Before the roar had died away, Reynevan, Scharley and Samson were now loping, panting heavily, through lanes, jumping over fences, dashing through gardens, getting tangled up in sheets drying on lines. Hearing the cries of Hayn’s men from the left and the roars of the Sterczas behind them, they ran north towards the sound of the bell from the Dominican Church of the Elevation of the Holy Cross.

“M’Lord Reinmar! Here! This way!”

A little door opened in the wall and there stood Andrzej Kantor, the deacon of the Dominican church. The priest indebted to the Bielawas.

“This way, this way! Make haste! There’s no time to lose!”

Indeed, there wasn’t. They ran into a narrow hallway, which, when Kantor closed the door, was plunged into gloom and gave off the smell of rotting rags. Reynevan knocked over some metal pots with an almighty crash and Samson tripped and fell over with a bang. Scharley had also run into something, for he swore violently.

“This way!” called Andrzej Kantor from somewhere ahead illuminated by a dim light. “This way! Here! Here!”

Reynevan stumbled more than walked down the narrow staircase. He finally emerged into daylight, entering a tiny courtyard surrounded by walls covered in wild vines. Scharley ran out behind him and trod on a cat, which yowled shrilly. Before the cry had died out, a dozen men in black jerkins and round felt caps rushed out from both cloisters and flew at them.

One of them threw a sack over Reynevan’s head and another tripped him up. He tumbled to the ground. He was pinned down and his arms twisted behind him. He felt a struggle beside him, heard furious panting, the sounds of blows and cries of pain, indicating that Scharley and Samson were putting up resistance.

“Has the Holy Office…” The shaking voice of Andrzej Kantor reached him. “Has the Holy Office anticipated… a reward… even a tiny one… for the seizure of this heretic? The bishop’s significavit doesn’t mention it, but I… I have difficulties… I’m in great financial need… For which reason—”

“The significavit is an order, not a commercial contract,” an evil, grating voice admonished the deacon, “and the chance to aid the Holy Inquisition is sufficient reward for every good Catholic. Which you are, are you not, Frater?”

“Kantor…” wheezed Reynevan, his mouth full of dust and hair from the sack. “Kantooor! You whoreson! You papist dog! You sodomitic—”

He wasn’t allowed to finish. He was struck on the head with something hard and saw stars. A second blow caused intense pain and his fingers suddenly went numb. More blows followed. The pain made Reynevan cry out, the blood pounded in his ears and he lost consciousness.