Scharley took a demijohn from a saddlebag and uncorked it, releasing the smell of liqueur. The demijohn had not been among the farewell gifts from the Benedictines and Reynevan feared the worst regarding how the penitent had acquired it.

“It’s a great mistake,” Scharley said, swigging from the demijohn and passing it to Reynevan, “not to listen to Dzierżka. She usually knows what she’s talking about. The circumstances of your brother’s death are not clear, laddie. Certainly not clear enough to instantly undertake a bloody vengeance. You don’t have any proof of the Sterczas’ guilt. Tandem, you don’t have any proof of Kyrie-eleison’s guilt. Why, in hoc casu, there’s even a lack of motives.”

“What…” Reynevan choked on the liqueur. “What are you saying? Aulock and his gang were seen near Balbinów.”

“Non sufficit as evidence.”

“They had a motive.”

“What motive? I listened carefully to your account, Reinmar. The Sterczas, your lover’s brothers-in-law, hired Kyrie-eleison to capture you alive—the events at that tavern near Brzeg prove that incontrovertibly. Kunz Aulock, Stork and Walter of Barby are professionals who only do what they are paid to do. They were paid to get you, not your brother. Why would they leave a body behind them? A cadaver lying in the road is a problem for professionals: they risk being hunted, the law, revenge… No, Reinmar. There isn’t an ounce of logic in it.”

“So who, in your opinion, murdered Peterlin? Who? Cui bono?”

“Now you’re asking the right questions—it’s worth considering who benefits from his death, so you must tell me more about your brother. On the way to Hungary, naturally. Via Świdnica, Frankenstein, Nysa and Opava.”

“You’ve forgotten about Ziębice.”

“True. But you haven’t. And you won’t, I fear. I wonder when he’ll notice.”

“Who? What?”

“Samson Honey-Eater from the Benedictine abbey. There’s a nest of hornets in the tree stump he’s sitting on.”

The giant sprang up. And sat back down when he realised he’d been duped.

“As I suspected,” Scharley said with a grin, “you understand Latin, Brother.”

To Reynevan’s astonishment, the giant smiled back.

“Mea culpa,” he replied in an accent Cicero would have found no fault with. “But that’s no sin, after all. And if it is, then who sine peccato est?”

“I wouldn’t call eavesdropping on other people’s conversations under the pretext of not understanding a language a virtue,” Scharley pouted.

“You’re right,” said Samson, slightly inclining his head. “And I’ve already admitted my guilt. And in order not to multiply my misdeeds, I warn you that shifting to the tongue of the Gauls will not guarantee you discretion, either, for I speak French.”

“Oh?” Scharley’s voice was as cold as ice. “Est-ce vrai? Indeed?”

“Indeed. On dit, et il est verité.”

Silence reigned for some time. Finally, Scharley loudly cleared his throat.