“True,” admitted Kunad of Neudeck gloomily. “Lord Bart was no weakling; not just any old runt could have done it… But it may be that spells or witchcraft were used. They say that the fornicator is also a wizard.”

“By the Blessed Virgin!” squawked Dorota Faber, and Father Filip crossed himself.

“In any case, all will be revealed,” Neudeck finished. “For when we catch up with that philanderer, we shall find out the details, oh yes, we shall… And it won’t be difficult to spot him, in any case. We know he’s handsome and is riding a grey horse. Should you encounter him—”

“We shall not hesitate to inform the authorities,” Urban Horn calmly promised. “Handsome youngster, grey horse. Can’t be missed. Or confused with anything else. Farewell.”

“Gentlemen,” asked Father Granciszek, “perhaps you know whether the Canon of Wrocław is still residing in Strzelin?”

“Indeed. He’s passing judgements at the Dominican priory.”

“Is it His Eminence Notary Lichtenberg?”

“It is not,” countered Rochow. “He is called Beess. Otto Beess.”

“Otto Beess, Provost at Saint John the Baptist’s,” muttered the priest, once the knights had set off again and Dorota Faber had urged on the gelding. “A severe man. Most severe. Oh, Rabbi, you have but faint hopes of an audience.”

“Actually, no,” said Reynevan, who had been beaming for some time. “You will be received, Rabbi Hiram. I promise you.”

Everybody looked at him, but Reynevan only smiled mysteriously. After which, still extremely cheerful, he jumped down from the wagon and walked alongside. He hung back a little and Horn caught up with him.

“Now you see, Reinmar of Bielawa,” he said softly, “how quickly notoriety sticks. Hired thugs are abroad, scoundrels like Kyrie-eleison and Walter of Barby, but if they kill anyone, the suspicion will fall on you first. Do you see the irony of fate?”

“I observe two things,” murmured Reynevan in reply. “The first, that you do know who I am and probably have all along.”

“Probably. And the second?”

“That you knew the victim. This Albrecht Bart of Karczyn. And I’d swear you’re riding to Karczyn right now. Or you were.”

“Well, well,” said Horn a moment later, “how acute you are. And so confident. I even know where your confidence derives from. Wonderful to have friends in high places, eh? Wrocław canons? A fellow feels better at once. And safer. But that feeling can be illusory, oh, it can.”

“I know,” said Reynevan, nodding. “I’m keeping in mind those bushes you mentioned. The humours and the fluids.”

“And so you should.”

The road led up a hill at the top of which was a gallows bearing three hanged men, all dried out like stockfish. And down below, Strzelin spread out before the travellers, with its colourful suburbs, city wall, castle from the times of Bolko the Stern, ancient rotunda of Saint Gotthard, and the more modern spires of the monasterial churches.