Ignoring his question, the canon explained calmly, “If it becomes truly dangerous, I will not save you. The only way I could protect you for certain would be to shave you a tonsure and lock you up in a Cistercian monastery, hidden from sight. But that, I expect, you would prefer to avoid. In any case, I’m unable to spirit you off to Hungary. The man I’m commending to you can. He will guarantee your safety and, if necessary, defend you. He is a fellow of quite dubious character, oftentimes of rude manner, but you must suffer it, because in certain circumstances he is indispensable. Thus, remember: Strzegom, the priory of the friars of the Order of Beatissimae Virginis Mariae de Monte Carmeli, outside the town walls, on the road to the Świdnica Gate. Have you got that?”

“Yes, Reverend Father.”

“You will set off without delay. Too many people have already seen you in Strzelin. As soon as you receive the letter, you will be gone.”

Reynevan sighed, for he still had a heartfelt desire to chat with Urban Horn somewhere over a mug of beer. Horn aroused great esteem and admiration in Reynevan, and had grown in his eyes at least to Sir Yvain, the Knight of the Lion. Reynevan was absolutely itching to ask Horn for his assistance in a knightly quest—the freeing of a certain oppressed maiden. He was also thinking about saying goodbye to Dorota Faber. But one didn’t treat the advice and orders of Canon Otto Beess lightly.

“Father Otto…”

“Yes?”

“Who is the man in the Carmelite priory?”

Otto Beess said nothing for a time.

“Somebody,” he said finally, “for whom nothing is impossible.”

Chapter Eight

In which things start splendidly, but later go downhill.

Reynevan was cheerful and happy. He was overflowing with joy, and everything around him enraptured him with its beauty. The valley of the Upper Oława, carving its meanders into the green hills, was glorious. His stocky bay colt—a gift from Canon Otto Beess—trotted nimbly along the road beside the river. A zephyr blowing from the hills bore with it heady scents—now of jasmine, now of bird cherry. And now of shit—apparently, there were human settlements in the vicinity.

Reynevan was cheerful and happy. He had every reason to be.

He hadn’t managed, in spite of his efforts, to say goodbye to his erstwhile travelling companions, which he regretted, and Urban Horn’s mysterious disappearance in particular had greatly disappointed him. But it was the memory of Horn that had prompted him to act.