Reynevan was woken by the cold at dawn, and any somnolence was driven away by the tolling of bells. Quite close by, as it turned out. After digging himself out of the hayrick, he looked around and saw walls and towers. The view was familiar. In the misty and unearthly morning light, Reynevan recognised the town as Niemcza, where he had gone to school, where he had acquired learning and beatings.

He rode into town among a group of wayfarers. Hungry, he was drawn by kitchen smells, but the crowd moving along the streets dragged him instead towards the town square. It was full of people, crowded shoulder to shoulder.

“They’re going to torture somebody,” stated with certainty a powerful fellow in a leather apron on being asked the reason for the gathering. “They’ll probably break him on the wheel.”

“Or shove’im on a spike,” said a skinny woman in an apron, looking like a peasant, licking her lips.

“They’ll be giving out alms, I’ve’eard.”

“And indulgences. Not for nothing, but cheap, they say. For the bishop’s priests have come. From Wrocław itself!”

Four people were standing on the scaffold towering above the crowd: two monks in Dominican habits, an elderly gentleman in black who looked like a clerk and a burly soldier in a kettle hat and a red and yellow tunic worn over armour. One of the Dominicans was speaking, hands raised theatrically. Reynevan listened carefully.

“This loathsome Czech heresy deranges order! It preaches evil and perverse teachings about the sacraments! It condemns marriage. Eyes fixed on carnal pleasures and bestial desires, it does away with all the legal bonds and public order that once kept crimes in check. And more than anything, craving Catholic blood, it compels anyone who doesn’t agree with its errors to kill and burn with bestial cruelty: cutting off the lips and noses of some, the hands and members of others and quartering still others. Orders pictures of Jesus Christ, His Holy Mother and the other saints destroyed and despoiled—”

“When will the alms be given out, eh?” called a voice from the crowd. The soldier on the scaffold straightened up and stood with arms akimbo, scowling. The heckler was quietened down.

“In order to better explain the gravity of the matter, good folk,” said the clerk in black, meanwhile, “in order to open your eyes to the vileness of Czech heresy, a letter from Heaven will be read. It fell from Heaven on the city of Wrocław, in front of the very cathedral, and is written in the hand of Jesus Christ, our Lord, amen.”

A whispered prayer passed through the crowd and people crossed themselves, elbowing one another. There was some confusion. Reynevan began to withdraw, pushing through the mob. He’d had enough.

On the scaffold, the other Dominican unrolled a parchment.