“We ride to Świdnica tomorrow, I hope?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

Avoiding main roads had its pitfalls. Namely, when they left the wilderness to rejoin the road, it was very difficult to work out where the roads led.

Scharley stood bent over some tracks in the sand and examined them, cursing softly. Reynevan let his horse graze in the roadside grass and looked up at the sun.

“The east is over there,” he ventured, “so we ought to go that way—”

“Don’t be clever,” Scharley interrupted. “I’m examining the tracks and discerning which way the main traffic goes. And I declare that we should go… that way.”

Reynevan sighed, since Scharley was pointing exactly where he had. He tugged his horse and set off after the penitent, who was marching briskly in the chosen direction. After a short time, they came to a crossroads. Four absolutely identical-looking roads led off in four different directions. Scharley muttered angrily and once again stooped over the hoofprints. Reynevan sighed and began to search around for herbs, for it was looking as though a magical talisman would be necessary.

The bushes rustled, his horse snorted and Reynevan jumped.

An old beggar emerged from the thicket, hauling up his breeches. A wandering beggar, one of hundreds roaming the highways, scrounging at doorways and porches, seeking alms outside convents and sustenance from taverns and peasant cottages.

“Jesus Christ be praised!”

“For ever and ever, amen.”

The beggar was typical of his kind. His peasant’s homespun coat was mottled with many-hued patches, while his bast slippers and crooked stick had witnessed numberless roads. A red nose and unkempt beard peeped out from under his ragged cap, made mainly from rabbit and cat hide. The beggar had a long sack slung over one shoulder and a tin pot hanging from his neck.

“May Saint Wacław and Saint Vincent come to your aid. May Saint Petronilla and Saint Jadwiga, patron of—”

“Whence do these roads lead?” Scharley asked, interrupting the litany. “Which way’s Świdnica, Grandfather?”

“Whaaat?” The beggar put a hand to his ear. “Come again?”

“Which way do the roads lead?”

“Ooh… The roads… Aha… I know! That ’un goes to Olszany, and that ’un to Świebodzice, and that ’un… Bugger… I forget where—”

“Never mind.” Scharley waved him away. “I know everything now. If Świebodzice’s that way, then Stanowice’s the opposite way, on the Strzegom road. So that road goes to Świdnica, via Jaworowa Góra. Farewell, Grandfather.”

“May Saint Wacław—”

“If anyone asks about us,” Reynevan interrupted him this time, “you never saw us. Got it?”

“What have I got? May Saint—”

“To help you remember what was asked of you,” Scharley rummaged in his pouch, “here’s a penny, Grandfather.”

“Good gracious! Thankin’ you! May you be—”

“And you, too.”