He stole a glance at her again and she caught him again in the snare of her eyes, the expression in which he could not decipher.

“I felt and still feel like a tête-à-tête. I meant only to use questions to coax you towards garrulousness. For, in any case, I know the answers to most of the questions.”

“Indeed?”

“You are giving yourself up to Sir Jan to make a point. Endeavouring to convince him that you have a clear conscience. In the case of Kasia Biberstein, naturally.”

“You astonish me, m’lady.”

“I’m aware of it. I’m doing so deliberately. Let’s return, though, as my confessor often says, to the meritum. Your efforts won’t impress Sir Jan, believe me. Quite disagreeable procedures await you at Stolz Castle, I think, which are likely to end wretchedly. You ought to have fled while you had the chance.”

“Escape would confirm the legitimacy of the charges. It would be an admission of guilt.”

“Oh. Then you are innocent? With a clean conscience?”

“You’ve heard plenty of rumours about me.”

“I have indeed,” she admitted. “There were plenty of them. About you. And your exploits. And conquests. I listened, whether I liked it or not.”

“You know, m’lady,” he cleared his throat, “how it is with gossip. It makes a mountain out of a molehill—”

“I also know there’s no smoke without fire. Don’t quote any more proverbs, I beg you.”

“I didn’t commit the crime I’m accused of. To be precise, I didn’t attack and rob the tax collector. And I don’t have the stolen money. If that interests you.”

“It does not.”

“What, then?”

“I already said: Katarzyna Biberstein. Are you innocent with regard to her? Your conscience isn’t burdened by any sins? Or even peccadillos?”

“I’d rather not converse on that particular subject,” he said through pursed lips.

“I know you wouldn’t. Świdnica’s ahead of us.”

They entered the town through the Strzegom Gate and left through the Lower Gate. As they passed through, Reynevan sighed several times, seeing and recognising familiar and well-liked places—the Golden Lindworm apothecary’s shop, where he had once trained; the Crusader Tavern, where he had once drunk Świdnica March ale and tried his luck with the local girls; and the vegetable stalls which he visited to try his luck with the maids bringing their goods from the countryside. He looked longingly towards Kraszewice Street where Justus Schottel, an acquaintance of Scharley’s, had printed playing cards and dirty pictures.

Although preoccupied by his memories, he kept furtively glancing at the Green Lady riding on his right. And when he did so, he suffered pangs of conscience. I love Nicolette, he repeated. I love Katarzyna Biberstein, who bore me a son. I’m not thinking about other any women. None at all. I should not.

Yet he did.