From the point of view of strategy and defensiveness, the Raubritter settlement of Kromolin was located advantageously on an island created by a wide, silted-up branch of the River Jadkowa. A bridge hidden among willows and osiers provided the single access point by road, easily blocked by the barriers and chevaux de frise standing ready for that purpose. Even in the semi-darkness of the falling dusk, further elements of the fortifications were visible in the form of abatises and sharpened stakes stuck into the boggy bank. At the entrance to the settlement itself, the bridge was additionally barred by a thick chain which was taken down by servants even before Notker of Weyrach had managed to sound his horn, for their approach had been seen from the watchtower high above the alders.

They rode onto the island between shacks and sheds roofed with turf. The main building, similar to a fortress, was a mill, complete with a functional millrace. The glow of numerous fires beyond the mill illuminated the thatched roofs of the cottages, from which music and a hubbub of voices could be heard.

“Sounds like they’re making merry,” guessed Tassilo of Tresckow.

A giggling wench in a state of undress ran out from among the cottages, her plait fluttering behind her, pursued by a fat Bernardine monk. They ran into a barn from where laughter and squeals could be heard a moment later.

“Well, well,” mumbled Scharley. “I feel quite at home.”

They passed a latrine hidden in a thicket but revealed by its stench, then rode out into a courtyard full of people, bright with fire, noisy with music and voices. Servants and squires were soon beside them, helping the knights dismount and then leading their horses away. At a wink from Scharley, Samson sighed and went off with the servants, pulling his companions’ steeds after him.

Notker of Weyrach gave his helmet to a squire but kept his sword under one arm.

“Plenty of men have come,” he observed.

“Aye,” confirmed the squire dryly. “And they say there’ll be more.”

“Come, come,” Rymbaba urged, rubbing his hands together. “I have a hunger!”

“Indeed!” Kuno of Wittram chimed in. “And I a thirst!”

They passed a forge belching heat, where several farriers as black as Cyclopes were bustling around, then a barn that had been converted into a slaughterhouse. Through the wide-open doors, they could see the dressed carcasses of several hogs and a great ox hanging by their legs. The entrails of the freshly butchered ox were being chucked into a bowl, while suckling pigs and rams sizzled on spits over campfires roaring outside the barn. Steam and tempting fragrances rose from blackened pots and cauldrons. Men sat alongside on benches, at tables or simply on the ground, and dogs swarmed and fought among growing piles of discarded bones. Lights shone from windows and the lamps in the porch of the tavern from which barrels rolled endlessly, to be immediately besieged by thirsty men.