‘That was settled,’ says Henne. ‘My wife accounted for the extra skeps. She herself won the forest bees for our hives.’

‘This is not about the bees,’ says Plater. ‘Are you sure you do not wish me to read it to you?’

Lisbet redoubles her efforts on Henne’s shirt but he steps away from her. ‘I understand perfectly. But there are no nets, no fence that can hold such a creature. It is my bees that fetch from where they can, make what we harvest, and my hands that press the wax, not the monks’.’

‘And they claim that output is only possible due to their part,’ says Plater. ‘And so you must go to Heidelberg to sign a contract admitting as much.’

‘I will not.’

‘You may take any petition to Heidelberg,’ says Plater, his voice bored now that it is clear Henne has mastered himself, and will not threaten violence. ‘But I do not think you will find much success. I think it wise to ready yourself for a share of your skeps to go to the monastery.’

‘But they are ours!’ says Lisbet, unable to swallow the outburst. Panic dapples her vision.

‘None but God’s,’ says Plater coolly. ‘As your husband himself said. And the monastery sits higher in God’s estimation than any farm. Heidelberg will be a reminder of that.’

‘You have grown so large in your own esteem,’ says Henne, ‘it is a wonder you can fit through the doors anymore.’

‘Heinrich,’ says Sophey, appalled. Plater’s smirk does not falter, but something dark slides behind his eyes.

‘You were ever cocksure, Heinrich Wiler,’ he says smoothly, an arrow drawn back against a bow. ‘Perhaps you forget who you are speaking to? And perhaps you forget where you stand, on borrowed ground, with stolen bees, a barren wife and a sinner for a sister – in other words, on quicksand. And this,’ he leans in and taps the letter, shaking now in Henne’s clenched fist, ‘will hopefully remind you of your position in life.’

A barren wife. A sinner for a sister. The mould-bloom of Lisbet’s panic sharpens into hate. She wants her husband to shove the man through the door, to stamp on his smirking face until he spits teeth into the dust. She herself would do it, to death. But Henne does not defend her, nor Agnethe, and Lisbet’s mouth fills with bitterness.

‘My father bought this land, and I work the bees. You and your council have no claim here,’ says Henne.

‘Take your woes to Heidelberg.’

‘I shall.’

‘You shall not!’ cries Sophey, and Plater snorts.

‘You can inform me if that is your plan and I will send word for them to expect you. You have a day to make your decision. I will not keep the Twenty-One waiting beyond that. Brant is personally concerned by the matter.’

He throws the empty cup to the table and leaves as abruptly as he entered. As though on reflex, Agnethe steadies the rolling cup, and Henne slams the door behind him.