Her face was bathed in saintliness, and a bright gold halo also appeared to be framing the head of Elencza of Stietencron. Martha and Mary of Bethany, he thought, feeling giddy. Divinely beautiful. They’re both divinely beautiful.

“My name’s not…” His head was spinning faster and faster. “My name’s not Lancelot… Nor Hagenau… I am Reinmar of Bielawa…”

“We know,” Martha and Mary replied from the light.

“Where’s my comrade? A big man, almost a giant… He’s called Samson…”

“He’s here, calm yourself. His head was cut. The barber-surgeons are treating him.”

“How is he?”

“They say he’ll recover. He’s very strong, they said, and hardy. Supernaturally hardy.”

“Dammit… I must see him… Help him…”

“Lie still, m’Lord Reinmar.” Dorota Faber straightened his pillow. “You won’t help anyone as you are. But you might harm yourself.”

The hospital of Saint Świerad beside the church with the same saint as its patron—one of two in Oława—was subordinate to the town council and run by Premonstratensians from the Church of Saint Vincent in Wrocław. Apart from the Premonstratensians, male volunteers worked in the hospital, and female ones, like Dorota Faber and Elencza of Stietencron. The patients were almost entirely Hussites—Taborites and Orphans—mainly severely wounded or very seriously sick. There were also cripples. All of them in a condition that had compelled Prokop to leave them because of the impossibility of moving them. On the strength of the truce and agreement forced on Ludwik, Duke of Oława, the hospital of Saint Świerad was made available to them. They were being treated there and had been guaranteed unmolested passage to Bohemia. Some of the Czechs being treated didn’t overly trust the word of Duke Ludwik and held out little hope regarding the truce and guarantee. The further away Prokop marched, they claimed, the less binding became the truce. Having the Warriors of God at the very gates, and before them the prospect of conflagration and destruction, Duke Ludwik was inclined towards concessions and promises—anything to save his duchy. Now, with the Warriors of God over the hills and far away, the threat had vanished and the promises become hollow. And hollow promises butter no parsnips.

The following day, having woken up, Reynevan glanced at the pallet on his left.

Samson Honeypot was lying in it. With a bandaged head. Unconscious.

Reynevan wanted to get up and see how he was. He couldn’t. He was too weak. His swollen left shoulder was throbbing with pain and the fingers of his left hand had lost all feeling. The smell of gangrene was intensifying.

“Among my things…” he groaned, vainly trying to raise himself up, “was a casket… A copper casket…”

Elencza sighed. Dorota Faber shook her head.