“Precisely,” the penitent interrupted him. “Should you need an elixir or philtre… Like a love potion, let’s say. Maybe an aphrodisiac or something for virility…”

“For virility,” she repeated pensively. “Hmm… It could come in useful—”

“There you go.”

“—for my stallions,” Dzierżka of Wirsing finished her own sentence. “I can cope with love myself, and manage splendidly without sorcery.”

“A quill, ink and paper, if you please,” Reynevan said after a moment of silence. “I’ll write down the recipe.”

The horse being prepared turned out to be a well-formed chestnut palfrey, the very one they had found in the clearing. Reynevan, who hadn’t really given credence to the prophesies of the sylvan witches at first, now pondered deeply while Scharley leaped into the saddle and trotted briskly around the paddock. The penitent displayed another talent—a firm hand and strong knees soon had the chestnut trotting gracefully, and the stable boys and soldiers from the escort applauded Scharley’s perfect riding position. Even the composed Dzierżka of Wirsing clicked her tongue in approval.

“I never knew,” she muttered, “that he was such a cavalier. Verily, he isn’t lacking in talent.”

“Indeed.”

“And you, kinsman,” she said, turning around, “take care of yourself. Hussite emissaries are being hunted down. Strangers and foreigners are watched and anything suspicious is reported, because anyone who doesn’t inform is himself suspicious. And if it wasn’t enough that you’re foreign and a stranger, your name and family have become well known in Silesia. I suggest you make something up. Best to keep your given name so you won’t be constantly confused… Let’s say you’ll be… Reinmar of Hagenau.”

Reynevan had to smile. “But that’s the name of a famous poet—”

“Don’t be fussy. In any case, times are hard—who remembers the names of poets these days?”

Scharley finished his display with a short but vigorous gallop, then brought the horse to a sliding stop, showering gravel around. He rode over, making the chestnut do some pretty dressage steps that earned him more applause.

“An elegant creature,” he said, patting the colt’s neck. “And swift. Thank you again, Dzierżka. Farewell.”

“Farewell. And may God be with you.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye. See you in better times.”

Chapter Twelve

In which Reynevan and Scharley eat luncheon in a Benedictine monastery on Saint Giles’s Eve, which falls on a Friday, a fast day. And after luncheon, they exorcise a devil. With an utterly unexpected result.

They heard the monastery before they saw it, because even though it was hidden in a forest, it suddenly spoke with the deep but melodic tolling of a bell. Before the sound had died out, they saw red-tiled roofs on buildings surrounded by a wall, reflected in the still waters of fishponds disturbed from time to time by ripples marking the feeding of large fish. Frogs and ducks went about their business in the rushes.