Samson and Reynevan followed on at a walk. Samson was listening, swaying in the saddle and humming. It was evident he knew the words of the minnesang and that—had he not been required to remain incognito—he would gladly have joined in. Reynevan was daydreaming about Adèle. He was having difficulty gathering his thoughts, for Rymbaba and Kuno of Wittram, who were bringing up the rear, were belting out lewd drinking songs one after the next. Their repertoire seemed inexhaustible.

Verbum caro, panem verum

verbo carnem efficit:

fitque sanguis Christi merum,

et si sensus deficit,

ad firmandum cor sincerum

sola fides sufficit.

The solemn tune and pious verses of Thomas Aquinas weren’t fooling anyone; the knights’ reputation evidently went before them. At the sight of the procession, old women gathering firewood fled in panic and adolescent girls darted away like hinds. Woodcutters ran off through clearings and horror-stricken shepherds crawled under their sheep. A tar burner fled, abandoning his cart. Three wandering Friars Minor made off, hitching their habits up above their haunches. Nor did the poetic stanzas of Walther von der Vogelweide appear to have any calming influence on them whatsoever.

Nü wol dan, welt ir die wârheit schouwen,

gen wir zuo des meien hôhgezîte!

der ist mit aller sîner krefte komen.

seht an in und seht an werde frouwen,

wederz dâ daz ander überstrîte:

daz bezzer spil, ob ich daz hân genomen.

Samson sang along under his breath. My Adèle, thought Reynevan, my Adèle. Verily, when we are finally together, when our separation is over, it will be like that song of Walther von der Vogelweide’s—“The spring will come.” Or some other of that poet’s stanzas…

Rerum tanta novitas

in solemni vere

et veris auctoritas

jubet nos gaudere…

“Were you saying something, Reinmar?”

“No, Samson. I didn’t say a thing.”

“Ah. But you were murmuring strangely.”

Ah, spring, spring… And my Adèle is comelier than the spring. Oh, Adèle, Adèle, where are you, my love? When shall I finally see you again? Kiss your lips? Your breasts…

“Quickly, onwards, quickly! To Ziębice!”

I wonder, too, he suddenly thought, where the Fair Nicolette is and what she’s doing?

Genitori, Genitoque

laus et jubilatio,

salus, honor, virtus quoque

sit et benedictio…

Rymbaba and Wittram, hidden around a bend in the road at the back of the procession, were bellowing, frightening wild animals.

Whoremonger tanners

Tanned some arse leather.

Whoreson shoemakers

Made boots from them!

Chapter Seventeen

In which, in the Raubritter stronghold of Kromolin, Reynevan makes some acquaintances, eats, drinks, sews on ears and participates in an assembly of the Angelic Militia. Until some quite unexpected guests arrive.