Scharley did not reply, but speeded up so that Reynevan had to urge his horse to a gentle trot. They soon arrived at the Świdnica Gate. On the other side of it, beyond a gaggle of grimy pilgrims and ulcerous beggars squatting in the shade, was Strzegom itself and its narrow, stinking, thronged, muddy streets.

Whatever the destination and purpose of their journey, Scharley strode confidently and decisively towards it. They headed down a lane filled with the noise of so many clattering looms it had to be called Weavers Street. They soon found themselves in a small square with a church spire towering over it. Their eyes and noses told them that cattle had recently been driven through it.

“Just look,” said Scharley, stopping. “A church, an inn and a brothel, and right in the middle of them a pile of shit. Here you have the parabola of human existence.”

“I thought,” Reynevan didn’t even smile, “you didn’t philosophise when sober.”

“After a long period of abstinence,” Scharley’s sure steps took them into a backstreet, towards a counter laden with casks and mugs, “just the very scent of good beer intoxicates me. Hey, good fellow! White Strzegom ale, please. Straight from the cellar. Be so kind as to pay, laddie, since as the Good Book says, argentum et aurum non est mihi.”

Reynevan snorted, but tossed a few halers down onto the counter.

“Will I ever find out what brought you here?”

“You shall. But only when I’ve downed at least three of these.”

“And then?” Reynevan frowned. “The aforementioned brothel?”

“It can’t be ruled out, laddie.” Scharley raised the mug. “It can’t be ruled out.”

“And then? A three-day bender on the occasion of your release?”

Scharley didn’t reply, since he was drinking. Before tilting the mug, however, he winked, and it could have meant anything.

“This was a mistake, then,” Reynevan said seriously, staring at the penitent’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Perhaps the canon’s. Or perhaps mine, for obeying him and agreeing to associate with you.”

Scharley drank, ignoring him.

“Fortunately,” Reynevan continued, “everything can easily be resolved.”

Scharley took the mug away from his mouth, breathed out and licked the froth from his upper lip.

“You want to tell me something,” he guessed. “So, speak.”

“The two of us,” said Reynevan coldly, “simply don’t suit each other.”

The penitent nodded a request for another beer, and for some time thereafter was only interested in his second mug.

“We do differ a little, it’s true,” he admitted after taking a gulp. “I, for example, don’t fuck other men’s wives. And were we to have a good look, we’d probably find a few other differences. That’s normal. While we may have been created in His likeness, the Creator made sure there are individual differences. And may He be praised for that.”

Reynevan brandished a hand, growing ever angrier.