“I know,” interrupted Malevolt, “what’s going to happen at any moment. I listened to your conversations and looked into your eyes when you talked about war. With all my heart, I’m for revolution and anarchy; I support the movement and transformation utterly. But I won’t risk personal involvement in this process. The revolutionary struggle for change changes you. Transforms you. You need great strength to stay in control and not become… something it is ill to transform into. I’m not sure of my strength or self-control. So, I prefer to step aside. Enough! But I wish you all… And you, Reinmar… Success. Farewell, Reynevan.”

The beguiler parted company with them but left something behind him. Several days later, Reynevan saw Samson Honeypot practising blows and thrusts with the goedendag, the iron-edged Flemish weapon, on the threshing floor. Samson and Malevolt, having taken a liking to each other, had spent hours playing cards and dice, so the goedendag may have been won in a game. It might also have been a present, a parting gift.

Reynevan didn’t ask.

On the Feast of Saint Vincent, the joint patron of Wrocław Cathedral solemnly celebrated in Silesia, the goliard Tybald Raabe appeared in Gdziemierz. He had probably visited all his informers, for he finally brought news from Bohemia. Kolín, he reported, had capitulated at last. After eighty-four days of siege, on the Tuesday before Saint Thomas’s Day, Sir Diviš Bořek of Miletínek gave up the town on condition that the garrison could leave unharmed. Prokop agreed to the condition. He’d had enough of the siege. And had other plans.

“Prokop,” reported the goliard, “is now mobilising the Tábor, the Orphans and the Praguians. A plundering raid on Hungary is certain.”

Tybald set off again. He was away for a long time, right up until Invocavit Sunday, when he returned with fresh tidings. Just as expected, the army commanded by Prokop and Jaroslav of Bukovina had struck Uherský Brod and from there the Hungarian lands. The towns of Senice, Skalice, Orešany, Modra, Pezinok and Jur were captured and burned down. On Ash Wednesday, however, the eighteenth of February, the Czechs reached Pressburg itself, torching the suburbs and all the surrounding villages. They set off on their return journey with wagons full of spoils. They marched past Trnavy and Nové Město nad Váhom to the great horror of the residents. No one dared to stand in their way or oppose them in battle.

“And in the meantime,” Tybald continued knowingly, “powerful reinforcements arrived in Moravia: armed units from Nymburk, Slané, Uničov and Břeclav.”

“So it’s Silesia’s turn,” said Bisclavret, grinning.

“Our time has come,” Drosselbart announced briefly. “Let’s make ready.”

“Let’s make ready,” Urban Horn echoed.