“True,” agreed another knight, with long hair and a handlebar moustache, who introduced himself as Woldan of Osiny. “The Seidlitzes are queer whoresons. The entire family. The Laasans are the same, and the Kurzbaches. All extremely nasty bastards and vengeful cunts… Hey, Wittram, Rymbaba, you fucked things up, a pox on you!”

“You need to think before you act,” Weyrach instructed. “Think, both of you!”

“But we did,” mumbled Kuno of Wittram. “We looked: a wagon’s rolling by. And we thought: shall we rob it? One thing led to another… By the bonds of Saint Dismas! You know yourselves how it is!”

“Aye, that we do. But you still have to think it through,” said Weyrach.

“And be heedful of the escort!” added Woldan of Osiny.

“There was no escort,” said Wittram. “Only a waggoner, some servants and a mounted man in a beaver coat, a merchant, no doubt. They fled. So we think: our luck’s in. And then: fifteen grim fuckers with halberds spring out of nowhere—”

“Precisely. Hence the need for thinking it through before acting.”

“What times we live in!” said Rymbaba, annoyed. “It’s come to this! A stupid sodding wagon, the goods under the canvas probably only worth a few farthings, and they defended it as thought it was, beg pardon, the Holy Grail.”

“It didn’t use to be like that,” said the third knight, a swarthy youth not much older than Rymbaba and Wittram, called Tassilo of Tresckow, with hair cut fashionably in a style popular with the knighthood. “You used to just call: ‘Stand and deliver!’ and they delivered. And now they put up a fight, scrap like hell, like Venetian condottieres. Woe on us! How can we make a living in conditions like these?”

“We cannot,” Weyrach concluded. “Our Raubritter life is becoming harder and harder. Aye…”

“Aye…” echoed the robber knights in a pathetic chorus. “Aaaye…”

“Hey, there’s a pig snuffling around the muck heap,” Kuno Wittram observed, pointing. “Do we slaughter it and take it?”

“No,” Weyrach decided after a moment’s thought. “Waste of time.”

He stood up.

“Master Scharley,” he said, “it wouldn’t do to leave you three here. The Seidlitzes hold grudges and they’ll have men out already, hunting you on the roads. So, please ride with us to Kromolin, our stronghold. Our squires are there and enough comrades, too. No one will endanger or offend you there.”

“Just let them try.” Rymbaba twisted his blond moustache. “Ride with us, Master Scharley. For let me tell you, I’ve taken a great liking to you.”

“Likewise to young Sir Reinmar.” Kuno Wittram slapped Reynevan’s back. “I swear on the trowel of Saint Rupert of Salzburg! So ride with us to Kromolin. Master Scharley? Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“In that case,” Notker of Weyrach said, stretching, “on our way, comitiva.”

When the procession had formed up, Scharley remained at the back and discreetly called Reynevan and Samson to him.