Reynevan surreptitiously sighed with relief. Until that moment, he hadn’t been absolutely certain and had felt a gnawing frustration that he might have been mistaken. But when the knight spoke, there was no chance of a mistake. He had heard that voice two years before, on the thirteenth of September, in the Cistercian grange in Dębowiec, Silesia.

“You deserve…” The silver and black knight licked his lips and glowered at Reynevan. “You deserve a reward. If only for your cunning. You caught me craftily, what can I say? You’ve got your head screwed on—”

He broke off. He realised he was talking in vain, and that his words weren’t making any impression on his listener. He immediately changed tack. His face assumed a proud expression and his tone became lordly and imperious.

“I am Jan Smiřický of Smiřice. Understand, lad? Jan Smiřický! The ransom for me—”

“The corpse of your comrade, stripped naked, is already hanging from the pillory in the Old Town Square. There’s room beside it.”

The knight didn’t lower his eyes. Reynevan knew who he was dealing with but kept to the strategy he’d chosen. He continued trying to frighten and intimidate him.

“Of your comrades, the only ones to survive are those who Father Rokycana defended, shielding them with his own breast from the spears of the rabble. They were dragged to the town hall dungeon. After having to run an impromptu gauntlet of two rows of men wielding clubs and axes. Not all of them came out of it alive. The others are still being hunted and the mob is still waiting outside the town hall. Are you wondering why I’m saying this? For I have a dreadful desire to drag you into the town square, hand you over to the Praguians and watch you dash between the clubs. Do you know where that desire comes from? Can you perhaps guess?”

The knight narrowed his eyes. And then opened them wide.

“It’s you… Now I recognise you.”

“You betrayed my brother, O Jan Smiřický of Smiřice, you turned him over to die. You will pay for that. I’m wondering how. I could, as I said, hand you over to the Praguians. I could stick a knife between your ribs myself, here and now.”

“A knife?” The knight swiftly regained his aplomb and pouted contemptuously. “You? Between my ribs? Ha, go on then, young Lord of Bielawa. Stab away!”

“Don’t provoke me.”

“Provoke you?” Jan Smiřický snorted and spat. “I’m not provoking you. I’m mocking you! I’m a good judge of character, I can look straight into the soul. I’ve looked into yours and I shall tell you: you couldn’t even kill a chicken.”

“I can, as I said, drag you to the town hall. To a crowd of less sensitive fellows.”