Even stranger was that the tall, thin figure of Nicodemus Verbruggen, a Fleming from Ghent and a great master of fulling and dyeing, was also nowhere to be seen.

Recalling the canon’s warning just in time, Reynevan rode into the estate furtively, hidden behind the wagons of other customers. He lowered his hat over his nose and hunched down in the saddle to avoid drawing attention to himself.

The building, usually noisy and heaving with people, appeared quite empty. No one reacted to his shout or was alerted by the slamming of the door. There wasn’t a living soul in the long entrance hall, or the servants’ quarters. He entered the main chamber.

On the floor in front of the hearth sat master Nicodemus Verbruggen, grey hair cut short like a peasant’s but dressed like a lord. A fire was roaring in the grate, and the Fleming was tearing up sheets of paper and throwing them into the flames. He was almost finished—a scant few sheets remained on his knees, while a whole pile was blackening and curling up in the flames.

“Master Verbruggen!”

“Jesus Christus…” The Fleming raised his head and threw another sheet in the fire. “Jesus Christus, young Master Reinmar… O, misfortune, Young Master… O, dreadful misfortune…”

“What misfortune, good sir? Where’s my brother? What are you burning?”

“Mynheer Piotr ordered me to. He showed me a trunk and spake thus: ‘Nicodemus, if anything should happen, God forbid, remove the documents from this trunk and burn them, fast. But the fulling mill is to work on.’ Thus spake Mynheer Piotr. En het woord is vlees geworden…”

“Master Verbruggen…” Reynevan felt a terrible presentiment lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. “Master Verbruggen, tell me! What are these documents? And what word has become flesh?”

Fleming pulled his head into his shoulders and threw the last sheet of paper into the fire. Reynevan leaped forward, scorching his hand as he pulled it from the flames and waved the fire out. Partially.

“What is it?”

“Killed,” Nicodemus Verbruggen said softly. Reynevan saw a tear rolling down the grey bristles on his cheek. “Good Mynheer Piotr dead. They killed him. Murdered him. Young Master Reinmar… O, misfortune, Jesus Christus, O, woe…”

The door slammed shut. The Fleming looked around and realised that no one had been listening to his last words.

Peterlin’s face was white. And full of pores. Like cheese. In spite of being washed, there were traces of congealed blood in the corners of his mouth.

The older knight of Bielawa lay on a bier in the middle of the village hall, among twelve burning candles. Two gold Hungarian ducats had been placed on his eyes; under his head had been laid spruce branches, whose smell, mixed with the scent of melting wax, filled the village hall with the sickly, morbid stench of death.