“Agreed,” he said. “I give my permission.” Clearly enjoying their astonishment, he continued, “There are three reasons. Firstly, Brother Scharley has served in the Tábor’s ranks for over a year now and has earned his leave. Secondly, Brother Neplach has informed me of your contributions, Brother Bielawa. You have battled the enemies of our cause with dedication and you apparently fought heroically against the rebels in Prague on the sixth of September. You have treated the wounded, without eating, drinking or sleeping. That unquestionably deserves a reward. And thirdly and most importantly…”

He stopped and turned around. They were outside a granary, currently serving as headquarters and the organisational centre of the siege staff.

“You’ll find out later what is third and most important; we’ll return to it, but right now I have other matters to attend to. You’ll hear what those matters are because I’m keeping you beside me.”

“Brother—”

“That’s an order. Let us go. And your servant… Oh, I see he has occupied himself with something. Good. He won’t do any harm.”

Samson Honeypot, pretending as usual that he couldn’t hear or understand anything, had sat down at the foot of the granary wall, taken out a pocketknife and begun whittling a scrap of wood. Samson often whittled. Firstly, he explained, it was a perfect activity for the idiot he appeared to be. Secondly, he went on, whittling was calming and beneficial to the nervous and digestive systems. Thirdly, he added, carving wood helped him when he was forced to listen to discussions about politics and religion, since the scent of fresh wood shavings alleviated the vomiting reflex.

They went into the granary, entering a large room which still smelled pleasantly of grain despite being converted into a staff headquarters. Inside, two men were bent over maps spread out on a table. One was short and thin, dressed in the fashionable black of Hussite priests. The other, younger, in knightly garb, was more powerfully built and fair-haired, with a somewhat cherubic, somewhat harsh and weary face, calling to mind Flemish miniatures of the Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry.

“At last,” said the smaller one in black. “We’ve had quite a wait, Brother Prokop.”

“Duties, Brother Prokop.”