Before they’d ridden far, Scharley looked back. “See, Reinmar, how elated he is, how joyfully he’s feeling and sniffing the coin, delighting in its thickness and weight. Indeed, a sight like that is true reward for a benefactor.”

Reynevan didn’t reply, too busy watching the flocks of birds that had suddenly flown up from the trees.

“Verily,” Scharley went on with a grave expression as he strode beside the horse, “one must never indifferently and callously pass by human poverty. One must never turn one’s back on a pauper. Mainly because a pauper might smack you in the back of the head with his staff. Are you listening to me, Reinmar?”

“No. I’m looking at those birds.”

“What birds? Oh, bugger! Into the trees! Into the trees, quick!”

Scharley gave the horse a hard slap on the rump, then set off after it at such speed that the horse, frightened into a gallop, only caught him up beyond the treeline. Once in the forest, Reynevan dismounted and led his steed into the undergrowth, then joined the penitent watching the highway from the thicket. For a while, nothing happened, the birds stopped shrieking, and it was so quiet and peaceful that Reynevan was about to mock Scharley and his excessive timidity. He wasn’t quick enough.

Four horsemen appeared at the crossroads and surrounded the beggar with a thudding of hooves and wheezing of horses.

“They aren’t the Strzegom troops,” muttered Scharley. “So it must be… Reinmar?”

“Yes,” Reynevan confirmed dully. “It’s them.”

Kyrie-eleison leaned over from the saddle and asked the beggar something in a loud voice, while Stork of Gorgowice pushed his horse against him. The beggar shook his head and put his hands together, undoubtedly entreating Saint Petronilla to help them.

“Kunz Aulock,” said Scharley, pointing him out to an astonished Reynevan, “or Kyrie-eleison. A right thug, although he’s actually a knight from a notable family. Stork of Gorgowice and Sybek of Kobylagłowa, rare scoundrels both. And the one in the marten cap is Walter of Barby. Anathematised by the bishop for his raid on a farm in Ocice, the property of the Racibórz Dominican nuns. You never mentioned that you’re being tracked by such celebrated men, Reinmar.”

The beggar fell to his knees, hands still joined in prayer, cried out and beat his breast. Kyrie-eleison, still in the saddle, lashed him across the back with a knout. Stork and the others also made use of their whips, crowding and impeding each other, while their horses began to shy and thrash around. Stork and the anathematised Walter of Barby dismounted and began to punch the beggar, and when he fell over, took to kicking him. The beggar was screaming and wailing pitifully.

Reynevan swore and punched the ground. Scharley looked askance at him.