They had arrived at the very end of the negotiations. The Radkov emissaries had just left, the pale and very frightened burghers glancing back anxiously and crumpling their caps in their hands. It was clear from their expressions that they had achieved little.

“As is customary,” a Czech in a fur hat said quietly, “the womenfolk and children may leave at once. The men must buy themselves out in order to leave and pay a ransom for the town or it will be put to the torch. Furthermore—”

“All papist priests must be turned in,” finished Brázda, also clearly experienced in these matters. “And all the fugitives from Bohemia. I needn’t have hurried at all—it will be some time before the women come out and the ransom payment is collected. We won’t be leaving here for a while.”

“Come before Ambrož.”

Reynevan recalled Scharley and Horn’s conversation about the former parish priest from Hradec Králové. He remembered they had described him as a fanatic, extreme in his zealotry and ruthlessness even among the most radical Taborites. He thus expected to see a small, skinny, fiery-eyed tribune, brandishing his arms and proclaiming declarations, dripping with saliva and demagoguery. He saw instead a well-built man, economical in his movements, wearing a black costume resembling a habit but shorter, revealing high boots. He wore a beard as wide as a shovel that almost reached his belt, from which a sword hung. In spite of the sword, the Hussite priest appeared rather benign, jovial even. It might have been the high, bulging forehead, bushy eyebrows and magnificent beard making Ambrož resemble God the Father in a Byzantine icon.

“Master Brázda.” He greeted them warmly. “Well, better late than never. The expedition, I see, has ended in success? Without loss? My compliments. And Brother Urban Horn? From what cloud has he fallen here?”

“From a black one,” replied Horn sourly. “Thank you for the rescue, Brother Ambrož. It came not a moment too soon.”

“I’m glad.” Ambrož nodded. “And others will be, too. We were already lamenting you when we heard the news. It’s hard to escape the bishop’s grasp. Indeed, easier for a mouse to escape a cat’s. It was fortunate, as I didn’t send the raid to Frankenstein for you.”

He shifted his gaze towards Reynevan, and Reynevan felt a cold spot between his shoulder blades. The priest said nothing for a long time.

“Young Sir Reinmar of Bielawa,” he finally said, “the brother of Piotr of Bielawa, a virtuous Christian who did so much for the Chalice’s cause, and who gave his life for it.”

Reynevan bowed without a word. Ambrož turned his head and stared long at Scharley. Scharley finally meekly lowered his eyes, but clearly only to be diplomatic.