“Don’t you know, m’lord? He’s said to be a monk or fallen priest, reportedly fled from a monastery prison. A certain Tassilo of Tresckow told me that Scharley took part in the Wrocław sedition of 1418. You know, the eighteenth of July, when the rebellious butchers and shoemakers killed Burgermeister Freiberger and six councillors. Thirty rebellious heads rolled for that in Wrocław town square and thirty were banished. And the fact that Scharley’s head is still on his shoulders suggests he was one of those banished. I think—”

“Enough,” interrupted the grey-eyed man. “Give me the information I asked for, about the attack on the tax collector and his convoy. The convoy Reynevan was part of. And you, too, Tybald.”

“Aye, aye.” The goliard ladled up a spoonful of peas. “What I know, I know. And I’ll tell you, why not? But about those other things—”

“Like black horsemen screaming: ‘Adsumus’? Clearly under the influence of the Arabic substance called hash’eesh.”

“Indeed. I didn’t see that and know naught at all about it. Where am I to obtain information like that? How?”

“Try looking in the bowl you have in front of you.” The grey-eyed man’s voice grew menacing. “Among the peas and pork pieces. If you find it, it’ll be your gain. You’ll save time and effort.”

“I understand.”

“Very good. All the information, Tybald. Everything you can find. Facts, gossip, rumours, what’s talked about at markets and fairs, in taverns, monasteries, barracks and whorehouses. What priests prattle on about in sermons, the faithful during processions, councillors in town halls and women by town wells. Clear?”

“As the day.”

“It’s Saint Hedwig’s Eve today, Tuesday, the fourteenth of October. In five days, we will meet in Świdnica on Sunday after Mass, outside the parish church of Saints Stanislaus and Wenceslaus. When you see me, don’t approach me. I’ll walk away and you’ll follow. Understood?”

“Yes, Master Vlk… Ahem… I beg your pardon…”

“I’ll forgive you one last time. Next time I’ll kill you.”

“Tempora cum causis Latium digesta per annum lapsaque sub terras ortaque signa canam…”

The pupils of the Collegiate School at the Church of the Holy Cross in Opole were studying Ovid’s Fasti that day. The shouts of fishermen and shrieks of washerwomen arguing could be heard from the Młynówka. Wendel Domarasc, magister scholarum, put some reports from agents in a hiding place. The content of most of them was worrying.

Something was afoot.