Reynevan thought he had heard the name before. But it was the first time he had seen her.

“Did you make the poultices for the hejtman? Using what?”

Alžběta Donotková raised eyes the colour of forget-me-nots at him.

“Grated onion,” she replied quietly. “And crushed birch buds.”

“Are you versed in healing? And herbalism?”

“Wouldn’t know about that… As much as any village woman, I suppose. In any case, those poultices didn’t help—”

“On the contrary,” he responded. “They did indeed. You’re going to help him again now. You must apply a flaxseed pap once the dressing is removed. It’s still spring, but there ought to be duckweed on the ponds. Make poultices from the juice you squeeze from it. First the pap, then the duckweed, by turns.”

“Very well, m’Lord Reynevan.”

“You know me?”

“I heard them talking. The women.”

“About me?”

“Two years ago,” said Alžběta Donotková and looked away, but only for a moment. “At the time of the raid on Silesia. In the town of Złotoryja. In the parish church.”

“Yes?”

“You and your companions didn’t let harm come to the Mother of God.”

“Oh, that…” he said in surprise. “Was that event talked about?”

She looked at him for a long time. In silence.

“The event took place,” she finally answered, slowly uttering the words. “And only that is important.”

Donotková, Alžběta Donotková, he said to himself as he trotted northwards, towards Hanušovice again. People talked about her, he recalled. Gossiped. Told of a woman held in great esteem by the women who travelled with the Orphans, about a natural leader whose opinions even some of the Hussite hejtmans respected. He recalled that in those tales there was a secret, there was death and love, a great love for someone who perished. For someone whom no one could replace, who left behind him only an endless void, endless sadness and an endless sense of something unfulfilled. A story seemingly from the pages of Chrétien de Troyes or written by Wolfram of Eschenbach. Which didn’t suit her coarse looks. Didn’t suit at all. And because of that was probably authentic.

The wind from Sněžník fanned his face, somewhat allaying the shame he had felt when she spoke about the event in the church in Złotoryja, about the wooden Madonna. About the sculpture in whose defence he had stood, indeed; not on his own initiative, but following Samson Honeypot’s example. And he didn’t deserve praise for that. Nor the acknowledgement of a woman like Alžběta Donotková.

Beyond Hanušovice the road turned and continued westwards. It all made sense. He was a little over a mile from the Mezilesí pass, he estimated, and hoped to reach it by nightfall. He spurred on his horse.

They caught up with him before the evening.