“No, I won’t. Think you have something you can frighten or blackmail me with? You haven’t got shit, young Lord Bielawa. Know why? Because a historical moment is upon us. Each day brings changes. At times like these, you quack blackmailers have to act very quickly or your blackmail becomes a laughing stock. Didn’t you see what happened in the streets today? I rode into Prague beside Hynek of Kolštejn. We came straight from Kolín, from Lord Diviš Bořek, who gave us his soldiers. Devout Catholics and Hussite killers like Půta of Častolovice and Otto of Bergow marched shoulder to shoulder with us. Our aim was no secret. We intended to capture the town hall and take control, because Prague is caput regni: whoever has Prague has Bohemia. We wanted to free Korybut and make him king. A true king, meaning with Rome’s approval. We meant to come to an agreement with the Pope, who is inclined, rumour has it, to compromise regarding the liturgy, and prepared to yield regarding the Chalice and Communion sub utraque specie. Prepared to negotiate. But not with the Tábor, not with radicals, not with people who have the blood of priests on their hands. United with Oldřich of Rožmberk and the lords of the Landfried, we meant to finish off the radicals, destroy the Orphans, eliminate the Tábor and restore order to the Kingdom of Bohemia. Understand?

“We entered Prague openly and with visors raised,” Smiřický said, not waiting for Reynevan’s response. “I couldn’t have shown more clearly whose side I’m on, what I want and what I am against. Everything was revealed and demonstrated today. So what do you wish to do? Now, with the cat out of the bag, you’ll go to the Tábor and announce: ‘Listen, brothers, I’ll tell you some news: Jan of Smiřice is your enemy, he’s plotting with the Catholics against you.’ Old hat, Lord Bielawa, old hat! You’ve bungled it, you’re too late. Indeed, a year, or even a month ago—”

“Even a month ago,” Reynevan finished his sentence, smiling nastily, “I could have unmasked you. I was dangerous, so you sent assassins to kill me. Most chivalrous, Lord of Smiřice, most noble. Indeed, your glorious ancestors, those heroes of Ascalon and Crécy, must be proud.”

“If you think I’m going to apologise to you for that, you are fucking mistaken.”

“Answer my questions.”

“I believe I’ve already suggested you kiss my arse? I repeat the invitation.”

Samson Honeypot suddenly stood up. And Reynevan would have sworn that Jan Smiřický took fright.