“I’m beginning,” announced Scharley from the steps of the altar, “I’m beginning to support the teachings of Huss, Wycliffe, Payne and the rest of the Hussite ideologists more actively. It is indeed time to begin changing churches… Well, perhaps not at once into stables, like the Brzeg Collegiate Church, but into lodging houses. Just look how cosy it is here. We’re out of the wind and rain, there are hardly any fleas… Yes, Reinmar. As far as the churches are concerned, I’m going over to your religion, beginning a noviciate. You may treat me as a candidate for membership.”

Reynevan shook his head, tossing wood onto the bonfire that he and Berengar Tauler had lit in the centre of the nave. Samson sighed. He was sitting a little way off, reading a book dug out by candlelight from an enormous pile under the pulpit. When the church was being plundered, no one was tempted by the books. They were of no use, after all.

“We’re sitting pretty here.” Drosselbart broke off another board from the matroneum in the chancel. “There’s plenty of firewood. It’ll last till summer.”

“And there are things to eat,” added Bisclavret, biting a bone-dry sausage he’d found in the vestry. “It turns out it’s true what they say: qui altari servit, ex altari vivit.”

“And one can always find something to drink out of.” Rzehors raised a captured Communion cup full of wine. “You don’t have to lap it up like a dog from a barrel… And there’s reading matter… Isn’t there, Samson? Samson!”

“I beg your pardon?” The giant raised his head. “Oh, yes… You won’t believe it—I found a sentence in Polish in this Latin work. And the work dates from 1231, from the times of Henry the Bearded. There’s a date on the title page, look: Anno verum Millesimo CCXXXI, and under it, as clear as day: benefactor noster Henricus Cum Barba Dei gratia dux Slesie, Cracouie et Poloniae…”

“What does that sentence in old Polish say?” Drosselbart asked with interest. Samson read it aloud.

“Nonsense.”

“Indeed.”

“And a crap rhyme.”

“Agreed.”

Footsteps, clanking, rattling and a hubbub of excited voices echoed from the vestibule. Brands and torches lit up the gloom and the shapes of people entering the church. Scharley swore. It turned out they were being visited by Pešek Krejčíř, a preacher of the Orphans, one of Little Prokop’s subordinates. Krejčíř was followed by several youngsters bearing arms. Scharley swore again.