“Now I feel I have brought a curse on myself in my old age,” he said. “For when my ransom was paid and I returned to Krakow, I told King Władysław everything I had seen at Epiphany at the Battle of Německý Brod, and everything I saw the following day after the town was captured. I told all but gave no advice, imposed not my opinions, was circumspect in expressing my judgements or conclusions. I simply talked, and he—the cunning old Lithuanian—listened. And knew. And never, laddie, you may be certain, will that cunning old Lithuanian ever send Polish or Lithuanian knights to fight the Czechs, no matter that the Pope weeps over the endangered faith, and Sigismund does rage and menace. And that is my fault, because of my account. And the only right conclusion that can be drawn from it is that the Polish and Lithuanian knighthood are needed to fight the Teutonic Knights, and it would be foolish, utter nonsense, to drown them in the Sázava, the Vltava or the Labe. Jogaila, having also heard my account, will never join an anti-Hussite crusade, either. Which is why I’m riding to Hungary against the Turks, before they excommunicate me.”

“You are jesting, sir,” said Reynevan. “Excommunication? A knight of your renown… You must be jesting.”

“Indeed,” said Zawisza with a nod. “Indeed, I jest. But I do fear it.”

For some time, they said nothing. Hans Mein Igel panted softly. The horses snorted restlessly in the darkness.

“Would that mean the end of knighthood?” Reynevan risked asking. “And chivalry? Can the infantry, tight-knit and serried, shoulder to shoulder, not only stand up to armoured cavalry, but even defeat it? Is this the end of… an era? Perhaps the age of knighthood is ending?”

“A war without knights or chivalry,” Zawisza the Black replied a moment later, “will eventually become sheer slaughter, a massacre. I would want no part of something like that. But I probably won’t live to see it. Between us, I wouldn’t want to.”

Silence reigned for a long time. The campfire died down, the logs glowing scarlet, occasionally exploding with a bluish flame or a geyser of sparks. One of the servants snored. Zawisza wiped his forehead with a hand. Hans Mein Igel, as black as a wisp of darkness, moved his ears. When the flames reflected in his eyes once again, Reynevan realised that the creature was looking at him.

“Love has many names,” said Hans Mein Igel suddenly, “and it will determine your fate, young herbalist. Love. It will save your life when you won’t even know that it is love. For the Goddess has many names. And still more faces.”

Reynevan was dumbstruck. Zawisza reacted first.

“Well, well,” he said. “A prophecy. Obscure like every prophecy, suiting everything and nothing at the same time. No offence, Master Hans. Do you have anything for me?”