Zvole and the numerous vassals of the Bishop of Olomouc, who were for ever bedevilling the region with raids.

It suddenly began to snow and the snowflakes, at first delicate, grew to become enormous and wet and stuck to his eyes at once. His horse was snorting and shaking its head, but Reynevan rode on. Praying to himself that what he was taking to be the road really was.

Fortunately, the blizzard stopped as suddenly as it had started. Snow was covering the fields, turning them white, but not the road, which remained visible and distinct. Traffic even appeared on it. He heard bleating and the jingling of bells and a flock of sheep trotted out onto the road. Reynevan spurred on his horse.

“God’s blessings be upon you.”

“And on you, hem-hem,” said the shepherd, overcoming his fear. “And on you, young lord.”

“Where are you from? What’s that village yonder, beyond that hillock?”

“Over yonder? That’d be a village.”

“What is it called?”

“That’d be Keprnov.”

“And who owns that Keprnov?”

“That’d be the monastery.”

“And are any soldiers stationed there?”

“Why should there be?”

Plied with yet more questions, the shepherd told him that beyond Keprnov was Hynčice and beyond Hynčice—Hanušovice. Reynevan sighed with relief, as it appeared he was following the correct route and wouldn’t get lost. He bade the shepherd farewell and went on his way. The road led him straight to a ford on the fog-bound Morava, and then clung to the right bank. He soon passed the village Hynčice, consisting of several cottages which announced themselves in advance by the smell of smoke and the barking of dogs.