People literally stopped dead, turning around, staring with mouths open in awe, whispering and pointing. The sight was deserving of being pointed at and admired. You’d have thought that legends, fairy tales and knightly epics had come back to life and arrived in Wrocław, in the thronged Castle Street. For down the middle of the street lined on both sides by Wrocław folk pranced a gorgeous dark bay stallion, adorned in a snow-white caparison, its neck decorated with a garland of flowers. A young knight in a black and silver doublet and velvet beret with a plume of feathers was mounted on the stallion. The knight was carrying before him on the saddle a maiden, as pretty as a picture, in a white cotehardie and flower wreath over her luxuriant fair hair, which flowed down loosely around her like a sylvan nymph’s. The maiden embraced the knight and gave him a passionate, loving look, and every now and again a no-less-passionate kiss. The horse walked on, its horseshoes clattering rhythmically, and the people looked on in delight. It was as though characters straight from the strophes of a romance, from a troubadour’s air or a bard’s tale had come to Wrocław.

Behold, whispered the people of Wrocław, look, Lohengrin is carrying Elsa of Brabant, Érec is carrying Énide on his pommel, look, Aucassin in the embrace of his Nicolette, look, Floris and Blanchefleur. See, Yvain and the Lady of the Springs, it is Gareth and Lioness, it is Walter and Hildegund, it is Parsifal himself, with his Condwiramurs.

“They’re staring at us,” said Parsifal of Rachenau, tearing his lips away from his betrothed’s lips. “They keep staring at us—”

“Let them,” said Ofka of Baruth, soon to be Rachenau, shifting her position on the saddle and looking lovingly into her betrothed’s eyes. “For you promised.”

Parsifal of Rachenau had indeed promised. The two fathers—Tristram of Rachenau and Henryk Baruth—had been left by the betrothed couple with beer and wine following the official betrothal ceremony, while the mothers, Hrozwita of Baruth and Berchta Rachenau, had been left to dream about grandchildren. But the fiancé Parsifal honoured the promise he had given his fiancée. That he would carry her romantically from one side of Wrocław to the other. From the Town Square to the cathedral and back. In front of him on his saddle. On the dark bay castellan that Dzierżka of Wirsing had given him.

The people of Wrocław stared. Horseshoes thudded on the boards and planks as the betrothed rode onto Piasek Bridge. Passers-by parted in front of them. Ofka suddenly gasped aloud and dug her fingernails into Parsifal’s shoulders.

“What is it? Ofka?”

“I saw…” said Ofka, swallowing. “I thought I saw… a maid I know…”

“A friend? Who? Shall we turn back?”