“You ought to know that hard choices are nothing new to me,” he said a moment later. “You act arrogantly, thinking it daunts me. Earlier this morning, I knew nothing of your existence, and later this evening, if needs be, I’ll forget about it. I repeat—for the last time—either make your confession as an expression of trust, or be gone. Make haste with your choice, for it’ll soon be Sext, and they strictly observe the liturgy of canonical hours here.”

Reynevan clenched his fists, fighting the overwhelming urge to turn and leave, go out into the sunshine, fresh air, greenery and open space. He finally swallowed his pride. Common sense prevailed.

“I don’t even know if you are a priest,” he stammered out, kneeling on the polished wood.

“It doesn’t matter.” Reynevan could hear something like mockery in the man’s voice. “All I care about is a confession. Don’t expect absolution.”

“I don’t even know what to call you.”

“The world knows me by many names,” came back the voice from behind the grille, softly but clearly. “Since I have the chance to be reintroduced into the world, I ought to choose something… Willibald of Hirsau? Or perhaps, hmm… Benignus of Aix? Or perhaps… perhaps… Master Scharley? What do you think, laddie: Master Scharley? Very well, don’t make faces. Simply Scharley. All right?”

“Very well. Let’s get on with it, Scharley.”

Barely had the massive hasp and staple lock of the Carmelite priory in Strzegom slammed behind them, barely had the two men put some distance between themselves and the beggars by the gate, barely had they entered the shadows of the roadside poplars, than Scharley astonished Reynevan.

The recent penitent and prisoner, a moment earlier intriguingly enigmatic, dour and silently dignified, now suddenly roared with Homeric laughter, leaped like a stag, threw himself down among the weeds and for a moment rolled around on his back like a colt, yelling and laughing by turns. Finally, before the eyes of the dumbfounded Reynevan, his former confessor turned a somersault, sprang up and directed an extremely insulting gesture at the gate with his right hand. The gesture was supported by a long litany of tremendously indecent curses and invective. Several applied to the prior personally, several to the Strzegom priory, several to the Carmelite Order in general, and several had a universal dimension.

“I never judged it was so hard in there,” said Reynevan, calming his horse, which had been startled by Scharley’s performance.

“Judge not, that ye be not judged.” Scharley brushed down his clothes. “To begin with. Secondly, kindly refrain from comments, at least for now. Thirdly, let’s hurry to town.”

“To town? What for? I thought—”

“Don’t think, either.”

Reynevan shrugged and spurred his steed down the highway. He pretended to turn his head away, but couldn’t refrain from directing a furtive look at the man striding beside his horse.