‘Then why are you here?’ says Henne, and Sophey hisses a warning. Henne treats Plater as the boy he skinned his knees with in childhood, and not as he should: as the man who speaks with the power of the Twenty-One. Henne refuses to forget Plater is the son of a labourer, set apart only by his willingness to dirty his hands in exchange for perfumed water to wash them clean again.

‘A letter, Herr Wiler,’ says Plater, producing it, sealed, from his breast pocket. Lisbet can see the parchment is limp, stained by his sweat. ‘Do you wish to step outside?’

‘This is my mother’s farm,’ says Henne. ‘If she wishes to hear it she should.’

‘Would you like me to read it to you?’

‘I was schooled in my letters same as you,’ says Henne, and strides around the table to snatch the missive, ripping the seal in his haste. Lisbet peers at the writing, though of course she cannot read beyond his name – Heinrich Wiler – written at the top in neat, slanting cursive, and recognises the seal is their wax, left undyed and unmixed: the richest, rawest gold. It is always with pride she spies their products at use in the church, or else by the Twenty-One themselves. Sebastian Brant, the city’s syndic, sends for it specially. It is a high honour, though from Henne’s tangible bristle Lisbet knows the letter does not bring good news.

‘A summons, in fact,’ says Plater, his delight in their dismay barely concealed. He takes the cup of beer from Agnethe without thanks, and she fast withdraws her hand.

‘To court?’ says Sophey in confusion.

‘To Heidelberg,’ says Henne. ‘To defend our rights to our land.’

Heidelberg. It is a court of sorts, where the Church has a papal seat and universities besides. Several days’ ride, and not somewhere they have ever had cause to go.

‘To answer claims your bees steal from the land, which is none but God’s alone.’

‘We all belong to God,’ says Henne, and Lisbet places a gentle hand on his taut waist. ‘So what is the bound of this claim?’

Plater gestures around them, slopping beer on the floor, to the neatly fenced skeps stretching from yard to forest, at the shed and the chicken coop, the house made even more ramshackle by his attentions. ‘Where are your wildflowers, Herr Wiler? Where is the nectar that feeds your bees, makes your wax so sweet?’

‘The forest,’ says Henne, ‘as they ever were. We have permissions, as others have to graze livestock in fields—’

‘Have you been to the forest of late? It may have escaped your notice, but the summer is vicious this year.’ Lisbet tightens her hold on Henne’s side. ‘In the wilds, flowers wilt or do not grow at all. And to the east, at the monastery, are two dozen acres of cornflowers and poppies watered daily.’

Now Lisbet understands, clear as though she has read the letter herself. It is an old claim, made every two years or so, that everything from their bees to their honey is stolen from the monks at Altorf. In fact, the monks themselves are thieves, diverting the river so their fields escape drought, and thus depriving all those downstream.