“What happened to the father abbot, you ask? I shall tell you. The Hussites were making ready to go when a young lordling hurried up, blond-haired, personable, but with an evil eye, mouth foully twisted. They called him ‘Renewan.’ Not at all, Reverend Father, I’m not in error, I heard clearly: Renewan. I can swear on the cross… Then that Renewan seized Father Abbot by the habit. This here is Mikołaj Kappitz, Abbot of Kamieniec, he cried, the cruellest oppressor, a knave, an informer and a… erm, forgive me… cur of the Inquisition. And he bent over to the abbot and said, teeth grinding, Do you recall Adèle, you whoreson? Whom you accused of witchcraft in Ziębice for a hundred ducats? And sent to her death? You’ll pay for it now. Recall Adèle as you plummet to Hell, despicable priest. Thus he spoke before hauling the abbot into the courtyard. I heard correctly. Every word. I can swear on the cross…

“Keeping to the point: they beat Abbot Kappitz to death. They beat him with clubs and axes… Now, that Renewan, he just stood and watched.

“And that is everything that happened, Holy Tribunal, on that Holy Tuesday, Anno Domini 1428. I have spoken the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God. The heretics burned down our church and abbey. They set fire to the barns, the mill, the bakery and the brewery, then went away, burning down our monastery village, Radkowice, on the way. But, on leaving, they stripped of our habits those of us who survived. At that time, we didn’t understand why they did so. It only became apparent later. When the brigands attacked Frankenstein…”

“Who are you?” yelled the guard at the Kłodzko Gate. Alongside him, several other men with cocked crossbows leaned out from the battlements. “The gates are locked! We aren’t letting anyone into the town!”

“We are from Kamieniec!” crowed Rzehors from beneath his hood. “Cistercians! We fled from the slaughter through the woods! The monastery is afire! Open the gate, good fellow!”

“Not a chance! It is forbidden! Understand, monk? Orders!”

“Let us in, by God,” Reynevan pleaded. “Brothers in Christ! The heretics are hot on our heels! Don’t leave us to our doom! Do you want our blood on your consciences? Open up!”

“How should I know who you are? Perhaps Hussites in disguise?”

“We are monks, good and devout Christians! Cistercians from Kamieniec! Can’t you see our habits? Open up, by the living God!”

A monk appeared beside the captain of the guard, a canon of the Holy Sepulchre, judging from his habit.

“If you are indeed Kamieniec Cistercians,” he shouted, “what is your abbot’s name?”

“Mikołaj Kappitz!”

“What canticle is sung on the Laudes on Sunday and on feast days?”

Reynevan and Bisclavret looked at each other vacantly. Scharley rescued the situation.