“Zawisza the Black of Garbów wouldn’t agree with you. He conceived of war and jus militare differently.”

“Zawisza the Black is dead.”

“What?”

“Weren’t you told?” He turned around in the saddle. “Hasn’t word of the death of one of the most celebrated knights of modern Europe reached you? Zawisza the Black has fallen. A loyal vassal, he marched with Emperor Sigismund on an expedition against the Turks, to besiege the fortress of Golubac on the Danube. The Turks defeated them there, Sigismund bolted in customary fashion and Zawisza—also in customary fashion—covered the withdrawal. And perished. It’s said that the Turks decapitated him. It happened on the twenty-eighth of May, on the Friday after the holiday of Saint Urban, my patron, which is why I remember the date so well. And thus, Zawisza the Black of Garbów, the good knight, is no longer in this world. Sic transit gloria mundi.”

“Much more, I’d say,” said Reynevan. “Much more than gloria.”

As soon as they arrived in Świdnica, they came across a commotion. When they entered the town square after passing through the Lower Gate and along the mud-filled Long Street, they thought they had happened upon a festivity—the cause of the commotion was clearly a source of merriment. Bisclavret moved through the crowd to find out what was happening, while Reynevan was at once reminded of Prague in the summer of 1427, fomented and overjoyed by the news of the victory at Tachov. The associations turned out to be extremely apt, and Bisclavret’s face when he returned was extremely sour. The longer Bisclavret’s whispered account went on, the darker and gloomier Horn’s expression became.

“What happened?” Reynevan couldn’t restrain himself. “What’s going on?”

“Later.” Horn cut him off. “Later, Reynevan. We need to have a meeting now, and some important conversations. Let’s go. Bisclavret, find somebody trustworthy and well informed here. I want to know more.”

The meeting took place in a beer cellar in Bowyers Street, near the gate of the same name, and the important conversation concerned the supply of weapons and horses from Poland. And the interlocutor was a Raubritter known to Reynevan, the Pole, Błażej Jakubowski, of the Poraj coat of arms. Jakubowski didn’t recognise Reynevan. And no wonder. Some time had passed. And quite a lot had happened.

The conversation was somewhat disrupted by the commotion and the extremely cheerful mood of the guests filling the tavern. The people of Świdnica clearly had a reason to be celebrating. Reynevan wasn’t the one to wonder what it was.

“I hear you were defeated?” Jakubowski suddenly interrupted the negotiations, gesturing with his head towards the rejoicing townspeople. “In Lusatia? At some Kratzau or other? They say Lords Polenz and Kolditz gave you a licking, a sound hiding. Eh? Tell me, Horn, I’d like to hear the details.”

“Now isn’t the time to discuss it.”