Reynevan stayed in the Silver Bell for a week, sitting with a crossbow in his lap during the day and dozing with a knife under his pillow at night. He was alone—Tybald Raabe and the beguiler had gone into hiding. Too great a risk, they explained. Should something happen, it’s better to be far away. But nothing did happen. No one came to arrest or murder Reynevan. The chances of becoming a martyr were diminishing from one day to the next. Tybald Raabe showed up on the twentieth of November with news and gossip. Jakub Olbram from near Łagiewniki had disappeared. Vanished like a sigh. He had no doubt taken good advantage of the week’s delay that Reynevan had given him. Seven days, announced the goliard, was enough to reach Lübeck and from there take a ship to the end of the world, if needs be. In short: the Vogelsang doesn’t exist, the Vogelsang can be written off, all hope of the Vogelsang can be forsaken. It would have to be reported to Prokop. Immediately. There was no time to waste.

But to be quite certain, let’s wait, suggested Reynevan. Another week. Better yet, a week and a half…

Reynevan, however, had already lost hope, to the extent that he stopped loitering in the Silver Bell Inn killing time by reading Henry Suso’s Horologium sapientiae, which some scholar—unable to pay for his vittles and liquor any other way—must have left there. The next morning, he saddled his horse and rode off. Glancing quite often in the direction of Brzeg and towards the village of Schönau, the estate of Cup-Bearer Berthold Apolda. The Green Lady had claimed that Nicolette wasn’t in Schönau, but perhaps he could find out for himself?

Tybald, who had been stopping by in Gdziemierz more and more often, saw through him quite easily. He wasn’t to be brushed off with excuses and forced Reynevan to confess. After hearing him out, he grew solemn. Such things, he declared, end badly.

“You’ve only just disentangled yourself from an affair with one maid, only just escaped from Biberstein’s clutches by a miracle, and you’re walking into more trouble again? It could cost you dearly, m’lord. Cup-Bearer Apolda isn’t one to be pushed around and the bishop and Grellenort also know how many beans make five; they might already be lying in wait for you near Schönau. As might Jan of Ziębice. Your name is now well known in Silesia.”

“Well known? How so?”