Aside from the Glaubitz fighting in the combat circle, some others among the Raubritters wore their family crests unabashedly, clearly not believing that banditry brought shame on their houses. Near Reynevan, a beanpole in a tunic with the coat of arms of the Kottwitzes—a red bar on a silver field—was chewing on some gristle. Nearby, a curly haired knight bore the rose, the coat of arms of the Porajs. Another man, as broad-shouldered as an ox, was dressed in a lendner decorated with a golden lynx. Reynevan couldn’t recall that coat of arms, but he was soon reminded.

“Sir Bożywoj of Lossow.” Notker of Weyrach did the introductions. “Lords Scharley and Hagenau.”

“Upon my word,” said Bożywoj of Lossow, removing from his mouth a pork rib, fat dripping onto the golden lynx. “Upon my word, welcome. Hagenau, hmm… Kin of the celebrated poet?”

“No.”

“Aha. Then let’s drink. Your health!”

“Your health.”

“Sir Wencel of Hartha.” Weyrach continued to introduce knights as they approached. “Sir Buko of Krossig.”

Reynevan watched with interest. Buko of Krossig, who was wearing a suit of armour edged with brass, was renowned in Silesia. Now, frowning and squinting, the celebrated Raubritter was staring at Scharley.

“Do we know each other?”

“We may have met,” replied the penitent freely. “In church, perhaps?”

“Good health!”

“Good luck!”

“… council,” Buko of Krossig was saying to Weyrach. “There will be a council. Once they all arrive. Traugott of Barnhelm. And Ekkehard of Sulz.”

“Ekkehard of Sulz.” Notker of Weyrach grimaced. “Indeed. Sticks his nose in everywhere. What will the council be about?”

“Apparently there’s an expedition in the offing,” said a knight sitting close by, regally lifting to his mouth morsels of meat he was carving with a dagger from the haunch he was holding. He had long, very grizzled hair, well-groomed hands and face, and a nobility that even some old scars couldn’t mar.

“Against whom, Sir Markwart?”

Before the grey-haired knight could answer, a commotion erupted on the exercise ground. Someone swore, someone yelled, a dog was kicked and gave a short whimper. A voice called loudly for a barber-surgeon or a Jew. Or both.

“Do you hear?” The grey-haired man gestured with his head, his smile a sneer. “Just in time. What happened? Eh? Master Jasiek?”

“Otto Glaubitz has nicked John of Schoenfeld,” panted a knight with thin moustaches drooping like a Tatar’s. “Needs a physician, but that one’s scarpered. Vanished, the roguish Jew.”

“And who was threatening yesterday to teach the Jew to eat in the Christian manner? Who was forcing him to eat pig meat? Whom did I ask to leave the wretch alone? Whom did I admonish?”

“You were right, as usual, honourable Lord Stolberg,” the moustachioed knight admitted reluctantly. “But what are we to do now? Schoenfeld is bleeding like a stuck pig, and all that remains of the barber-surgeon are his Jewish instruments…”