“His Lordship the Duke gives his parole.” Krzych of Kościelec raised an armoured gauntlet. “He would never harm young Lord Bielawa. Come hither.”

“Well, well, well,” said Bolko Wołoszek, Duke of Głogówek and heir to Opole, drawling out his words. “Prokop must respect me since he sends such notable personages to parley. So notable and so celebrated. Not to say notorious.”

The duke’s entourage mumbled and muttered. His officers had gathered in a cottage at the edge of the village of Kazimierz and consisted of one herald in a blue tabard adorned with the gold Opole eagle, five armoured knights and one priest, also armoured, in a breastplate and couters. Of the knights, three were Poles; apart from Krzych of Kościelec, the duke was accompanied by a Silesian Nieczuja whom Reynevan knew and a Prawdzic he didn’t. The fourth knight had the silver hunting horn of the Falkenhayns on his shield. The fifth was a Knight Hospitaller.

“Sir Urban Horn,” continued the duke, scowling at the emissary, “is famous the length and breadth of Silesia, mainly from the orders for his capture sent by the bishop and the Inquisition. And who do we have here, gentlemen? That heathen Horn—a Beghard, heretic and spy—acting as emissary in the service of the arch-heretic, Prokop the Shaven.”

The Knight Hospitaller grunted malevolently. The priest spat.

“While you, I see,” Wołoszek continued, shifting his gaze to Reynevan, “have utterly thrown in your lot with the heretics. You must have sold your entire soul to Satan and serve him devotedly since he sends you as an envoy. Or perhaps the master heretic Prokop thought if he sent you, he would gain something, owing to our old amity? Ha, if he counted on that he is mistaken. For I tell you, Reynevan, that when everybody in Silesia was denigrating you, calling you a thief and a brigand, ascribing to you the foulest crimes—including the rape of a maid—I defended you, not allowing anyone to slander you. And do you know the outcome? I looked a damn fool.

“But I saw my error,” concluded the duke after a pregnant pause. “I saw my error! The mission of an Antichrist carries no weight, I shall not talk to you. Forward, guards! Seize them! And bind that rascal!”

Reynevan struggled and his knees buckled when Krzych of Kościelec pinned him down from behind, seizing him by the shoulders in his powerful hands. Two servants caught Horn by the arms as a third deftly wound a rope around his elbows and neck, tightened it and tied a knot.

“God sees.” The priest raised a hand in a theatrical gesture. “God sees, Duke, that you act rightly! Firmetur manus tua, may your hand be made strong when it chokes the hydra of heresy!”

“We are emissaries…” Reynevan grunted in the grip of the Pole. “You gave your parole—”