A cavalcade of over a dozen armed men was headed by three horsemen. In the centre rode a fat, balding man in black enamelled plate armour. To his right was a knight with a gloomy face and an oblique scar on his forehead, and to his left was a priest or monk, but with a short sword at his side and an iron bevor on a mail shirt over his habit.

“Barnhelm and Sulz are here,” announced Markwart of Stolberg. “To the tavern, gentlemen! To the council! Summon those who are humping wenches in the hay! Awake the sleeping! To the council!”

There followed some confusion as almost every knight heading for the council got himself something to eat and drink on the way. Thunderous shouts demanded that servants roll out fresh kegs and casks. Samson was among the servants running up to answer the call. Reynevan furtively beckoned him and kept him by his side. He wanted to spare his comrade the fate of the other servants, whom the Raubritters were prodding and kicking.

“You two go to the council,” said Scharley. “Mingle with the crowd. It will be good to know what the company is planning.”

“What about you?”

“I have other plans for now,” said the penitent, catching the flaming eyes of a comely, plump Romani woman milling around nearby, with gold rings plaited into her raven-black locks. The Romani woman winked at him.

Reynevan felt like commenting. But he overcame the urge.

The tavern was thronged. Smoke and the stink of men who hadn’t taken off their armour for a long time mingled beneath the low ceiling. Knights and esquires grouped the benches in order to create something like King Arthur’s Round Table, but there was far too little room for everybody. Many had to stand. Among them were Reynevan and Samson, trying to remain inconspicuous.

Markwart of Stolberg opened the council, welcoming the more illustrious by name. Immediately afterwards, Traugott of Barnhelm—the fat, balding newcomer with the plate armour covered in black enamel—spoke up.

“The matter before us,” he opened, clanging his scabbarded sword down in front of him, “is that Konrad, Bishop of Wrocław, is calling soldiers to his standard. He’s gathering an army to strike at the heretic Czechs. There will be a crusade. M’lord Starosta of Kolditz informed me of it through a confidant that whoever wants to, may enlist in the crusading army. The crusaders will have their sins forgiven and whatever they bag is theirs. The clergy said all sorts of things to Konrad, I don’t remember what, but Pater Hiacynt whom I picked up along the way, will explain it better.”

Pater Hiacynt, the armoured priest, stood up and cast down on the table his own weapon, a heavy, broad short sword.