“You comport yourself too brashly here.” Zettritz squinted his eyes. “Beware! Or I shall add you to the reckoning. Oh, the bishop would be glad of you indeed… For I see you are a man of substance, not some oaf. But don’t raise your eyes or your voice. You stand before a knight! Before a lord!”

“I know. And I suggest a knightly way of resolving the matter. An honest ransom for a squire is six hundred groschen. A troubadour’s worth no more than a squire. I’ll pay for him.”

Zettritz looked at the burgmen and they all grinned menacingly.

“Did you bring silver here? In your saddlebags, is it? And the horse is in the stable? In my stable? In my castle?”

“Indeed.” The grey-eyed man didn’t flicker an eyelid. “In your stable, in your castle. But you didn’t allow me to finish. I’ll give you something else for the goliard Tybald.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“A guarantee. When the Warriors of God come to Silesia, and it’ll happen soon, when they burn everything to the ground, no ill will befall either your stable, your castle or your subjects’ belongings. On principle, we don’t burn the property of people who are friendly to us. Not to mention our allies.”

It was quiet for a long time. So quiet that the sound of the flea-ridden hounds scratching themselves could be heard.

“Everybody out!” the knight suddenly roared at his entourage. “Raus! Begone! All of you! This instant!”

“As regards an alliance and a friendship,” said Herman Zettritz the Younger, the Lord of Schwarzwaldau, once they were alone. “As regards future collaboration… Future collaboration and brotherhood of arms… And the division of spoils, naturally… May we discuss details, Brother Czech?”

Immediately outside the gate, they spurred the horses into a gallop. The sky in the west darkened, literally turned black. A strong wind blew and whistled in the tops of firs, tore dry leaves from oaks and hornbeams.

“M’Lord Vlk!”

“What?”

“Thanks! Thank you for freeing me!”

The grey-eyed priest turned around in the saddle.

“I need you, Tybald Raabe. I need information.”

“I understand.”

“I doubt it. Ah, Raabe, one more thing.”

“Yes, m’Lord Vlk.”

“Don’t ever utter my name aloud again.”

The village must have been right on the route taken by the troops of Baštín of Porostlé, who, following the previous year’s robbery of the Krzeszów abbey, had plundered the land between Landeshut and Wałbrzych. The village must have offended the Hussites somehow, for all that remained was black, scorched earth, with odd timbers and stones sticking up here and there. Not much was left of the local church, either—just enough to see there had once been a church. The only thing that had survived was a roadside cross and the graveyard beyond the embers of the church, hidden among the alders.