“No action was taken, naturally. No one was punished. Jan of Ziębice feared publicity. The Burgundian, it was proclaimed, had been killed in the cell by the very Devil after betraying him, for she meant to renounce him and had asked for the sacraments. That was all confirmed and imparted from the pulpit by that same Mikołaj Kappitz, the abbot from the Cistercian abbey in Kamieniec. He mentioned you again then, as a matter of fact, as a warning about what consorting with sorcerers can lead to.”

“And no one…” Reynevan overcame the lump in his throat. “No one—”

“No one,” the knight finished. “Who cared? And today everybody has forgotten about it. Aside from Sir Půta of Častolovice, perhaps. Sir Půta is still on good terms and allied with Duke Jan, but Jan’s marriage to Anka keeps being postponed.”

“And it will not come to pass,” rasped Reynevan. “I’ll kill Jan. I’ll ride to Ziębice and kill him. In the church, if needs be, but I shall. I’ll avenge Adèle.”

“Avenge her?”

“Indeed. So help me, God and the Holy Cross.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” the knight admonished him dryly and hoarsely. “One doesn’t seek God’s help in vengeance. Revenge, if it be true revenge, must be cruel. He who avenges must turn from God. And is accursed. For ever.”

He swiftly drew a misericorde, leaned over, seized Reynevan by the shirt front, tugged him up, choking him, and brought the blade to his throat, his face to Reynevan’s face and his eyes to Reynevan’s eyes.

“I am Gelfrad of Stercza.”

Reynevan closed his eyes and twitched, feeling the blade of the misericorde cutting the skin on his neck and hot blood dripping down inside his shirt. But it only lasted a moment, a fraction of a moment, and the blade was withdrawn. He felt the bonds yield as they were cut.

Gelfrad of Stercza, Adèle’s widower, straightened up.

“I had resolved to kill you, Bielawa,” he said hoarsely. “Having learned who you were in Szklarska Poręba, I tracked you, waiting for an opportunity. I know you were not guilty of Nicolaus’s death. Two years ago, you spared Wolfher’s life. Had it not been for your nobleness, I’d have lost two brothers instead of one. In spite of that, I resolved to take your life. Yes, yes, you suspect correctly… I wanted to kill you because of my wounded male pride. I wanted to wash away the filth of notoriety from my coat of arms with your blood. Drown—in your blood—the disgrace of a wretched cocu, a king among cuckolds.