“Furthermore,” said Prokop, raising his head, “time does not permit it. If we get caught up in a fight with Bolko, the bishop will gather more forces and occupy more convenient positions. When she sees we have difficulties, that she-wolf Lady Regent Helena in Racibórz is liable to take action. She and her loathsome son, Mikołaj. Przemko of Opava is likely to decide to do something extremely stupid, and it might also be too great a temptation for Wenceslaus. We would end up encircled, fighting on several fronts. No, Brethren. The bishop is our most bitter foe, so we march as quickly as possible towards Nysa. Let us move out! The main forces by road, towards Osoblaha… And I’ll have other tasks for brothers Puchała and Zmrzlík. But more about that in a moment. Firstly… Reynevan!”

“Brother Prokop?”

“The young Opolian… You know him, I believe?”

“Bolko Wołoszek? I studied with him in Prague—”

“That’s wonderful. You’ll go to him. With Horn. As envoys. You’ll suggest a pact in my name—”

“He won’t want to listen to us,” said Urban Horn coldly.

“Put your faith in God.” Prokop looked at Dobko Puchała and Jan Zmrzlík, who were waiting for orders, and his mouth twisted into a grimace. “In God and in me. I’ll make sure he will.”

The Stradunia in spring indeed turned out to be quite a serious natural obstacle. Marshy meadows stood underwater and the current washed the trunks of the riverside willows, silver in their raiment of thick, downy pussy willow. The river marshes teemed with frogs.

Urban Horn’s horse danced on the road, kneading the mud with its hooves. Horn tugged on the reins.

“To Duke Bolko!” he shouted at the guards on the bridge. “Envoys!”

Horn shouted it a third time, but the guards looked on in silence and continued pointing at them their crossbows and harquebuses resting on the bridge’s balustrade. Reynevan began to feel anxious. He kept glancing back at the forest, wondering if they would make it into the trees if the need arose.

Four horsemen rode out of the forest on the far bank. Three of them stopped just before the bridge and the fourth, in full plate, rode onto the bridge with a thudding of horseshoes. The coat of arms on his shield was not—as Reynevan had first thought—the Czech Odrzywąs, but the Polish Ogończyk.

“The duke will receive envoys!” called the rider. “Over here, to our bank!”

“On your knightly parole?”

The Ogończyk lifted his visor, which kept slipping, and stood up in the stirrups.

“Hey!” There was amazement in his voice. “But I know you! You’re Bielawa!”

“And you,” Reynevan recalled, “are Sir Krzych… of Kościelec, aren’t you?”

“Will Duke Bolko guarantee us knightly inviolability?” Horn interrupted the exchange of pleasantries.