Reynevan stood up. And found himself face-to-face with a dapple-grey mare, on which sat a stout, fair-haired woman in a man’s doublet and beret, flanked by two riders. A pair of piercingly shrewd hazel eyes looked out from beneath the plume of bee-eater’s feathers adorning the beret.

Scharley, who appeared not to have suffered any serious injuries, stood alongside and discarded the remains of his ash staff.

“By the spirits,” he said. “I don’t believe my eyes. But this is no mirage—it’s the Honourable Dzierżka Zbylut in the flesh. The proverb is apt: it’s a small world…”

The dapple-grey mare shook its head, jangling the rings on its bit. The woman patted its neck in silence, measuring the penitent up and down with her piercing gaze.

“You’ve let yourself go, Scharley,” she finally said. “And your hair’s a little grey these days. Greetings. And now let’s get out of here.”

They were sitting at a table in a large, whitewashed corner room at the back of the inn. One window looked out onto an orchard, some crooked pear trees, blackcurrant shrubs and hives droning with bees. The other window gave onto a paddock filling up with horses which were being gathered into a herd. Among the hundred or more steeds prevailed heavily built Silesian dextrarii, bred for heavy cavalry. There were also castellans, Spanish-blood stallions, Greater Poland lance horses and small cobs and nags. Among the thudding of hooves and neighing could be heard the cries and curses of grooms and stable boys, and the shady-looking men from the escort.

“You really have let yourself go,” repeated the woman with the hazel eyes, “and silver threads have appeared in your hair since last I saw you.”

“What to do?” answered Scharley with a smile. “Tacitisque senescimus annis. Though the years only enhance your beauty and charm, Lady Dzierżka Zbylut.”

“Don’t try to butter me up. And don’t ‘lady’ me, because I’ll feel like some old dowager. And I’m not Zbylut any longer. When old Zbylut died, I went back to my maiden name, Dzierżka of Wirsing.”

“I remember now,” Scharley said, nodding. “Zbylut of Szarada did indeed depart this life, may God keep him in His care. When was it, Dzierżka?”

“It’ll be two years this Holy Innocents’.”

“How time flies. In the meanwhile, I was—”

“I know,” she interjected, and cast a piercing glance at Reynevan. “You still haven’t introduced your companion.”

“I am…” Reynevan hesitated for a moment, finally deciding that the Knight of the Cart might be both tactless and risky with regard to Dzierżka of Wirsing. “I am Reinmar of Bielawa.”

The woman said nothing for a moment but continued to stare at him.